NLI-10, Page 2

  “Thanks.” she said, her tone neutral.

  Bobby came to her rescue. “Can I just grab the sugar?” he said, reaching between Sarah and Mike. She mouthed a thank you to him as he blocked the former junkie's advances any further. The two stepped away from the others and sipped at their over-sweetened 'coffaux', as they had taken to calling it.

  “You didn't say nothing in the sesh.” said Bobby “You doin' ok?”

  She was, and told him as much. He didn't believe her, the rhetoric telling him that you can never trust an addict. “How's the job going?” he asked.

  “You can't call it a job.” she replied, scoffing at the word.

  “It's a nine to five, ain't it?” he said.

  “It's volunteering. Jobs pay.” she said. “It's fine. The homeless shelter leaves me depressed, the asylum seeker support leaves me exhausted and depressed.”

  “But ye' connecting again, right? Getting back in touch with other human beings, getting off the selfish train ye' been on the last few years.”

  He was right, and she nodded in agreement with a polite smile.

  “Maybe y'need more time off between the two.” Bobby said. “One day between homeless and asylums may not be enough time to wash off the tragedy and injustice or whatever. Y'need some time for yourself too, remember. As much as routine is helpful, an' all, maybe ye' just getting yourself stuck in a rut.”

  “That'd just mean more time by myself... and that's never a good thing, I'm not great company right now.”

  “Why don't y'try looking for a real job? Part time, couple of days a week, get y'self back into the real world.”

  “I still feel like a burnout.” she said. “I'm not really sure I have the limited cognitive function required for waiting or secretarial work, which in and of itself is tragic. And even then, I don't think I could be one of those people who lives the nine to five routine and thinks a pint on a Friday night is exciting... I've lived and died a thousand times over, gone to other planes of reality, astrally projected back to the birth of the universe... And now I'm meant to find a job that stimulates me?”

  “I quite like a pint at the end of the week...” said Bobby, laughing at, and then with her. “What have y'got to lose?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Maybe it's time y'pushed yourself. One or two days of work, real work, might be what y'need. It might get your Persistently Perceptive brain ticking over a little faster, giving it actual tasks to do. Instead of, albeit charitable, monotonous roles that don't push ya'.”

  She nodded in silent agreement, but didn't truly agree. Her agenda in NA was solely to get the tools to stay off the psychs long enough to move herself onwards and upwards, set herself on course with purpose and direction, and maybe one day set about a complete revolution in her life.

  On the Crossrail home from Tottenham Court Road, she sunk into her chair and practised the self-reflection routine she had learned at NA. Looking at the actions in her life, her decisions, the cause and effect. A mental map of how she got from where she was the last time she was sober to the present moment. Her reflection didn't last long. The drumbeat emanating from the headphones of the man sitting next to her was thumpa-thump-thumping through her head as much as it was his, piercing her thoughts, distorting her map. She glared at him, but he was in a world of his music, unaware of those around him he was inflicting with the bass. She looked around for a free seat elsewhere, but there were none, and she didn't wish to stand for the rest of the journey.

  Her eyes scanned the posters dotted around the carriage, something to keep her mind busy. They were advertising perfect bodies and cleaning services, recruitment companies and hair replacement. Her gaze settled on a poster at the far end of the carriage, the lettering obscured, but the company's logo seemed familiar. She gave up her seat to get closer, to read it head-on. She had seen the branding and colour scheme before. It was called A-Pharma, a pharmaceutical company that she assumed was a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subsidiary, eventually leading back to some demonic mega-corporation that no doubt assured its users they definitely weren't evil. She didn't know the name, but it was reminiscent of something she had seen before. Pulling out her phone, she realised the 'A' of the A-Pharma logo looked a lot like the 'A' of the APEX logo on the back of her handset. It was a sidetrack of thought that she appreciated, turning over her phone and realising she had killed four minutes of the journey with the mental meandering, and hadn't even read the poster yet.

  Looking for an easy and fun way to earn money

  in an exciting new field of research?

  A-Pharma is recruiting clinical trial subjects now!

  If you're aged between 18 and 45,

  you could be earning up to £20,000

  for only3-6 months in one of our exclusive,

  fully-catered testing facilities.

  Catch up on your reading!

  Learn a new Language!

  Binge Watch Netflix!

  And get paid for the pleasure!

  Terms and conditions apply, routine health and fitness panel must be taken, A-Pharma has the right to refuse acceptance to trials, A-pharma is not responsible for any adverse side effects, full T&C on website.

  Sarah thought about the vast library of books she had inherited from her father. He had been obsessive about reading, and would consume anything with the written word. From SF and fantasy to true crime and biography, philosophy to psychology, classics to physics, every surface in her apartment was laden with his tomes, and she hadn't read so much as an introduction or prologue before getting distracted. Perhaps, she mused, this was her way out of her routine. A step closer to the revolution she wanted so badly, and free money for three to six months she could spend reading, learning, clearing her head of the drugs whilst bettering her life. She was in the age bracket, didn't do any exercise, but figured she could pass a routine health and fitness check. She wondered if there were still drugs swimming in her system, and if they might be a problem. She even considered swilling an awful detox drink to get whatever markers or particles out of her bloodstream. She didn't know if it would work, or if it was even necessary, but the more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that this would be a real chance for a new beginning.

