The Donated

By William Knight

"Powerfully written and thought-provoking. Highly recommended." The Wishing Shelf Book Awards

When combat veteran turned journalist Hendrix Harrison links bodies stolen from a forensic research enclosure to a powerful pharmaceutical company, he suspects fraudulent manipulation of clinical trials.

With Doctor Sarah Wallace, a determined forensic entomologist, he delves into a world of grisly drug tests, misguided scientists and desperate patients pursuing miraculous promises.

But with murderous interests arrayed against him, Harrison must use his old training, and battle his fear of technology, to expose the macabre price of donating your body to science

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Standing Hare Publishing Company
• Release date: Oct 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9780473196837

William Knight

William Knight is a British born journalist and technologist currently living and working in Wellington, New Zealand. A graduate engineer, he’s chased a varying career starting in acting, progressing to music, enjoyed a brief flirtation with handbag design, and was eventually wired into technology in 1989. By 2003 his non-fiction was being regularly published in Computing newspaper in the UK, and he has since written about the many successes and failings of high-technology for the Guardian, Financial Times and the BBC, among many others publications. He continues to write, while maintaining a lively IT consultancy.

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William Knight

http://www.williamknight.info

THE DONATED

First published 2011 as Generation

Republished 2016

The Standing Hare Publishing Company

Copyright © 2016 William Knight

http://www.williamknight.info

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication may be reproduced, re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased only for your own use, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

 ISBN 978-0-473-19683-7

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

In 2001 the New Scientist reported that researchers had isolated a gene for regenerating damaged organs from the DNA of a South American flatworm. Within five years it had been spliced into the chromosomes of mice, pigs and rhesus monkeys, transported through the cell walls by a retro-virus denuded of its own genetic material.

Results remain secret, but success could yield extreme rewards. If ageing could be stopped or even reversed, and diseased or damaged organs regrown, life could be extended well beyond a natural span. No longer would you expect to retire and wait for death. You might remain fulfilled and active for ever, your worn out parts simply regrown and replaced.

Attempting to regrow impaired or elderly tissues, a scientist will one day modify the DNA of a human being by injecting the gene-carrying virus. It is just a matter of time.

Before consenting to treatment, you may want to ask a simple question: could there be a situation in which you would want to die but were unable to do so?

Case Number SW0112

He could not die. He remained, even as they ate into his half-buried torso. Dropping into the surrounding sea of leaves, burrowing and pulsing, tunnelling through his flesh and gnawing his bones; they made a home. He’d been aware of them throughout the long winter, but now the air was warmer and his senses were awakening. Perhaps he could hide from the plump overfed bodies. He wanted to go home.

He struggled to raise his mud-caked arm. Silver-dewed cobwebs strained and snapped, releasing sparks of water. Sodden earth clung to his elbow forming a gnarly branch. Trailing ivy, fed by leaching nutrients, tied the limb to the ground. He fought the binding weed until he collapsed, exhausted. Once more his arm settled back into the leaf mould as if it had never moved.

But on this day his thoughts came quickly and fluidly. Weeping joints and dead muscles warmed by sunshine filtering through the canopy oiled his movements. Finally he was free of the binding roots. He emerged like a fly from its chrysalis, unfolded his body, crease-by-crease, joint-by-joint, and willed each sinew to do his bidding. At last he stood.

His limbs resembled felled branches of trees: waterlogged, mould-spattered and swollen, with open splits in the skin. He rubbed his forearm and scraped off a layer of fat, releasing an odour of soap and damp, and exposing raw muscle. The smell awakened his dull senses, and at first he thought it was the soft fragrance of his wife’s perfume. He tried to find her. But as the sun warmed his sagging flesh and stirred his turgid blood, bacteria swarmed and divided, excreting the stench of decay. He realised her perfume was thick odour made sweet by fond memory. She was lost.

By nightfall his day had become just a series of snapshot memories. He recalled little of his journey through the wood – only the dark loam that oozed beneath his naked feet and the water that squeezed between his toes. Trees. Water. Hunger: wrenching hunger. Between snapshots, only loneliness and hunger remained.

