‘The whole bloody city turns into bamheid central.’ Brian scowled at his beer. ‘Aye, and no’ just the connurb blocks like last time, everyone: you, me, Emily, Jo, James…’
The fat pathologist slurped at his vivid blue drink. ‘You don’t come up with something like this overnight. Whoever made this stuff spent a lot of time and money developing and testing it. Probably years.’
‘How the hell do you get away with pulling shite like this for years?’
Will closed his eyes and sighed. ‘You get away with it,’ he said, ‘by having someone very big and very powerful standing behind you.’
‘Corporate? One of them bio-research outfits?’
‘Whoever it is, they’re well connected-Governor Clark was on the phone to Director Smith-Hamilton shouting the odds about Emily and me being there half an hour after we left Sherman House.’ Will drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Peitai said he was with the Ministry for Change, kept going on about finding a cure for VR-’
‘Bollocks,’ said George. ‘This is weapons research, or I’m a ballerina.’
Will rolled the last of his whisky round his mouth and placed the empty tumbler in the centre of the table. ‘Question is, what do we do about it?’
‘We stop them!’ Brian thumped his fist down, making the glasses rattle. ‘Even termites’ve got a right to live without some murderin’ bastard usin’ them as guinea pigs. We go in wi’ all guns blazin’ and take the bastards down!’
‘Don’t be daft.’ George emptied his glass and placed it next to Will’s. ‘You can’t just march in there and start shooting. Could be hundreds, thousands of people already infected. Go in there and spark something off, you’ll be looking at a lot of dead bodies.’
Will held up his hands. ‘OK, we can’t storm the place, so we do what we always do: build a case. Find out who that little git Ken Peitai’s really working for, what else they’re up to. Then shut the whole place down.’
Brian snorted. ‘Aye, right-like the Poison Dwarf’s goin’ tae authorize an investigation with Governor Clark breathing down her cleavage. She’s after a seat on the board and there’s no way in hell-’
‘By the time we’re finished with him, Governor Clark’s going to be pushing a mop about with half his face missing. Just because you don’t like her, doesn’t mean the Director isn’t good at her job. We go to her with this, she’ll take it all the way.’
‘Still say you’re mental.’ Brian swallowed the last of his Guinness and plonked the empty down alongside the others. ‘I’ll get an incident room and team organized-’
‘No! No team.’ Will shoogled forward in his seat. ‘This has to be low key. Just the three of us.’
Brian rolled his eyes. ‘Fine. I’ll get Emily to-’
‘Emily can’t hear a word about this. I don’t want Peitai to know we’re after him.’
‘What? You’ve known her for years! She’s saved your arse more times than I can count, how can you no’ trust her?’
‘It’s not her he doesn’t trust.’ George pulled the console over and ordered another round. ‘If they put listeners and trackers in Will they put them in Emily. You speak to her you’re speaking to them.’
‘Fuck…’ He frowned. ‘Jo, then?’
‘Fewer people know about it the better. Besides, this thing’s a potential career-killer. I’m not putting her in that position.’
‘Aye.’ Brian winked at George. ‘It’s OK to kill ours, but.’
Will grinned. ‘Brian, your career couldn’t get any more diseased if it tried. It’d be a mercy killing.’
‘What would?’ Emily’s voice made all three of them jump. She was standing at the end of their table, her concrete-coloured jumpsuit replaced with a snazzy two-piece in dark burgundy, a blue overcoat leaving puddles of water on the pub floor. She hung it up, then squeezed in next to Will and stabbed her thumb down on the drinks console, ordering the same again.
‘Er…’ Will looked across the table, but no one came to the rescue. ‘We were…talking about how we can’t go back to Sherman House.’
‘Yup, it’s not safe.’ Sniff, snort.
‘Aye, place’s a fuckin’ powder keg.’
‘Bunch of old wifies.’ She shook the water from her close-cropped hair. ‘There’s something going on over there and that little MFC weasel Peitai is a lying tosser. “Finding a cure for VR syndrome” my mum’s hairy backside.’
‘You don’t know that, Emily.’ Will shifted in his seat. ‘If there’s any chance they can find a cure, we can’t risk jeopardizing it.’
‘Did those muggers knock something loose between your ears this morning?’ Her voice was rising. ‘Peitai’s bastards zapped us and tied us to a bloody chair! I am not turning a blind eye just because some jumped up little social-working shitebag-’
‘I’m serious, Emily. And it doesn’t matter anyway: Director Smith-Hamilton has ordered the place off limits till things have calmed down.’
‘Since when did you give a toss about what Smith-Hamilton says? Look, if we can get back into that underground lab I think I can-’
‘No! As far as the Network, you, I, and everyone else is concerned, Sherman House does not exist.’
‘Don’t be so bloody-’
Will slammed his hand down on the tabletop, making the glasses jump. ‘End of discussion Lieutenant! You are not to go near Sherman House, and that’s an order!’
Emily stared at him, eyes narrowed, top lip curling. ‘Yes, sir.’ She stood, grabbed her overcoat off the hook, then threw him a curt salute.
‘Emily don’t-’
‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have to get some fresh air. It suddenly stinks of shit in here.’
Emily turned and marched out of the pub, back straight, chin up.
As the door slammed shut, the old man reappeared, his tray loaded down with two of everything, and a single glass of Methven Bay chardonnay. Emily’s drink.
When he’d shambled off again, Brian reached forward and picked a large Jack Daniels from the collection. Took a sip.
‘That went well,’ he said into the silence. ‘I particularly liked the bit where you pulled rank on her. Good move. Smooooooth.’
‘Oh bugger off.’ Will sank back in his seat. ‘Didn’t see either of you two leaping in to help.’
‘You know,’ said George, helping himself to another brandy and blue, ‘looking on the bright side: anyone listening in is going to think they’re safe.’
Will shrugged. ‘Suppose you’re right.’
But it didn’t make him feel any better.
She snuggles deeper into her little nest of toilet paper, feeding tube in her arm, warm, comfortable, and content. Two kiddiewinks and a pregnant wife. Dr Stephen Bexley, you virile stud you.
Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant…She loves pregnant women-they add such a sparkle to proceedings. Especially when itcomes to the vivisection.
She makes a sound that could be mistaken for a sigh. On Sunday she’ll lie back on an operating table and have her face restored. Her very own face…Of course, the sensible thing to do is take someone else’s face. But she doesn’t want to be sensible. She wants to look in the mirror and recognize the person looking back. She wants to be whole again. Then, when she’s all healed and beautiful, she’ll have to leave the country.
A shame. This city has been good to her-let her hunt its inhabitants for years-but if she remains in Glasgow someone’s going to recognize her. At first they’ll see nothing more than a striking resemblance to the notorious Dr Fiona Westfield, but then they’ll begin to talk. And eventually someone will listen.
They’ll start asking difficult questions. Then someone takes a fingerprint, or a DNA sample and they’ll know she’s not dead. Then they’ll strap her to another operating table…only this time she won’t come back.
She shakes her head and tries to think happy thoughts. But Stephen Bexley and his screaming wife no longer light her candle. All she can see is a long dark tunnel with an operating slab at the end. The sound of bees and broken glass.