“Bit bloody brazen,” muttered Graham, from directly behind Ben.
“Yes,” said Victoria. “That is how you get to be a multinational billion-dollar pharmaceutical company. By being a very brazen operator.” She jingled her bracelets. “It is unfortunate that their biggest markets also agree with our government, for once, and the US President also believes that X/X have a moral, humanitarian, and legal duty to surrender their stockpiles of the KB-AO antigens.”
The word ‘stockpiles’ gently teased out a woozily-buried memory of a recent report on TV, lost in the overall flow of crisis: people stockpiling sputum tests, although to what end no one had really explained. Sputum tests brought him back to the Caffé Nero off Long Acre and Daniel’s insistence on taking one, his nervous energy.
Ben flinched at the desktop in front of him, a gentle spasm of guilt. Perhaps he should just have said yes. He’d heard precious little from Daniel since.
His invitation sat unanswered for long enough that Ben began to wonder if he was being ignored on purpose, but at last he got a response, buried under a slew of notifications: KB-AO, the alleged antigens, serum, the too-late-for-Leah treatment that X/X were holding out on delivering for tests, and every single article that so much as breathed the acronym. There were a lot. Ben had already forgotten what the AO stood for by the time he found his acceptance notification.
Bright, watery light crept through the windows at the Southbank Centre. One floor down from where Ben sat, a band comprised, in a very Southbank Centre fashion, out of two kalimbas and an alto saxophone, began to play a jaunty variant on a funeral march.
Daniel made a face.
“Yes,” said Ben, holding a mocha in both hands but not drinking it, “but at least we are united in hating this bloody band.”
Daniel snorted. “Okay,” he said, at last. “I’m not going to ask you why you didn’t say anything about it, but…” he trailed off for a moment, and shook some glitter out of his watch strap, “… I’d actually like to ask why you didn’t say anything about it.”
“You’re not the most sympathetic listener in the world,” said Ben, under his breath.
Daniel accepted this without a fight. He was wearing a dark-green t-shirt with an unravelling double-helix — or a ravelling one, it was hard to tell — on it in what looked like glow-in-the-dark paint. The gaps in the unravelling spelled out reverse transcriptase.
“How’s college?” Daniel asked, after a while, playing idly with the handle of a cup of espresso he’d finished some time ago.
“I…don’t know,” said Ben, eventually. “I’ve barely been there.” He continued to warm his hands on the cup. “But I think…I think I am failing quite badly, at the moment.”
“And I think,” said Daniel, uncomfortably, “that they tend to take bereavement into account.”
Ben struggled not to let all his muscles become rigid at this. He listened to the horrible jazz kalimba funeral march, and marvelled at the way the Southbank Centre made everyone sound like they were in jail, underwater.
“Life doesn’t stop for them just because it stopped for her,” said Ben. He finally took a sip of the mocha. It tasted slightly fishy, and not nearly enough of chocolate. “Have you seen the papers? The KB-AO stuff? I ought to be working on that.”
“It doesn’t stop for you, either,” Daniel agreed, with the tone of someone pointing out the obvious. “I…do you think she’d be particularly happy with you dragging your heels trying to make your life stop on her account?”
“Her opinion isn’t relevant,” Ben said sharply, “she is dead.”
Daniel pressed his lips together slowly and nodded for a moment. “Okay.”
Ben clawed back a less harrowing facial expression and gulped more fishy mocha. “I don’t think this is mocha.”
“Huh.”
“Where have you been?” Ben asked, after a few more mouthfuls.
“Busy,” said Daniel, shortly. “I’ll explain later. Why? Did you miss me?”
Ben lifted one shoulder. “A bit. Sometimes I thought ‘I wonder when someone will threaten to stick an inanimate object in an orifice I don’t have yet’, y’know.”
Daniel rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ll even believe me if I say I was annoyed I didn’t get to talk to you.”
Ben thought about this. “You could have.”
“I thought I’d pissed you off too much already.”