But a feast now lay before him; raw meat from a carcass squashed against a tarmac tablecloth. The last meal he remembered was a spoon-fed purée of vegetables administered by a nurse.

He forced a mouthful and bit into the cream cheese consistency of the meat. It was food; it filled the gaps between his teeth. No taste, and his indefinite bite was like biting beyond the point his teeth should have stopped his jaw from moving. Like biting into his own skull.

He bent down to tear off some more flesh and felt a noise. Felt it through his body, a thumping beat and roaring engine. Music and oncoming lights. He remembered home when his daughter danced to CDs and flashed the lounge lights in her pretend disco. But this was loud and threatening, much more insistent, and arrived with a flood of white light that threw speeding black shadows against the trees.

He turned, slowly, mantis-like towards the throb. He stared into the twin rushing lights that promised to dash his mind to oblivion.

Chapter 1

Four hours after crawling from a fern-covered hide on Dartmoor, and driving along the M4 through one of the heaviest March downpours since records began, Hendrix Harrison stood at his desk sorting through a collection of prints featuring the so-called Ashburton Wolf. He took each in turn, held it to the light, then placed them in order of preference, working silently and quickly. He liked to spread them out on a table rather than peer at a screen, which limited his ability to compare subtle differences. Others called him a Luddite.

The editorial offices of Strange Phenomena included a large open-plan floor space and half a dozen rooms in a red brick office block conspicuously dumped between gleaming façades on Broadwick Street in Soho. An expensive location afforded through the magazine’s publishing group, RET, and the fact that the space was shared with three other publications, all owned by the group. Strange Phenomena’s set of desks occupied a four by seven metre island in the centre of the main room and seated a staff of five dedicated to the monthly issue and the website.

Joan O’Connell was the latest addition to the team, taken on as editor for online content. She coordinated work for Kirsty and William who, as junior reporters, bashed out much of the routine copy which she and Hendrix later rendered readable.

Sometimes he wondered if he should just write it all himself, but with so few staff, a regularly updated website and a monthly issue, roles were somewhat fluid. The magazine relied on half a dozen key freelancers to write features for the print copy.

At one end of the island-of-desks Tom Giles, the managing editor, had arranged a two-seater leather sofa which had followed him around since university. These days it was rarely visited except during crises when he and Hendrix shared a shot of Tequila and resolved the world’s problems over a lick of salt and a slice of lemon. Hendrix had to admit crises were getting more common as readers abandoned print subscriptions for the internet, and retailers concentrated on more commercial lifestyle titles.

He stared at the pictures and tapped a pencil against the edge of the desk. That the Ashburton Wolf turned out to be – on all available evidence – a farm dog named Sam had been spread round the office before Hendrix had arrived. He could sense his colleague’s merriment as they discussed The Doggie Piece. Yet the smell of that beast’s breath drifting into his nostrils while he explained why he was creeping around a kitchen garden at six-thirty in the morning was going to keep him awake for days. The farmer had finally been convinced that Hendrix was a bona-fide journalist after ten minutes of stumbling justification. Yet he had refused to admit that Sam could be the Ashburton Wolf.

Always tied up, that dog. Never on the moor without me.

After three nights lying in a sodden hole without seeing so much as a curious weasel, Hendrix had been tiring of the outdoor life. He longed for a regenerating cup of coffee and a heated discussion with his editor about faked Apollo landings. Such was the way of things. He didn’t mind the odd night roughing it, as it reminded him of the better times in the services, but this went beyond the call of duty.

The so-called Ashburton Wolf began devouring sheep a couple of years back, but this was the first time anyone from the editorial team at Strange Phenomena had investigated it.

Sam was a monster. A cross between a rottweiler and a German shepherd, it looked like a squat, black cow with shark-teeth and a full-moon attitude. It might have been called Sam, but the innocence of its name was an absurd contrast to its spittle-soaked canines and ink-pot eyes. The chain around its neck could have held an ocean liner at full steam ahead.

Practically a vegetarian, that dog, said the farmer, and unless he keeps a key jammed up his arse, he ain’t been out the garden this morning. Sam was tucking into a hollowed-out thigh bone stuffed with a mix of roasted vegetables and beef stock, not a newborn lamb.

