Stangton parks the car between the new blue Lexus GS F that Nigel ‘bloody’ Parker had salivated over and she knows must be worth at least seventy thousand pounds, and a black Range Rover, also immaculate. Both cars put her own scratched and battered little blue Volkswagen Polo to shame as well as the 1.5 ltr Vauxhall Ford Fiesta police car that was now sitting between them like a poor relation. The car rattled as it reached sixty, not that going sixty was achievable along the windy lanes through the forest, although Stangton had tried his best.
She steps out of the car, thankful for a lungful of fresh, moist air to quell the rising nausea from Stangton’s stop-start driving and is hit by the smell. Something is burning, or had been burned, and the air is full of the stench of singed hair. Stangton notices her wrinkling nose. “Incinerator.” He says baldly. She frowns in return. “For the dead animals.”
“There must be a fair few bodies in there then.” She casts a glance at the four protestors still punching their placards towards her. The stench must be sending them demented. “It stinks.”
“Beagles, apparently. Tilly works here. She’s seen them brought in. They’re all sworn to secrecy—part of their contract is to keep mum about it all or they lose their jobs.”
“But she told you?”
“She’s my wife. She tells me everything.”
Javeen can’t help tweaking him. “Still—if she’s signed a non-disclosure agreement as part of her employment then-”
Stangton scowls. “Then nothing, Latimer.”
The steps to the front door appear from the mist as they approach, and the door opens without a knock. A security guard, another man Javeen recognises from the village as Billy Oldfield, takes their details and accompanies them through to the Director’s office. The building feels more like an old-fashioned school with its dark wooden panels that line the walls than a modern laboratory. Doors along the main corridor are closed, and a single light brightens the space. The only nod to modernity is the camera fixed in the direction of the entrance. Presumably somewhere in the building is a room with monitors complete with guard swivelling on his chair in boredom. Kielder Institute was hardly a hotbed of activity. A heavy oak balustrade and wide and winding stairs lead them to the Director’s office where they’re asked to wait before being allowed in.
Dr. Marta Steward sits behind a massive desk, flanked by three men with sombre faces and dark suits. She makes no effort to introduce them. “Our location appears to have been discovered, PC Stangton. I know that you’re familiar with our history—the persecution of my staff in Leeds and the attacks that forced us to come to Kielder.”
He agrees.
“I take this current breach very seriously. The protest outside can’t be allowed to continue. I’ve already had one member of staff, an essential member who is crucial to our work, threaten to leave.”
Javeen offers her opinion. “They don’t seem to be a real threat. They’re just students protesting against your use of animals in testing.”
Steward stares at her with cold eyes. “PC Latimer. It was only last year that one of my staff members was hospitalised after an attack by one of these ‘students’ and our laboratory was bombed. If you’re not going to take this seriously then we will.” The men at her side stand a little closer. The implication clear. If the police don’t act then they will. It would perhaps be better if they did, the police presence at Kielder was made up of exactly three people. Javeen, Stangton, and Amy Brice their administrative assistant, and she only worked two mornings a week—hardly a force to be reckoned with. If things turned sour then reinforcements would have to be drafted in.
“If you have your own security team then you have the right to protect your own property, Doctor Steward,” Stangton replies. “We’ll have a word with the youngsters. They do have the right to protest and, so far, they don’t appear to have committed any crime. Until that happens there’s not much else we can do, I’m afraid.”
Dr. Steward’s lips set to a hard line. “Until they do something?” her voice is entirely scathing. “We have to wait until they attack us before you’ll enforce the law?”
“That’s correct. They haven’t broken the law, so there’s nothing to enforce.”
The same tone of contempt that Stangton aims at Javeen is directed now at Steward. She senses a lack of empathy with Steward’s dilemma and remembers the photograph on his desk of his wife Tilly with her arm around their black Labrador, smiling happily from a hillside. Another depicts the dog romping across the hills, white breath billowing as it lollops. She remembers also the narrowing of his eyes and the way he’d spat ‘incinerator’ when she’d wrinkled her nose at the stench around the Institute. Couple that with his love of ‘excitement’, his yawning dissatisfaction with the boring nature of policing at Kielder, and she wouldn’t put it past him to actually stir up a bit of trouble.
