She snatched up the telephone handset. “Yes,” she snapped.
“I have the Prime Minister’s office.”
“Okay. Put him through.”
There was the faintest of clicks. “Hello, this is Rosalind Baxter. How are you Prime Minister?”
A female voice that was clearly not that of the leader of the country replied. “Please hold for the Prime Minister.”
Rosalind rolled her eyes. This overt display of one-upmanship irritated her, the implication that his time was more important than her own. I earn at least twenty times his paltry salary, she thought. For a moment she considered putting the handset down. Then he would have to wait for me for once.
She was still toying with the idea when the familiar, well-cultured voice of Andrew Jacobs came on the line. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Rosalind.”
“No problem, Prime Minister.” It’s not as if I’ve got anything better to do.
“So how are you, Rosalind? And please call me AJ.”
“I’m fine. And yourself?” Not that either of us really cares about the health of the other.
“Fine, fine. Thanks for coming in last week.”
“It was my pleasure.” As if I had a choice.
“About that. I’m under a lot of pressure to reduce the funding your company receives. Certain members of the cabinet believe we might get better value for money by diverting it to our American friends.”
That bitch, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. “You know as well as I do AJ, that of all the biotech companies in the world, we are the closest to finding a cure. We’ve already done it once, which is more than anybody else has achieved. No other organisation has even come close.”
Fifteen years ago, Ilithyia Biotechnology had still been a small business on the Cambridge Science Park when the development of a prototype treatment had catapulted the company into the limelight. During the next three months, the value of the company’s stock rose by several thousand percent making the shareholders, including Rosalind Baxter, hugely wealthy. The company had relocated twice since then, finally settling in a purpose-built facility at the edge of the new town of Northstowe. Even after the virus mutated and the drug lost its effectiveness, the flow of research grants had continued and now accounted for a sizeable proportion of its revenue.
“Be that as it may, Rosalind, we can’t keep pumping money in with no sign of progress.”
“Look, Prime Minister. We’re close to having an answer, one that works for more than a month or two. If you cut our funding, you’ll be jeopardising the world’s best chance at a solution to this problem.” And you’ll cripple Ilithyia’s stock value.
“I hear you, Rosalind, but there’s a limit to how much cash we can provide without any concrete results.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I know this sort of work takes years, and I’m happy to fight your corner – at least for the time being – but I need evidence that these funds are being put to good use. There are those in the cabinet who still support you, and I can hold the doubters off for nine months, maybe a year, but after that, I’m going to struggle to finance your company without positive results.”
Good to know the money I transfer to those accounts in the British Virgin Islands every month isn’t totally wasted then. “I appreciate your support AJ. I’m confident we’ll have something by then.”
“I hope so, Rosalind. Do keep in touch. And good luck.”
“Thank you, AJ, I …” Rosalind trailed off as she realised she was talking to a dial tone.
Chapter 8
The electronic lock beeped, drawing the girl’s attention to the door. As it swung open, she jumped to her feet and took a pace towards the balding doctor. He still hadn’t told her his name.
“Hey! Why haven’t you brought me any food?”
“I’m sorry,” replied the man. “I should have told you sooner. We did some tests on the blood we took when you arrived, and we need to perform a minor operation. Unfortunately, you can’t eat for several hours before a general anaesthetic.”
The anger on the girl’s face changed to concern. “What operation? What’s wrong with me?”
“Like I said, it’s a minor operation. We just want to take some more samples to confirm that your treatment’s going according to plan. The procedure can be a bit painful so it’ll be less unpleasant for you if we do it while you’re asleep. It’ll all be over in half an hour or so, and then you’ll be able to eat.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“We’re going to insert a probe inside you and extract a small sample of material.”
“Are you going to cut me open?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“So where exactly are you going to insert the probe? Down my throat or up my arse?”
“Um, the second of those,” said the doctor, looking slightly uncomfortable.
“Great. So you cop another good look at my fanny.”
“Look, I see naked bodies every day of the week. It’s just part of the job. You’re no different – I’ve seen it all many times before.”
“Not mine, you haven’t.” The hint of a smile touched the girl’s lips. “But I bet you wouldn’t mind having my undivided attention for an evening with both of us naked.” The smile turned more lascivious. “If you let me out of here, I would do anything you wanted. I can be quite … um … accommodating when I put my mind to it.”
The arrival of two orderlies wheeling a hospital trolley spared the doctor a response. “Just pop yourself on there and lie down.”
The girl ambled sullenly to the trolley and lay down as instructed. As soon as she was on her back, each of the orderlies grabbed an arm and fastened it to the frame with a strap. She struggled briefly against her bonds. “Hey! Why are you tying me down?”
“Just a precaution in case you get any ideas about making a run for it.”
