=04:31 hrs=
The darkness was lifting when the big cat finally made its way into the village. It was hungry, but with a hunger that threatened no fulfilment.
Its coat was full of sticky seeds, knotted here and there where the fur clumped around them. It wanted to stop and clean itself, nibble and lick the clumps until they were smooth again, but something darker drove it onwards.
The cat slipped down the quiet lanes, searching for food. It had tried killing a mouse earlier but the little creature had escaped, adding to its hunger and rage.
The animal had spent most of the night searching for a way out of the compound, finally discovering an old rabbit run under the fence. It was wary at first, never having been out in the open countryside before. Having been born and raised in a cage, it was now surrounded by strange scents and frightening sounds, but little by little, with the help of its deep seated rage, it overcame the fear.
The cat’s nostrils flared when it caught a scent on the night air, recognising the odour from its time in the cage. Setting off at a fast lope, cutting through the back gardens of some nearby cottages, it jumped the low fences with ease, its hunger growing.
Finding the dish that had been left out for the hedgehogs, it quickly gulped down the moist contents, then crossing to a small garden pond, took a drink and spent some time flicking out the small goldfish onto the bank, eagerly adding them to its meal.
Hearing a low hiss the cat turned its head, back raised in an arch.
Three female cats stood side by side on a garden bench, watching with hooded eyes, heads bowed in submission. The big cat smelt the odour and knew one of them was ready to mate. It turned to face them and one by one they jumped to the ground, waiting for the big male to come to them.
The mating was quick and savage, the male’s sharp teeth biting into the female’s neck as it mounted, saliva mixing with blood. Afterwards the male bit the other two females on the neck as well, ensuring its teeth sank deeply.
Then the cat’s split up, the females returning to their own haunts - the houses where the occupants rose to a new morning, a few wondering why their pet had not yet returned home.
The big cat set a steady pace, working its way across a field, something deep inside it, pumping out its message of rage.
As the first rays of daylight lightened the sky, the cat felt a calmness descend and for the first time since it could remember, it felt sated, able to concentrate on something other than the rage it had always known.
It found a sheltered bush, curling up under its branches, the tip of its tail covering its sensitive nose.
Dropping into a deep sleep, the cat dreamed of running free across the fields, but always close behind was the snapping jaw of the dark cage trying to recapture it.
=09:07 hrs=
Frank Booker closed the carved wooden doors of his mansion behind him and smiled in pleasure. One of his gardeners was busy raking the driveway smooth, while another clipped the low hedges bordering it. He had bought the place seven years ago when he’d gained his position as Director General of Area 7. He and his wife, Helen, had spent months looking over all the houses for sale on the Isle of Wight and in the end Booker had got so fed up that he’d threatened to leave the new job and go back to London if she didn’t find somewhere quickly.
Two weeks later Helen had driven him to Bathingbourne. As they topped a low rise, Booker saw a large house - more a mansion really - set in the most beautiful grounds. The smile on his wife’s face grew wider as she guided the car up the driveway, stones crunching under its tyres. The sun flickering through the hedges across the windscreen made them screw up their eyes, so they missed the best views that first day.
Stepping from the car, Booker breathed in the scented air and joined in Helen’s smile. He remained silent as he trailed his wife around the house but was suitably impressed. It was a magnificent place.
Booker had wanted it and had got it. Two months later he and his family moved in, and after much pleading, his daughter Carolyn, got her cat.
Helen, unable to conceive, had insisted that they adopt a daughter. That had been twelve years ago and now, after thirty years of a cold marriage, Booker and his wife had grown so distant that Carolyn was the only thing they had left in common.
Booker went his way, Helen went hers - she spending most of her time at committees, fêtes, and such like - Booker at his desk, except for the odd trip to London now and then to visit his lover.
Bracing his shoulders Booker smiled.
Not a bad life really, not bad at all.
Taking a deep breath Booker gazed at the sky. The sun was shining through scattered, broken clouds. He would have no trouble with his flight this morning. His secretary had submitted his flight plan to London City Airport, so he was ready to be on his way. With luck it should take him about forty minutes and after his meeting with Sir Craig Holland he’d stop off at the flat before picking up his daughter and her friend from their school. He should be back in time for his afternoon weekly meeting with Dr Vasant with time to spare.
