Deadly Botanicals

By John Pether

The horticultural market is overwhelmed with beautiful, cheap plants. The scent is strongly hallucinogenic, but genetically engineered to be toxic. Petra Wallace, a botanist, and Julian Bailey, a scientist, detect an extraordinary plot created by the Kingdom of Plants to eliminate mankind. They have to unravel the plot by all the means at their disposal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Jun 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789551884

Book preview

plants.

CHAPTER ONE

A July evening with the sun warming the slight frame of a girl in her early twenties; she is relaxed, half-asleep on her chaise longue by the open French windows of their first floor maisonette looking over a London park, named after the Prince Regent. She yawns, glances at the floral display, kindly tended by the powers-that-be and breathes in the delicate smells that waft around her.

Roses, wonderfully scented old-fashioned roses; not the modern varieties, easy on the eye but dead on the nose. Sad the clever horticulturists lose the scent when they’re winning prizes with the colours. Now that could be a success story. If only I could identify the genetic drivers for the scent of a rose and somehow put them back where they belong. After all, I am supposed to be the expert in the physiology of gas production at various stages in the life cycle of the whole spectrum of plant life.

She picks up a colourful brochure from the pile of discarded mail on the carpet. Genetic engineering, that’s a laugh! Too fashionable by half: they’re all jumping on the bandwagon driven by the confounded magnetic double helix. She pauses and smiles. I like that, all theory but mighty little action allowed. What a waste of time it all is. What do you think, Jules? She throws the brochure towards her lover. Most of this so-called conference is probably a waste of time but the Prof thinks I should go; says it’s good for the image of the college.

Julian frowned, turned off his computer, picked up the brochure and started to read. Hm, it’s mostly your field and you are supposed to be the tame expert on farting plants. First session looks pretty boring; I guess a bunch of post-docs must be desperate to get their simplistic ideas published. This guy is different. Do you know anything about him, Luke Magellan? He seems to be the star of the show. I can’t believe he’s serious about inserting such a mass of human genes into plants. I reckon it’s playing with fire and probably illegal. Oh well! At least it’s new. If he had his way we’d have all the plants in Kew Gardens wandering around like Triffids, I wonder…

He thought for a moment and looked up at the bright orange fire of the setting sun as if seeking inspiration. "Who wrote that book, The Day of the Triffids? Was it Aldous Huxley? He was a wild one, stuffed full of hallucinogens most of the time. No, it must have been John Wyndham. Yes, that’s right. Julian dropped the brochure and muttered, Up to you, Pet," and returned to his Ministry of Defence computer.

I’ll have you know, my darling, Luke Magellan is a highly-respected research professor from Australia. I’m told he’s done an enormous amount of work to help feed the starving millions with his genetically modified cassava, and his papers are written in good, simple English. That’s original, at least; he’ll be a good speaker. Coming then? I’ll treat you to lunch, how about that?

OK, I’m not doing anything on Thursday; I’ll come along for the laugh!

Toad; but you’re not to make trouble. Hungry? I am! Petra jumped up, kissed Julian and went to cook something simple in their tiny kitchen, squeezed between the front door and the bathroom.

Julian sat in front of a blank screen for a few minutes. That’s it! There were just a few human remnants left at the end of the book; and the weird plants were all set to take over the planet. Can’t remember who won. Oh well, stop daydreaming. I’d better finish the bloody paper for Sir.

God! I’m bored out of my mind and bloody furious with this lot. They’ve got no idea how to speak clearly or how to project their voices. They’re all spouting tedious jargon like constipated parrots. I suspect they’ve all plagiarised charts from simple textbooks and their results are too complicated, badly coloured and flashed up much too fast. There’s no time to understand them, let alone read. Julian paused for breath. And these seats are hard with enough leg room for dwarves. For goodness’ sake, Petra, who is responsible for teaching this lot? None of them have any idea what they’re talking about; even if they did, they’ve never been taught how to lecture. And to cap it all, the chairman looks half dead.

I think he’s been ill recently, I wouldn’t be surprised… As if on cue, the chairman stood up unsteadily and staggered to the exit. They heard him being violently sick just outside the door.

Petra grinned at Julian. I guess that solves that problem! Hope it’s cleared up before we all leave.

Hot in here. Julian tried to stretch his cramped legs and looked around the sea of blank, stupefied faces. This is awful, I hope your friend Luke is a damn site better than this lot. Give him three minutes and if he’s no good I’m going back to work.

Hang on, Jules, be patient, please. Petra sympathised but wished she hadn’t asked Julian to come with her. He was becoming agitated; that meant anything might happen.

