The crowd outside the research wing of the hospital had grown quickly in a short space of time. Not quite with the same speed that a flashmob would come together but for the passerby, there wasn’t much difference. Signs and placards were held up by men and women wearing PETA t-shirts, proclaiming their hatred for animal testing. Among them were the dreadlocked and tie-dyed crew; the protesters who opposed capitalism as a whole and for whom the pharmaceutical industry was one big melanoma on the skin of society. Behind the front line of the protest specific that had been bussed in from far and wide and the protest ever-present were the locals who had heard of what was going down through social media. Publicly shared Facebook pages, #hospitalprotest trending on Twitter, along with Snapchat and Instagram shots being fired about by almost everyone present had made sure that anyone with even a remote interest in animal welfare, “bad” pharma or even just protesting and playing Rage Against The Machine really loud had come along to take part or spectate.
Viewed from a socio-anthropological angle, the crowd assembled outside the hospital resembled a trifle, with distinct layers clearly visible from observing dress code, behaviour and language. The only thing messing up this picture was the floaters. Men and women in the crowd with scarves and bandanas covering their faces and hoods pulled over their heads, milling amongst every layer and making comments to anyone who would listen about turning violent and doing something. These were the dark anarchistic “bad seeds” that the media loved to blame everything on whenever a protest got out of control or riots started up. At an even smaller level that academic observers would miss, there was one hooded woman who wasn’t an anarchist at all, but was using their presence to mask her own purposes. Sophie had an edge, she knew where the cameras pointed and where she could stand and spread discontent without being picked up. Despite the cameras not being advanced enough to have been equipped with face recognition, she knew that the men sitting in the CCTV control room would recognise her. She fixed the bandana covering her face and pulled her hood down tighter so that only her eyes showed and continued through the crowd.
The research wing was located at the rear of the hospital but both corporate and NHS research was carried out inside, so the back of the hospital was just as busy as the front. This was good for the protesters because they could focus all of their force on one location and still be visible. Some of the veteran protesters had already alerted their own contacts within the media, accrued over a lifetime of living on protest sites and collecting the business cards of eager local and freelance journalists looking to be the first to grab any story that might prove bigger than dealing with the menial complains of the elderly, or writing about how online bingo is ruining the country. Taking a phone call from an excited hippy was exciting enough for most of them to drive out to the hospital and check out what had outraged them this time. A protest this big outside a hospital was good enough to get on the front of any local rag and at least get a feature inside a national tabloid, so it was worth a shot. While there were protests this size all over the country that went unreported, when you see your networked contacts on Linkedin all updating their profiles about heading to the same location, you really have to follow suit, or your wallet could miss out.
Everyone with an eye on this kind of thing knows that any medical research done in university linked hospitals is both done with animals and is completely legal. The Home Office issue licences and carry out inspections to make sure of it. If protests occurred whenever there was animal testing then every hospital car park would look like a carnival. It takes a special occasion to pull together such a wide variety of people, interest the media and have the researchers themselves sweating. This time, it wasn’t the animals that were the issue per se but the experiments themselves. Most hospital staff such as porters or cleaners are in those positions because they have no other option but to make a living moving patients and bodies of those who used to be patients, or cleaning surgical theatres and wards of gore and phlegm.
However, some are there because it’s the only way they can get experience in a hospital; part time staff who work in hospitals in the evenings and study during the day in a variety of fields. Students might get a bad rap for being lazy but the one thing they do have going for them is that they are a curious bunch. All it took was for one inquisitive student working a shift in the research wing to open a bag of medical waste, investigate the labels of the empty drug packaging, Google their findings and update their blog with what they found for a chain reaction to ignite. It started with a curious student, and ended with a protest of over two thousand people outraged at the talk of a governmental cover-up being carried out at their local hospital.
The rumours about what was happening inside the research facility attached to the rear of the hospital ranged from plausible stories about unethical drug trials to more complex conspiracy theories. Publicly incomprehensible science and corporate non-disclosure mix all the time in the pharmaceutical business but when they combine with leaks of information, things can escalate quickly, forming an almost palpable hysteria. This was precisely what had happened in this case. Without having prepared an easy way to explain the legitimate means they had for using a drug with the catchy name ‘3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate’, otherwise known as ‘QNB’ in a research facility in Scotland, the pharmaceutical corporation backing the research had been blindsided. The PR-friendly line which explained the reason they were researching a drug that was rumoured to have been used in chemical warfare in the Middle East was brushed aside as a complete fabrication by those most vocal on the internet and their digital battle cries had been heard far and wide.