And how do you explain the blood trail? Hendrix asked.

The farmer pointed to a brace of rabbits hanging from his belt. Blood oozed from their noses.

Always blood somewhere in these paddocks. No surprise to me.

Studying the photographs, Hendrix realised the mystery would keep for another editorial season. The beast he’d seen rip the bait apart – a lamb’s carcass – in the deep shadow of a stone wall that morning was undoubtedly Sam. But there was no proof since he’d fumbled his camera while praying it would stay where it was. As he brought the camera to his eye, not daring to make a sudden move, the animal leapt into the air with the dismembered lamb hanging from its mouth like a rag. With one leap it flew over the stone wall and out of sight.

Hendrix jumped to his feet and charged. He scaled the dry stones and stood at the top. He hesitated, the wood beyond swallowed the dim light like a tin of black paint, but without pictures the story was lost. He jumped down and ran into the woods peering through his lo-light camera like an AK-47 with night sights. Stumbling over roots and dodging fallen trunks, he followed a path of crushed undergrowth that twisted between trunks and headed downhill.

When he emerged from the copse a few hundred yards below his hiding spot, the animal was far ahead in the middle of the track Hendrix had climbed the night before. A black shape with an unmistakeable white fleece in its mouth trotted slowly downhill. It looked like it owned the road.

The journalist fired off a dozen long-distance shots just as the animal slunk over the brow of a hill and out of sight, and those were the only pictures he now possessed. Following the blood trail into the farm had simply earned him a shot-gun barrel in his nostrils and an argument with the farmer about window-peeking perverts.

No matter, there was always time for a revisit. Exploring an angle of big-beast mistaken identity, suggesting the real wolf had doubled-back into the forest, would give his conspiracy-keen readers a whiff of cover-up they could explore on the web forum.

Take a near-miss line on this one, Aitch, confirmed a familiar voice behind him, and Hendrix turned to see Tom Giles peering at the photos.

We could go with a direct accusation, said Hendrix. I think there’s enough material and the farmer might break. But I’m inclined to agree with you. The last thing we want is to solve some of these things. What will we write about next year?

Tom laughed and pushed a few of the pictures around on the desk.

You seemed to like it down there. Memories of camo-cream and cosy nights with the squaddies? I might send you back in the summer.

No thanks. Once in a while’s okay, but the cream brings out my eczema.

Giles snorted a laugh while studying the prints from varying angles by tipping his head. This one, he said, picking up a long-distance shot of the dog as it ran down the farm track. It’s suitably ambiguous, particularly if we add a bit of grain. And get Joan to shop a red ring round it. You know the sort of thing? ‘Is this Dartmoor’s killer canine?’

Hendrix nodded. Not a very satisfying end. Sometimes I’d like to get something serious out of a lead. Something that matters. Imagine breaking the Trafigura scandal and then fighting those bastard lawyers to get your words out.

Tom scratched his temple. We aren’t about to send you to the Ivory Coast if that’s what you’re driving at.

How much cryptozoology can a man take before he starts seeing big foot in the garden, aliens in Parliament and rampaging plesiosaurs in the town square?

If you want to get serious, how about a greater involvement with the readers. Joan tells me you’re still refusing to tweet. Is it those stubby digits of yours getting all confused and pushing two keys at once?

Hendrix looked down at the nail-less fingers on his right hand. Okay, he said, so I can’t pick up pennies off your poncy granite work surfaces, but I can still strangle an editor at fifty paces.

They shared the joke, but Hendrix’s laugh was a fake. His hesitation with technology had more to do with his missing nails than he cared to let on.

Hendrix added, I can’t do anything with my phone. It’s six years old and the charge only lasts an hour.

Let’s have a look.

Hendrix passed his editor the dated phone, shrugging.

It’s not even turned on. Why isn’t it on?

You know, I don’t get on with them. I can use the landline.