Ben shrugged again. “I thought I’d pissed you off refusing the bloody, the test.”
Daniel shook his head. “I understand,” he said, very slowly, “better than most people, not wanting to know.”
There was a whoop from the doors.
“What,” muttered Ben.
“YEAH!” shouted the voice.
“Shush,” said someone nearer the doors, because the Southbank Centre was less prone to ‘shut up’ than anyone else.
“Could have picked somewhere less public,” Daniel suggested, as the excited, young, female voice echoed off the walls and several people turned to look at the owner of it.
“I thought I might need a witness if you flung coffee at me,” Ben said, with a weak smile.
“GOOD NEWS,” shouted the voice again.
He turned, and joined the rest of the Southbank Centre as they squinted at the voice. It seemed to be a fairly ordinary-looking girl in her late teens, out of breath, and delighted, calling to someone down in the floor below the mezzanine, where the kalimba jazz collective continued with the bloody determination of a niche band who had no doubt had shoes thrown at them before.
“Keep it down,” insisted someone nearer to the girl, as she broke into a quicker shuffle across the polished floors. A security guard began a hasty trot in her direction.
“Can’t she just use her phone?” Daniel complained, as another girl, by the neglected musicians, lifted her voice to shout back:
“What? What?”
The first girl cupped both hands around her mouth and shouted to the whole centre:
“THEY’VE RELEASED KB-AO FOR TESTING!”
Ben’s phone woke him up about an hour after Kingsley left for work. It burped and whirred until he slammed it into his face, then had to remove it to actually answer the call.
“Be at Colindale by ten,” said Natalya’s voice in his ear, breathless and almost excited.
“I don’t think that’s physically possible,” said Ben checking the time.
“Make it physically possible.”
Ben rolled off the futon and tried to locate his jeans. “Whasshappen?”
“I have successfully reminded my employers,” said Natalya, with grim satisfaction, “that I am the centre of a conspiracy of non-development and that as they have no grounds on which to keep me from my workplace any longer, efficaciousness tests of this KB-AO are my responsibility. I feel under these circumstances witnesses are appropriate. HPA do not agree but I and my team are of the opinion that they can, to quote Anil, go fuck themselves.”
“Ssoo,” Ben found his boots and pulled them on in a hurry. “They don’t know you’re—”
Natalya made an impatient noise. “Would I be allowed to do anything if they knew? Get on a train, call a taxi, something. Be quick.”
“I’m trying—” Ben nearly tripped over his own feet, picked up his jacket, checked all of the available pockets, and lunged for the door.
“However,” said Natalya, thoughtfully, “It is only fair that the sample for the first test is my own, I think.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Ben agreed, taking the stairs more at a time than was strictly advisable. “Ow.”
“I — oh, no, you don’t know about that yet. Well, in time.”
“What?” said Ben, slamming the downstairs door behind him, but Natalya had already hung up.
He arrived at HPA Colindale at eight minutes past ten, badly out of breath, and — he realised — only armed with a phone and Kapture by way of making any note of a momentous occasion. Dr Bill was already there, and so wa
s Daniel: in the process of locking to the bike rack a red mountain bike which had seen better days.
David Hepworth leaned out of the main door. “Come on.”
With no time to get his breath back, Ben trailed after them.
“Natalya’s already geared up,” David explained, as they passed into the first corridor. “She wanted to get onto this as soon as possible.” He glanced around. “Cautiously excited seems to be about the right mood, don’t you think?”
Ben hoped he wasn’t the one being asked because the best he could manage was ‘confused’ with a soupcon of ‘sleep-deprived’. He wanted to ask if anyone was going to tell the rest of the staff at Colindale that Natalya…
…wouldn’t be able to do anything if she was found out.
David let them through the security door, standing well back to let Dr Bill’s wheelchair through, and stumbled through the observation area in front of them.
“Right,” said David, “I have to abandon you.” He made a vague gesture towards the door at the far end of the corridor. “Daniel, about the—”
“Shh,” Daniel said, and for a moment they put their heads together in surreptitious discussion. Ben caught none of it.
