Philian Gregory

by Simon J. Stephens

  “I can’t imagine what those people are going through.”, Dexter drank his coffee slowly, “They reckon that the maximum any of them has is three weeks. How do you live with that?”

  “What I don’t understand,”, Gregory added, “is why it’s happening at all. Two years of trials and nothing, then this. Something must have infected the live batches, or worse, they were tampered with.”

  “Not possible.”, Dexter replied, “Not with such a wide roll-out. You know what the NHS is like for safety. But, I have to agree with you, it doesn’t make sense.”

  Their conversation was halted as they heard Carrington stirring. The years of alcohol abuse had hardened him to its effects, but he still struggled after a particularly heavy return to the bottle. They listened as he moaned and cursed to himself, hearing the shatter of a glass as he staggered out of bed and the profanity that followed the accident. Still pulling on his clothes, he shuffled into the boat’s galley.

  “Morning.”, he managed to get the words out as he poured a mug of coffee out.

  “I didn’t make any breakfast.”, Gregory told him, “Didn’t think you’d be up to it.”

  “Please,”, Carrington replied, “let’s not talk about food just now. And, before you say anything, I’m sorry. Really. No excuses.”

  They accepted the apology and waited until he’d joined them at the table.

  “More cases, I’m guessing?”, he asked, pointing at the news channel that was streaming on the laptop.

  “More than ever.”, Dexter replied, “We were just talking about it.”

  “Man, that’s got to be tough to carry.”, Carrington shook his head, “You come back to life, as good as, and then it all gets snatched away. Makes my reaction seem a little childish.”

  When nobody responded, he continued.

  “But it wasn’t just about Galen Pharma.”, he spoke haltingly as he tried to explain, “That was just the last straw. I know it seems bizarre to think of it when you know how others are suffering, but it made me aware of my own fallibility. If I got that one wrong, then how much of the other stuff is pointless?”

  “We spoke about this last night.”, Gregory responded, “You can’t doubt your abilities just because we’re not getting instant answers. What does it matter? You lost a chunk of fantasy money. We’re still up on the real income and you haven’t lost it as far as the betting goes.”

  “Besides,”, Dexter tried to be reassuring, “you can always rebuild the share fund. You didn’t have everything in Galen, did you?”

  “Don’t.”, Carrington held up his hand, “You can try to be as positive as you like but the share fund’s as good as dead. And we’re not getting anything out of the real work we’re doing. I just can’t see us making progress. That was the issue last night. I think we may have hit a dead end and I don’t want it to be like that. There are others out there and I’ve failed if I don’t close down The Circle completely.”

  “You’re really scrapping the share fund?”, Gregory asked, “I can’t believe you put all your eggs in one basket. It must be salvageable?”

  “Aside from the fact that it really isn’t that important.”, Carrington replied, “Not against what’s going on in our lives and out there in the real world. Aside from that, it is pretty much dead in the water. And that’s another reason for my doubting my abilities. It wasn’t just Galen that killed it off. There were other companies linked to them and that pretty much sounded the death knell. Seems like the whole pharmaceutical sector is taking the hit. How many other wonder drugs are they going to find not living up to their promise? It was fun while it lasted but with Galen, Sterax, PDR and Whitehead’s all tanking, it’s easier for me to start over. And that’s the problem. If I couldn’t see something as big as this from multiple sources, how can I expect to see something like The Circle in my calculations?”

  “They’re all linked to this?”, Dexter asked, “The other companies, I mean?”

  “There are rumours of connections. Links along the supply chain. Why?”

  “Because a couple of those names seem familiar.”, he replied, “Philian, can you get me the files we were looking at yesterday.”

  They waited in silence as Gregory slipped out of his seat and went to the bow of the boat. He withdrew the papers from a draw in the small desk unit that he had built with his own hands, before returning and dropping the files in front of Dexter.

  “Thought so.”, Dexter said as he began scanning the pages, “Look. Sean Young. Biochemical engineer with Sterax. Been there for a decade or so.”

  “It’s a massive company. Twenty-thousand plus employees.”, Carrington replied.

  “And this one? Holly Jameson, Regional Sales Director with Whitehead’s. Not such a big company.”

  “Big enough though.”, Carrington refused to take the bait, “Good few thousand employees and a faultless record. From what I recall, they don’t even supply anyone direct. They’re just taking the hit because of the panic around anybody linked to medical suppliers.”

  “Nothing more than coincidence then?”, Philian Gregory knew just what to ask.

  “Come on.”, Carrington turned on him, “You know I don’t do coincidence. But really, you want to try and find a link with what’s happening with Reforgin, Galen and the others with what we’re pursuing ourselves? I thought it was me that had the reality problems. There will always be connections if we want to find them. This country isn’t as big as we think. But no, even for me, that’s too great a leap.”

  “Besides,”, Dexter spoke, “even if there is a connection, what does it mean? I just thought it was odd, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry.”, Carrington softened his tone, “I’m delicate this morning. Not just physically but mentally as well. My confidence is down. When that happens, I doubt everything. We’ve noted the connection and we can leave it there for now. If there’s something in it, I can’t see what it can be. If not, we need to start looking elsewhere. I guess you made no other progress yesterday?”

