Dirty Pink

By Simon Moneils

THE CHASE IS ON. Frantically, a team of scientists are struggling to quell the nasty side effect on victims of a botch genome therapy. Against the powerful money-hungry pharmaceutical, how can they rescue the multitude of innocents? The recent escalating suicides, rampant worldwide, is the only clue something has gone terribly wrong. This thriller is a page turner as we discover on how victims, from different cultures, attempt to hide their secret from their loved ones while dealing with their malady.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Moneils
• Release date: Apr 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773027661

Simon Moneils

Simon Moneils has been honoured over the years by several establishments for dedicating part of his life helping those people struggling with their sexual orientation. Simon hails from Toronto, Canada.

Book preview

Part I

Preface

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

— Robin Williams

That summer, a sordid contamination would creep into innocent human cells and stain them a dirty pink. Before anyone could pinpoint its cause, countless lives would be altered—for the best or for the worst. Some would be spared by circumstance, some would resign themselves to the inevitable, and some would decide to die. No country would be exempt from this catastrophe.

Humans had undergone changes to their physical appearance over millions of years, yet this overnight transformation—the side effect of a therapeutic program—would challenge their ability to handle the unexpected. It would disrupt their psyches, challenge their skillful righteousness . . . and all too often, end in suicide.

Chapter 1

In Geneva, Dr. Mishi Takita, director-general of the World Health Organization, shook her head at the reports piled up on her conference table. Dr. Françoise Rafina had inserted florescent pink sticky-notes throughout, so many of them that they resembled scattered confetti. But their cheerful appearance belied their purpose—–to disclose the countless victories of an invading pathogen.

Dr. Takita’s expertise was exercising her innate ability to vacuum up data on unsettling and frightening events and synthesizing solutions for the public. She could swiftly clean up the facts and spoon-feed the world step-by-step directives for staving off imminent calamities. Her unique talent for this elevated her amongst her peers in epidemiology. The wall behind her comfortable dark-blue leather executive chair was adorned with three proud rows of honorific plaques celebrating her outstanding work, one of them her own Nobel Prize.

Her enemies—relentlessly evolving viruses and bacteria—had risen up against her again and again. She had emerged from each challenge unscathed—the SARS epidemic in 2003, the H5N1 avian influenza of 2004, the antibiotic-resistant superbugs of 2005, H1N1 influenza in 2009, and finally the outbreak of the Ebola virus in 2013. World leaders had religiously implemented her advice and relied on her astuteness when the welfare and health of their population had been threatened.

Dr. Takita had been told recently that her reappointment for a third term by the WHO’s executive board would be unanimously confirmed. But I don’t want to do it - I want to go back to Japan she had pleaded. Unfortunately, there were no other suitable candidates who were prepared to take over the helm, and she reluctantly conceded to stay on in this prestigious job.

At the age of forty-three, Takita’s situation conflicted her at the core. On one hand, she was proud to have ascended to the most prestigious medical position on the planet so quickly; on the other, she was homesick for her hometown, Tama, in Japan—and her longing for a loving, mutually satisfying relationship had plagued her for as long as she could remember.

At least she could console herself with the benefits of a wealthy income and indulge her sense of style. She never failed to drape her slim, athletic frame in the most fashionable designs, always choosing dark blue, her favourite colour. Should anyone encroach into her comfort zone, her perfume exuded a fragrance of jasmine and rose.

Chapter 2

Dr. Takita drew in her breath as she took in the meaning of the figures in front of her. Highs of over five thousand suicides per day, she muttered in disbelief.

She leafed through the pages, lingering over those tagged with bright pink, mumbling louder and louder as she went. Another pandemic? How long do I have to fix this catastrophe before people start to die on me again?

The routine details of her job vanished, replaced in her mind’s eye with a world map smeared with drops of red blood on every country.

Where is Françoise? she snapped at her assistant, who sat just outside her opened door. This rare tone of aggravation alerted her assistant that the usually congenial Dr. Takita had been scorched by a thunderbolt of a report.

As she impatiently waited for Françoise, Dr. Takita’s hands turned freezing cold. The alarming numbers had literally chilled her, and despite all her past experiences, she couldn’t sufficiently connect her thoughts to form a glimmer of an explanation.

She removed her glasses to rub her eyes and cool her flushed face with her icy fingers. Forcing a deep breath, she felt a calm begin to settle over her. She straightened her back against her chair, using her posture to induce control as she formulated her directives.

She already knew that as she faced this enigmatic enemy, her authority would be challenged by the usual profiteers spreading conflicting and unfounded rumours, as well as the many stresses raining down from ill-informed, self-righteous politicians posing as statesmen. She would need Herculean strength to face it all. Her reputation demanded it.

She put a hand on her forehead and shook her head. What will kill me first—this disaster, or my husband leaving me?

