The doctor went through the routine of checking Emily’s vital signs, eyes, ears, body temperature and a host of other things before pronouncing her fit.
‘While you were sedated, we got rid of any residual infestation and scanned your brain and other tissues for encysted worms. You’ve been very lucky. No collateral damage, as we call it. But a word of warning. If you want to lose weight, there are less dangerous ways of doing it, especially when you don’t know the provenance of the so-called miracle cure. Stick to a healthy diet and exercise. You’ll live longer. And look better. At the moment you look like a victim of a WW2 concentration camp. That’s not good. End of lecture.’
Next day, Emily was on her feet and dressed in a neat blouse and skirt supplied by the US army. Her own clothes, she was told, were on their way. The military underclothes were not fancy but fitted well and were surprisingly soft on her delicate skin. She looked in the mirror at a very thin emaciated woman who looked as if she had just come out of hospital. Her hair was mess but she’d done her best with it. After breakfast, the gun-toting nurse escorted her to a room a few doors down the corridor. A major wanted to talk to her. She had asked about leaving but no response had been forthcoming. She was a prisoner without contact with the outside world: no mobile phone, computer or any other way of contacting her friends and family.
The nurse opened the door, let her in and closed it quietly behind her. A ginger haired man in his early forties sat at a desk. He was not in uniform but sported a plaid shirt and jeans. And he was smiling.
‘Emily, please take a seat. My name is Jake and I’m here to help you. And before you ask, you will be going home as soon as you have helped us with our simple questions.’
Emily sat on the only chair available, a padded armchair with a high back. She accepted the offer of coffee and sipped it while Jake continued his introduction. Underneath, she felt like screaming and throwing things but knew it wouldn’t help. Also, she was curious as to why she was in what seemed to be a military hospital run by Americans.
‘Yeah, you’re wondering what you are doing here and where here is.’
‘Well it’s not Guantanamo is it? I haven’t seen any Muslims in chains,’ Emily replied.
‘Hey, you are as sharp as you look on TV. I like that,’ Jake came back.
‘OK, ask your questions. Then I want to get home. And as you have noticed, I do have work to do. Oh god, what day is it?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘But I called the emergency number on Sunday. So, I’ve lost two days?’
‘Sorry about that but we had to make sure that there were no traces of P451 in your system.’
‘What is P451?’ asked Emily, reaching back into her memory. ‘That’s what was on the packet …’
‘Of worm proglotids you swallowed. That’s right. Now I need to explain. P451 is a bio-weapon.’
‘What? A weapon?’
‘That is correct. Parasite 451 is a weaponised organism designed to kill or disable a designated enemy as defined by the US Army Council. You have ingested this organism and in so doing compromised the security of the American people.’
‘But all I did was use a slimming worm to lose weight.’
‘Did it not occur to you that you were losing weight rather quicker than you expected. Didn’t you feel ill?’
‘I felt a bit off but you always do when you’re on a diet. Feeling hungry is part of the game. You know it’s working then.’
‘Yeah, but you must have realised that you were wasting away. You are an attractive woman who knows how she should look. You’re on TV for Chrissake!’
‘I did start to get a bit worried. So, I talked to Eddie about it. He got me the stuff. He said it was OK and that’s what was supposed to happen. Once I reached target weight, he’d give me some tablets and the worms would just die.’
‘And did they?’
Emily paused. ‘No, nothing happened. I just got thinner and thinner. But that was OK because I could see job opportunities opening up. I sent pics to the fashion sites and they offered me work.’
‘So, let’s go back a step. This guy Eddie, he got you P451 and you took it. Where did he get it?’
‘Off the web, I think. I don’t really know: he’s a bit of a dealer, if you know what I mean.’
‘A dealer in illicit substances?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s his full name?’
‘Eddie Boyle.’
‘Address?’ asked Jake, picking up the phone.
‘I don’t know where he lives. He moves around.’