The front door opened and Booker’s wife stepped out under the portico.
“My, what a beautiful day,” she said, bending over to fuss the cat that had twisted itself around her legs. “Go on, you bad boy. Go and do your business.”
Finished with the cat, she straightened up, walking out into the sunshine beside Booker.
He turned and smiled at her. “You haven’t called me a bad boy for years Helen. Are you feeling quite well?”
Helen Booker turned and watched the gardeners at work for a moment. “I meant the cat,” she said after a pause, her voice neutral.
“I know,” answered Booker with a wry smile.
Helen shot a look at him, distaste clear in her eyes. Unlike herself, who had kept her slim figure with constant exercise, he’d piled on the weight and she wondered for the thousandth time why she’d married him all those years ago.
She held out a white plastic box. “I made you some sandwiches for the flight,” she said.
“Why thank you Helen. That’s very kind of you.”
“When will you be back?”
“Probably about five with a bit of luck. I’ve got a meeting at half past two with Vasant at Area 7.”
Helen sighed loudly, turning back to the house. “Stupid name,” she muttered.
“I didn’t name it Helen. I just work there.”
The front door closed behind him and Booker walked down the long flight of stone stairs to the drive.
“Morning, Mr Booker,” the gardener tending the drive greeted him, nodding his head. “Nice ‘un.”
Booker nodded back before disappearing around the side of the house.
“Stuck up bastard,” the man muttered. “No wonder his old lady is always out on the razzle.”
Booker crunched his way across the yellow stones towards the helipad located behind the house. As he passed a green wheelie bin, he opened it and dumped the box of sandwiches inside. He’d get himself a couple of nice bacon rolls at the airport before he drove in for his meeting with Sir Craig - he hated the salad muck that Helen favoured.
Rounding the house Booker saw their cat loping down towards the stream running along the bottom of the garden. A cruel look entered his eyes as he hoped the damned thing drowned itself. It was always covering him with hairs and pulling the threads in his suits. Maybe he should take it to the project for Dr Vasant to work on.
With that cheery thought buoying him up, Booker struck out with a jaunty step.
Having been told that Booker was going to use his helicopter today, the flight-engineer had checked it earlier in the morning. Booker stopped for a moment, studying the machine. The sun glinted from the clear perspex canopy and its blue paintwork shone like a treat. He still couldn’t believe that he was the owner of such an aircraft. It had been a dream of his since childhood to own one and now his position as Director General of Area 7 had given him the means to indulge his fantasy.
As Booker settled himself into the helicopter’s padded seat, he pulled his iPhone from his suit pocket and hit one of the quick-dial buttons. After a moment a youthful voice answered. Booker’s heart did a flip in his chest and his forehead broke out in a light sheen.
“I’m coming into London for a meeting,” he said into the mobile. “Yes, yes, I’ll be finished my meeting by noon. I have an hour to spare, so I thought perhaps, lunch at the flat?”
Booker listened for a moment, his penis swelling in his trousers. They’d agreed to use the euphemism ‘lunch’ because it was so easy to hack a mobile. A man in Booker’s position needed to be very careful.
Blowing a kiss into the iPhone, Booker slid it back into his pocket and strapped himself in. Five minutes later he was hovering over his mansion, marvelling at the view spread out below - his well kept gardens surrounded by fields, and over to the south, the waves sweeping their way across the sea before crashing onto the shore.
=09:45 hrs=
Booker looked down at the airport, talking into his headset. Air Control directed him to the end of the runway - a stand beside a large shed, where he settled his helicopter. Struggling his way out of the cabin, he thought yet again that he needed to lose some weight - at this rate he wouldn’t pass his next medical. The last one had been a pretty close call and he was convinced that it had only been his invite for the doctor to attend lunch at the Savoy that had got him through it.
Booker poked his head around the door of the shed, his nose crinkling at the smell of oil and diesel fuel. Spotting a man in a pair of greasy overalls, he called out, “Is my car ready?”
“I don’t know mate. You’ll have to ask in the office. Know where it is?”
“Of course I know where it is!”