Tension mounts, Julian said sourly as the lights dimmed. Here come the dancing girls; oh well, dreary looking men.

Porters appeared with ten pot plants in a variety of bright colours which they carefully placed in a single line on the edge of the stage. At least the startling colours woke up those sitting in the front row. The chatter level rose sharply. The plants were quickly followed by a six-foot athletic, thirty-five or so, sandy-haired, handsome man who turned to the audience with a wide open smile. He strode to centre stage, surveyed his audience, and spoke with a hard clear voice.

Sorry folks, I gather our chairman has a virus infection. Common medical jargon for not having the faintest idea of a proper diagnosis. The audience laughed for the first time that day.

At least Luke’s got spirit and he speaks clearly. Julian began to cheer up.

So I guess I shall have to introduce myself. I’m Luke Magellan, one time Professor of Botanic Engineering at Sidney University, Australia. He paused, expecting a response, but seemed not too put-out that no-one gasped or fainted in admiration.

Precious too… Shit! muttered Julian.

Be quiet, darling. You mustn’t say that, you don’t know anything about him. Petra loved her obsessional, embarrassing man, but he was sometimes hard work.

No, not him, I’ve just seen my boss in the audience. What the hell is he doing here?

Petra put a finger to her lips. He grasped her hand, put it to his lips and kissed it quietly, before placing it back on her lap.

Forgive my entrée with my beloved plants, said Luke. They are, after all, my bread and butter. The audience laughed again. I’m going to tell you about the present imposed limits of genetic engineering in my little friends and my attempts to exceed those limits.

Crap! Julian rose to the bait. Sorry, love, I wonder what limits he’s talking about. Perhaps it’s different in Australia.

Currently, Luke continued, some animals, even bacteria, can be persuaded by altering or, in current jargon, engineering their genetic make-up to construct a mass of hormones, chemicals, antibiotics, and other compounds that are useful either in medicine, farming or industry. The trouble with the animal model is the tendency to reject the specific animal element. This reaction, as you can imagine, may lower the useful activity of the, I suppose you might call it, artificial substance. This is therefore a relatively inefficient commercial system and I have been convinced for years that we could do better. I shall tell you, or perhaps discuss with you, Luke hesitated for a second before he continued, Discuss with you the extremes that I have reached inserting human genetic material into members of the plant kingdom.

Julian shot up in his seat and stared at Luke. That’s more my line, young man, think big and exciting.

Please, darling, be quiet. Petra frowned at Julian and wished he had gone to his retreat at the MOD. She wanted to hear Luke. It was such a shame that the star of the conference had been given the pre-lunch slot. The frequently audible hunger pains of the audience were a distraction.

Julian laid a hand on her knee. I can be quiet, my darling!

Petra calmed down as the lecture became more technical.

This is much better, Petra, your Luke speaks clearly with minimal jargon; he’s interesting.

…finally, ladies and gentlemen, I have discovered there is no limit to the human organ receptors that can be inserted into a variety of fast-growing annuals and perennials. Just imagine the medical advantage of having unlimited amounts of insulin biologically indistinguishable from the human variety, perhaps even an oral preparation, which could be produced by the same plants that we take for granted in our greenhouse. Luke was excited, his audience was excited. With an almost religious fervour, they cheered as he wound up the lecture. A few of the audience, mainly in the front rows, stood clapping madly.

Taking the part of the absent chairman, Luke’s voice had imperceptibly changed. Can I ask for questions? Ask anything you like.

Petra felt uncomfortable. I don’t like it. As you say, Jules, he’s a good speaker, but there’s something creepy about him. He’s playing with the audience, especially those in the front two rows. They sound like over-excited noisy hysterical children; they’re behaving like puppets and Luke is pulling the strings.

A few people asked simplistic questions which demonstrated their inability to concentrate for forty minutes; followed by silence broken only by the rumbling of stomachs.

Petra sensed Julian fidgeting. You’re not happy, my love; I can see that a mile off.

Julian stood up, sharply dropping his programme with a thud onto the floor. His smile was a picture of innocence. Petra knew there was going to be big, big trouble.

Luke, it is generally recognised that plant viruses are most unlikely to infect humans. Luke’s face changed as if a cloud had obscured the lighting. He nodded warily as Julian continued. Although there are those who might question that assumption. Petra imagined a faint frown on Luke’s brow but he said nothing. Was he angry because Julian had not addressed him as ‘Professor’, using just Luke’s Christian name? Surely that would be too childish?