  Returning home, she jumped straight on her laptop, a custom build from a guy she found on the internet, made from generic parts, rather than a factory-made model. It cost more, but she didn't trust a corporate manufacturer not to be monitoring her every activity, after a scandal around the time her parents died. A wall of separation, no matter how thin, between her and the company felt reassuring. Even if she did have an APEX phone, but she told herself she got it because it was cheap, and never used it for anything personal, barely made any calls or sent texts, never used it to access emails or social accounts. She didn't really have anyone to talk to outside of NA anyway. She connected to the A-Pharma website, her Ghostly browser extension going crazy with the number of hidden cookies, analytics monitors and subroutines running in the background of the site. She blocked them all and started the application process. It was simple enough until she came to a question that stumped her.

  Do you, or have you ever used

  psychedelic substances recreationally?

  Yes □

  No □

  She could lie, obviously, but thinking about it, didn't trust that she could actually rinse or mask the tracers in her bloodstream with a generic detox concoction. Her neural chemistry or pathways were, as far as she was concerned, most likely irrevocably altered by substance abuse. She checked the 'yes' box, and a further question popped up.

  How would you describe your psychedelic drug use over the last five years;

  Heavy □

  Moderate □

  Light □

  The question was curious, and didn't feel right, but she checked heavy use nonetheless, as her honesty from this point out would most likely be rescinded fairly swiftly. The rest of the questions returned to generic age, height, weight and education queri
es, and soon, the questionnaire was complete. After a quick check of her answers, she lingered on whether she should have lied about her use of psychoactives. Knowing they'd probably monitor the click activity on the application, she decided not to change her choices, and sent the application off.

  An auto-response arrived thirty minutes later, asking when she would like to come in for her interview, consultation and initial run of physical tests. There was a calender app embedded in the email, and she chose the following day. A further auto-response confirmed her selection, with the appointment time and address. Sarah's abuse of psychedelics had caused her to see connections and coincidences everywhere she looked, and this process felt all too fast and convenient to be a natural occurrence. Even seeing the poster started to seem too convenient, and a paranoid part of her brain was whispering that this was all a setup, all a trap of some kind.

  'The police don't seem to care about individual users of psychedelics, but what if they were using this as a net to capture me?'

  She knew it was ridiculous, but the whispers continued to haunt her. Sarah shut them up, reminding herself that tomorrow would bring her one step closer to the culmination of the crusade she had set herself on. One step closer to the life she wanted. She smiled to herself at the ridiculous stakes she was placing on an interview, but truly, it felt like this was a turning point.

  2

  The APEXMaps Journey Planner had Sarah take the Docklands Light Railway to Shadwell, then go on a long meandering walk to a business park where the A-Pharma facility was located. As she approached, it didn't look like it had been there long. The signage was fresh and new compared to the surrounding businesses, as if it had been unpacked and hung that day. Sarah didn't imagine medical facilities could pop up like cafes and vintage stores, but that didn't make it feel any less like it was put together recently. She walked in through the automatic double doors and went up to the desk. A thoroughly bored looking twenty-something in an ill fitting shirt was manning the reception, his hair and stubble preened to look like he just got out of bed, bags under his eyes adding a touch of honesty to the look. He booked Sarah in, telling her to sit in the waiting area until the nurse was ready to see her.

  Ten minutes in, it drifted through Sarah's mind that perhaps this would be an experiment in itself, see how long they could leave her waiting until she gave up and walked away. She kept an eye on the clock behind the reception, reminding herself that it only felt like ten hours to her Persistently Perceptual brain, and that for normal people, this was nothing. The nurse finally arrived, and brought her into a room where she was given a hospital-like gown in lieu of her clothes. After checking Sarah's vitals, drained some blood, and then took her into a room down the corridor where Sarah was injected with gadolinium contrast and made to lie in an MRI. The nurse fired generic questions at her, a mix of basic mathematics and reasoning that Sarah could just about handle. She then played a selection of music, which the nurse assured her was to gauge her brain's reaction, but in what way and for why, Sarah couldn't imagine.

  Thirty minutes later, after the mechanical bangs, clicks and groans of the machine had subsided, Sarah was taken to another room further down the hallway, where she was told to run on a treadmill until she could run no longer. She felt like a lab rat in a wheel, but when her legs felt like they were going to give out, she pushed herself further, wanting to prove herself worthy of their experiment, worthy of the change she saw ahead. After an hour of running at constantly increasing speeds, her legs refused to propel her any longer, and she was helped into a wheelchair, pushed into yet another room, where she was helped onto a weight machine and instructed to lift and push weights until her arms felt like jelly. Her muscles ached, but at least after she had fought through that, the feeling had returned to her legs. Thoroughly exhausted from the testing regime, she was given back her clothes and returned to the waiting area where she was told the nurse would be back to see her after they had all the results in.