For fuck’s sake, you’ve got to get over this. Look across the road and you’ll see a retail outlet. It’s called a shop. Buy a new phone. I’ll pay for it. These web-fired meedja grads think it’s the only thing that matters, and we’ve made a commitment to the new owners to modernise. I’m only asking you to send a few texts, and only then when you’re out and about. We’ve got kids queuing up to follow you on Twitter, you’re our star writer, and you’re missing a trick if you don’t give them something on their terms.

Can’t the IT guys set something automatic up? I don’t go with all this community shit, Tom. It’s taking the soul out of journalism, turning it into a hobby. We’re competing with amateurs and our pay’s going down the toilet. What price good journalism?

Hendrix stared towards the window across the dozen utility writing desks and glowing flat screens that had been his life for the past six years. And what the fuck can you say in a hundred and forty characters that’s worth saying anyway?

Give us a job?

Ha! Come on – technology is not journalism. Let’s go after some real conspiracies. There are a million companies out there with old bones stuffed in cupboards waiting for somebody to open the door. How about we do some pushing?

I hear you, but we’ve got to get this sale out of the way before we think about changing editorial direction. The new owner’s coming in this afternoon to give us all a pep talk, and things could move very quickly.

Tom was right. Hendrix could hardly expect his old friend to change the magazine’s strategy two hours before the new boss gave his welcoming speech. Yet Hendrix had seen the criticism of the current editorial policy. He knew that Greg Parnell, the seventy-something billionaire-entrepreneur and new owner of Strange Phenomena, was not going to suffer a declining readership for very long before swinging an axe, possibly to the title itself. So as Hendrix hid behind an amorphous concept of ‘real journalism’ his heart raced at the thought he’d be forced to use his mobile phone for anything but a minor part of his work – one that he could usually avoid. He could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck, and he pushed the insecurity deep into his subconscious.

You must know what’s coming. What are they planning? he asked. Have we even got a future here?

I’m in the dark. But were I to put a few quid down, I’d say you should do some background reading on the social web. Technology isn’t going away. You either tweet, or hit the street.

Tom smiled and walked off chuckling to himself, leaving Hendrix in a chill staring at his ancient phone and holding a monochrome print of a distant dog-shaped speck.

*

Hendrix stood at the back of the conference room next to Joan O’Connell while the new owner spouted his tired drivel about mission statements, flat hierarchies and people-first initiatives to the assorted editorial teams. Hendrix knew many of the faces, but Strange Phenomena was part of RET’s diverse group of publications, websites and news outlets and staff turnover was more of a rampant infection than a troublesome cold. So among the familiar and cynical veteran characters sat eager graduates taking notes and staring up at Parnell like he was a media messiah.

As if to illustrate, Joan tapped fervently into her smart phone. Hendrix leaned over to see what could be so important:

RET media group becomes RET-Parnell.

New owners stress economic independence of titles.

Tweeting! Hendrix stared at the girl. Her helmet-like blonde hair perched on top of a dark grey jacket would not have been out of place in a tax consultancy. A pointed nose protruding over thin lips, complemented by slightly bulging eyes and well defined semi-circular eyebrows, gave her a chicken like appearance that was not out of step with the way she conducted herself.

But Hendrix had to admit to her brilliance. She displayed an ability to scratch superb headlines from nowhere, and her internet marketing knowledge had raised the website profile by over 500,000 unique visitors a month. Journalism may not be her strong point, but Joan was thirsty for more control.

Fully embrace technology of Web 2.0

Open-armed invitation to user-generated content.

Hendrix had taught himself to type as a teenager – so he could punch out pages and pages of adolescent science-fantasy – but he couldn’t hope to enter text into a phone at such a speed. Yet almost to a person the audience held smart phones or miniature laptops in their hands – even the cynics – recording the event and making notes. He watched as they looked up at the speaker, then down at their devices, then up at the speaker, then down. It was like a view across a Texas oil field. The humour in his observation turned slowly to anxiety that he couldn’t ever be part of the picture. Perspiration began flowing from under his arms and creeping down his spine. Calm down, Aitch, he told himself. He took a deep breath and fought the urge to leave. He stared at the front of the room. At Parnell. He focussed on the speaker’s open shirt, grey suit and the wheelchair parked at the side of the lectern.