“Wonderfully designed place, this,” said Dr Bill, craning his neck to try to see through the observation window. “Hugely compliant with EU regulations. Can’t see a fucking thing.”
David gave him an embarrassed look. “Welcome to our state-of-the-art facilities from twelve years ago,” he said, with a sheepish grin.
“In fairness,” said Dr Bill, more seriously, “I’m sure getting the work done is more important than being seen.”
“Easy for you to say, double-digits publications man,” muttered Daniel, loudly enough for everyone to hear.
David gave him a look which Ben completely failed to catch the meaning of, and left them.
“What was all that—” Ben asked, uneasily.
Daniel waved a hand. “I’ll explain later.”
“Right,” Dr Bill said, apropos of the observation window. “It’s got a ledge, I can do this.”
To Ben’s surprise he pulled himself slowly out of the chair, and with a little manoeuvring had balanced himself side-on to the window, resting his weight on one buttock along the narrow ledge.
Dr Bill caught Ben’s expression, and said, “I still use the crutches from time to time, the chair’s just supposed to be giving my arms a rest. Looks a little less silly too — don’t tell anyone I’m that vain—” he snorted into his beard “—HSP-2 is progressive but it’s not that fast.”
“Oh,” said Ben, not sure what he’d just been told.
“It’s also hereditary,” said Dr Bill, peering sideways into the lab beyond, “which I admit I thought would be more of a problem than it turned out to be.”
Ben joined Daniel in leaning on the glass, and watched as the Group 4 lab slowly filled up with virologists. He recognised Natalya, taller than everyone else: he recognised Rhiannon by elimination. There was one other person in there, which from assumption was probably Anil, and after a few minutes a fresh figure joined them, completing the team.
Natalya spotted them at the glass, gave them a brief thumbs-up, and went back to working.
Ben wasn’t quite able to follow what was going on, but as Daniel and Dr Bill seemed to be rapt he didn’t have much in the way of distraction. There was a small plastic crate of glass vials of what looked like blood: there were a number of processors he couldn’t name. There were things he did recognise, like pipettes and a couple of flasks, and a sort of cabinet with a metal hood and a warm yellow light in it.
There was also what looked like a picnic coolbox.
“What’s that?” Ben asked.
“Coolbox,” said Daniel. “KB-AO.”
Ben watched with interest as it was opened, but the vials full of colourless liquid — already packaged into foil-topped bottles smaller than a little finger — did little to excite the attention in their own right.
The process was over rather more quickly than he was expecting.
Daniel turned away from the window and rubbed the corner of his eye. “And now another enormous wait.”
Dr Bill slipped from the ledge back into his wheelchair. “I’m not sure you’re cut out to be a virologist, Dr Khoo.”
Daniel made a face. “I am cut out to work with literally anything but Borna,” he said, taking out his phone. “Ben, have you still got that group card game app?”
“Well, that shouldn’t be a—” began Dr Bill, and caught himself with a glance at Ben. Daniel gave him a warning look.
“What?” Ben asked, feeling as if he was in the middle of something everyone else understood.
“The card game app,” Daniel repeated. “From last time we were here? Lets you all play on your own phones even though you’re both awful overpaid Apple whores.”
“It’s convenient for work,” Dr Bill said, with mock huffiness. “What’s this thing called?”
A few hours later David passed through with a ‘not yet’ expression, and returned a few minutes later looking even more embarrassed. “Had to pee.”
He disappeared back through to the decontamination area.
“Two of spades,” said Dr Bill, reverting their attention back to the game. “Wait. If I put a two on a two does it cancel it out or—”
“No, you’ve just made me pick up four,” said Ben, “it passes it left.”
“Whoops,” said Dr Bill, cheerfully. “Sorry.”
“What exactly were you talking to him about?” Ben asked, as his phone collected four more cards into an already bulging hand. He inclined his head in the direction of the decontamination door, although David was long out of sight.
