by A J Rushby
I know that things are unlikely to go badly in my case, but I still need to remind myself to keep calm. I’ve got nothing to worry about. All of the medication I’ll be trialling has been tested in mice. Just not in humans. Or in this particular combination and dosage.
For me it’s not so much my life but my entire career that’s on the line here.
No pressure or anything.
I distract myself for the next twenty minutes or so fetching an orange juice and leafing through the newspapers on offer. There’s everything—from the New York Times to the Daily Mail.
Finally a blue-suited attendant tells us it’s time to go. Marcus exits from the private room beyond ours, but no one else emerges. I guess we’ll be boarding first. He gives me back my passport and we’re then led outside and into a nearby elevator. On the ground floor, we exit into a quiet corridor and walk until we get to a glass door at the very end where another blue-suited attendant is waiting for us.
‘Here we are.’ Marcus stands back, letting everyone else through the door before him. ‘Meet Asclepius.’
Not being the tallest person, I have to wait to see what he’s talking about as I’m the last in line, but I can guess. This Asclepius he’s referring to isn’t actually ancient or Greek, or the first physician and son of Apollo, but a plane. It is sort of fitting, I suppose. I remember that patients would sometimes come to the ancient Greek temples dedicated to Asclepius and enter a sort of dreamlike state where they received guidance from the deity.
I could use a little guidance when we get to the temple—or bunker, in this case.
Marcus follows me out the door and I look up at him as we walk across the tarmac. ‘If the plane has a name, does that mean the Society actually owns it?’ I mean, I knew the Society had access to resources, but I didn’t know it extended to Gulfstream Vs.
‘One here and one back home. And just think—it will be partially yours once you get out there in the big wide world. You’ll be able to say you have access to a fleet of private planes. Well, you won’t be able to say that, of course, but you’ll be able to hug yourself inside with the knowledge of it.’
I laugh. ‘I’m sure I’ll sleep more soundly at night.’
‘Trust me when I say that there are benefits to teaming up with your colleagues, Miri.’ He’s serious now, talking about how the Society will use its influence to open doors for me all my life. I never quite know what to think about this. In some ways it seems wrong, but then … Well, I’ve worked hard for this. And I’m willing to put my health on the line for this research, as well as more income than I want to think about for the rest of my life. Why shouldn’t I see some benefits?
His face brightens as he pauses behind Steen, who is starting up the short flight of metal stairs to the plane. ‘Wait until you see the theatres at the bunker. They will blow your mind.’
They might just blow Andrew’s, I think to myself as, above me, Steen turns back, listening to us, his hand on the metal railing.
His eyes meet mine for what feels like the first time in forever and he gives a tiny, infinitesimal shake of his head. I can tell he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Come on. I give him a look. Not even I would say that out loud.
‘Will they really?’ I answer Marcus and shoot Steen a quick ‘bland enough for you?’ fake smile.
‘Oh, yes. There are two, and we upgrade them at least once a year. They’re all multiple-modality theatres—MRI and CT scanners are integrated into both of them. We spare no expense when it comes to the theatres. When you stand in one of them, you’re standing in the future of medicine. So, let’s go see them, shall we?’ Marcus stands aside to let me follow Steen up the metal stairs.
I’m greeted at the doorway to the plane by yet another blue-suited attendant who welcomes me and asks me to follow the others. We go through to the back of the aircraft and I see that the front section will be curtained off. I guess this is where all the support staff will sit. The blinds on the side of the cabin that they’ll board from are all shut as well.
There’s a long three-seat sofa that Andrew and Steen sit down on either end of, while Lauren takes a single chair on the opposite side of the cabin. This leaves me either sitting in between Andrew and Steen or across from Lauren in the other single chair that faces back towards what will be the curtained-off area. Not surprisingly, I take that option, the thought of being sandwiched between Andrew and Steen a little too cosy for my liking.
‘The others shouldn’t be too long,’ Marcus says, taking a seat in between Steen and Andrew.
‘How far are we going today?’ Lauren asks.
‘Not far at all. Less than two hours.’
That isn’t far. But from Frankfurt, it could be a whole lot of places.
The attendant comes through and offers us some magazines and newspapers. I’d been reading The Times before. This time I take a copy of Hello! magazine. I need to read about star cellulite and the Royals. My brain can’t take much more than that right now, and I don’t care what anyone thinks. When the attendant leaves us, I notice she closes the curtain behind her.
After a while we hear voices again. The support staff have boarded. Not long after this, we take off.
There’s no going back now, I think to myself as the plane levels off. Not that I’d want to, but I feel the finality of my choices just the same. Over the top of my magazine, my eyes turn to Steen. The finality of all of my choices. I glance at him for only the briefest moment before returning to what I’d been reading. In moments like this it’s probably best to concentrate on how to ‘perfect the no-filter selfie’.