“We’ll talk to them, Doctor Steward. Explain exactly what they can and cannot do,” he says laconically.
“Exactly how much of the land around here belongs to the Institute?” Javeen asks. She doesn’t want tarring with the contempt Dr. Steward is directing at Stangton. “How much further than the gates does the land extend?”
“Almost to the bottom of the hill. We’ve got four acres in total.”
“So, the protesters are actually trespassing?”
“That is correct and you, as Police Officers, under the Criminal Justice & Public Order Act 1994, Section 61, subsection 2, are duty-bound to remove them.”
Stangton coughs—his giveaway nervous tick.
“If you’re not willing to do that, then I am more than happy to have our solicitors contact your superiors.”
Stangton coughs again. “We’ll have words.”
“I want more than words, PC Stangton. I want action. These people are a menace and have proved a threat to the staff working for the Institute on previous occasions.”
Another cough. From her cold eyes, pursed lips, and steely voice, Steward was not a woman that would accept being ignored or patronised. Javeen takes an instant dislike to her but can’t help admiring her strength.
“Now, if you could go downstairs and deal with them, we can all get back to work.”
With that dismissal, Javeen follows Stangton out into the corridor. He’s silent until they get to the bottom of the stairs. “Bloody woman!” He takes a quick glance around. “Who the hell does she think she is?”
Only the Director of the Institute, Stangton. “She’s right though. We do need to do something about the protestors.”
“Just a bunch of scruffy kids.”
“We both know that, but-”
“Listen, we’ll have a word, give them a choice – leave private land or be prosecuted - then give them a lift down the hill. They can protest, they just need to stay off the Institute’s property.” Stangton opens the heavy door and strides towards the gates and the protestors.
Ten minutes later, with the protestors squeezed into the back seat, the car makes its way down the hill to the boundary of the Institute’s property. Pulling over to a stop, Stangton holds the car door open and the four step out. “Right. See that sign.” He points to the white sign with red print sat at the side of the narrow track. Green algae has already begun to creep around its edges. The four nod. “It says trespassers will be prosecuted. That’s you. You will be prosecuted if you trespass on that land again.”
“It’s a free country!”
“That’s just where you’re wrong. This land belongs to Kielder Institute, and they’ve made it very clear that they will prosecute anyone that steps foot on this land without permission. Do you want to be tied up in court for the next few years with blood-sucking solicitors and barristers putting you into debt?”
“But they’re testing on animals.”
Stangton sighs. “You can stand here with your protest, but don’t step beyond that sign. Got it?”
The girl with the paisley harem trousers nods and only one of the boys seems at all be
lligerent. “What they’re doing in there is wrong. They should be shut down.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. There are ways and means to change the world, lad, and this isn’t one of them. Now, are you sure you don’t want a lift back to the village?”
“No, we’re staying.”
The girl steps forward. “Could you take me back, please?”
5
Kielder Institute, 2:30 PM
Lois stubs out her cigarette on the metal rim of the ashtray. Her fifteen-minute break is over and it’s back to serving the murdering monsters inside. Mind you, the air still reeks with the stench of burning dog hair so it will be a relief to go back. She’d gagged when Mel, the other server who worked afternoons, told her what the smell was, and silently raged; she couldn’t let them know how much she objected to it. Nate said she had to keep a low profile, and besides, her mother had got her the job and she didn’t want to let her down. Her phone pings. Anita this time. She felt like piggy-in-the-middle between those two. The police had moved them on from outside the gates and Nate was roaring about it, and having a go at Nita because she went back to the campsite and wouldn’t stand at the boundary protesting. Nita was upset because Nate had shouted at her and called her a ‘snowflake’, but she was knackered and cold and just wanted to go back home, and could she stop with Lois at her house tonight, please? Lois could feel another ‘talk’ coming on and if Nita and her mum got together talking about Nate then her evening would be ruined. She sighs, stuffs the phone back in her pocket, and goes back into the canteen.