“Then why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Booker held his temper, knowing from bitter experience that it was useless expecting any respect from such uncouth individuals. Striding over to the office, he pushed his way through the glass doors and stalked over to the young receptionist.
He gave her a frosty smile. “I ordered a car,” he said.
“One moment please.”
The girl checked something on her computer screen, took a key from a drawer under the desk, placed it in front of him and held out a ball-point pen. Pointing to a box on the blue form with a long lacquered nail, she smiled at him.
“Would you sign here please sir.”
Ignoring the proffered ball-point, Booker pulled out his own Schaeffer fountain pen, signed the form with a flourish and pushed it back at her.
He was walking away from the desk when the girl called out to him, “Oh sir, don’t you want us to check the vehicle with you? For scratches and such like?”
“Not necessary, young lady,” Booker called back over his shoulder. “The car belongs to me and if anyone has scratched it then you can start looking for a new job.”
The silver Peugeot Coupe was parked at the side of the building, its fat tyres still gleaming from the valeting it had received that morning. If there was one thing Booker hated, it was a dirty car.
Easing himself into the seat, he drove out of the airport, flashing his pass at the security guard before turning right on Hartmann Road, narrowly missing a cyclist who gave him a one-fingered salute. Booker pretended he hadn’t noticed, his face flushing at the insult.
Should be in the army, that sort, he thought. That would teach the bastard some sort of respect. Probably an out of work scrounger on his way to collect his benefits. Booker felt his indignation rising and gripped the wheel tighter. They deserved putting in boot-camp, the lot of them.
Feeling somewhat better after his mental outburst, Booker negotiated his way over Connaught Bridge and on to the A112.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, if slow, and he grunted his satisfaction when he finally pulled into the underground car park of Biosphere Cojoin Ltd, the pharmaceutical company owned by Sir Craig Holland.
Finding an empty visitor’s bay, Booker turned off the engine and sat thinking, the soft ticking of the cooling engine marking the passage of time. Finally he had worked out his strategy for the upcoming meeting and looked at his watch, seeing that he still had twenty minutes until his appointment. Good, he’d forgotten to pick up a sandwich at the airport, but had time to get one now.
=10:37 hrs=
Settling himself at the red-rimmed, white plastic table, Booker pursed his lips at the greasy surface. Wiping it with a tissue from the chrome dispenser, he looked around at the scruffily dressed patrons. He smiled to himself, already luxuriating under the admiring glances he imagined they were giving him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Plucking an almost invisible speck of dust from his lapel, he dropped it to the floor with a twist of his thumb and forefinger, then picked up the steaming mug of tea he’d fetched from the counter.
While he waited for his bacon rolls, Booker studied the revised report Dr Mckenzie had written up yesterday. They had discussed it at length, trying to find ways of presenting the results in a better light, but no matter how hard they had tried, everything pointed to the same conclusion, the serum was a total failure. He’d just have to persuade Sir Craig that using pigs would bring better results. He knew the man wasn’t going to like this, banking as he was, on Biosphere Cojoin Ltd being the lead supplier of the new drug to the forces.
Booker sat back with a grunt when his rolls arrived. Picking one up he took a big bite, chewing hungrily, his mind still pondering the best approach to take with Sir Craig.
There had to be an answer, he told himself half-heartedly.
Halfway through his second roll, Booker’s iPhone rang and he answered it, a flutter settling in his stomach as he recognised the voice. Even though he was in a place where nobody would know him, Booker turned his body away from those around him, cupping his hands around the mobile so nobody could overhear what he was saying.
“Yes, I’m just having a quick roll,” Booker said, chuckling at the reply he got. “No, shouldn’t be too long. Just got a meeting with someone rather boring first.”
Booker continued the conversation for a further five minutes then ended the call, careful to remove the number from his mobile before returning it to his pocket. He sat at the table, staring into space, his half-finished roll forgotten, his mind back at the flat and the joys waiting for him there.
Perhaps he should take a present with him, he hadn’t done that for a few weeks. A watch perhaps, or a ring. Checking his watch he saw that he didn’t have time and got up, brushing some loose crumbs from the front of his jacket.