We’re around half an hour into the flight when I give up reading about who’s holidaying in Monte Carlo this year and instead rest my head back on my seat for a nap, telling myself it could be some time before I sleep again. As in, two weeks. I vaguely wonder if anyone at the Society was surprised at my application—that I wasn’t following in my mother’s infectious diseases footsteps. I’d thought about doing so, of course. Many times. But hers were big shoes to fill and I was scared I’d never fill them. Also, as I studied, I discovered my own interests and decided I had to forge my own path. I figured it was enough to honour her by self-experimenting, which had a strong tradition in the field of infectious diseases. It didn’t matter to me that it wasn’t in the exact same field.
I’m not sure how long I rest for when I hear a thump and my eyes flicker open. At first I’m unsure what the noise was—Lauren, across from me, has her eyes closed, as does Andrew, across the way. Steen is doing his ‘newspaper held high’ trick again and Marcus is nowhere to be seen. I guess he must be beyond the curtain, sitting with the support staff, and my gaze travels in that direction.
This is when I see what the noise was.
The attendant has dropped a bottle of water, which has rolled underneath the curtain and just onto our side of the cabin. Her arm reaches under the curtain to grab it, but as it does so, the bottle rolls that bit further.
I unbuckle my belt and stand up to go and grab it for her. Just as I reach the bottle and bend down to pick it up, the curtain opens a fraction and I glance up.
‘Oh, there it is.’ She startles when she sees me.
I pass her the bottle.
‘Thank you so much.’ She takes it from me as I stand up.
‘You’re welcome,’ I say, automatically. But the words catch in my throat as I get a small glimpse into the cabin beyond through the gap that the curtain makes between her shoulder and head.
I freeze.
He hasn’t seen me, but I’d know that profile anywhere.
I jerk my head back and give the attendant a false, bright smile. Then I turn away immediately, hoping she hasn’t noticed my reaction. As I sit back down, my hands fumble with the buckle on my seat belt. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe who’s behind that curtain. Oh, come on. I take a deep breath and try the buckle again. It clicks into place.
It’s only then that I feel it. I look up to see Steen staring at me,
his newspaper lowered. He frowns, as if to ask what’s going on.
I’m frozen, a deer in the headlights, not knowing what to do. But no, I can’t tell him. If that attendant knows that I saw someone, this could be the end of the road for me. If I tell Steen and they find out he knows as well …
I give a small shrug as if to say everything’s fine.
His frown deepens. Of course he doesn’t believe me. He can read me like a book.
Not knowing what else to do, I ignore him and pick up a new magazine—Vanity Fair this time. I pretend to be absorbed in an article that details the making of the newest Chanel No. 5 commercial, even though I am probably the person on the entire planet least likely to care about this.
Steen’s eyes don’t leave me though. I can feel them boring into me. Waiting for me to look up. To tell him what’s going on.
But I can’t.
I can’t let him know who I’ve just seen.
Because it wasn’t a surgeon or physician I’d met before, or a teacher of mine.
It was another student.
It was Ryan.
I pretend I’m reading hard for the rest of the flight—from summer nail trends to financial forecasts. In reality, however, the printed words of the magazines I grab swim before my eyes as I try to figure out just why Ryan might be sitting on the other side of that curtain.
Is it because someone has figured out there are three of us here who know each other? But surely the Society has known that from the start. Why separate one of us from the other two now? It can’t be that. Maybe we’re being tested in some way? Maybe I should come forward and say something about Steen being grouped with me? Maybe Ryan has owned up to knowing Steen and myself? But again, how would that make any sense? We weren’t to know who else had been asked to experiment until we got to Vienna, and Ryan wasn’t introduced to us then. I start to panic, my mind spinning up more and more complicated scenarios, some plausible, some completely far-fetched. But there’s one that keeps circling around and coming back to me. One that’s simple and makes complete sense.
Maybe the Society wants Ryan’s work to go completely, utterly and totally unnoticed.
That first caution Ryan had received—maybe the rumours were true.
When I’d dug deeper on why he’d been cautioned, I heard that he’d been caught participating in some sort of infectious diseases research in South America. Not on animals, but on people. Apparently there had been issues with the informed consent process. The details were sketchy. Worried that he was even more crazy than I suspected, I’d ended up paying a private detective to hunt down any possible information and, as it turned out, there had been two small pieces in a newspaper in Argentina by a specific journalist. The first piece had been about a building in a remote area being requisitioned by the government and being used by a foreign company for medical trials. The second piece had come a week or so later. It had mentioned talk in the local area about what was going on in the building and that some subjects thought they had been taken advantage of. But then … nothing. It didn’t make sense. Until the researcher looked further and discovered the investigative journalist covering the case had been seriously injured in a car crash.
That research Ryan was involved in in South America—what if the Society was involved? It never should have been, because the whole point of the Society is that it facilitates self-experimentation. But then I’m also pretty sure it had been the Society that had helped keep Ryan in the Thirty despite him being cautioned.
Right now I know only one thing for certain. Whatever Ryan’s doing here, I’m not supposed to know about it. And neither is anyone else on my side of the curtain.
It feels like I’ve been cooped up forever when we finally land. I flick open my seat belt as soon as we stop.
Marcus leans forward in his seat. ‘This might take a while,’ he tells me. I remember the support staff up the front of the plane. Of course they’ll have to get off first.
