vaccine had to be kept at a constant temperature. Richard had told him that. A tiny red heat marker on the label turned blue as soon as it moved more than three degrees above. On this vial there were two heat markers. The second had been placed there by Richard to denote that the contents were saline solution.
Richard rolled up Lock’s sleeve. Lock had attended enough executions in his life to know that the person about to die rarely exhibited any great hysteria, either because their mind was already gone or because they’d received a little something to level off their mood before they got into the chamber.
Lock didn’t like needles. Never had. So he looked the other way as Richard dabbed at a vein on his arm with a sterile swab. A near comical precaution, given the circumstances. If Lock was going to die he doubted a lack of hygiene would play any part.
A clear screen ran the length of one wall. He could see Stafford watching him. As the needle slid in, Lock gave him the finger. It was what Stafford would expect. And if Stafford was looking at him he wouldn’t be too focused on Richard.
It seemed to be working. With Lock strapped down and plenty of firepower between the two men, Stafford smiled, waving four fingers in a goodbye gesture.
Richard finished filling the syringe. He tapped the barrel to force out any tiny bubbles of air.
As the needle pressed against Lock’s skin, Stafford stepped forward and pressed a button on the console in front of him. He leaned forward to speak into a microphone. A speaker on the wall inside the testing room relayed his voice. ‘Change of plan.’
‘But. .’ Richard started to object.
The airlock hissed open and the two guards rolled another gurney in. The man on it was of indeterminate age, his skin weatherbeaten, the rest of his face almost entirely obscured by a bushy beard. He was muttering to himself. The guards pushed the man’s gurney level with Lock and left. Richard shrugged his annoyance and reached for a new needle.
Stafford got back on the Tannoy. ‘Shouldn’t you use the syringe that’s already filled, Dr Hulme?’
Richard picked up the syringe intended for Lock and pressed the needle into the man’s arm. The man closed his eyes with a look of serenity worthy of a junkie. Maybe he was dreaming of all those virgins, Lock thought.
Richard pressed down on the plunger, emptied the contents of the barrel, withdrew the needle from the man’s arm and swabbed it down again.
The man’s eyes opened. A look of vague disappointment crossed his face.
‘Now Lock,’ Stafford ordered.
Richard opened the cooler again, broke out a fresh syringe from its pack and filled it with a batch of live vaccine.
A thin film of sweat settled on Lock’s palms. His mouth was dry and tasted of copper.
On the other side of the screen, Stafford’s face remained neutral. ‘Just think, Lock. You’re making history here.’
Lock flipped him the bird for a second time. This time he meant it.
Preparations complete, Lock stared stoically at the ceiling. The last thing he wanted to see of this world was Stafford’s smug features.
The jab of the needle barely registered against the background of pain his body was already experiencing on an ongoing basis. He felt a warm sensation spreading across his forearm. Too late now to do anything, except wait. He’d thought about sticking to the original plan and feigning a fit, but Stafford wouldn’t buy it, even if everyone else did. Plus, he didn’t rate his acting skills.
The next thing he knew Richard was dabbing at the puncture point, a tiny blush of blood spreading across the swab. Richard secured it with some surgical tape.
‘How do you feel?’ Richard asked him.
‘As bad as I did before.’
‘OK, contestant number three,’ Stafford said, with all the gaiety of a gameshow host.
‘What happens now?’ Lock asked Richard.
‘We give it twenty-four hours and then you’re exposed to the live agent.’
‘And then?’
‘We wait to see if the vaccine’s effective,’ said Richard.
‘And if it’s not?’
Richard broke eye contact. ‘You’ll die.’
Sixty-five
The procession of trial subjects took over an hour to work through. Led in two by two, to save time, most of them proved compliant. Some less so. In one case, a lot less so: subject number eleven laid out one of the guards cold with a devastating head butt, the default method of attack for someone whose arms and legs are bound. Richard had to inject the man in the leg. None of the subjects showed any reaction to the vaccine.
When it was over, Richard joined Stafford in the observation room.
‘Good job.’
‘A charge nurse could have done that,’ said Richard, stepping out of his bio-safety suit.
‘They could have, but it’s important that you feel part of the team,’ Stafford said.
This hadn’t occurred to Richard until now. By making him perform the menial task of actually injecting the trial subjects, he was complicit. He’d breached their human rights as much as anyone else. He could claim duress, but what had Meditech done bar ‘rescue’ Josh from the animal rights people and then keep him safe? Any claims he made would now look like special pleading. Stafford had played his hand beautifully.
‘Don’t look so downcast, Richard,’ Stafford went on. ‘If this does work, think of the lives that could be saved.’
‘And the money you’ll make.’
‘The money
‘Am I done here?’ Richard asked. ‘For the time being.’
Richard walked back, unescorted, to see Josh. There was a tangible air of relief to the place now. A collective tension that had built in the lead-up to the initiation of the trial seemed to have dissipated. Even the guards, who’d been hyper-vigilant bordering on trigger-happy since the incident with Brand, appeared to have taken it down a notch. One of them even managed a mumbled acknowledgement as Richard passed.
Maybe it would all turn out OK, he told himself. If the vaccine worked, Stafford would be appeased. Richard could leave. Forget it ever happened.
Clinging to those thoughts, he opened the door into his room. Josh was snuggled under the duvet. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached out a hand to stroke his son’s head.
But his fingers found only pillow. Frantically, he pulled it out, tossing the duvet on to the floor at the same time.
The bed was empty.
Sixty-six
A light above the bed spotlighted Mareta. Beyond that was semi-darkness. The guard detailed to look after her was gone. From what she’d noticed of his breath and the pallor of his skin she guessed that he’d stepped outside for a cigarette.
But she wasn’t alone. Next to the bed, Josh perched on a seat.
‘What happened to your leg?’ he asked. ‘I mean, what really happened?’
‘A man shot me.’
Josh didn’t react. ‘That’s what I thought. Why’d he shoot you?’
