Not What We Were Looking For

This is a short story I pulled together in the autumn of 2006. I have a vague memory that there had been a drug trial that had gone wrong around the time that I was writing this - it definitely has shades of that gleaming building/sinister hospital comparison. I remember being pretty proud of the idea, but also knowing that the first attempt was quite poor. You could see the structure of the story as I thought of the plot, and it seemed clunky. Now I've had more writing and reading experience, I know that there are plenty of published stories that don't seem to see it as a problem.

I went back to this story about three or four times trying to polish it. I was reading a lot of Stephen King at the time, and I've always loved a good twist in the tale. What I like about this story looking back is how much surer I got about working though my own ideas. There's a real sense of paranoia and dislocation, and even though I'm still putting far too much detail into things (I've learned over time pruning can do wonders), there are plenty of things to keep me satisfied: the older man's glasses 'slicing' through his hair tufts; the wrists 'the width of a continental breadstick' of the head of HR. I think his closing statement at the meeting was lifted from The Young Ones! 

Speech is still an issue here, which is to be expected (as a writer, it's such a vital yet misunderstood skill), and there are some major plotting issues (he's been headhunted but they stick him in an anonymous cubicle, for example) but I have to say this: even after all this time, I love the idea. Maybe when I get a collection...oh, and watch out for the main character's alarm about a drug that can wipe out communists. A bit of Cold War paranoia in a twenty-first century setting.

Not What We Were Looking For

by Chris Stanley

New Solutions liked to present to the wider world a caring, corporate image. When it worked, people weren’t even aware they were using New Solutions product. When things went wrong, when there were side effects, people tended to complain to the doctor, not to them. The preferred metaphor was a white-toothed smile; it signified clean straight lines and no corruption.

   Pharmaceuticals in the early, toddler years of the twenty-first century, were enormous business. Across the globe, people were contracting ever more gruesome unforeseen diseases and viruses; being felled by bacteria dredged up from areas untouched since the continents were joined as one. Even in fortunate, industrialised nations, death hung around like a mugger on the take.

   New Solutions were the solution. In reality, it was two companies; the division that did the work of actually combating illness and disease was named Gottway Pharmaceuticals. But New Solutions, a giant anthill of marketing and business was the public face, pushing drugs to stinking hospitals and strung-out doctors.

   The new Lord was profit, and New Solutions were fervent disciples. In the financial year 2005-6, the combined company presented after-tax profits of £36.3 billion. Trends showed, in muted presentations and overhead projector graphs, that by the turn of the next decade, New Solutions would be slapping themselves on the back to the tune of over a hundred billion pounds a year. This, of course, made shareholders and directors feel incredibly contented.

   It didn’t matter to the fat snouts that made their money through New Solutions that the company strategy was no cleaner than an unscrupulous pusher’s. They offered relief from real life, offering dreams and respite from the cold and the pain. The only difference was, they used charm and advertising rather than hanging around near the bottom of society.

   In those closed off corridors run by Gottway, where the screams went on throughout the night and fluid dripped onto dull tile, money was being made. Inside monolithic buildings, past three or four blank-faced security sections, the intense rush of those anguished cries were not heard by the investors. If they had have heard, they wouldn’t have listened.  

   They would have heard of the trials of anti-HIV drugs in West Africa that caused the decimation of fertility in fourteen villages. They would have heard of solutions that made people’s heads swell to the size of bell jars, and leak saline and pus all over those crumpled, dirty bedsheets. People in the type of pain these miracles were meant to protect against – the screams that made larynxes rupture; the screams of pure hell. They would have seen that a large percentage of after tax profit went to pay off many thousands of potential complainants.

   Or, at least, their families. It absolved them of the need to care.

   The Farr Building housed the myth-makers of New Solutions, surrounded by piles of moneyed concrete in Soho Square, London. It was pyramidal in structure, making it a must-see for tourists. Thin polyurethane covered the building, housing tiny LEDs that could light up the sides of the building independently. Of course, the building would light up to order provided you paid.

   Matt Adams sat in a plush maroon chair in the reception of the Farr Building, waiting for his first day guide. Pale-skinned, but muscular, Matt was attractive enough but had the kind of face that you would probably pass without noticing. Eyes a standard blue and a straight nose. An old girlfriend had once remarked that he’d be perfect in a police line-up, and he was inclined to agree. He smiled slightly at the memory of it. But those eyes scanned things with an intense attention to detail; keepers of photographic records.

   He opened and then quickly closed his briefcase, struggling with nerves. It contained a clutch of ballpoint pens, a copy of Private Eye and a scribbled note with directions from the tube station to the Farr Building. Creating the right impression was important; that was why he’d shorn his hair close to the scalp. Normally it was a mass of tight brown curls. He scratched at the nape of his neck self-consciously.

