The Next Big One

by Derek Des Anges

  Somewhere ahead, someone honked their horn.

  “I am sorry about your sister,” she said. “None of this should be happening the way it is.”

  He heard nothing further about Noelle, Natalya, or the entire situation for the next two days. Tasneen sent a text apologising for being a maudlin twat all over him and thanking him for the research resources: Ina celebrated some particularly good feedback on her MA and attendant financial reward from her aunt by buying everyone something from their wishlists, meaning that Ben acquired an unexpected copy of The Plague Dogs.

  Gareth [shithead]: Update on the 18th: we’re aiming for a kind of costume theme

  Ben M: Why would you do that

  Gareth [shithead]: Christmas party, Benjamin. We’re going for a kind of hospital approach — no zombies whatsoever, okay, that’s very poor taste.

  Ben M: and of course a hospital theme is so fucking appropriate

  Gareth [shithead]: Doctors, nurses, anything like that… Ina said you’re seeing a scientist now so it should be easy to get a costume together

  Ben M: Well Ina’s wrong, and I’m not dressing up

  Gareth [shithead]: Only people in costume get free drinks! Bye

  Ben accepted Gareth’s attempts to steamroller his temporary contractees into his vision of fun, since every previous occasion when Gareth had run an event, Ben had stubbornly refused to go along with any spurious theme and not lost out as a result.

  Ben M: stop telling people I’m seeing someone

  Ina Metsian: well people keep asking if you’re taken and I can’t just go _on_ telling them you’re too sad for relationships

  Ben M: how about telling them to mind their own business

  He claimed the high-backed chair at the coffee shop as his own, and spread out with a defiantly unspiced latte and gratitude for Crystal’s policy on No Christmas Songs Until December as a small posse of moustaches in comedy Christmas jumpers filled up the standing space arguing apathetically about what they were going to order.

  To: Dr Bill Greenhill; Yagoda, Natalya; Ben M

  From: Khoo, Daniel

  Subj: trial sources

  Bill — reading one of your earlier books while waiting for the interminable centrifuging to reach a conclusion and came across something which reminded me of our Uzbek friend. If he’s right about his classmates expiring from the index cases of KBV a nice round four years after participating in some XXXXXX-run trial, and if Natalya’s bear-baiting with NA’s turned up what it looks like it has with regard to patented genes and consultations with a filovirus expert and Lydia Thing and her lyssa, then there’s got to have been more than one human trial. If there’s been human trials — human unsafety trials I guess — then in all probability there’s trial participants around who’re willing and able to talk to us.

  I mean there was that thing in the whatevereth chapter about the human guinea pig network, can you still get in contact with them?

  DK (this is what happens when you waste brilliant young minds on a virus that hates growing in laboratories, we get bored and decide to become detectives instead. Over and out).

  Ben moved an errant sprig of fake holly out from under his elbow and stared thoughtfully at the email. He couldn’t help thinking that in the rush to congratulate himself for his own genius, Daniel had overlooked something fairly obvious.

  To: Khoo, Daniel; Dr Bill Greenhill; Yagoda, Natalya

  From: Ben M

  Subj: re: trial sources

  Not to state the obvious but surely if these hypothetical people have been in KBV trials before the index cases they’re also going to be dead and uncontactable? Were you planning on a séance?

  He regretted the last sentence as soon as he’d sent the email: it sounded more like Daniel than it did like himself, and he wasn’t exactly happy with the idea that Daniel’s cavalier approach to other people’s feelings might be rubbing off on him.

  The phalanx of comedy Christmas jumpers made an about-face and departed in a gale of heavily-altered Christmas carols which relied a great deal on the word “fart” and, for some reason, “socks”. Ben turned, and caught Katarina’s eye as she stood behind the counter with a fixed smile. She rolled her eyes to the decked beams above and went back to replacing sachets.