***
Sophie moved like a professional amongst the crowd. Much more at home in a busy city centre than in the office she had come to spend far too much time in recently, she felt a surge of pleasure at being able to negotiate the crowded area easily. She was looking out for faces that looked like they were ready for much more than shouting and chanting angry slogans. A slight snarl for example, indicated to her that its owner felt personally aggrieved by what was happening. When she spotted signs like this, she manoeuvred her way across to them and walked behind or past them in a casual manner while pretending to talk on her phone. Sometimes she pretended she was an undercover journalist, describing the scene to an editor. Other times she spoke excitedly as if to a friend whom she was trying to find in the crowd. No matter who she was speaking to, when she passed someone with the look of impatience and anger in their eyes she exaggerated the feel of the crowd and their intentions to her imaginary caller.
“Yeah, it looks like it could turn nasty at any point. Have the photographers lined up on the left to catch anything; I think I heard someone down the front talking about setting their sign on fire to attract media attention... Let’s get that for the front page.”
It wasn’t long until she had fabricated enough discontent that there really were people talking about burning their placards. As the crowd grew, the shouting got louder and more aggressive. The security guards who had been called in to work on short notice were visibly relieved when the police turned up and set up a cordon around the entrance, stopping anyone from gaining entrance to the building. The police recognised that the crowd had the potential to turn and came to the scene resplendent in their full riot gear, just in case. The sight of riot police to an already angry crowd was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. The wooden planks used to hold placards were thrown almost instantly, along with bricks, stones and any other debris the protesters could get their hands on as a primal hatred gripped the crowd and they surged forwards.
Sophie, seeing all of this started to retreat and sighed, relieved that the first part of her plan had worked. Walking away from the crowd towards the car park, she turned the corner and reached behind a large skip, pulling out a black bag. Standing in an alcove she whipped off her hooded top and swapped it for a duffel coat she pulled out of it. Now, instead of looking like an anarchist, her black trousers and white blouse, covered with a grey coat made her look like the young professional that she was. A lanyard around her neck displaying her staff ID card and a handbag completed the look. She ditched the bandana in the black bag and threw the whole lot into the skip.
Taking the long way around the building and emerging from the other side, she timed her appearance from around the corner of the building to coincide with the arrival of another van filled with riot police. Miming the appropriate actions to make it look like she was putting her car keys into her bag, she feigned shock and ran to one of the riot police.
“Please, I have to get inside. Can you help me?”
The policeman nodded and signalled for her to get behind him with his hand. He held his riot shield to the side as he strafed along the outside of the building towards the door, protecting Sophie as he went. A wooden stick hit the shield protecting her as she swiped her card in the door, causing the automatic doors to open inwards and she quickly slipped inside.
***
Sitting in the back of one of the company cars, Mr Cadman was stuck in London traffic. His associate, Mr Ballard was with him. They had been discussing their company’s performances on the stock market before Mr Cadman’s phone had bleeped, demanding his attention.
“You are going to have to repeat that, it sounded like you just told me people were protesting one of our research labs in Scotland”
“I don’t even know why you would call me with this news; you know what you have to do. Yes, of course you need to get rid of those properly. Haven’t you seen the vagrants that journalists employ to root through trash and sellotape shredded paper together?”
“How many people?! Next time you have an emergency like this, you should start with the most important news first, such as BBC News camera teams setting up outside!”
Just as the voice on the other line started to protest, Mr. Cadman hung up and began slowly pounding the phone in his hand, his face displaying the tell tale signs of contemplative rage that usually indicated that someone was about to be fired. Mr. Ballard didn’t even need to see this to tell what was going through his old friend’s head. He pulled out his phone and typed a quick email to his secretary.
Cancel flight to Germany. Cadman and I are going to Scotland. When can we land in Dundee?
Mr. Cadman was still staring intently at the back of the passenger seat, focusing his anger on the head rest when Mr. Ballard’s secretary emailed the details for two seats on the next plane leaving London for Dundee, Scotland. The PR attempts to deal with the media questioning had been so dreadful that it looked like the two directors of Ballard and Cadman Pharmaceuticals would have to defend themselves to the press. Mr. Ballard’s phone chimed a second time, another e-mail from his secretary.
The BBC has notified us that they will be running a piece on this protest tonight at 6. They have requested that you or Mr. Cadman appear on the news tonight instead of a spokesman. I told them you were heading to Dundee and they have arranged for their studio in the city to prepare for your arrival if you accept.