   After a few minutes taking in the atrium of the building, with its tinted windows shielding it from a busy capital and the ornate Brazil wood reception, Matt was relieved to see one of the receptionists point in his direction and a thin, birdlike woman make for him. It reminded him of an appointment with the bank manager, or the headmaster, which always did and always would make his stomach twitch. It was ridiculous; he had been headhunted and made a generous offer to defect.

   The woman, who had wrists the width of a continental breadstick, offered her hand and Matt took it.

   ‘Katherine Killane. Pleased to meet you, Mr Adams.’ She had a strong grip for such a small person.

   There was something of the head prefect about Killane. Her fawn spectacle frames were forced onto an upturned, pug-like nose, which balanced two half-centimetre thick lenses in front of her eyes, giving her the feel of a vigilant owl. Her hair was light brown and shaggy, falling haphazardly and stopped by tartan-clad shoulders.

   ‘Matt, please.’

   ‘Okay, Matt…this way, please.’ Matt felt himself gulp down a mouthful of nerves. She was not interested in being friendly, and he was surprised at how unwelcome she made him feel.

   They crossed the floor into a muzak filled lift, echoing across the parquet. The lift had mirrors on the back wall and a patterned print of swallows in green and brown on the sides. As the cable pulled the carriage silently through the floors, Matt rocked slightly back and forth in his brogues. They were new, stiff black leather, and they cut into his feet at the ankle joints. Still, impression was important.

   The door stayed firmly shut, Katherine and Matt silent as they headed for floor twenty-eight, above the halfway point of the needle. The digital read-out above the doors switched to a toadying “Have A Nice Day” in an attempt to lighten the mood. Katherine made no reference to it. Sense of humour was a valuable commodity, thought Matt.

   She led him to an empty L-shaped room, the walls a pale blue. Around the bend, cheap office chairs stood in a uniform closeness. Sterile, thought Matt. Katherine opened a cupboard above the sink. She gave a frosty smile, and her grey eyes never left his gaze.

   ‘Make yourself at home. This tea and coffee is for visitors. You can use it for today.’ This she left hanging, joined by a connotation.

   ‘Thanks a lot.’

   Katherine flashed an eyebrow-raise and walked out, leaving a trail of expensive perfume. He didn’t know who she was, but salary and importance go hand-in-hand. In Matt’s experience, the higher you went in the world, the more humourless you became.

   He boiled the kettle and added two sugars to the cheap coffee granules. When the kettle clicked off, Matt added the steaming water and swirled the mixture around the mug, and sighed. Sitting on one of the fibrous chairs, supported by tubular steel, he sipped the drink, and winced as the coffee burnt the tip of his tongue.

   Looking around the staff room it became clear that visitors were not welcome at New Solutions. There was no attempt at home comfort, no special treatment. Everything was anonymous and uncomfortable, a long way from the corporate image. It felt as if he was here to be studied, not help market a product.

   He’d almost finished the coffee and was halfway through his Private Eye when Killane returned. Her face had softened, but not markedly. Her eyes still trained on him, she addressed him as Matt for the first time without prompting, and asked him to follow to his new workstation. He tipped what remained of the drink in the sink and followed on behind her, feeling like a giant bear trailing a small child.

   It was a standard cubicle; MDF holding up a computer and monitor, phone, and an in-tray. There was a gentle hum over the open-plan complex, peppered by incessant ringing of mobile phones and pagers.

   ‘Suit you?’ She had her arms folded high over her chest.

   ‘Yep,’ he lied. ‘Fine, thank you.’

   Killane nodded her head curtly, and gave a faint smile. She gestured toward a plastic document wallet, the contents of which were supposed to complete Matt’s orientation.

   ‘Read this please.’ She had turned away before she remembered something.

‘Welcome to New Solutions.’

    Matt flicked through to folder, full of formulae and jargon, embossed with the circular New Solutions logo, and sighed again. It was going to be a long day.

   ‘Before we start, I’d like to welcome the new addition; Matt Adams. Welcome, Matt.’   

    Everyone’s eyes turned to the new body in the room, and Matt shifted in his seat. He’d been there a week but had hardly been noticed by anyone. It had taken a while to get up to speed on the job, discussing turnover and former strategies in small, competitive groups. He’d been hunted for the Senior Marketing division, a small cell among many in the company; the first port of call for new Gottway discoveries. Evidently there was a breakthrough needing the freshest blood money could hire.

   The man doing the introductions was the head of Senior Marketing, a hard-faced Scot named Douglas Fairshaw. He was bald apart from a tuft of white hair above each ear, sliced through with the arms of his spectacles.

   Around the oval table, the surface balanced precariously on two fluted glass legs, sat the nine other members of the Senior Marketing team. He’d met them all, but remembered no names. He was sat next to Fiona, a tight-faced blonde in a black power suit. Surprisingly Killane was not one of them; she was head of Human Resources. He played with his tie-pin nervously. Nobody else had one, and he imagined everyone focusing on it.