She stared past her balcony at the vastness of Lake Geneva. Taking a deep breath, she got up to clear her brain with some fresh air. Her measured, decisive steps sank into the deep carpet as she approached the open door of her balcony. Feeling the soft summer breeze flow through her dark blue summer dress, she discerned the fragrances of hyacinth, rose, and lilac filling her lungs with a positive energy. She reached out and grabbed the marble railing in an effort to steady herself and regain control.

It’s uncanny how we humans are affected by numbers on a page, she thought. That abstract symbols could evoke such empathy both astounded and frightened her at the same time. It is how we’ve survived till now, I suppose, she said out loud.

Chapter 3

Dr. Takita slapped the reports on the table. Please tell me these are errors!

I’m afraid not, answered Françoise. Her face flushed and perspiration ran from her forehead into her eyes. "I’ve analysed the data backwards and forwards, and asked the staff of each division to validate it. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that it’s a pandemic in the making.

For the past decade, 2,200 suicides per day has been the mean, Françoise continued as she stood up to pace the room. But with over four suicides per minute, we’ll lose more than 5.5 million people this coming year alone.

Dr. Takita raised her eyebrows and stared at Françoise, tapping her fingers as she thought. Françoise, a meticulous statistician and an expert in interpreting complex data, exuded confidence. Her ability to detect abnormal trends, determine the source of any health issue, and lead decontamination projects were special skills that Takita relied upon to make important decisions. There was little margin for error in what she did, a common denominator in their line of work.

If these dammed reports are true— Takita frowned —we’re in for a hell of a ride. When suicides account for 10,000 of the 150,000 average daily deaths, I’d better be prepared to explain it.

They continued discussing Françoise’s detailed findings until Geneva’s twilight faded into night. With a much-deserved glass of white wine in hand, Françoise stood looking out from Dr. Takita’s penthouse office at Lake Geneva.

Facing the scary facts on the table, Françoise held her head puzzled. All those people out there are dying. I can’t imagine it. Only one thing is missing from all the reports—the demography of the victims. As if in response, a sudden cool breeze from the opened balcony door made her shiver; she put on her sports coat and closed the door.

Tired and drawn from her terrible day, Dr. Takita said, Let’s call it a night.

While driving home, Takita struggled with and failed to set aside thoughts of her troubled relationship with her husband. Her sleeping alone for the past three months proved to her the evidence that their love had evaporated after years of trying to make it work. He had claimed that he had a bad back and that sleeping on the floor of his office relieved the pain, but the lack of angst in his explanation was a clear sign that he didn’t even want her to believe him.

Her coming to terms with the loss of their love had been gradual, and his final exit that morning had been the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. At least now she had her home to herself, her only source of security.

Chapter 4

The next day at lunch, Dr. Takita took a walk on the grounds of the WHO complex. It was her daily routine, one that always reenergized her body and defogged her brain. She desperately needed fresh air and space to synthesize a night’s worth of sifting through thousands of pages of data. There had been no point in trying to sleep; the empty house lacked feng shui, and untamable spirits harried her mind.

A refreshing warm breeze wafted over the tall line of trees along Chemin de l’Impératrice, gently pushing Dr. Takita and Françoise toward the botanical gardens. They enjoyed the calmness of the River Rhone as it flowed quietly into the lake. This is nice. I really needed this, Françoise remarked as she bit into her bratwurst dressed with tasty sauerkraut, onions, and jalapeños. A welcomed luncheon feast.

They were sitting on Dr. Takita’s favourite bench overlooking the lake. She loved this magical spot. Often her intuition would kick in here, inspiring her with the solution to the latest pressing crisis. If she paid careful attention now, the answer might pay her a visit. I am a pandemic witch doctor, she thought to herself with a slight smile.

Her feeling of optimism disappeared in a flash and fatigue overwhelmed her. I’m really worried about this one, she divulged to Françoise. "I feel at a loss as to how to attack it—it’s too vague and complex. Why didn’t I retire when I had a chance? I could be writing, painting, sculpting—anything but this.

A virus is something we can eventually detect, but people’s motives for suicide are often intangible and it’s all the more inexplicable when victims don’t leave a note. How can we tackle this?

Françoise lowered her bratwurst. I have no damn clue. We’re dealing with people’s imaginations or circumstances or something else that is pushing them to drastic acts of despair. Can’t we just dump this on the World Psychiatric Association across the road?

Unfortunately, the word ‘health’ in our title includes mental disorders. Suicide definitely applies. Some believe that ‘rational suicide’ is not a disorder, but we deal with all suicides as public health problems, especially when they’re this rampant. But we can seek the WPA’s assistance. Thank you for reminding me.

Takita rose from the bench. It’s time to hurry back, Françoise. We have a pressing problem to solve in the next few weeks. A whirlwind of meetings, interviews, and research, some helpful, most not. You know the drill.

Chapter 5

By late afternoon, most of the figures were in. Françoise rushed to Dr. Takita’s office and found her standing in front of the four monitors on the wall. One screen rotated though graphs of the ongoing suicides by region. The second was tuned to a CNN report that dramatized the crisis. The third constantly refreshed itself with suicide statistics as they were recorded by various WHO divisions. The fourth screen, which was split into four panels, refreshed every few minutes with text messages from division heads, as relevant factoids and clues were found and uploaded for the WHO staff in Geneva to investigate.