The walk back to Biosphere Cojoin Ltd only took a few minutes and Booker soon found himself standing in a fast lift, the floor indicator marking his passage as he ascended the vast building.
The lift door opened and Booker stepped out into a large space fronted by windows overlooking the River Thames. Smiling at the receptionist, he introduced himself.
“Of course Mr Booker. If you’ll just take a seat over there, Sir Craig will be with you directly.”
Booker sat down, lost in dreams of one day having an office in a building such as this.
=11:59 hrs=
Frank Booker walked into Sir Craig Holland’s office and sat in one of the guest armchairs, sinking into the plush leather.
“Tea, coffee?” Holland ask him, taking the chair opposite.
“Tea please Sir Craig.”
“Lap sang? Assam? Indonesian? Or perhaps a green?”
“Assam please Sir Craig.”
Holland looked over at his PA, who was still waiting politely just inside the door. “Two Assam please Gordon.”
His PA gave a curt nod and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
“Cigar?” Holland asked his guest, studying him carefully.
Sir Craig Holland had fought his way up the political ladder by being a good judge of character, and he judged the man sitting in front of him now to be weak and greedy.
Booker shook his head and leant over the arm of his chair, retrieving a file from the slim briefcase he’d set on the floor when he’d first sat down.
“My dear man,” Holland said as Booker set the file on his knees. “Let’s at least wait for our tea shall we? So tell me, how is that delightful daughter of yours getting on in that boarding school I recommended?”
“Oh she’s doing fine. She seems to be enjoying it.” Booker took a tissue from his pocket, wiping his forehead.
“How old is she now? Fourteen, fifteen?”
Booker moved in his seat, embarrassed at being asked such personal questions. Holland didn’t miss the fidget.
“She’s fourteen.” Booker was saved any further discomfort by a quick double knock on the office door.
“Come,” Holland called out.
His PA entered again with a large tray and proceeded to lay out the cups, saucers and teapot on the glass table between them. Adding a milk jug and a pot of sugar, he looked at Holland. “Will that be all sir or do you want me to pour?”
“No thank you Gordon. We’ll let it draw awhile.”
His PA walked across the deep piled carpet as though he was floating a few millimetres above it, bringing the tray to his side as he exited the office.
Holland smiled, his eyebrows arched. “Walks like a woman, don’t you think Frank?”
Booker looked startled and pulled his attention back from the door, realising that he’d been staring at the man. “Can’t say I noticed Sir Craig,” he said, wiping his forehead again.
Holland leant over and poured them both a cup of tea, putting a splash of milk in the cups first. Then the office echoed with the chinking of china as both men stirred their tea. Sitting back with the saucer balanced on the palm of one hand and the tea-cup held in the other, Holland took a sip and nodded.
“A good choice Frank.” Clinking the cup back on the saucer, he sat and smiled at Booker. “So, what brings you to my office? It must be urgent to get you scurrying all the way over here at such an early hour.”
Booker put his cup and saucer on the table and sat back in the comfy chair. Holland noticed a grease stain on the man’s waistcoat. It looked to be new.
“Well Sir Craig,” Booker began, tapping the file on his knees nervously. “For obvious reasons I didn’t want to chance discussing this over the telephone.”
Holland smiled again and took another sip of his tea, nodding for Booker to continue.
“Well it seems . . . that is, Dr Mckenzie and Dr Vasant, seem to think that what we are trying to do with AspByte is impossible. The serum causes brain damage to the subjects within four weeks. Every test so far confirms this.”
Holland didn’t show any emotion, hiding his contempt for the man sitting opposite him. It interested him that Booker used the acronym instead of the full title of the project, something he would normally avoid. He must be nervous.
When he’d put Booker in charge of Area 7, he’d expected better from him. For the past two years he’d sunk millions of pounds into the project, risking everything; his reputation and yes, even his freedom if things went wrong at this stage. He’d side-stepped the regulatory bodies to develop this drug, knowing that they would have vetoed its use. Maybe the UK was too left-wing to use such a serum, but he knew other countries that would welcome it with open arms. He smiled to himself at the thought.
“And what do you think Frank?” he asked.