   Fairshaw had begun to speak again. The conference room itself was a model of business chic – modern, two-tone carpeting, Rothko prints, projector dangling from the ceiling. It pointed towards the blank wall behind Fairshaw.

   The Scot had a pile of bound handouts, all prefaced by the New Solutions logo in colour. He was speaking as he passed them down the table, but Matt focused on the booklets. Some members of the team scribbled at his every word, desperate not to miss an edge over their colleagues. Others, like Matt, relied on tiny digital voice recorders set in front of them.

   ‘This booklet refers to the details of clinical trials in Cologne, Des Moines, Brasilia, Daegu and Nairobi of NS 4202.’ Fairshaw paused. ‘They’re good.’

   There was a rustling as the other members of the team flicked the pages. Matt flicked his handout and managed to scan pages, taking in a few standout phrases, “preferred gene,” “complete and total control,” “beyond all expectation.”

   ‘We have a short promotional film. It’s been prepared in-house by Gottway, so it’ll need cleaning up. It’s early days, but after you see this, you’ll agree that it damn near sells itself.’

   Fairshaw padded over to the dimmer switch, and then drew the blinds that protected the room from the corridor. It darkened, and a small remote in the head’s hand caused the projector to blink on and fill the far wall with stark white. Matt adjusted his tie-pin again.

   This time, the Gottway logo filled the space, a navy blue square with a capital G cut outof it, and the film jerked into life. A voice crackled from surrounding speakers, recessed carefully into the walls. Matt quickly scanned the table, and sure enough, everyone was transfixed.

   ‘NS 4202 is a major breakthrough in the treatment of disease. It can be likened to a ‘fresh start’ in the development of the fully-realised human. Upon completion of research and development, it is doubtful that conventional drugs will ever be needed again…’

   Matt watched, his mouth agape as the true nature of NS 4202 unfolded. He held his breath as people were wheeled into wards and injected. In film taken at intervals, people grew new limbs, had their blindness cured, Skin tone changed from deep brown to the palest white, and back again. The trials from Daegu showed two Koreans, their faces literally falling away, to reveal European and African features. It was like a snake shedding skin.

   The presentation finished, and Fairshaw turned up the lights. There was unanimous applause, but Matt stayed still. He sat shaking his head, bewildered. Flicking through the literature again, he noted down chemical numbers and compounds mentally, and projected timescale of human change. It was unnervingly short.

   ‘NS 4202 is potentially the most profitable chemical we’ve ever synthesised. Needing to be used in conjunction with genome technology…’ Fairshaw held everyone’s rapt attention.

   Matt raised his hand, and everyone’s focus switched to him, the new blood.

   ‘Yes, Matt,’ said Fairshaw, breaking off. He sounded mildly annoyed to be cut off in the middle of his pitch.

   ‘You’re engineering adults, then?’

   Fairshaw shook his head and chuckled softly. He obviously didn’t see a problem with the new drug. ‘No, Matt, we’re not engineering anything. We’re merely helping some of nature’s processes, that’s all.’

   ‘But that’s what NS 4202 does, isn’t it? It helps change humans?’

   ‘No different to what an Aspirin does, or a Vitamin C tablet.’

   ‘But it is different, isn’t it? You can’t expect people to swallow something that will change their skin colour. It’s eugenics – genetic engineering.’

   Fairshaw sat down, and folded his hands together, elbows on the table.

   ‘Look, Mr Adams. New Solutions does not “engineer humans.” We at New Solutions make products that help the world.’

   Matt stared defiantly, conscious of the eyes trained on him around the table. Fairshaw stared back, waiting for him to break. When Matt didn’t flinch or shrink back in his seat, the head challenged again, this time with the zeal of a reformed Baptist preacher in his eyes.

    ‘Let me put it to you this way. You contract an inoperable form of cancer. You’ll die in the most excruciating way. But then, we give you…a miracle cure!’ Fairshaw raised his hands to the sky in wonder. ‘NS 4202…a drug which will stop you from developing, even aging, while surgeons repair you, and genetic engineers change your DNA to stop you ever getting cancer again! In a decade’s time, illness will be confined to trash novels and history books!’

   Everybody was still staring at Matt, waiting for him to agree. He didn’t. Instead, he exploded, shouting at Fairshaw in disbelief. There was hate in his face, jaw set, almost growling.

   ‘It’s like playing God! Governments just couldn’t allow it! They’ll veto it! They have to!’ There was a sharp intake of breath from the rest of Senior Marketing, and the row caused two security guards to stride towards the door. They remained at the window, looking towards Matt and fingering their cans of mace.

   Fairshaw waited for Matt to stop, and got up from the table. Waving away the guards, who looked bemused, he placed his hands on Matt’s shoulders, and leaned in close to his left ear. Matt could feel his hot breath, laced with stale coffee, on the side of his face. It felt like a mafia summit.