However, Julian’s voice hardened, you are attempting, the words were said with a hint of disbelief, you are attempting to insert genetic material from a human into ‘your’ plants. I believe you are playing with fire. By now Luke’s face had lost any trace of a smile, his eyes condensed to steel. The audience was silent; they were excited, sensing battle.

Is there not a possibility that dormant human viruses, Julian’s voice was smooth and reasonable as he paused in his attack, "viruses that normally persist in harmony with their human host, together with, perhaps, sections of aberrant accompanying human genetic material, might multiply to extraordinary high titre in the recipient plant? Might not even a disturbed plant virus, modified by a change in its environment; or, a worse scenario, a released human virus, spread with ease to other plants?

If this were so, Julian’s voice rose, if this were to be so, could you not be inadvertently giving diabetics potentially lethal material, lethal to them and to succeeding generations…?

Luke exploded, shouting, You’re talking rubbish. The slices of genetic material to be inserted are all closely delineated. There is no extraneous material that can possibly be harmful; or disturbing; the word you used, sir.

I find that surprising, Julian continued with a voice that oozed moderation. I am given to understand there is absolutely no way you can prove your statement is true by currently available methods? Julian’s face softened as he produced the desired rage reaction.

Sir! Luke’s temper was now quite out of control. My work has never been ethically questioned before. Your suggestion is too much like science fiction to be acceptable. No more questions. He turned, swept his notes from the rostrum onto the floor and stormed off the stage, knocking over some of the plants onto the floor below. The porters scurried around picking up the strewn remnants of Luke’s notes and collecting the scattered remains of the little line of plants.

Well, Pet, I enjoyed that.

That, my darling, was blindingly obvious. It certainly produced a pretty hysterical reaction.

Petra saw the sweat on Julian’s upper lip and smelt his excitement.

Is it my imagination? I wonder; why does he feel so guilty? There must be something he’s hiding? You must admit he produced no definitive evidence to back up most of his ridiculous theories. I suspect the man’s a fraud and you were all taken in because he’s so handsome. His voice was loud enough to be heard by those sitting nearby.

Don’t be so unfair, and please don’t speak so loudly, sir. This from a young girl who had spent most of the lecture fiddling with a recording machine. Professor Magellan is the most wonderful man and a saviour of mankind.

Rubbish! Julian snapped. If you believe that you need re-programming.

Petra stood up, determined to get Julian out before he made any more trouble. Let’s go and get some of that free food, Jules. I’m hungry and I don’t want to have to cook this evening. Come on, love, let’s go; the buffet is in the hall outside the lecture theatre. The food, and the drink, it’s all paid for by drug companies.

They snatched a heap of beautifully presented food and took their plates outside to eat in the sun beside the pond. Julian was winding down but she could see he was still worried by the way he was fiddling with his fork, and his vacant expression.

What’s the matter, Jules? Is it something particular he said? I don’t think he was simply talking bullshit. If his experimental models can be replicated, he seems to have advanced genetic engineering by a startling amount.

I can’t believe he’s had permission for all those experiments. He may be mighty clever; he’s obviously not short of funds. I just wonder who is subsidising all his experiments; where does the money come from? You need a vast number of plants to do all that work.

There’s no answer to that; but he’s certainly very attractive.

Julian failed to react to Petra’s last comment. It was a serious question I asked. I wasn’t trying to make him angry but he gave me such a cocky stupid answer; perhaps I did overreact. Why do I have a nasty feeling that he’s positively dangerous? He paused; they ate noisily crunching crisps and pork crackling. A lone cloud obscured the sun. They both shivered, looked up and stopped eating.

My lot are just a bit worried about some aspects of genetic engineering with human material. It could go so dreadfully wrong. One outcome could be widespread and pretty deadly botanicals. Apart from that, I don’t like being talked down to! Julian stood up, abandoning his food. I’m going back to work. Remember you’re bitch-sitting for your parents this evening. I hope my little darling midwife has boned up on her canine obstetrics! He gave a short bark of a laugh, kissed Petra’s cheek and stomped off to find a taxi.

Do I get the feeling those two would not get on in a million years? Luke may be mischievous in his science but he looks mighty sexy, Petra said to herself. She looked longingly at Julian’s plate of half-eaten food. No, I mustn’t. She stood up and was about to go back to the lecture theatre when a tall, slim, elegant grey-haired man in his late fifties with dark blue eyes, so dark they could almost be called indigo, sat down blocking her route.

Forgive me, my dear. Young Julian was most interested in the last lecture, don’t you think? The ex-professor and his meddling with extreme genetic engineering. The man sounded as if he also didn’t approve of Luke’s experiments.