  To: Ben M; Dr Bill Greenhill; Yagoda, Natalya

  From: Khoo, Daniel

  Subj: re: re: trial sources

  Less pointing out the obvious and more missing the point there, Hacknalist. If you recall it wasn’t the dead Uzbek graduates who emailed us, was it, it was their bloody friend. Trial participants have friends, and families, and if they’re professional guinea pigs they have other members of the network who weren’t in the damn trial themselves but have a good reason to keep records of people who have died as a result of being in one. If you try really really hard and wrack whatever it is that fills up your skull I’m sure you can grasp why it’s still a good idea to try and ask the rest of the network if they know anyone.

  Ben sighed at his laptop screen, and finished his coffee. He hesitated over “reply all” and eventually decided to stop dragging two busy adults into what felt increasingly like a teenage argument over Magic stats.

  To: Khoo, Daniel

  From: Ben M

  Subj: re: re: re: trial sources

  From ten, twelve years ago? Are they still going to be involved in the network? Are the people who are involved going to be able to contact the people who used to be?

  And more to the point, what if we’re putting them in danger by asking them to speak to us? Don’t forget what happened to Natalya, what Dr Anathan seems to think might have happened to Crawford — they don’t have the kind of resources and connections N and Dr A have, they’re just normal people who need money and they take enough risks—

  He gave up on the rest of his concerns and sent the email as it was. Getting into an argument with Daniel about the prudence of tracking down people who made their living taking dubious medications hadn’t really been in his plans for the day.

  Ben turned his head to stare at the pavement, which was beginning to dry out at last, and the shops opposite, which were in shadow and almost invisible. He wasn’t sure what his plans for the day had actually been apart from ‘not going to Kyle’s class’ and ‘probably pick up some bread’, but he was sure that pointless arguments hadn’t been high on the list of priorities.

  To: Ben M

  From: Khoo, Daniel

  Subj: source row

  I’ve got twenty-five more minutes here before I can reasonably dump everything on Jenny, but then we can continue fighting about this in the pub. I just got paid so you have no excuses.

  (by “the pub” I don’t necessarily mean the Admiral, we can go somewhere civilised instead)

  Unencumbered by coffee and somewhat lacking in real excuses, with a sizeable backlog of Law for Journalists and Pitching In Practice assignments to avoid working on, Ben couldn’t think of any reason which would stand up to Daniel why he shouldn’t, in fact, walk down to Soho. He could definitely be there in about half an hour if he took the tube part of the way…

  To: Khoo, Daniel

  From: Ben M

  Subj: re: source row

  Sure, why not. You’re buying.

  Daniel’s choice of venue for a drawn-out debate about pursuing sources was less horrendous than his previous choices: it was still in Soho, but not specifically a gay pub; it wasn’t playing deafening volumes of shit pop music; this early in the evening it was still relatively empty, especially upstairs; and possibly in deference to the fact that Daniel had agreed to pay for the drinks, it was a Sam Smith’s and therefore not threatening drink deals on WKD. Most of the clientele seemed to be over fifty and already drunk.

  “This more your sort of place?” Daniel asked, trying to nudge Ben into a seat by smacking him repeatedly with his foot. “Soviet levels of variety and old man furnishings?”

  Ben shrugged. It was the kind of place he could have brought his dad to reduce the
number of complaints, although as it was still in London there wasn’t much chance of them being truly minimised.

  “Well, at least it’s cheap,” Daniel sighed, setting down the drinks. He threw himself onto what looked like a padded footstool. “Where were we. Oh, yes. You were failing to be a good journalist and chase a story.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” Ben said, examining his drink. “Contacting them might be pointless but it’s not directly dangerous. Writing about them, on the other hand — I mean, what that did to Natalya.”

  “Alright,” said Daniel, jabbing at the sticky table-top with the hand that wasn’t holding his drink. “One: if you don’t write about your investigations you’re not a journalist, you’re just a nosy git.” He took a sip and made a face of pleasant surprise. “Huh. Not as bad as I expected. And two, okay, if you’re not more concerned about the truth than anything else then you’re definitely not one of the good guy journalists.”

  “Well, at least you’ve admitted there are good guy journalists,” Ben murmured.