  They filled him in on the events of the day before and on their failure to find anything either in Farnham’s flat or in the other names that they’d been supplied with. They started off by skirting around the issues until Carrington got wise to their approach and told them to stop trying to be so sensitive.

  “If there’s nothing there, I need to know there’s nothing there.”, he told them bluntly.

  One by one, they talked through the names and put them aside as being too uncertain to pursue in any further detail. They discarded none, knowing that a day of revelation might come around soon and that the links between them and The Circle might be made obvious. For now, they were no further forward.

  “More names needed then.”, Carrington sighed, “Or some adjustments to my algorithm. It should be helping us more than it is. I don’t get it. You guys leave it with me for an hour or so and I’ll get something together. We could do with some supplies. Why don’t you head off to the shop?”

  They left Carrington hunched over the laptop, typing away at a speed that they couldn’t quite believe given his delicate state. Before they’d left the boat, he was lost in his own world again and letting the magic of his coding draw him deeper into a safe world that he knew and loved. It was a world apart from the troubles of the place outside and it was a world that was isolated from the frailty of humanity that brought death to the fore so easily. He sympathised with those who had just received a death sentence and who would succumb to brain cancer in the following weeks, but he couldn’t let them live his life for him. His logic wasn’t as selfish as others might interpret it as. They were mostly old people who were facing death. They’d had their three-score years and ten and more. Death was part of the human condition. He was only glad that he’d avoided it for as long as he had. Still, he couldn’t go off on a bender too often. It was taking him longer each time to recover.

  With th
e new code running and his head pounding, he let the algorithm get to work whilst he rummaged through the cupboards for something, anything, to eat. It might stay down, it might not, either way, he needed something and he wasn’t going to find comfort in the bottle today. There would be other low days and other justifications for running away to an alcoholic fairy land. For now, he’d keep doing what he could until the day when they truly knew that The Circle had eluded them. That day might not be as close as he thought. Perhaps there were hidden connections in areas that they’d not even contemplated?

  As if to encourage him to hold onto this thought, he watched the first names roll up onto the laptop’s screen and allowed himself a smile.

  “Well, I’ll be darned.”, he laughed, reaching for his phone to call his friends and ask that they add an unusual item to their shopping list.

  Chapter Forty

  Small victories helped boost the confidence of the three unlikely vigilantes in the weeks that followed. They were the sort of triumphs that served less to give them the breakthrough they needed than simply to encourage them that they were travelling in the right direction.

  With the nation stunned and speechless at the rising death toll of those who had been prescribed Reforgin as it headed towards the anticipated million plus people, Philian Gregory and Bob Dexter were of little interest as they went about their business. Mortuaries were fast becoming production lines, unable to cope with the corpses they were receiving and simply processing the cadavers in a cursory way before releasing them for burial. Care homes began to empty and the pressure on hospitals began to ease as the untreatable brain cancers emptied beds and released staff from palliative duties. Insurance companies braced themselves for turbulent days ahead and property prices began to fall as families closed up their elderly relative’s estates and prepared to cash in on their misfortune.

  It had always been the threat of a contagious pandemic that had been prepared for. The first world didn’t have the wars anymore and they were comfortable in their mastery of healthcare. Only a new virus or a resurgence of something as virulent as the Spanish Flu lurked in the background as something that might happen but which could be coped with. Nobody anticipated a situation where the tiniest of latent elements in the human brain would react against a man-made instrument and ruthlessly destroy those who believed themselves to have been saved. Needless to say, the Directors of Galen Pharma were in custody and their business premises locked down as government scientists looked for the cause of the problem. Those Directors had gone willingly. Better to be locked up in a safe prison cell than to have to face the rising threats against them and their families. They didn’t understand it. All they knew was that the nation was looking for someone to blame and they were the most likely candidates. Pursuing any links related to Galen, Sterax, PDR or Whitehead’s touched on too many potentially sensitive and well-surveilled areas for Gregory and Dexter, so the two men detached themselves as best they could from the unimaginable chaos that gripped the country and followed instead the new lines of enquiry that Carrington fed them.

  Jamie Wilson was an ex-RAF pilot who now flew test flights for the defence contractor, Schumann’s. The nature of the role and its inherent dangers meant that he was very well paid for his work, which in turn meant that he was able to enjoy a very comfortable lifestyle with a very attractive wife and two faultless children. The beauty of his wife, an ex-model, was in no doubt. The perfection of his children might be more open to debate; he didn’t see them very often and it was likely that the darker and more annoying side of their nature was dissipated in the many hours they spent with nannies.

  Away for long spells, his architect-designed Cheshire home was well protected from intruders even if its location and ‘look at me’ design tempted many to stare at it with envy. Logically, the best protection would have been to have made it a little more discrete and to have hidden it behind high walls and hedges. Jamie Wilson wasn’t that sort of person though. He worked hard and played hard and wanted others to see the rewards he had earned for himself. A tendency to pride that opened the way for him to be identified and investigated as being linked to The Circle, despite their being nothing to link him to them directly. His name had come out of the void that Carrington had been able to dip into with his tweaked algorithm. It was a by-product of the wider search terms now being used which generated anomalies in an imaginary space before then reaching out from that space to pluck out any caught in the web beneath it.