“It’s not sorted yet,” Daniel said, dismissing the question. “I’ll tell you about it when I know what’s happening.”
“Don’t be mean,” Dr Bill said. “Also, it’s your turn.”
“He can’t help being mean, it’s his nature.”
“Hrm,” Dr Bill said, peering meditatively at his iPhone. “I don’t know that it is. Pettiness and impatience, definitely, but I’m not sure about the rest. A black jack — sorry Ben.”
“I’m right here,” Daniel pointed out.
“There’s not going to be any pack left for you two at this rate,” Ben said, picking up another five.
Another hour passed, and Ben’s stomach began to complain.
“I’m hungry,” said Daniel, with rather more force than Ben’s stomach.
The door to the entrance corridor opened slowly.
“This had better be food,” said Daniel, with all the menace of an ecstatic dog.
It was not food.
It was, rather, a man in a slate-grey suit and dark red tie, with exceptionally tidy hair and an expression so miserable that it seemed that the last days of earth had come down on him, and him personally. He was tall, white, a little tanned, and accompanied by a woman with excitable black curly hair who didn’t seem anything like as upset by her existence.
“Ah, right,” she said, looking around at them. “You’re Natalya’s press? You’re being very well-behaved.”
“We’re journalists,” said Dr Bill, composed, “not hyenas.”
“I’m not a journalist,” Daniel protested. “I’m a very hungry virologist—”
“Placing you somewhat closer to a hyena,” Dr Bill muttered.
“I’m Helen Pomeroy,” said the woman with the ebullient hair. “New press liaison at HPA — the team’s expanding a bit at the moment, as you can imagine. This is another observer, Warren Meldrew…”
Dr Bill leaned up to shake hands with him: Warren Meldrew looked confused and then slightly relieved by this, but the air of hangdog misery didn’t leave him.
“…who is a representative of XXXXX/XXXXXXX,” Helen went on. She raised her eyebrows at the rest of them behind Warren Meldrew’s back.
Dr Bill nodded gravely.
“Here to oversee the testing and make sure no one
tampers?” he suggested.
“Judging by this morning,” said Helen with disarming honesty, “Warren is here to be a designated punching bag for some very irate people.”
Daniel gave Warren Meldrew an ugly smile and said, “Well, if he’s offering.”
“As a company rep,” said Warren Meldrew, in a voice that suggested he’d already had this conversation about ten times that day already, “I don’t actually know about anything that X/X develop apart from the products I’m supposed to be advising potential clients about—”
“Via the murkiest possible means,” Dr Bill told his beard.
“You missed a couple of tactics in your book,” said Warren Meldrew, dryly. “I was only made aware of the existence of the KB-AO antigens and prophylaxes at the same time as the public. It isn’t the kind of work that is exactly advertised throughout the company.”
“I can believe that,” Dr Bill said. “Had any death threats yet?”
“Yes,” said Warren simply. “A lot.”
Ben said nothing. He only leaned back on the window — he glanced through, and saw Rhiannon listlessly standing guard, noting temperatures — and thought, almost seeing the words in green text at the bottom of an internal TV screen: I work in payroll. I don’t know anything about this.
“I’m hoping,” said Warren, staring through the window beside Ben’s head, “that this removes the problem.”
Dr Bill made a rude noise, and sat up straight. “It doesn’t exactly remove the problem of a lot of people being dead and a lot more having their lives ruined.” He spoke lightly, but there was a dark undercurrent to his tone, something that made Warren lean away from him.
“Can I get you anything?” Helen Pomeroy asked, dallying by the door — clearly keen to be rid of her charge for a few minutes, possibly to go and tell someone she’d just locked a pharmaceutical company rep and Dr Bill Greenhill in a room together to see what happened.
“Food,” said Daniel, immediately. “Food, food, food.”
“I’ve got dextrose tablets,” said Warren Meldrew.
Daniel gave him a withering look. “Well it’s nice to see you hate yourself too.”
The Next Big One Page 45