  Daniel made an expansive gesture of generalised forgiveness. “Bill writes for the papers,” he said, as if that settled the whole thing. “He has a proper agenda to stick to.”

  “And I don’t?”

  Daniel grimaced at him over the top of a cheap vodka coke. “Hard to tell, isn’t it? You don’t seem to have a stated aim. There isn’t a Ben Abstract reading ‘I have come to expose the truth about the origins of KBV come what may’, it’s more like ‘I have come to look uncomfortable in a variety of social situations and doorstep a selection of virologists for no discernable reason’.”

  “So you don’t care that the backlash after I write things potentially hurts people?” Ben said, ignoring the assault on his character since it was probably going to be repeated soon.

  Daniel shrugged. “You’re supposed to think the truth is more important.”

  “Alright,” said Ben, putting his drink down without drinking any. “And what if it affects you? What if I write something and it fucks up your career or, I don’t know, someone comes to your house and…outs you or threatens your parents or…are you going to think the truth is more important then?”

  “What possible reason is anyone going to have for involving me in this professionally?” Daniel asked, raising his eyebrows. “I’m a boring donkey schlepping around a neurotrophic horse disease, no one cares what I’m doing or what I discover, do they?”

  “Right,” said Ben, quietly. You’re bored out of your mind and think that’s the worst thing that’s going to happen to you.

  “Something exciting lands on your plate and you run away from it wringing your hands,” Daniel complained. “I swear to God you don’t deserve an opportunity like this.” He took another mouthful and as soon as he’d swallowed, added, “I mean I cannot be the only person you know who thinks you’re hiding under your bed instead of running at this with your, your fucking battle-axe raised. Were you always like this? Did you always just watch shit pass you by muttering ‘well thank fuck that bit of potential interest didn’t touch me and ruin my chances at dying without ever doing anything’?”

  “Do you have,” Ben asked the pint in front of him, “to be so fucking antagonistic all the time.”

  Daniel didn’t answer him.

  “Is it really necessary,” Ben went on, glaring at the beer, “to keep on and on and on at me about how much of a coward you think I am? No one’s forcing you to talk to me.”

  “Yeah well,” Daniel said, with sarcasm falling off each word like blood from an open wound, “maybe it annoys me that I like you in spite of that.”

  Ben gave up on eyeballing the pint and frowned directly at Daniel instead. “I’m not fucking oblivious,” he said, pushing the drink to one side. “I just. I mean. Just for one thing. Can you maybe, I don’t know, experiment with being less of a continual dick.”

  Daniel blinked. “Fine.”

  Ben rubbed at his eye briefly, and wished he hadn’t bothered with contact lenses at all today. It was dark outside, now, and something about the heat from the fake fireplace next to him made it feel as if his lenses were melting onto his eyes. “I mean,” he added, “It’s. It’s pointless anyway. That’s the other thing.”

  “What is?” Daniel asked, warily.

  “There’s no point,” Ben said, trying for force a smile. It came out looking as if he was trying not to be sick which, Ben thought, was also in danger of being accurate. “In.” He made a gesture that took in himself and Daniel at the same time. “It’s not that I don’t. Or that you’re not. It’s just there isn’t any point because no one can kiss anyone any more and—”

  “Adapt or die,” Daniel said watching him with a pained expression. He was holding onto his drink more tightly than it probably needed.

  “Still no point,” Ben said, exhaling slowly. He rubbed the entire side of his face. “I. Am not.” He nodded to himself a few times, tipped his head back, and informed the ceiling, “I am not handling this very well.”

  “No shit,” said Daniel, dryly.

  “I mean the KBV thing. Kissing thing. People.” Ben lowered his head and took another deep breath. “Some drunk girl tried to kiss me at work and, I, I kind of…”

  “Murdered her and left her in a ditch?” Daniel suggested, taking another mouthful. “I would’ve.”

  “No,” Ben said sadly. “I freaked the fuck out and poured vodka over my face in case she’d got saliva on me and then Molly — my, I work with her — she’s—”

  “I know, she’s on your card,” said Daniel. He put his drink down. “Which I still have.”