Parnell leaned against the lectern and peered at the audience, keeping them fixed, almost hypnotised. It was more than politeness. He was a well known figure in British commerce, a serial entrepreneur and advisor to the Trade and Industry secretary. He’d even spent time on TV’s The Dragon’s Den, selecting start-up businesses for angel investment based on a five-minute pitch. Unlike his peers, Parnell seemed concerned with the social contribution investments made rather than pure economics. Hendrix put it down to good public relations. Then as he listened to the man talk, he thought there might be more than just bottom-line calculations involved in his purchase of RET.

After twenty minutes, Parnell seemed to be reaching the end of his speech. This is not the first time I’ve invested in publishing, let me remind you, he said. He paused and smiled. He looked round the room acknowledging those with memories long enough to understand. It has taken me nearly thirty years to step back into the industry after the failure of The European – a project which I was deeply enthusiastic about and devastated with its sale and later demise. But let me say this – failure makes us strong and we must not be afraid of it. I believe in print, and I believe in technology. Print will make your words immortal and technology will take them to the world. We have a duty to push our ideas, to argue our cause and reach as many readers as we can. We have a duty to inform and explain. We have a duty to educate. But above all else, we have a duty to not go gentle into that good night. And I will not.

Greg Parnell reached a natural conclusion to his talk and stepped to one side while the assembled court clapped and – much to Hendrix’s surprise – even cheered. But it was when his nurse stepped forward to help him sit down that Hendrix realised his own disenchantment was in danger of becoming career limiting dogma.

Parnell was an old man operating at the pace of a teenager, still battling to make a difference, to add something to life, and he talked to the assembled internet generation as if they were equals. Even though he was fighting frailty and in need of a permanent nurse, his passion infected the room and enthused the listeners. Amazing. And far from being trite, his literary reference actually stirred something within Hendrix. We have a duty to not go gentle into that good night, he repeated to himself.

That was brilliant, said Joan, intruding on his self comparison with the seventy-year old.

Yes. Hendrix replied limply. He smiled. Joan had a future, but honestly, he couldn’t see how a man like Parnell would be interested in owning a magazine obsessed with oversize animals and UFO conspiracies.

They began filtering out of the conference room.

You going to start tweeting now, Aitch? asked Joan.

Her words flashed him a surge of his mobile phone paranoia, but he quickly hid behind sarcasm, Not sure I can edit my features down to a hundred and forty characters Joan. Maybe you can help?

He was briefly horrified when she took the comment at face value, Sure, I’d love to, she said.

A stand off. He stared into her eyes for a second and saw the hint of a smile. He laughed and Joan’s smile broadened. He could be generous and add dry sense of humour to her unfavourable character analysis, and despite the crescent-moon eyebrows her smiling face was not unattractive.

Tom’s got another trip for you? Somewhere up north this time, she said. You’re getting about a bit.

Young, free and single. God, that sounded like a come on. I mean, I don’t have any ties here at the moment, he stammered. He felt his ears turning purple. Joan appeared not to have noticed. They walked around the central column of the building towards Strange Phenomena’s island of furniture.

He pulled the swivel chair out from under his desk and sat down.

Any idea what it is? he said.

She shrugged. Ghosts, I think. Don’t forget to tweet. Especially if you catch one, she said, as she disappeared behind the vanity screen.

Ghosts. In 1999 Britain boasted a hundred and fifty amateur ghost groups, but now the country was riddled with over three thousand. It was standard fodder for the magazine and covered in almost every issue. Hendrix wondered how he might find anything unique to say about the subject. He flicked his screen on, just as Tom appeared round the corner of the desk.

I’ve already heard about it from Joan, Hendrix said, as his email application struggled into life.

Sorry to do this, said Tom, but could you get going this afternoon. I’d like to put this in next month, and I can send you the details while you’re travelling. There’s a folder of images on my desk. Newcastle, I’m afraid. Our recidivist lead generator, you remember, Barry Hubbard. But this time his idea might just work and he’s got an unusual way of collecting the data. I think he’s got a new job. He’s dug up some excellent photos.