   ‘This is your first day, Mr Adams, and I can understand the idealist in you wanting to stamp out his territory. But…’ and Fairshaw took his hands away, ‘…New Solutions is not in the business of idealism. It’s in the business of profit. There are literally billions available to us from the first government willing to give up their “principles.” And believe you me, for the profit they’ll make, there are plenty of governments willing to give NS 4202 the benefit of the doubt.

   ‘No more cancer. No more heart disease. No more low intelligence. No more disability. It’s like a save point for real life! What people do with it is none of our, or your concern.’ Fairshaw’s face was blotchy, trying to keep any rage below the surface of the skin.

   ‘What about ‘no more blacks’? Huh? What about, ‘no more Muslims’? Or ‘cripples?’ This drug’s just a way of wiping the slate clean, isn’t it? You can do whatever you want, to whoever you want! It’s just…just…sick!!’ Matt threw his hands up, deflated.

   ‘Mr Adams,’ said Fairshaw, quietly but audible to the whole room, ‘if there weren’t sickness in this world, we’d be out of business.’

 

   Killane stood over Matt and made sure he left with nothing. The grey eyes worked overtime, waiting to pounce. He didn’t have much, only his briefcase, which itself was nearly empty.

   ‘Not the kind of company for you, is it, Mr Adams?’

   ‘Not at all. I couldn’t believe it! It’s just…’ Matt’s voice trailed off as he shook his head.

   Killane smiled knowingly. ‘I knew. But I hardly need remind you that what you saw today was completely confidential, and you are bound by law to keep the information to yourself. Do you understand, Mr Adams?’

   ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, confidentially, a company that pulls in our kind of profit is in the position to, how shall we say, get rid of any problem we need to.’

   Matt looked up at Katherine, blinking behind her circular lenses, looking for signs of humour, but there were none.

   ‘Now I’m free again, would you like to come for a drink?’

   Katherine gave a little snort and shot back ‘What, with a man with your prospects? You must be joking. Just take your principles and go.’

   ‘Worth a try,’ said Matt, handing her his orientation folder.

   ‘Keep it.’ She narrowed her eyes and laughed for the first time. ‘It’ll remind you to stay quiet.’

  

Matt hurried towards Victoria station. He didn’t have much time, so he arranged for the courier to visit a bar inside the terminal, He made dialled another number from his pay-as-you-go mobile.

   ‘Did everything go as planned?’ The voice was a human put through a synthesised filter, making it sound as if he was talking with a drunken android. His clients insisted on absolute anonymity.

   ‘Better. I can’t believe they let me walk out of there with the literature in my briefcase. They’ve got nine other copies and an orientation pack.’

   ‘You have it all?’

   ‘I’ve got details of the product in a secured envelope, along with the camera footage of the trials. I don’t know how good the quality is on that, so you’ll have to try and clean it up.’

   ‘What did you think of it?’

   ‘I’m not paid to think, I’m paid to do what you’ve asked.’

   It was a good answer, and the voice was pleased. ‘You’ll be paid a bonus for your diligence.’ There was a pause on the line. ‘We shan’t use you again, you understand?’

   ‘Perfectly.’

   ‘The arrangements shall not change. You can trust us, Mr Adams.’

   The line went dead. Matt, or at least that’s what he was calling himself for this job, hummed quietly below the noise of the address system. He took the SIM card out of his mobile, and crushed it beneath the chair leg. He would dump the handset in the nearest drain he could find. The courier would be here to pick up the package soon, but he would not be there. He always tipped the bar staff extra not to remember his face, which was never an issue. He was the best at being anonymous.

   Matt, the invisible man, perfect for industrial espionage. Matt, who earned lots of money from being in the right place at the right time. Crucially, he was a man without scruple, hiring himself out to the highest bidder. He’d lay low for a while, but eventually a friend of a friend of a colleague way down the line would mention him as a solution, and Matt would become somebody else again, somebody flesh, with a different name, a different history and a different motive for employment.

   Matt didn’t care who sold NS 4202 first, as long as it didn’t get back to him. But then again, nobody ever did. He watched from a phone booth opposite the bar as a leather jacketed courier entered and them emerged from the gloom, slipping a padded envelope into a battered fluorescent satchel.

   He thought of Killane, so confident she knew his type – all principle and humanity. The sneer would drip from her lips soon enough, as another company announced their revelatory new product. She must have been involved in hiring him, ultimately. It may even have been that she’d found his CV, totally fictional of course, in the records of another company. It was a trap, like always. He was as threatening as one of the viruses New Solutions claimed to kill. The piece de resistance was the veiled threat over the orientation folder – nobody ever asked for it back…

   He laughed to himself as he moved out of the station and into the bustling London crowd.