Mr. Ballard knew that it would be Mr. Cadman who handled both the journalists at their research facility and the questions on live television that night. It always was. They worked so well together because they had clearly defined roles. Mr. Cadman was the public face of BCP and although he was short tempered, he was well liked in the finance and business world. He had appeared numerous times on financial, business and political television shows and even wrote a column for The Financial Times’ website. If Mr. Cadman was the voice then Mr. Ballard was the brains. The business plans were left to Mr. Ballard to discuss and finalise. Wining and dining potential partners might have been handled by Mr. Cadman and his golden tongue, but it was always Mr. Ballard they finalised terms with behind the scenes.
The ‘plane ride up to Scotland was short and uneventful. Mr. Ballard waiting until they landed to confirm with his secretary that they would speak live with the BBC News team in London via a satellite link from their Dundee studio. This way, they could stop any local journalists from finding out they were in the city and avoid being harassed at Dundee’s small airport. The main offices for BCP were located in London and Frankfurt, but with the city’s reputation for medical research, Dundee was chosen as one of the main centres for their research. There was no shortage of talented graduates who would jump at the chance to work in the private sector, especially for a multi-billion pound pharmaceutical giant such as BCP. They carried out research in both their own building in the city’s Technology Park and in wards rented from the NHS in the nearby Ninewells Hospital. Arrangements had already been made to take them from the airport to their own facility in order to avoid the protests still happening at the hospital and also to directly inform staff on the correct line for media enquiries. For the directors of such a large corporation to be personally visiting one of the many facilities they owned across Europe indicated a larger problem than any of the staff anticipated, and they were nervous.
Sat alone in the meeting room with terrible coffee, the two men watched the news unfold. The protesters launched projectiles at the riot police and now there was talk of a riot breaking out, with a helicopter showing the beginnings of a kettling operation by the police. Mr. Cadman stood up and paced the room.
“I just cannot comprehend how our PR people have bungled this so thoroughly. We have the correct licenses for the drugs we were working with, yes?” Mr. Ballard nodded.
“We have been producing and publishing legitimate studies have we not?” Again, Mr. Ballard nodded.
“So why couldn’t they just say that!” He hurled his mug at the wall, smashing it into pieces and spraying coffee all over the wall. “Why couldn’t they say those things and have this all cleared up last week?”
Mr Ballard didn’t have chance to answer before the head of the facility burst in.
“We’ve just had a call from Ninewells, a fire has broken out and they are moving all of our human volunteers to other wards”
As he spoke, the 24 hour news channel they had tuned into confirmed what had just been said. Smoke billowed from a first floor window and the camera zoomed in on the panicked faces of the people inside. Turning to address the man who had just burst in, Mr. Cadman asked
“Have the files on the volunteers moved to the location of the fire. Make sure they are burned.”
The man nodded and left the room, frantically dialling as he walked away. Mr. Cadman seemed to calm himself almost instantly and poured himself another cup of coffee.
“We can’t risk anyone finding out what we are doing with the human trials Mr. Ballard, the backers of this particular project will make sure...”
Mr. Ballard interrupted him. “I know exactly who they are and what they will do, I was the one who went on that damn cruise and sorted out the financing for this whole project, remember? We’re on the same team here.”
“Yes, we just need to play our parts properly. Now, let’s draft a response so I don’t get caught with my pants down live on air”
***
Every corridor looked the same, they even smelled the same. Despite this, Sophie had travelled down these corridors so many times that this no longer mattered. Her feet moved her through the maze of corridors, through countless double doors and past the ill, the dying and the dead. The only way to navigate was through following the litter of signs pointing you to various wards, centres and offices, or through habit. Sophie had been working here for just over five years now, so long that she had even stopped noticing the mortuary gurney as it rumbled past her pushed by porters who were long past caring about how they handled their cargo. The artwork on the walls had not changed in the whole time she had been here. Walking these corridors felt like walking through a time bubble, she thought.
Thoughts of a time bubble were burst when she got closer to her research centre and seen the stress the protest was causing the staff. She ran through the doors and around the reception desk.
“Has anyone called head office yet Pam?”
The receptionist was sitting shell shocked. The number of calls she had taken in the last few hours was staggering and she had all but given up. The phone was ringing repeatedly but Pam seen no reason to pick it up. She had no answers for anyone. She snapped into reality when Sophie repeated herself, this time louder.