  Another thirty minutes passed, feeling like thirty hours, and the nurse never came. She asked the bored receptionist whether she had been forgotten about, and he shrugged, repeating that the nurse would be back to see her shortly.

  Another thirty minutes and it definitely felt like an experiment with her patience, but she figured that an hour of waiting was nothing when she would hopefully have months of time under their care, should she have passed the tests. Finally, a woman walked out of a room adjacent to the reception and made a b-line towards Sarah. She was in her late forties, well dressed, with manicured nails and an overpriced haircut. She confirmed Sarah's name, even though Sarah was the only one waiting, and ushered her out of the reception area. The room contrasted with the rest of the dull white walls and sparse furnishings of the facility. It contained a lavish selection of hand-crafted furniture, ornate art, the sum total of which Sarah assumed was more than her inheritance and the insurance payout put together. Objects d'art lay on mahogany pedestals at each corner of the room, chips and imperfections in their texture giving Sarah the impression that they were hand-carved. The sole purpose of the furniture and art seemed to be to impart wealth. Adding to that was an obscenely expensive-looking video wall behind the desk, with LEDs so small that even a few feet away it looked like a window. The skyline of London was displayed on the screen in ultra high definition, to create the illusion of being in a corner office up on high. Whoever this woman was, Sarah assumed she was used to finer things, and no doubt had a corner office that she was attempting to replicate within the confines of the dull and drab business park on the outskirts of the city. The woman gestured for Sarah to take a seat, and introduced herself.

  “Marion Whark.” she said, with a smile that was anything but genuine. The lack of lines accompanying the curvature of her lips made it seem like a rare experience for her face.

  “Nice to meet you.” said Sarah, attempting to be genial and mask finding the woman and her choice of aesthetics off-putting.

  “Could you tell me a little about yourself?” asked Whark, as she leafed through Sarah's file.

  “Well, I'm twenty-seven.” said Sarah. “I work as a volunteer for a homeless shelter and asylum seeker support.”

  “More specifically, about your drug use.” said Whark, not even attempting to hide her disinterest in Sarah's occupation.

  “Well...” Sarah started, hesitantly “I mostly used psychedelics, or psychoactives, whatever you want to call them...”

  “Which drugs specifically?” asked Whark, the smile was creeping back up her face, as if warming to the girl whose life she had only just attempted to ignore.

  “LSD, mushrooms, mescaline, peyote, DMT, 2CB, uh...” she struggled to recall others. “Does marijuana count? I did Ayahuasca once or twice.”

  “You can stop there, that's a fabulous selection.” said Whark, almost sounding impressed.

  “I wouldn't call it fabulous...” said Sarah.

  “Oh, but it is for our requirements in this study. You're exactly the type of candidate we're after.”

  “It is? I am?” said Sarah, confused.

  “Very much so. And you're in great health, have you taken part in a clinical trial before?”

  “I'm sorry...” said Sarah, backtracking. “What makes me a great subject?”

  “For this particular testing regime, we're after subjects that have had experience with psychoactive substances, whose neural pathways have been altered. You know how LSD was used medically for a time, to help patients with schizophrenia? We're trying something along those lines, albeit with normal patients in this round, rather than locking up a group of crazies together!”

  She appeared to think she was making a joke. Sarah smiled politely.

  “We have a new three-month study starting in just two weeks, is that enough time to put your affairs in order?”

  It sounded to Sarah like Whark was implying she wouldn't be coming out of the experiment alive – but she quashed those feelings – this was a multinational corporation aft
er all, they couldn't advertise on the tube and then kill subjects. Probably.

  Sarah told her it was plenty of time. It wasn't like she had any actual life waiting for her when she returned. Whark made her sign a consent form and an initial Non Disclosure Agreement before giving her more information about the study. It would be taking place just outside of Dundee. They would provide her with a ticket for the train and collect her from the station. She only needed clothes for arrival and departure, they would be providing her things to wear whilst she was there – albeit unflattering cuts – which seemed important to Whark. She was to be reimbursed with twelve thousand pounds for her time, which would be deposited on the final day of the trial.

  Sarah feigned interest in the information that was being imparted, caring less for the cash lump sum, and more focused on imagining the final day of her emergence from the depths of the APEX machine.

  Seventeen weeks and one day earlier, Sarah didn't know or care much about APEX, other than it being the company her parents had worked for before their deaths. She had been gallivanting around their old house in a mushroom daze, and other than having relocated their books, it was pretty much exactly as they had left it. She had recently taken to tripping there amongst her parent's belongings, it was giving her a feeling of closeness to them that she hadn't had for a long time.

  Whilst going through her father's desk, she came across a USB pen drive which she plugged into her laptop, hoping it wasn't a secret stash of porn. As she started going through the thousands of documents on the drive, the visuals of her trip dissipated, the high diminished, and for the first time in ten years she felt something close to sober.

  She signed up to NA later that day to keep that feeling, keep her focus for the task ahead. What she had found blew her mind, and made her question whether her parents' death was an accident as she had been led to believe. There were confessions from her mother and father, and files upon files to back up their claims.