Lunchtime is over and only a few of the staff are at the tables or waiting in line to be served. She smiles at Doctor Killick although inside she wants to shout at her; why can’t you see how cruel it is to test on animals? Jamie had said they were using dogs, and Nate said it was beagles. Lois hadn’t seen any, but if she did, there was no way she’d be able to stop herself from ripping the cages open and running home with them in her arms. She positions herself behind the counter and ties the long apron around her waist then reaches for the slip of paper holding the next order; a flat white. She takes the bag of ground coffee from the side.
Tack! Tack!
She glances down the queue of staff waiting to be served. She’s here again! This time Lois won’t be able to hold her tongue. She turns back to the coffee machine and pulls the handle, expertly mixing the coffee with steaming and frothing milk, then sits it on the waiting tray.
“I asked for a flat white!”
“Huh?” The woman’s voice sits on the edge of awareness as Lois stares at the girl with the fur trimmed coat. She clenches her jaw, rolling her lips tight against her teeth, and glares at the coat. She is certain; the fur is real. Her stomach lurches.
“I asked for a flat white!” the customer repeats with a tone of irritation. Lois looks at the woman, the fur trim still in her mind, and groans. The woman returns her frown, a deep crease between her over-plucked and crayoned-in brows. “Excuse me?” The customer purses her lips and Lois notices how the gaudy lipstick smeared on her lips is bleeding into the crevices of her ageing skin. Lois snorts; dog’s bum-hole—her lips look like the wrinkled flesh of a dog’s bum-hole. Lois wants to swipe her sleeve across the woman’s mouth.
“Well?”
Mel sniggers.
“Oh, sorry!” Lois says as a tap on her shoulder breaks into her reverie. Damn! Sheila. Now Lois will be in trouble.
“Can I help?” Sheila asks from behind.
“Yes! Get better staff for a start.”
“I do apologise,” Sheila says still hovering over Lois’ shoulder.
Sheila’s breath is moist on her cheek and the unmistakable sourness of cigarettes makes it stink. Lois doesn’t flinch—incurring Sheila’s wrath by offending her is not somewhere Lois wants to go.
“Lois, can you serve this lady please?” Sheila’s voice is tart—overly polite, but carries the ‘you’re-going-to-know-about-it’ threat that Lois recognises too well.
“Certainly.” A sting rises on Lois’ cheek as she pushes the tray towards the woman. Coffee spills onto the saucer, froth leaking over the rim to the tray.
“Right!” The woman huffs. “I asked for a flat white and this is a frothy mess of I don’t know what.”
“It’s a Caffe Misto,” Lois replies, ignoring the woman’s glare, her attention caught again by the fur collar as it moves in the queue. Their eyes lock. The fur collar smirks, turns to the chiller, and reaches for a plated cake.
Monster!
Fur Collar turns to her friend, snickers, then moves forward in the queue. The sneering laugh grates at Lois. How can she stand there and laugh when she’s wearing the pelt of a tortured animal? Monstrous! She’s disgusting, repulsive. She’s a murderer! The fur collar notices Lois’ stare, turns to her friend, laughs, then makes belligerent eye contact once more. There’s no doubt about it—they’re talking about her.
“Lois!”
That’s it!
“Can I have the flat white?” The woman’s voice is terse.
“Lois! Take a break-”
“There’s no need to be so aggressive!” Lois shoots back, ignoring Sheila’s pestering voice.
“Pardon?”
“Oh, just shut up,” Lois mutters.
“What did you say?”
Damn! She’d said it aloud.
“Lois Maybank, leave the counter immediately and-”
Sheila’s voice fades as Fur Collar cackles, an over-large leather bag swinging on her arm. Lois’ cheeks sting with rising mortification.