Booker flipped open the file, searching through the pages until he found what he was looking for, holding it so that Holland could see, pointing at a graph. Holland raised an eyebrow.
“Well you see. Look at the graph, the model is telling us that it can’t be done.”
Booker sounded pathetic and Holland thought back to why he’d worked so hard to place him at Area 7 seven years ago. The man’s only saving grace was that he had a secret and men with secrets were easily manipulated. Tenting his fingers, Holland tapped them on his chin, his eyes hardening.
“You told me you were making good progress, Frank.”
“And we are. We were. It’s just . . .”
Holland leant forward, slapping the palm of his hand on the arm of his chair, watching Booker jump in his seat. The file fell to the floor, papers spreading out across the carpet.
“I don’t want to hear negatives Frank. Do you understand that?” Holland’s heart thumped as contempt surged through him. Standing up, he leant over Booker. “I’ve invested good money in you Frank, and I want results, or else.”
“But . . . but . . .”
Holland calmed himself with a few deep breaths and sat down again, trying to look earnest. “Frank, let me lay it out for you. This deal, the Aggression Drug Project, is worth a lot of money to me. I’ve kept it from the mainstream research establishments and the M.H.P.R.A. for reasons which I don’t intend discussing with you. What I am saying is that this drug will be developed. I don’t give a damn if the soldiers receiving it are idiots in four weeks or not. In four weeks a war can be won. Do I make myself clear?”
Booker found himself trembling at Sir Craig’s obvious anger. He nodded, still finding it hard to believe that Sir Craig had confessed to bypassing the Medicines and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency. It was unheard of.
“You want me to press ahead with development, even though the drug will adversely affect those using it?” Booker checked in a tight voice.
“Isn’t that what I’ve just told you Frank?”
Holland watched as Booker shook his head and stood up, a determined look on his face. He knew exactly what Booker was about to say. Now the bloody man had decided to take a moral stance. Typical.
“No Sir Craig. No, I can’t do that.”
“Sit down Frank.” When Booker didn’t move Holland raised his voice. “SIT DOWN!”
Booker sat and Holland smiled at him, reaching under his chair, pulling out a large brown envelope. Leaning over, he dropped it in Booker’s lap.
“Here. A present for you,” he said.
Booker looked at the envelope with a puzzled expression.
“Take a good look Frank. It’s photographs of you and your lover. My man took them last month. Really Frank, I didn’t know you could be quite so athletic.”
Booker felt the blood draining from his face and sank down in his chair like a beaten child. His ears popped when he moistened his dry lips. The whole room seemed disconnected for a moment and he realised that he was hyperventilating.
“Come on Frank, have a look. After all I paid good money for them.” Holland snatched the envelope from Booker’s hand, tearing it open and tossing the contents in his face.
Booker felt the pictures hit him and flutter to the floor. There were at least twenty of them, full colour, A4 size, showing him making love to a young black man. Another pale, white teenager sat on the edge of the bed watching them.
“Get out Frank,” Holland ordered, disgust thickening his voice. “Go back to your wife and daughter, and see what they think when they receive these.” He waited a beat before continuing. “Or go back to Area 7 and do your job. It’s your choice.”
Holland waited until the defeated man had left his office, then picked up the phone.
When it was answered he said, “It’s going ahead. Get the plant ready.”
Well satisfied with how the meeting had gone, Sir Craig Holland walked out of his office. His PA was busy typing something on his computer.
“Ah there you are, Gordon. I’m going out for a while. You’ll find some photographs scattered about the office. Lock them in the safe for me. There’s a good man.”
=13:12 hrs=
On the lawns outside Givendale House in St Mary’s School, Dorset, two girls lay on their stomachs talking. Dawn was excited because Carolyn’s father was picking them up by helicopter for a holiday on the Isle of Wight. Her friend had complained that it wouldn’t be a holiday for her, just going back home for the half-term school break, and as welcome as that was, well . . .
Dawn rolled over on her back and laughed. “Really Carolyn, you can be such an arse at times.”
Dawn closed her eyes, feeling the sun caressing her round face. Brushing her long, light brown hair behind her ears, she thought how nice it would be to live in a house like Carolyn’s. She’d give anything to live on the Isle of Wight in a big mansion instead of the small, two-up, two-down that she and her father lived in.
