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One
It’s cold. A chill, north-westerly wind, carrying a winter mixture of rain and sleet has taken possession of the campus. The dark outline of the London School of Genomics’ main building is punctuated by the occasional bright rectangle of light, distributed randomly across the glass and concrete-fronted edifice. Offices and laboratories bravely defy the elements – the overhead lighting blazing out into the darkness, betray the thoughtlessness of long-departed occupants. Above, dark clouds progress across the sky like sinners pursued by an angry god. There is no moon.
Apart
from the solitary security guard stationed at his post in the main lobby, the
building is empty; the bank of visual
display screens mounted on the panel in front of him change periodically in a
pre-programmed sequence: monochrome and devoid of movement. The last of the
research staff had finally decided to call it a day a couple of long hours
previously and, as the hands of huge wall clock opposite his station make their
slow, inexorable progress around the dial, Andy Simpson completes his summary
of the essay he has just finished marking before saving the file on his laptop.
With nothing better to do throughout the long night, helping out a previous
school colleague in this way brings in a very handy, no-questions-asked, £10 to
supplement his meagre night-watchman’s salary each week. Plenty of time left to
complete the remaining essays before e-mailing the summary of his critique at
the end of his shift.
He
picks up the plastic carrier bag lodged underneath his metal desk: a bag
containing his paperback, vacuum flask of coffee and pack of sandwiches and
makes his way over to the Administration Office. Closing the door behind him,
he settles himself into one of the two comfortable armchairs, pours himself a
measure of coffee and opens the novel he is half-way through reading – a far
different style of English from the crap he has had to endure for the past hour
and a half!
Smoking
is not permitted anywhere within the building of course but, because of the
kettle and small cooker provided for members of staff, the smoke detector lacks
the necessary sensitivity to react to the exhalations from his e-cigarette.
In
the act of taking another satisfying pull, a sense of there being somebody
looking over his shoulder, induced no doubt by a sense of guilt, causes him to
look around momentarily. The building is empty of course. Seven more long hours
until the end of his shift. He opens the sealed bag and settles down to his
midnight snack of corned-beef sandwiches with tomato. Despite the tempting
presence of a section of pork pie and a Kit Kat, Andy, brought up during more
disciplined times, is in no hurry – sandwiches come first – after all, he has all
the time in the world.
Outside
in the lobby, as the minute hand of the clock embarks on another
circumnavigation of the dial, one of the now-unattended displays comes
momentarily into life. Despite this, the motion detectors, located on all the
stairwells and main thoroughfares within the building, remain silent and the
errant screen instantly returns to its usual state of inactivity – the
associated CCTV camera once more providing the same static display it has been
recording all evening. Although the image of a young woman moving stealthily
along one of the corridors before stopping to unlock one of the storerooms
adjacent to the main genomics laboratory is captured by one of the
ceiling-mounted cameras, on the monitor it is a static image of the empty corridor
that is substituted in place of the live feed. A trivial juggling act for
someone adept in the arts of arcane magic!
*****
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