Ignoring the woman demanding her coffee, ignoring Sheila pulling at her shoulder, Lois pushes past Mel through the gateway to the front of the coffee shop, and strides past the tables and the staff drinking their coffee. Lois’ eyes don’t leave the girl, her orange face shiny in the lights. The girl stops and stares as Lois bears down on her, a frown of confusion as she walks towards her, then looks left then right.
“Murderer!” Lois shouts as she bears down on her.
“What?” Fur Collar reacts with an incredulous laugh though her frown deepens.
“Murderer!” Lois repeats.
“What?”
“How many animals were tortured and slaughtered so that you could wear that coat?”
“It’s fake!” the girl returns with indignation.
Lois stops in her tracks, doubting herself for one second, then bears down on the smirking girl. Grabbing the collar of the coat, she can feel the pelt beneath. Vindicated, she continues her attack and yanks at the collar. The woman yells in surprise.
“Lois!” Sheila calls from somewhere at the edge of Lois’ awareness.
Consumed by anger, she rips at the coat again. The woman screams as she’s yanked forward, and totters on her too-high heels, her face crashing against Lois’ shoulder, leaving a smear of pink grease on the white cotton of her shirt.
“Lois!”
A steel grip around her arm and she’s yanked back. The woman with the coat lurches forward and falls to the floor with a scream, her arm held up as Lois grips the sleeve of her coat. The pelt is soft in her hand.
“Lois! What the hell are you doing? Marcy! Call security.”
“Her coat! It’s real!”
Sheila’s grip tightens around her bicep. “You silly little cow!” she hisses as she digs her nails into Lois’ flesh.
“Let her go!” the woman’s friend shouts as she kneels next to her, and bats at Lois’ hand.
Lois releases her grip and the arm drops to the woman’s side. She grunts in pain. In the next second Sheila pulls Lois with force and swings her away from the woman. She lands with a crash against the chairs and they scatter. A shadow falls across her and Billy Oldfield, the Institute’s resident hardman, and senior security officer, leans over. “Lois Maybank. What the hell are you doing working here?” As she struggles to her feet, she searches his eyes for a second then stares over his shoulder at the scowling face of Dr Marta Steward. Lois doesn’t respond; both of them
know it was Billy that had given her the job.
6
Max scratches at Shep’s ear as the dog sits by his side and yawns. It was completely unorthodox of course, against protocol as Marta would insist, to have the dog out of its cage, but they owed Shep big time. The animal had endured a heart transplant on humanity’s behalf, been instrumental in ground-breaking research, and helped change the future for thousands of critically ill patients waiting for organ transplants. That was the official line and, to an extent, it was true.
It had been worth it of course, all the testing, to prove that the regenerative capabilities of zebra fish cells could be transferred to stem cells. To date, five patients had been taken off the organ donation register, not because they’d died, the most usual explanation for their removal, but because their own hearts, livers, kidneys, and in one case a cancerous spleen, had regenerated, become whole, and cancer free. How much it had cost the Institute to ‘employ’ these patients wasn’t Max’s business, and was something he chose to ignore. Max strokes the dog’s head—his very young-looking head, without the tell-tale grey hairs of age. Perhaps Sal had a point. The regenerative properties of the spliced cells were outstanding. Perhaps it could have wider, and very lucrative, implications. Perhaps he’d pass it by the ‘old cougar’ later. He smiles down at the dog as he remembers watching the video of the first patient, the joy shining in his eyes, as he was told he no longer needed a transplant. “You did good, Shep.” He turns to the assistant. “Sal,” he calls. “Could you prepare subject 354 please.”
“She likes to be called Molly.”
He sighs as he walks Shep back to his cage. Sal really needed to distance herself from the pups, especially for this trial. So far none of the subjects injected with WLV1, the mutated lyssa virus, and administered with the trial vaccines, had survived. “Sally, don’t name it. You know it’s likely to die.”
“I know. It’s just they’re so damned cute. Why the hell can’t we use rats?”
The Kielder Strain: A Science Fiction Horror Novel Page 3