Somehow Christchurch on the south coast of England wasn’t as appealing as living on an island. Some people didn’t know how lucky they were, which was exactly what she kept telling her friend.
Dawn rolled over on her side and looked at Carolyn. She was rubbing Vaseline over her lips with the tip of a finger.
“Too many kisses at the dance last night?” Dawn asked.
“I wished,” Carolyn replied with a giggle.
The end of term dance had been a bit of a flop this year. Or maybe, Dawn considered, it was because at fourteen they had grown a bit too sophisticated for the boys from the local school.
“So tell me about your dad,” Dawn said. “If he flies his own helicopter, he must be important.”
Carolyn gave Dawn a serious look, mimicking Mrs Fingal, their small, rotund geography teacher, “I’ll have you know young lady, that my father is the Director General of Area 7.”
Both girls fell about laughing and Dawn slapped Carolyn on her arm.
“Be serious for a minute will you. What’s he really like?”
Carolyn considered the question for a moment, biting her lips. “He’s a bit overweight, a bit old and a bit grumpy,” she finally said with a smile.
Dawn slapped Carolyn again. “Be serious.”
“Will you cut it out. If you do that again, I’ll tell him to lock you up with the monkeys in Area 7.”
Dawn giggled. “It’s not really called Area 7, is it?”
Carolyn nodded. “Unbelievable isn’t it? All very hush, hush. You’d think they had the Terminator hidden away in there or something.”
“So what do they do?”
Carolyn shrugged. “Some sort of experiments I think. I don’t really know. Anyway, enough about my father, how about yours? What’s he like?”
Dawn frowned. “My dad? Oh he’s okay I suppose. You know, he’s a dad.”
“Your mother died, right?”
Dawn nodded, a frown settling on her face.
“What happened? You’ve never told me.”
Dawn looked off into the distance, her blue eyes half-closed. “We were on an island, I don’t remember where. Anyway dad was out on the reef doing some research . . .”
“He’s a marine biologist?” Carolyn sounded impressed.
Dawn nodded.
“Cool. So what happened.”
“Well, mum was busy getting stuff ready, she used to help dad a lot, she was some sort of scientist too I think. I’m not sure really, I was only six at the time and dad won’t talk about it. I’d gone down to the shore and was playing around in the sand. Anyway this boy floated passed on one of those blow-up bed things. He splashed me and I splashed him back, you know, just messing about. In the end we started playing together, jumping off the bed into the sea, that sort of kid’s stuff.”
“Anyway, we didn’t notice how far out we’d floated and when we did the boy went mental, screaming and crying for his mum. He was really, really frightened. I don’t think he was a very good swimmer. Next thing I know, mum’s alongside us, trying to hush him down. She’d swum out from the shore and it was a really long way. She began pushing us back, which was hard because the tide was against her. She kept coughing up sea water and I started to get panicky too. We’d almost reached the beach when it happened . . .” Dawn stopped, tears filling her eyes.
Carolyn reached out, rubbing her arm. “Sorry, I didn’t realise.”
Dawn smiled through her tears, touching the back of her friend’s hand with cold fingertips. “No, it’s okay. It’s good to talk about it. I never have.” Composing herself, she sat up and cradled her legs, her chin resting on her knees. “So, without knowing it, mum had pushed us through a shoal of box jellyfish. She’d been stung so many times that her body had started to blacken where their venom had begun destroying her skin, but she kept right on swimming . . . right . . . on . . .”
Dawn burst into tears and Carolyn pulled her into a cuddle, rubbing her back, not knowing how to comfort her, guilty that she’d asked about Dawn’s mother in the first place.
Dawn rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, continuing her account between sobs. “She saved us Carolyn . . . she gave her life . . . for . . . I’m alive because she died.”
The girls sat together, Carolyn’s arm draped over Dawn’s shoulders as the distraught girl cried herself out, until she finally shuddered and looked around at Carolyn, her eyes rid-rimmed, her cheeks wet with tears.
She kissed her friend on the cheek and took a deep breath. “Thank you Carolyn. Thank you so much.”
Not knowing h