  “She thinks I’m mental,” Ben said, picking up the beer and taking a belated sip. “So you see what I mean? Why would, I mean, you’re, but I just…there’s no point.”

  “Well,” said Daniel, after alone pause. “You’re definitely mental. Sorry, but you are. Hibiscrub would have been more sensible. Vodka, well…I’m not sure it’s got a high enough ethanol content but it was a valiant attempt.”

  “That’s it?” Ben put his drink down again.

  Daniel shrugged with one shoulder, and closed his eyes briefly. “You’re definitely mental,” he repeated, “but the thing is: the situation, right now, is also mental. No one actually knows how many people are infected — the sputum test thing has to be rolled out properly and after the massive spike on the test run there’s a worry that it’s too sensitive — but then there’s that nagging worry—” Daniel licked his lips, “—which is: what if it’s not too sensitive? What if that’s just how many people have been infected?”

  Ben shivered, a full-body shiver from the bottom of his spine up to his scalp, and gulped uncomfortably at the own-brand beer.

  “So,” said Daniel, “there’s nothing wrong with wanting to avoid, I don’t know, bodily fluids. And women in general — don’t make that face, it was a joke — but sooner or later you have to compromise somewhere otherwise you end up coating your room in tinfoil or trying to live in a space suit. Can’t be done. There’s always risk somewhere. Condoms split, people lie, life is a permeable surface and everyone dies.”

  “Well that’s comforting,” Ben grumbled.

  “I just mean,” said Daniel, “if your reasoning is ‘I’m scared of dying’ then I’m not accepting it.”

  He laid his hand flat on the table, palm down, and curled all his fingers under until only the index one was pointing out. He then very gently poked Ben in the hand with it.

  “What if I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else dying?” Ben said, not moving his hand out of the way.

  “You’re not.”

  Ben thought about Natalya, and how long it had taken for her to compose herself on the morning he met her at Hampstead Heath. “Things I say have repercussions.”

  “You’re not responsible for other people dying,” Daniel said, rolling his eyes. “You don’t even have that kind of power. I’m sorry, but you fucking don’t. You’re not curing or creating an illness. You’re not
an executioner, you don’t have a fucking, a pizza knife in someone’s innards. We’re grown-ups. Everyone has to be responsible for what they do. If someone stabs someone because you say ‘that guy nicked your sandwich’, right — who held the knife?”

  “And if I say ‘they’re over there’, when someone’s hiding?” Ben asked, as the upstairs bar door opened to admit more people.

  “Oh god, just use your brain.” Daniel withdrew his hand for long enough to scratch his chest, and replaced it to prod Ben a second time. “Talk to your bloody tutors if you’re so worried.”

  Ben apologised to his beer.

  “Shut up,” Daniel groaned. “Carpe fucking diem, and at some point, please, carpe the thing in front of you or it will go away.”

  Taking at least some of Daniel’s advice, Ben sent off an email on getting home, requesting the dubious pleasure of a lecture from Sherazi on journalistic ethics, and was surprised to receive a reply within twenty minutes and a time slot for the next morning.

  Although if you ever bothered to go to Kyle’s classes you probably wouldn’t need to ask me at all.

  “Probably,” Ben said, as he lifted Minnie out from underneath his legs so that he could sit down, “if I could stay awake in Kyle’s classes.”

  To his horror, Sherazi once again booked out one of the privacy pods. She even went to the trouble of telling him that, despite appearances, they weren’t soundproofed.

  “Someone though that was a waste of money,” said Sherazi, unlocking it. “Which tells you everything you need to know about the supposed security of student data as well.”

  “Something I should know about the uses it’s getting put to?” Ben asked, taking a bright orange S-shaped curve of plastic on the assumption that it was a seat.

  “Something you should find out for yourself,” Sherazi said, darkly, “but don’t be surprised if you get even more targeted spam in future.”

  She took the other S-shaped curve of plastic, bright blue, and dropped her travel mug on the table, which resembled little as much as a large white upper-case T. The mug wobbled for a moment, but didn’t fall over.