Once they had secured her arms, the two men turned their attention to her ankles. When they had securely restrained her, they raised the sides and wheeled her through the door, the doctor following a couple of paces behind. As they travelled down the featureless white corridor, she swung her head from side to side, trying to garner any clues as to where they were holding her. In the week she had been here, this was the first time she had been outside her room. Was that a face at the small window of one of the numbered doors? She couldn’t be sure in the short time before one of the men obstructed her view.
They turned a corner and approached a door labelled ‘Operating Theatre S1’. The girl passed through the swing doors into a brightly lit room where a woman wearing a blue medical gown, hairnet and white surgical mask stood beside a machine covered in indicators and dials. “I’m just going to slip this over your nose,” she said, placing a black mask linked to the machine via a corrugated tube on the girl’s face. “Start counting backwards from ten for me.”
Almost immediately, a sickly sweet smell filled her nostrils. She fought the encroaching darkness for a second or two, but was soon unconscious.
The doctor, who had by now also donned a hairnet and mask, entered the room pushing a wheeled cabinet on which rested a syringe connected to a long rounded barrel. He raised the girl’s gown up until he had clear access to the lower part of her body then carefully inserted the plastic tube and slowly depressed the plunger.
“Nice fanny,” he muttered under his breath.
Chapter 9
Sunday 25th April 2032
“I want to practice sprinting this afternoon,” John Marshall said, addressing the group of five. Antimone was the only girl – Erin was suffering from a cold – and also the only wheelchair athlete. “Let’s do eight reps of one hundred metres sprint pace followed by one hundred metres jog. I want to see some effort today. Let’s see you really push it around those bends.”
Max had still not returned to training even though it was over three weeks since his fall. There had been no further incidents following the party, and she was hop
eful he had finally put the accident at the track out of his mind. He had even been moderately polite on a couple of occasions in the past week, acknowledging her and calling her by her real name when they crossed paths.
In contrast, it seemed that John Marshall had still not entirely forgotten the episode. While there was no major change in his behaviour, he was far more distant and business-like in his dealings with Antimone. He had discussed the results of the analysis taken from the data logger with her, but it felt like he was doing it more out of duty than through goodwill. She had tried to follow his instructions to the letter, but she had the distinct impression that there was a lot more work to do to restore her good standing with him.
She glanced over towards the javelin runway. There was no sign of Jason. She had questioned him the day after the party about the spiked drink, but he remained adamant he had not been responsible. She had kept her ears open, hoping to hear rumours of who the instigator was. Surprisingly the school grapevine was quiet on the subject. In any case, she didn’t need the distraction of any romantic involvement what with both exams and trials for the British Paralympic team coming up in the next few months.
A wave of nausea swept over her as she placed the helmet on her head, tightened the strap then slipped on her gloves. She had not been feeling well all day and put it down to the onset of the cold that was doing the rounds. She directed the wheelchair to the start line, waiting for a nod from the coach to begin. When it came, she surged ahead, rapidly accelerating as she entered the bend. At the end of the curve she allowed the chair to coast down and tried to recover her breath. Within a few short seconds she reached the start of the next bend and once again propelled herself forwards.
By the time she had completed the second lap, she had built up a lead of over fifty metres over her fellow athletes, but the queasiness had increased to the extent that she had to stop and pull over onto the grassed oval at the centre of the track. She leant forwards and retched. A thin stream of mucus dribbled from her mouth, and she spat on the grass to try and remove the aftertaste.
“Not working you too hard, am I, Antimone?” Marshall said, strolling over.
“No, I’ll be okay in a sec, Coach,” she replied, spitting again.
“If it’s not hurting, it’s not doing any good.”
“Yeah, I know.” She glanced over to see that the rest of the group had nearly caught her up.
“Come on. Halfway. Two more laps,” he shouted as the four boys approached. “Let’s see you really put some work into those sprints.”
As soon as they had passed, Antimone edged out onto the track and accelerated. She finished the bend in the fourth lane, five metres behind the pack, pulling wide to avoid any recurrence of the collision with Max. The last two laps were sheer agony as she pushed her body despite the bouts of nausea that seemed to creep up on her as she coasted between sprints.
Finally, she joined the rest of the group, all of whom lay on the ground, panting for breath. Once again her stomach heaved, and she spat out a mouthful of foul-tasting vomit. This appeared to set off a chain reaction as two of the other boys copied her example.
The coach sauntered towards the athletes, a faint smile on his lips. “Good session ladies – at least so far. There’s nothing to be ashamed of with a bit of puking. Just make sure you stay warm. We don’t want any strained muscles. We’ve worked on your stamina so we’re going to do some weight pulling next to improve your power.”
The two boys who had retained their stomach contents rose to their feet, grinning down at their vomiting training partners.
“I think they must be suffering from morning sickness, coach,” one of them said.
“Nah,” laughed the other, “not possible. I reckon they’re all virgins.”