‘It’s OK, we know Boyle,’ replied Jake, pressing a key on the phone. ‘John, go pick up Eddie Boyle. Take the snatch squad: he usually carries. Let me know when you bring him in.’
Jake ended the call and replaced the phone on his desk. ‘Thank you for your help Emily. The nurse will escort you back to your room.’
‘Wait! When do I get out of here? I’ve done nothing wrong. All I wanted to do was lose a bit of weight and took the wrong stuff. Now you have me here against my will. Either let me go or let me contact my lawyer. This is wrongful arrest!’
‘Cool it, missy. Your clothes are ready in your room and as soon as the medics have checked you over, you’ll be free to go. One of our nice drivers will drop you back home.’
****
Emily savoured her freedom. She’d been home for a week and was eating non-stop. Nothing silly though: no chocolate or burgers or junk food. She’d been to cookery classes and knew how to produce balanced nutritious meals. Now she was beginning to put on a little weight. So much for being really thin and marketable. The upside was that she was feeling a lot better and guys in the street were looking at her again. When she’d had P451 on board, they’d looked away. She hadn’t understood it then but she did now. They had found her skeletal frame repulsive.
Still no word from Eddie, the slimy bastard. How could he have got his hands on a US biological weapon and given it to her? Jake had said they knew about Eddie. She knew he worked in a few grey areas but had never seen him as a villain, more a sharp operator than anything else. And when he came round, he was very loving and he had plenty of money. That’s always nice, she thought.
‘Mr Boyle is outside requesting entry Ms Rivalle,’ said the AI in the mellifluous voice she’d selected in the options program.
‘Let Mr Boyle in,’ Emily said tartly. ‘I have a few things I want to say to him.’
The door opened a minute later and Eddie Boyle staggered in. He looked tired and his face was bruised.
‘You look like shit, Eddie. Where have you been?’ asked Emily.
Boyle slumped on to the sofa and looked at her through slitted eyes.
‘I have been abducted, beaten up and treated like a terrorist suspect by a gang of CIA special forces guys who know their business. And for what? A slimming aid I bought in good faith. I tell you, this country is going to the dogs. How come the Yanks can operate in England without anybody knowin’ about it? But they do. It’s a government conspiracy, that’s what it is. And I’m totally knackered. No sleep for days; no food and using a bucket in the corner.’
‘A bloody slimming aid was it? That so-called slimming aid was a secret American bio-weapon. They weren’t too pleased about it and for that matter nor am I. I nearly died and it was down to you and your dodgy dealing. Now you come round here whingeing about being treated badly!’ screamed Emily, picking up a large blue and white vase. She advanced on Boyle swinging the heavy ceramic vessel. Boyle, activated by the threat of sudden death by having his head bashed in, scrambled off the sofa and scuttled for the door. The vase followed his exit, shattering on the door frame as he hoofed it down the stairs. Emily’s screech of frustration echoed after him as he left the building.
****
George was watching his favourite sport of Sumo wrestling on TV. As he watched, he ruminated on the strange case of Emily Rivalle. The sedative gas he and Karen had been sprayed with had worn off after a few minutes bu
t had left him with a bad headache lasting for several hours. They had reported back to the ambulance station and told their supervisor the whole story. Karen had seemed none the worse for her experience and carried on with her shift but George had felt so ill he’d gone home. Once there, he had called the police to enquire whether the abduction of the soap star had been reported. He was met with a negative response. Nothing reported, but they would get back to him. An hour later a call had come through from a smooth talking, upper crust type who didn’t give his name. The gist of the conversation was: keep your mouth shut; national security is involved. If you tell anyone, you can expect a knock on the door yourself. At that point George gave up the idea of going further with any official enquiries. Government sponsored disappearances were becoming common and all in the name of the prevention of terrorism. However, this hadn’t prevented him from calling Emily Rivalle’s number, a few days later, to find out if she had reappeared. To his relief, she had been at home and sounded well. She had been quite garrulous and told him about her experiences at the hands of the CIA and the nature of the worms she had taken. He’d spent an hour listening to her tale at the end of which she’d sworn him to secrecy.