You can say that again! His questions produced one hell of a reaction. On the other hand, the experiments were interesting. Petra looked puzzled, who was this man cheekily calling her lover ‘young’ Julian? She refused to be drawn further and decided to wait for the man to open up.

Can I introduce myself? Quentin Ogilvie, Ministry of Defence.

Petra shook his proffered hand; surprisingly hard and powerful. You must be Julian’s boss; he noticed you were here. She wondered what was coming next; why had Sir Quentin not approached when Julian was sitting with her? Did you enjoy the other lectures? she asked.

Yes, you could say I am his boss. The man kept on looking around; perhaps he has a bodyguard? Thank you; I did enjoy the lecture by Luke Magellan. It was interesting, and the only one that was lucid and easy to understand. The others were awful. He paused. He’s a loner, you know. Julian, I mean. I suppose we all have to be in our profession, but he’s very clever, sees much further into problems than most of us; ideal devil’s advocate. The eyes looked at her sharply. You must be Petra Wallace. I believe Julian came to your lecture on gas production in plants.

She nodded.

Does this man know everything about us?

Very nice to meet you, Petra, good day. As abruptly as he had appeared, Sir Quentin Ogilvie, MC, scientist, one-time commander of a tank regiment, stood up and strode away leaving a faint smell of an up-market aftershave, quite different to Julian’s.

Petra watched Julian’s boss until he was ushered into a chauffeur-driven car. What on earth am I supposed to make of that conversation? Why had Julian’s boss come to talk to me and not approached the two of us? I can’t believe it was just to exchange a few pleasantries. Perhaps he was checking our credentials? Perhaps I am even now under surveillance, how exciting!

CHAPTER TWO

The Underground was hot, crowded, and being only just over five feet four inches Petra had difficulty hanging on to the strap. The train lurched, and a number of passengers tumbled towards her. As she started to fall a strong hand grabbed her from behind, cupped her breast and gently forced her upright.

She turned to face the owner of the hand, unsure whether to be cross or grateful. Oh, thank you. I don’t fancy grovelling on this filthy floor. Petra felt the flush in her neck as her heart went into overdrive. She recognised her saviour. Professor Magellan! I’ve just been at your lecture at the Barbican. Then she remembered how angry Luke had been at Julian’s questions and his damning comments on Luke’s work.

Will he remember I was sitting next to his tormentor? Change the subject, keep talking.

The last session looked rather boring so I left.

You’re right; it’s a shame they’re not taught to project their voices. At least they should look presentable and sound interested in their own work. You all right now, did you enjoy my lecture? It’s Luke, by the way.

Closer to, he was even more attractive, Petra flushed and put up her hand to feel her burning cheek. His voice was dark and smooth like Guinness or her mother’s gravy.

Enjoy is a funny word for a scientific lecture. I’m not sure about that. It was interesting, especially the bit about inserting human genes into plants. You made it all sound so easy. I suppose at the end of the experiment all you have to do is send in a combine harvester and extract the goodies. She giggled. She was speaking too quickly off the top of her head. It was a silly analogy. She hoped he didn’t think she was that stupid.

I don’t think it will be quite as simple as that, I’m afraid. The train lurched again. This time his arm shot round her back, pressing her close to him. She didn’t resist, enjoying the feel of his muscular body. So this is animal magnetism? She could smell the remains of the tension from his lecture, a comfortable human smell, not unpleasant, like washing Julian’s shirt after a hard day’s work.

What do you do for a living? he asked, as his eyes descended very slowly through her cleavage to unknown destinations below.

I teach plant physiology at University College. You can come to my next lecture if you like. I’m afraid it’s almost a hobby of mine, gases given off by plants at the various stages of their life cycle. I’m on in ten days’ time, nine o’clock; first thing, if that’s all right with you? Hope you can manage it. Come in the main entrance and then room six, just off the main corridor. I could prime you with some questions. Then you’d be able to blind my students with science; they’d love to see someone famous. Petra was getting a crick in her neck looking up at Luke’s face. Not a perfect face: there was a scar on his left cheek, disguised with make-up, and long hairs were sneaking out of his nose spoiling his beauty. The face broke to give her a beaming smile. For a fleeting moment she wished they were alone, somewhere else, without all these hot, smelly people around them.

I’d love to. He pulled out a tiny diary from his top pocket and flicked through the pages with one hand. That’s a week on Thursday. Can’t promise, but I’ll try and be there.