Chapter 10
Thursday 20th May 2032
Antimone unlocked the blue front door and propelled herself into the hall of the small detached house. It occupied a plot at the end of a cul-de-sac in a modern housing development at the edge of the town of Northstowe. Her parents had bought the property shortly after the award of the scholarship at Oakington Manor. The house was a short bus ride from the school, but her father’s commute to his place of work at an engineering company on the south eastern side of Cambridge had increased by half an hour compared to their previous residence.
Her mother, who had trained as a primary school teacher, had already lost her job prior to the move due to the drastic decline in pupil numbers resulting from the Orestes virus. She was now retraining as a nurse at Addenbrooke’s Hospital to the south of Cambridge city centre. Both parents left for work long before she caught the school bus, but they had taken the afternoon off so that they could be at home to greet her when she returned home on her sixteenth birthday.
The sound of whispered voices came from the lounge. As Antimone pushed open the door, an out of tune rendition of “Happy Birthday” burst out. Her mother proudly held a cake topped by a forest of lit candles. Halfway through the song, the candle flames merged together, and her mother had to put the cake down to avoid singeing her hair. The melody petered out as her father hurriedly knelt down to blow out the blazing mass.
“I told you to place them further apart,” he said to his wife when they were finally extinguished.
“My hero,” she replied. “I’ve always wanted a big, strong fireman to look after me.”
Laughter rang around the room as Dominic and Helen Lessing bent down to hug their only daughter.
“I thought I was supposed to blow out the candles,” Antimone said.
“I can relight them if you want,” her mother replied, “but we should probably call the fire brigade first.”
“On second thoughts, maybe not.”
“Who’d have thought it?” her father said. “My little girl, sixteen years old and all grown up.”
“Let’s sit down,” her mother said. “We’ve got some presents for you.”
A pile of brightly coloured parcels on the coffee table drew Antimone’s gaze. She followed her parents as they crossed the room and settled onto the blue-coloured sofa.
“Here’s one that I think you’ll like,” her mother said, picking up a small bright green package wrapped in a red ribbon.
Antimone undid the ribbon and tore the paper off. She lifted the lid of a blue, hinged box to reveal a pair of earrings in the shape of the five Olympic rings.
“They’ll go well with the gold medal around your neck in September,” her mother said, leaning over to hug her daughter.
“I’ve got to be selected for the British team first, Mum,” Antimone replied.
“Yeah, but you’ll breeze the final selection race,” her father added. “You’ve only got to finish in the top three to guarantee your place and your times this year are faster than anybody else in the country by several seconds.”
“Thanks for the support, Dad, but I’ve still got to do it on the day.”
“I’ve every confidence in you.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” her mother said. “I was talking to one of the doctors today–”
“Not a handsome one, I hope,” her father interrupted.
“As I was saying, I was talking to one of the doctors who’s a specialist in spinal injuries. He said that there have been some exciting breakthroughs in repairing spine damage, with stem cells and the like. It’s all a bit experimental but he said that he might be able to get you into one of their programmes if you want.”
The smile disappeared from Antimone’s face. “So one minute you’re talking about me racing at the Paralympics and the next about me walking again.”
“But you can do both,” her mother replied. “After that court case last year where the man received treatment and regained the use of his legs, he was allowed to continue competing in the Paralympic wheelchair races.”
Antimone sighed. “Yeah, but none of the other athletes want anything to do with him. What is it they call him? A Fake-Olympian? He may have won the court case, but once
you start letting able-bodied people take part, there’ll be loads of people giving it a go. Before you know it, the genuinely disabled won’t get a look in.”
Her mother’s face dropped. “I thought you’d want to walk again, but if you’re happy to stay in that contraption …”
“Helen, let’s change the subject,” her father said. His expression brightened as he picked up a shiny red package and handed it to Antimone. “This one’s from both of us.”
Antimone removed the paper, uncovering a rectangular shaped plastic box.
“Go on then, open it,” her mother said, the earlier conversation seemingly forgotten.
Antimone inspected the contents and pulled out a wristwatch with a large black dial.
“It’s the latest in health watches,” her father said excitedly. “It measures pulse rate, blood sugar levels, time of the month, if you know what I mean, and so on. It even tells the time. Try it on.”
Antimone slipped the gadget over her wrist and tightened the strap. The black face illuminated to display a clock face reading five thirty-two and a ‘Calibrating’ message at the centre of the dial in green text. After four or five seconds, a heart icon appeared in the top left corner with the number fifty-two to the right of it. A yellow exclamation mark flashed in the top right.
“Look, your heart rate’s fifty-two beats per minute,” her father said. “That’s pretty low, but you are a well-trained athlete after all. I don’t know what the yellow symbol means though.” He picked up the box and removed the instruction card.
“Why do they always have to make the text so small?” he complained, squinting at the tiny letters. “Ah, here we go. Press the button in the bottom right quadrant.”
Antimone did as he suggested and depressed the sliver of black plastic that protruded from the body of the watch. She stared at the message displayed in the centre but remained silent.
Decimation: The Girl Who Survived Page 5