George switched to a news channel. It was the usual stuff about foreign wars. According to American intelligence sources, Taliban insurgents were on the run, having succumbed to a mysterious waterborne disease.
The door of the living room opened and Sophia stuck her head round.
‘Hey Dad, have you seen Mum?’
‘Out shopping, I think.’
‘Oh, I wanted to tell her something.’
‘Tell me if you want. Is it important?’
‘You won’t like it.’
‘Just tell me. OK?’
‘Er, well …. I got some slimming worms …’
‘You what? Have you taken them?’ said George jumping to his feet.
Sophia ran from the room, calling down the stairs as she made for the sanctuary of her bedroom. ‘They’re OK dad, perfectly harmless.’
George stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted up at her. ‘Have you taken them?’
‘Yes. I’ve taken them, so there!’ shrieked Sophia, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
George took the stairs two at a time and stood outside the door of her room, breathing heavily. ‘What’s this stuff called?’
‘P451,’ came the muffled reply.’
Homunculus
Davy Cameroon took his brogue clad feet off the desk as the Minister for Golf Courses, Jim Beam, swung into his office. Cameroon had been contemplating Melanie’s attempt to persuade him to get infested like the other ministers. His wife could be very determined and he was glad of the break from making such a serious decision.
‘Mornin’ Davy,’ said the golf minister, parking his large behind on the visitor’s squeaky chair on the other side of the desk.
Cameroon told his computer to divert all calls to voicemail and flipped off the screen. He looked at his colleague expectantly, trying to muster an appearance of enthusiasm for the imminent discussion on golf and its importance to the economy.
‘Well, Jim, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s about your support for the new course in central Birmingham, Davy. You didn’t seem that keen at our last discussion,’ replied Beam.
‘I was just a mite worried about the shifting of a lot of small businesses to the outskirts of the city so that a few high paid execs could get to the golf course in their lunch breaks. Have you really thought out the consequences of this enterprise, Jim?’ replied Cameroon, looking at the other man and his parasitic companion.
Beam took his time replying while his homunculus whispered in his ear. It had neatly combed hair and even though it comprised only head and shoulders, it sported a tailored jacket that matched his master’s pinstripe Saville Row suit. Beam listened intently for a full minute, his head inclined towards the being growing out of his shoulder.
‘I can see your point,’ Beam replied, ‘but there are plenty of advantages to the scheme, my advisor tells me.’
Cameroon looked at the two heads facing him, wondering what it would be like to have a skilled advisor on tap, or on shoulder, 24 hours per day.
****
As soon as he stepped through the door, that evening, Cameroon was assailed by Melanie once more.
‘Have you thought any more about getting an advisor? Everybody who is anybody has one. Just look at the golf minister: he has one, and the PM,’ she expounded even before he’d put down his laptop.
He took a breath ready to reply, but his wife sailed on in full flow.
‘I was round at Cynthia’s today. Both of her sons have theirs growing nicely. And it’s not just politicos who have them nowadays; it’s people in the city, bankers, CEOs, the entire ruling class in other words.’
‘But what about …..’
‘If you don’t have one, nobody will want to talk to you. They won’t trust your judgement. You’ll be left behind!’ she wailed.
Cameroon finally got out of the hallway of their apartment and into the living room. Melanie trailed after him mouth agape, ready for another salvo. He sat heavily on the sofa.
‘I have plenty of advice available. My department is overflowing with Oxbridge people giving me advice. I don’t see why I should have an advisor, as you call it, growing out of my shoulder. It’s a bloody parasite for God’s sake. And there’s the risk of incompatibility. There have been a suicides, you know.’
‘That’s very rare. Look, if you don’t have one, I’ll be looking for a man who will. That’s it; my ultimatum. Get infested or I go. I don’t want to be married to a has-been who won’t accept progress.’