Petra’s heart thumped so loud she was afraid he might hear it. Great! she shouted over the screech of the brakes. Oh my God, it’s my stop. Sorry, got to go, hope to see you at the lecture. My name’s Petra, by the way, Petra Wallace, she called as she pushed her way to the door.

Rose-red, half as old as time, as some poet wrote, Luke muttered, with the memory of her firm breasts and thighs pressed hard against his. He waved to Petra as she ran along the platform, her luscious straight brownish-red hair flowing behind her. Thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-six, delicious; I love those high cheek bones. What a little beauty; origin, possibly mid-shires-Huguenot mixture with a touch of Jewish blood? She is gorgeous. The other passengers looked at the tall Australian, then at the disappearing Petra. Two young bachelors, on the prowl, nodded their heads as they enviously had to agree with Luke.

The rest of the afternoon was a failure. Petra could not concentrate on anything. She tried to read, corrected a few students’ essays; finally visited her experimental plants at the research laboratory in North London. She even started up the electron microscope, but nothing could erase the smile below the bright blue eyes, and the feel of the strong hands that trapped her and pressed her hard against him. At five o’clock she gave up. At half-past, she and a mass of commuters jockeyed for position around the concourse of Kings Cross station. She recognised a portly, middle-aged man in his ill-fitting ancient city suit with his mind on other things. They collided; she dropped her briefcase and he, his newspaper. Their eyes met as they retrieved their belongings.

I’m so sorry, madam. I was miles away.

Petra laughed. Charles Tigworth Sampson; either you will have to stop bumping into young ladies, or you will have to lose weight. Remember me, Petra Wallace?

Charles’ face lit up. Petra, how nice to see you; I’m so sorry, my mind was on other things. I went to the Bishop’s Palace today. My nephew has reached the top of his pecking order. There were very good eats, but the drink was a bit thin. It was a lovely ceremony, though. Charles shook his head and came down to earth. Your parents are playing bridge with Georgina and me tonight. Were you hoping to visit them this evening?

Don’t worry, Charles. As Jules puts it so elegantly, I shall be bitch-sitting. Our mother-to-be is due any time now. I’ve never delivered an animal before, but it is her second lot, so she should be able to tell me what to do.

I’ve never done anything like that but I’m sure you’ll be all right. Actually, I’m glad I saw you; I need your help. You know about plants, don’t you? I thought I ought to take Georgina one but I would be very grateful if you would choose it for me. I know that sounds a bit helpless, but I have to confess I’m not very good with colours. This time I feel I must take her flowers which match her colouring. I read about that somewhere; to do with what the clever thinkers call, association of ideas; whatever that means. He laughed.

Come on, Charles, I’ll help you. Petra took his arm. There’s a new stall over by the booking office, let’s see what they’ve got to win over your colourful lady friend.

The flower stall was heaving, noisy, almost continental, with no semblance of a British queue. Over the stall, fluorescent garish colours spelled out the flower-seller’s name. Walt was dressed in the same outlandish colours as the hoarding above him. His patter was seriously camp.

Come on Charles, this lot doesn’t believe in queueing, we’ll have to push to the front. Golly, they are really startling, fantastic presentation with all the plants in clean, new, lovely dark-green pots with their own saucers. I think they might cost you a bit, Charles. They must be modern variants of some old fleshy plant. Well…

Petra switched to professional mode. Variants of just what, I wonder? They have twenty or so flowers to each stem, each flower having five symmetrical petals of varying colours surrounding mainly yellow stamens. The colours are brilliant, almost as brilliant as the peacock-dressed flower-seller.

Petra frowned. Walt, what, on earth, are these? I’ve never seen anything like them? Walt was plainly not used to having a normal conversation with customers. They must be some sort of new variant; a cross-breed perhaps? Her face lit up. Or have I seen them before? They could be similar to the ones at the Barbican; I wonder?

Walt coughed; he was obviously out of his depth. Don’t ask me, darlin’, I just sell ’em, the probable man said in a high-pitched sing-song voice. They’re going so fast we can’t keep up wiv’ ’em. I’ve sold ten boxes in the last half-hour and the evening hasn’t started yet. It’s all so wonderful! He threw his hands into the air in a theatrical gesture. He shrieked to his male friend to fetch more boxes from the van that was parked a few yards away with its engine running.

Petra sniffed deeply. It was part of her job; the scent was almost overpowering, not particularly unpleasant. Part rose, part honeysuckle, perhaps with a touch of Daphne. The combined scent of the whole stall permeated the whole area. She breathed again deeply from the nearest plant. She felt dizzy. She had taken in too much and had