‘This is what I wanted, Miranda,’ he says. ‘I told you that, the first day. I’m with you, Dr Samphire. Let me help you, and together we can get SymaxCorp back on track.’ He walks over to Dr Samphire’s side and takes a stand against Miranda and Meera. They can’t believe what they’re seeing.
The Chairman loves moments like this in the business world. It makes him proud to have been an advisor to both Mrs Thatcher and Mr Blair. ‘You chose the victorious side, son. Most sensible. It proves that even someone like you can become a captain of industry.’
As soon as he is close enough, Ben reaches over and grabs the barrel of Dr Samphire’s rifle.
The weapon goes off, skimming Ben’s arm to plant a third split in the fake palm behind him.
As Ben drops, the great tree comes down. It was never meant to withstand gunfire. As it falls, its concrete sections break apart. The top piece lands squarely on Dr Samphire’s head, pulverising his skull into a skillet of bone, pounding him into the ground.
Miranda runs to Ben’s side as the deranged Bedlamites, no longer held back by the stand-off, pour into the atrium.
‘Fucking arseholes.’ Meera has taken to swearing a lot lately. ‘Time to go. Did Howard say whether or not the cable tunnel connected to the outside?’
Meera locates the recycling door to the outside world and finds that it’s not welded shut after all. Perhaps that was just another lie they fed Howard. Exhausted, they drag themselves inside the tunnel.
Meera checks her watch as they are chased through the claustrophobic tunnel, the mob grabbing and clawing at them. Almost five, nearly time to go home, she can’t help thinking. She’s always been a city girl.
They emerge, bloodied, burned, scarred, half-naked, in the light of a blazing, blood-red sunset. The rain has stopped. They look back to see the white-eyed staff falling back from the bright tunnel exit like roaches.
‘I don’t think they want to breathe normal air any longer,’ says Meera. ‘The doctored stuff is addictive, after all. They’ll have to stay inside.’
Behind them, above them, crazed workers hammer silently on the building windows. Something flares and explodes deep inside – but the outside world fails to notice. The tower has become a permanent monument to synaptic disorder, horror, misery, chaos. Perhaps, on a lesser scale, it always was.
‘I think maybe it’s time to give up my desk job,’ says Meera.
Miranda wipes her face. ‘Yeah, this won’t look too good on your CV.’
They are walking away, they are free, they are safe … until the tunnel exit bursts open behind them, and a hundred desperate hands claw out. Somehow – they don’t know how it happens, it’s something that will haunt them forever – some of the hands seize Ben’s jacket, and he is hauled back inside. Ben fights furiously as the tunnel shadows swallow him, until he can fight no more. He allows himself to be carried back, all the way into the building’s dark heart.
Miranda’s screams frighten seagulls above the river.
Meera is forced to pull her away from the outer wall. Around them, home-going commuters move in a solid river, barely pausing to give them notice.
A passing drone complains on his mobile: ‘I’m going to have to cancel. I just had a really tough day at work.’ Meera shoots him a look. She finds herself still holding Ben’s tie. Sadly, she drops it into a nearby litter bin.
Miranda is crying hard. ‘Poor Ben,’ she says, ‘it was the thing he most wanted.’ She doesn’t seem able to stop the ragged sobs. ‘He wanted to be like everyone else in the city.’
The limping, wounded pair gradually merge with the flow of people.
FIVE MONTHS LATER
In the smart, white corporate office, the board meeting comes to an end.
One of the US executives is wrapping up his presentation. ‘Due to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the closure of our London office,’ he announces, ‘worldwide operations will now be based here in Chicago. The investigation has revealed much that we can learn from past mistakes, and we are completely satisfied that it’s impossible for such a problem to arise again. Additionally, I am pleased to announce that SymaxCorp Environment Systems has been awarded the chance to pitch for contracts across all US government buildings.’ The office rings to the sound of polite applause.
ONE YEAR AND THREE MONTHS LATER
In the Oval Office of the White House, the President pores over papers on his desk. Above him, tiny air vents open, and there’s a gentle, almost comforting hiss. The new unit above his head has a steel label on the edge of the grille. It reads: SYMAXCORP USA.
The President likes it when the fresh air starts up. He always seems to get so much more done. Humming softly to himself, he turns his attention back to the plans for North Korea.