‘Are you going to have an homunculus as well?’
‘Of course not. I don’t need it do I? You’re the government minister, not me.’
‘And I’m the government minister with a shit degree in media studies and art history, whereas you’re the one with a doctorate in genetic manipulation. Is that what you mean?’
‘Well, if that’s the way you want to put it; yes.’
****
Three weeks later, going through his morning bathroom ritual, Cameroon glanced at the lump growing on his right shoulder. It had been easy to start off the homunculus. All he’d had to do was swallow a capsule containing the genetically engineered embryo. He didn’t know how it worked, not being a genomic specialist like Melanie. Rather, he had a vision of a small cartoon-like being swimming backstroke through his bloodstream until it reached his shoulder and then anchoring itself, ready to grow and burst out like the monster in the film, Alien. He hoped it wouldn’t be painful. Talking to others like Beam, he’d found that it hadn’t been painful for them. Apparently, the homunculus grew slowly at first and then blossomed into a fully functional advisor over a period of a couple of days. Cameroon had let his wife choose the exact model. She’d done the research and knew what he needed, she’d said. Now all he had to do was wait. His objections about it interfering with their sex life had been discounted with a smile. Melanie had said that it might introduce a bit of spice having a bit of Thatcher in bed with them.
****
A week further on, Cameroon woke early. Melanie’s side of the bed was vacant. Must have an early start, he thought. His right shoulder felt heavy as he sat up. He twisted his head round. A watery pair of eyes stared back at him. He stopped breathing: the head had popped out overnight. When he took a breath, once more, he couldn’t speak. What if it could hear him? He got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make tea. The homunculus didn’t move or make a sound but Cameroon had a feeling it would soon start talking to him. A portent of impending disaster began to grow inside him as he ate breakfast, sensing that something other was plumbing itself into his very soul. It occurred to him that it might even be reading his thoughts. Despite his meal, he still felt ravenous, as if the homunculus were using up every bit of nutrition going into his body, sucking away his very being. Nobody had mentione
d any of this. All of his politico friends had said it was all plain sailing old chap and nothing to worry about.
Later, having decided to work at home and let his parliamentary avatar field his calls in the office, he sat at his desk poring over the plans for the Birmingham golf course. Beam had already forced through planning permission with his usual blend of blasé glibness and political blackmail. However, Cameroon could still do simple maths. The destruction of local businesses and subsequent compensation claims would most likely scupper the whole enterprise. On this basis, his favourite micro-brewery project would survive and the golf course would not see the light of day. He hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt and was naked from the waist up. It felt more comfortable that way. The head was protruding more and more and over a period of a few hours, a pair of pink shoulders had appeared. And he was still hungry. By the evening, the shoulders had emerged and he could see the beginnings of a pair of arms.
Melanie came home to find her husband in the kitchen where he was busy preparing a meal. As she entered, he was talking to himself, or the homunculus: she wasn’t sure which since the parasite wasn’t taking part in the conversation. It was looking round though and she met the piercing blue eyes which seemed to look straight through her.
‘Look, the thing has erupted,’ exclaimed Cameroon. ‘I think it can read my mind.’
Melanie looked at him quizzically and then at the food arrayed ready to be cooked. ‘How many are coming to dinner?’ she asked.
‘It’s only us,’ replied Cameroon. ‘I’m starving. It must be this thing growing on me, using me up. I’ll need to eat double to keep it going by the look of it.’
By the following morning, the homunculus had arms and hands and its mouth was open. Cameroon could see sharp little teeth and a tongue that occasionally flicked out to lick thin crimson lips. It was time to get the thing dressed. He couldn’t have a naked Thatcher torso on show when he was out on public view.
****
Two days later, in the office, Cameroon got out his copy of Small is Beautiful. As a left of centre New Conservative, this was now his political and economic bible. He turned to section 15 and refreshed his memory about Schumacher’s views on the workings of large organisations.
Parasite World Page 2