Françoise motioned for Dr. Takita to take a seat at the conference table.

So far, Françoise began, we see an emerging pattern of suicides by adult males—married, average age thirty-two years, upper-middle class, and mostly professionals. Many are religious, with a number of clergy, public figures, and politicians among them. What’s most disconcerting is that the majority of individuals were in perfect physical health. And most reportedly enjoyed quiet social lives with their families, friends and coworkers.

Men commit suicide three to four times more often than women, Dr. Flamini remarked.

That’s because women fail to die as often by the poor methods they typically choose, Françoise responded.

How can we zero in on these men? Dr. Takita asked.

No one has a criminal past, Françoise replied. While the largest group of the victims comes mostly from religious, autocratic countries, there are also some strong numbers from countries where male dominance is the norm and/or where adherence to a traditional culture determines the lifestyle of the public at large.

So countries similar to Iran? Uganda? Dr. Takita asked.

And Japan, another highly patriarchal country Francoise blurted without thinking of her boss’ ethnicity.

This will be tough to crack, Françoise, but you seem to be on the right track—good work, and carry on.

Now Françoise addressed all the division heads: Can I request that you swiftly comb through your current information for more granular details on the victims, including autopsies?

With the technology available in Italy, it will be relatively easy for our divisions to sift through the mortuary database and identify recent suicide cases, Dr. Flamini revealed.

We can hopefully determine the demographics for each of the deceased, Dr. Sekateck added, but of course the only information not available might be the most important—the reasons for their suicides. How can we get that?

Let me get back to you on that one, Françoise promised. Anything else? No? Okay, then let’s adjourn. We’ll have another conference call tomorrow.

Chapter 6

Dr. Takita’s top priority was getting to the bottom of this mystery before the suicide uptrends started to gain worldwide attention. She knew that when world leaders started asking questions, her head would be on the block if she had no answers.

The rising unease in her stomach that had begun during her lunchtime walk persisted to gnaw at her insides. Alone in her office, she studied the latest graphs on the large rolling screens. The spiking suicide figures caused her earlier concerned curiosity to give way to alarm and she lunged for the phone.

She exhaled in relief when Françoise answered on the second ring. How can we tell divisional offices to intrude on grieving families and inquire about the reasons for their loved ones’ suicides? Takita asked.

Funny, you should ask—Martin just asked me the same thing.

The long silence on the other end told Dr. Takita that Françoise was pondering the problem.

We can’t be unprofessional, Françoise finally blurted.

But we have no choice—we must find out what’s behind this trend.

I can create a protocol for divisions to follow.

Thanks, we’re headed somewhere Dr. Takita said and ended the call.

Though she had faith in whatever protocol Françoise would devise, Takita knew that they would have to proceed cautiously. She anticipated strong reluctance from certain divisions that would consider collecting this kind of private information to be culturally problematic.

Chapter 7

Dr. Takita picked up the phone and tapped in a familiar number.

Hi, Riba, do you have time to discuss a problem that we’re facing? It’s urgent.

Dr. Riba Stone had been her roommate in university and was now her next-door neighbour in their posh neighbourhood. The two of them jogged together almost every morning.

Sure, I can come over now. I have no meetings for the rest of the day and—

No, no, I need fresh air, Dr. Takita interrupted. Let me come to you.

Takita hurried over to the World Psychiatric Association headquarters, just across the boulevard from the WHO, and took the elevator up to the office of the president and chair on the top floor. Dr. Stone attentively waited for her at the door.

Takita got right to the point: I’m going nuts over there and I need to vent. She dropped her sports coat on the sofa, unbuttoned the top of her white silk blouse, and took a seat on a chair facing the lake, where ferries laden with commuters steamed across the waters toward Lausanne and Montreux.

Would you care for tea, or something stronger? Dr. Stone asked.

Sure, why not—give me a hefty Glenlivet with one ice, please.

What’s happening across the street?

A disparate group of people are committing suicide worldwide and I don’t know why. Takita grimaced as she sipped on her drink. I feel powerless. I can’t figure out my next step or how to engage my people. I hate this feeling!

Wow, this is not you, Mishi. Let’s look at this together.

The full-bodied Glenlivet started to calm Dr. Takita. Holding her empty glass high for another serving, she stretched her legs comfortably on the sofa and began to explain.

Well, we know the demography but we don’t know the reason for the suicides, and I don’t know how to uncover the reason without ruffling ethical feathers. I usually deal with black-andwhite scientific facts, not mysterious suicidal motives. She took a drink of the scotch. This is your world, not mine.

Well, I could reach out to my confrères on the psychiatrists’ council and ask them to contact their colleagues in the countries where the suicides are happening. That could be a start.

After two hours of brainstorming, Dr. Stone’s walls were covered in Post-Its, scrawled with their handwritten ideas. Dr. Takita gulped down the rest of her Scotch and hugged her friend.