I’ve got the Dartmoor piece to finish off.

Tom nodded. "I’m in a meeting for the rest of the day. I’ll send you a text before

Reviews for The Donated

[lizziebeth95_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A veteran of war, Hendrix 'Aitch' Harrison has lived an ordinary life, at least by his standards. Working for what's considered to be a seedy magazine catering to strange phenomenon, Hendrix has always been looking for that one story which lift him from the clutches of obscurity. When a friend mentions a passing article to him, one he has no interest in, he burns with the thought that he's been had yet again. Never once did he imagine that there would be truth within the case itself.Delving a little deeper, he discovers a heinous plot involving Mendel Pharmaceutical, a company renowned for their breakthroughs in trying to cure cancer and other ailments. His discovery leads him to Sarah Wallace, a forensics entomologist who may have an idea as to what is going on. Unfortunately, she's convinced he's some sort of stalker and refuses to have anything to do with him.Pursuing the leads he's been given, he realizes he may just be way in over his head. The pharmaceutical company doesn't want their research leaked out into the open and will do anything to keep that from happening. They'll silence anyone who treads on their toes and Hendrix is now their main target.As secrets about the company's sordid experiments emerge, Hendrix wonders if upsetting the balance in order to set things is worth the risk. Bodies soon start showing up in the oddest of places; bodies that refuse to remain dead. Mendel Pharmaceutical is forced to take action in hopes of erasing what they've done so that the public will never know what really goes on within their clinical trials.In a race against time, Hendrix gathers needed evidence on the company's shady research, much to the CEO's chagrin. With Sarah caught in the crossfire, he knows they must thwart the enemy's plans or risk dying in the process. The public must know what goes on behind the pharmaceutical's walls and they will bring everything to light, no matter the cost.This was quite a unique take on all things zombies. Normally they're portrayed as crazed, flesh-eating shells of the person's they used to be. William allows us to delve into the minds of several beings that are dead yet alive within their own right. He's written such a thought-provoking and quite intriguing story that could very well be a take on a 'what if this were to happen in real life' sort of situation. I enjoyed the book very much and look forward to reading more of William's work soon.

[donnambr · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Hendrix ‘Aitch’ Harrison has been known to discover some unusual cases during his employment as a techno-phobe journalist at Strange Phenomena and at times it seems like he’s on more of a wild goose chase than chasing down a scoop. Like being called to investigate the story of the Ashburton Wolf! Also known as… a farm dog. He’s anti-Twitter and likes to do things a certain way but he’s also tenacious and knows how to take the lead on a story. In other words, he’s the kind of journalist you’d like investigating when something goes wrong with a company.Said company in this case is Mendel Pharmaceutical. They’re riding high on the wave of a new therapy that will make the board members very rich indeed. Who cares if it’s ethical? Who cares what the consequences are of the science behind it? They’ve put big money into this treatment and they’ll put even bigger money into protecting it and their profits.Generation is quoted as being a cross between the X-Files and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. As a fan of both I’m not sure either reference resonated with me fully – I felt it was more Michael Crichton meets CSI. There are strange goings on and Hendrix is an investigative reporter into supernatural phenomenon but to me this smacked more of a techno-thriller. There’s nothing at all wrong with that – as a long time Crichton fan, I’m always pleased to see someone new step into the arena.Hendrix is an intriguing character though I felt this novel didn’t delve into his personality or history nearly enough. I could see this being developed as a series or even a television show but as a standalone novel I felt that Hendrix was a little bland as a character and some aspects of the novel a little predictable. That notwithstanding, it can’t be denied that Knight has put together a compelling read here with an interesting and thought-provoking storyline. I’d certainly be interested to read more ‘Hendrix Harrison’ novels if that’s on the cards – I feel he could be further developed as a character and tried and tested in many different situations.This is a good read with some well-executed ideas but the character development is a little lacking and the predictability of the story in some areas takes the edge off the twists in some of the others. Nonethless, it’s a great choice for lovers of Crichton or those who just enjoy a great thriller in general and it’s always nice to see a novel that’s based in the UK with landmarks that I recognise and love!