  Gaining access to the secure property was child’s play to a team as open to the vanity of riches as Dexter and Gregory. Security systems and high-tech alarms were all turned off for the visitors from an obscure architectural journal who wanted to do a feature on the unique beauty of Wilson’s home and who hinted at their work possibly leading to a front-page spread in one of the mainstream lifestyle magazines. For that reason, the home and its occupants were scrubbed up and waiting for them as they arrived.

  “Please, come in.”, Sandra Wilson stunned them with her beauty as she opened the door.

  “I’m afraid that my husband is away with work just now,”, she explained, telling the two men something that they already knew, “but he’s asked me to give you full rein on the place and he’s available on the phone if you have any questions.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”, Gregory had answered, making sure that Sandra Wilson took in the buck-toothed smile that he offered and which had been created with some uncomfortable prosthetics.

  “Wow!”, Dexter wanted to be remembered in a different way, having dressed as the flamboyant partner in this strange duo, and making sure he affected a faux-camp accent to hide his own Stateside one.

  “So many people say that when they first see the place.”, Sandra beamed with pride, “But you wait until you see the rest. Now, come on through and we’ll have some coffee.”

  They followed her into the immaculate kitchen where two immaculately dressed youngsters were sitting quietly and working feverishly at their painting-by-numbers sets.

  “This is Jake and Ellie.”. Sandra told them, “They won’t get in your way, but if you want to include them in any photographs, they will be more than happy to oblige.”

  “I’m sure we can do something.”, Dexter winked as he replied, “Especially with two cuties like them. You must be really proud.”

  The small talk continued over their drinking an elaborate coffee created by an equally elaborate machine. They used the tablet they’d brought with them to show Sandra Wilson their magazine’s website and some of the back issues that they had spent days creating just for this occasion. When you had access to the sort of money and contacts that Dexter did, you didn’t use half-measures. ‘Architecture Now’ was a real publication. They would make sure that the Wilsons received their complimentary copy.

  “If it works for you.”, Gregory said, “I think it probably best if we let Jules here have a free run to take the photographs he wants to, whilst you and I can take a more leisurely look at the place and you can show me all the unique features.”

  That was how it was agreed and exactly how it panned out. Gregory charmed Sandra and the kids, whilst Dexter snapped away undisturbed. In many ways, it was too easy. Then again, they weren’t going to make it harder than it had to be.

  “You get anything?”, Gregory asked as they headed away, returning the enthusiastic waves that saw them on their way.

  “I think so.”, Dexter replied, “Let’s get onto the motorway and I’ll tell you.”

  It was as much as they’d expected. More, if truth be told. People like Wilson, if they were linked to The Circle, left very little to be discovered. But that isolation from traceable elements of their lifestyles was just the sort of anomaly that Carrington’s programming was suspicious about. It flagged you up as being unusual. Added to which, the eschewing of electronic means of communication meant that more traditional methods had to be employed. Such traditional meth
ods as meeting people face to face and doing so in a discrete location.

  “Everything was as buttoned-up as we expected.”, Dexter explained, “To all intent and purpose, it’s a show-home. It is, quite simply, what it is. But it is also a home. And the weak link was the kids. They showed me their playroom. I let them lead me wherever they wanted to and then they gave me this. After I’d told them how wonderful I thought it was.”

  He passed across a folded card that was quite obviously hand-made.

  “Take a close look.”, Dexter explained.

  “I’m not seeing it.”, Gregory replied after a few minutes, “It’s just a collage. A very bad picture of a pony in some sort of field. Not bad for their age but not something you’d pay money for.”

  “Look at the stable.”, Dexter smiled as drove, “See the doors that swing open? Scratch some of the paint off.”

  Gregory did as he was told.

  “They’d made it out of bits of rubbish.”, Dexter explained, “Stuff they’ve been allowed to grab from bins. And, in a house like that, there ain’t that much rubbish around. So, they’ve been allowed to use that plastic card to make the stable doors. And that plastic card is Daddy’s expired membership card for a London club that, unusually, doesn’t exist on the internet.”

  Gregory removed the pieces of card and rubbed them clean of paint and glitter. He read the details and typed in the search on his phone.

  “Interesting.”, he muttered as the search came back blank.

  “I think so.”, Dexter replied, “So, you want to ride our lucky streak and go see Mr Goodwin?”

  “Why not.”

  John Goodwin lived on the other side of Manchester. The Board of Schumann Defence Systems had unanimously voted to buy the property that he lived in as a final incentive to secure his move to their company. He, like Jamie Wilson, had cut his teeth in the public sector before realising that there was more opportunity and a lot more money to be had by taking the free experience he’d gained and cashing it in with a private company. Schumann was, despite the incongruous name, a great, British company, and John Goodwin loved working there from the start.