“...Oh sorry Sophie, I’ve not had a chance to even think about that. This thing just won’t stop ringing and look at my screen! Over one thousand unread emails in the last hour...”
The receptionist started to sob, making Sophie feel uncomfortable. After all, she thought, this is all my doing. But she shook herself out of this self pity quickly, knowing that what she was doing was for the better. She gave Pam a quick hug and told her she would do it herself, told her not to worry about replying to any of the emails and that the journalists continually calling could go to hell for all she cared. Pam smiled and laughed through the tears.
In her office, Sophie dialled the number she had on file for the BCP head office in London and was quickly put through to the secretary for Mr. Cadman and then to the man himself.
“Mr. Cadman, Sophie from Dundee here. We have a little bit of a situation. We have a large group of people protesting our research lab here..." She was cut off by the man on the other line, telling her to repeat herself, so she did.
"We have a large group of people protesting our research lab Mr. Cadman. It seems someone was rooting through the medical waste before it was taken to the incinerator. They've seen the letters 'QNB', put two and two together and come up with five, luckily. I'm not sure how to handle the paperwork we have here, can you advise?"
"Ok, the problem with following the plans set out previously for the disposal of this... paperwork is that we can't really get outside because there's an estimated two thousand people protesting. At least, that's what the BBC News folk are telling us.”
Mr. Cadman shouted at her for a moment and when she tried to reply, he had already hung up. This probably meant he was on his way. She had a few hours to kill so she opened her e-mail inbox and was not at all surprised to see that she had already received double the amount of emails that Pam had.
After a few hours of replying to e-mails and checking the arrivals at Dundee Airport via their website she seen what she was waiting for:
Flight No. Scheduled Arriving From Status
AF5745 12th April 14:55 London City Arrived
She headed back out into the corridor and towards the ward, which was the temporary home of the voluntary test subjects. She wanted to check on one patient in particular. This was where people could come for a few weeks and be rewarded handsomely for donating their bodies to the drugs industry for final stage trials before new products could be released on the market. At the moment they had twenty people in for trials on the effects of a muscarinic antagonist and the resulting hallucinations. The idea was that you could make sense of the hallucinations of people suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and tease away the mental scabs they had in therapy. Because the drug also caused short-term memory loss, the PTSD sufferers didn’t remember revealing anything to their therapists. That was the theory anyway. The reason the name of this drug was enough to incite protests was that it had also been used as a chemical weapon by Saddam Hussein.
The protest had been gradually escalating following Sophie’s involvement and it was now reaching a breaking point. While she was walking amongst the protesters she had not been working alone. Hitting redial on her phone resulted in a mobile phone vibrating in one of the black hooded men outside. She hung up after two second, just long enough for the phone to have grabbed the man’s attention. This was the perfect time to start the ball rolling on the last part of her plan, which was also the most dangerous. Getting caught here wouldn’t just mean she lost her job, she would go to jail. She hoped that outside, the projectiles being thrown at the riot police outside were now on fire, and that it was only a matter of time before a small fire had been started in the hospital building itself. That was the queue she was waiting for.
It only took around fifteen minutes for the fire alarm to screech a warning to everyone that there was indeed a fire in the vicinity and they should get out as soon as possible. The nursing assistants who looked after the voluntary subjects all knew the drill off by heart, although they had never used it for real until now. The non-ambulant personnel were to be wheeled in their beds to a safe ward, where the fire proof doors could keep them safe for a few hours. Due to the nature of the study, all twenty of the volunteers were immobile in bed, attached to various machines. Sophie knew this. She also knew that the corridors would be filled with other voluntary patients from other companies as well as from the NHS research wards. It would be easy for one patient to get lost amidst all of that confusion.
As the fire alarm sounded she rushed onto the ward to the bed of patient number 15. This particular volunteer had been present for every single trial in this particular research project. Not only that, but he had been present for every trial under Sophie’s oversight. He had been given many names, but Sophie knew him as Wallace Croft. He was the reason she had done all of this. She had to get him out of here.
She waited until she was one of the last to leave and began pushing. Approaching the door to the corridor, she realised it was more chaotic than she imagined. The panic of a fire in a hospital had gripped everyone so it was much easier than anticipated to slowly get lost in the crowd of beds. Nobody was looking back, so nobody noticed Sophie rather ironically slipping out of a fire escape with a delirious patient hanging from her neck, leaving behind an empty bed. Nobody seen her, except the news helicopter.
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