I sit back in my seat then and close my eyes, willing the time to pass. I just need to get out of here. I feel like everyone’s staring at me, even though I’m sure they’re far more wrapped up in their own problems and thoughts. I pick at the edges of my nails, something I always do when I’m stressed. When I open my eyes and see Steen looking at my hands, however, I stop cold, sticking my hands under my legs.
Finally Marcus gets a phone call and tells us our cars are waiting. He swishes the curtain back and the five of us head towards the front of the plane.
Marcus goes first, then Lauren and Andrew, leaving Steen and myself at the rear. When we get to the steps, I look outside to see three large black Audi SUVs with dark tinted windows driving off into the distance. Our surroundings are flat and green, broken up only by a couple of small wooden buildings. Closer to us, two more cars are waiting beside the plane, motors humming. It’s windy and I can smell salt on the breeze. The ocean isn’t far away.
Marcus heads for the first car, glancing behind him as he goes. ‘Lauren and Andrew, you come with me. Steen and Miri, you take the second car.’
‘Okay,’ I say, going to start down the stairs, but then stop because Steen is blocking the way, standing on the second top step, his hand resting on the railing, staring out towards the three cars. ‘Are we going?’ I finally ask him, when it really doesn’t look like he’s going to move any time soon.
‘What?’ He glances back up at me. ‘Oh, yeah.’ He starts down the steps then and I follow him.
‘Everything okay?’ Marcus says to us both as we approach the second car.
‘Fine,’ I tell him. I get in the back right hand side while Steen rounds the car to get in on the left.
‘I’ll see you there. If you could keep the shades down, that would be great.’ He points to the back windows.
‘Will do.’
When Steen closes his door, the driver twists in his seat to look at us. ‘Seat belts on,’ he tells us.
‘How far do we have to go?’ Steen asks.
The driver doesn’t reply. I guess he isn’t going to be chatty.
As for me, I keep my hands on my lap, my eyes trained on the back of the passenger seat, and try to imagine I’m not in such a small space with Steen. I can’t look at him. If I look at him, he’ll know something is wrong, and I can’t let him know about Ryan.
Ugh. This is all supposed to be uncomplicated. Anonymous.
Suddenly it’s anything but.
We drive for at least half an hour before I realise Steen is trying to catch my attention. At first I don’t look at him, but when he starts to talk I don’t have much choice.
‘So, the weather looks pretty good,’ he says.
My eyes slide over to meet his. Why is he suddenly talking to me now? And like it’s going to matter what the weather’s doing when we’re inside the bunker. But surely the driver will think it’s strange if I don’t answer, so I do. ‘Mmpf,’ I grunt. But now he has my attention, he gives me a different look entirely. A look of urgency.
I frown at him. What?
He points outside the window, then back at himself.
I give him another what? look.
He tries again, pointing to both windows, then at himself once more.
What is this, charades? I go to roll my eyes, but then it clicks. Two hours from Frankfurt. That’s why he was acting strangely at the top of the stairs of the plane. He thinks we’re in Denmark.
Checking that the driver isn’t watching, I think for a moment, then hold out my left and right hands flat, the right one slightly below the left, forming a loose map of Denmark. Steen nods and holds his out in the same way, then points to a spot near the base of his right pinkie finger. Copenhagen, I mouth. He nods. Then he points to a spot almost on the tip of the same pinkie, tapping it a few times. So he thinks we’re some way above Copenhagen. I remember his grandmother. This is the area his grandmother used to live in before she moved to the city. I’m sure of it. He’d told me she used to live right up near Helsingor where you can catch
the ferry to Sweden. I’m about to try to communicate this when, suddenly, Steen is all action.
‘Stop the car,’ he says quickly, unfastening his seat belt. ‘I’m going to be sick.’
The driver immediately panics. ‘What?’ He glances around at us.
‘Stop the car!’ Steen repeats, already opening the door.
The car jerks to the side of the road and screeches to a halt as Steen opens the door further, sticks his head out and retches. I watch him. What is he doing?
But the truth is I know exactly what he’s doing. And what he’s doing is so, so Steen. He just can’t bear the not knowing. It’s not like he needs the information concerning where we are, or can do anything with it, but he has to know because it’s killing him not to. And to do that, he has to get another look outside—see if he can spot a street sign or something.
There’s another noisy retch. And another. And a bit of head-twisting as well as he checks out his surroundings.
Hmmm.
He pulls his head back inside the car. ‘Done,’ he says, with a groan, in the direction of the driver. ‘Motion sickness. It’s the worst,’ he says to me then, wiping his mouth with a flourish and then resting his head back on the headrest.
‘Poor you,’ I deadpan.
The driver only sighs, twisting around to view Steen. ‘Do me a favour and don’t throw up in the car, buddy,’ he says before he shoulder-checks and we pull back out again.
It’s a few more minutes before Steen catches my attention once more. But when he does, he nods.
He was right after all.
After another fifteen minutes or so of driving, the car pulls up. ‘We’re here,’ the driver tells us. ‘But you’ll have to wait a while.’
