Subliminal

  SUBLIMINAL

  SUBLIMINAL

  C.B. BARRIE

  ROBERT HALE

  First published in 2017 by Robert Hale, an imprint of The Crowood Press Ltd, Ramsbury, Marlborough Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.crowood.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  © C.B. Barrie 2017

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 0 71982 378 7

  The right of C.B. Barrie to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chapter 1

  EMMA LILTON PAUSED as she came up to the research director’s smooth, grey, unglazed office door.

  She held back giving notice of her arrival while she steeled herself for what was to come. As far as she knew, none of the other senior programme managers had been ‘invited’ to see the director, so it was odds-on that she had been singled out for something exceptional or unpleasant.

  What it was she could not even begin to guess, but presumed she should resign herself to bad news. The invitation was, if the rumours were right, ominous.

  Only once before had she been privileged with a personal interview with the director, and that was to tell her that she had been promoted to the management of the behavioural sciences unit – a poison chalice according to her predecessor, who had quit over the director’s third refusal to allow him leave to attend a major conference on advances in psychology.

  Rumours had been flying about the centre for a few days now and most of the senior research staff were anticipating something dire. As usual the paranoia was creating a tense if not belligerent atmosphere, with various research teams suffering mutually destructive squabbles as the tension escalated. First on the list was the whispered belief that several major projects were to be scrapped and staff to be made redundant. Second in line was the expectation that the whole complex was to be either sold off or shut down. Either way, if correct, people were for the chop.

  As a result, most of the centre’s research programmes had effectively ground to a halt as lethargy and futility set in.

  Emma decided – regardless of the outcome – that she was going to retain her dignity. She had fought her way up to her present seniority against worse odds than she might face now; indeed, she was proud of her research record and her standing. The director wasn’t going to be allowed to humble or demoralize her. At worse she might be looking for another job but, if that were the outcome, it would be an active and determined search. She was good, very good, and no one could say otherwise. Her PhD at UCL in autistic perception had been acclaimed as outstanding by her examiners during her viva voce. But the downside of working for seven years outside of academia in a commercial research operation was the lack of academic and research credibility. She had been immersed in business inaugurated research under strict confidentiality; it meant she was prohibited from disclosure of her research outcomes other than to the client. As such, she had no opportunity to build an academic reputation by publishing research papers. In short, she was an unknown quantity. All in all, the prospect of finding herself cast adrift, for however short a time it may be, was perhaps less than comfortable. Despite her resolve, she had a lot to overcome.

  She took a breath, knocked on the door and walked in.

  It was a big anteroom preceding the director’s main office, filled with numerous neatly positioned grey cabinets and pristine office equipment; all of it parked against walls decorated with a pastel green emulsion and liberally sprinkled with bright prints of abstract paintings and seascapes.

  The large windows were the same as in all the centre’s laboratories, providing a flood of daylight which explained the rampant growth of a few potted shrubs positioned centrally on the wide, mid-height windowsills.

  The director’s secretary, formally dressed in another shade of grey and ensconced behind a large-screen VDU, suspended her rapid finger movements over her keyboard and lifted her head above the screen so that her eyes could identify the visitor.

  ‘Ah, Dr Lilton, good morning, Professor Neal is expecting you – I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  She nodded and stood by the secretary’s desk as a ‘Come in’ came distinctly from behind the director’s door in response to three sharp taps from his secretary.

  She waited as the secretary vanished from view behind the half-closed door, only to see her quickly reappear, standing sideways on with her back holding the director’s door open.

  ‘Professor Neals will see you now Dr Lilton, do please come in.’

  Only a few steps were needed to find herself in Neals’ office; big, spacious and part library, the more book-strewn and inaccessible part was coupled to an area occupied by a large and impressive Victorian desk skewed slightly towards one corner. As before, the room was well lit by the large ubiquitous open windows, only here a set of wide, cream sunblinds shaded the top third of the window glazing.

  Neals, a healthy looking fifty-year-old, neatly dressed in a pin-striped suit and sporting a clipped, almost blond beard that matched his receding hairline, motioned to a chair positioned in front of his desk.

  ‘My dear Emma, take a seat.’

  The office door shut behind her and she detected a fateful hush as Neals edged around his desk, giving a meditative pause before taking his seat.

  ‘Well Emma, how are your research programmes developing?’

  She allowed herself a moment’s thought. ‘We’re progressing, the work on brand-name recognition is almost complete – we have some interesting results and the client should be very satisfied. The programme investigating the commercial impact of non-British, that is non-traditional food items, has terminated – again with some interesting outcomes. As for the nicotine vapour pipes, we are still getting together the range of panels we need to test preferences, but it is maturing.’

  Neals nodded, apparently glad that she had kept it simple. His background was physics and he was not sure if he trusted behavioural sciences as a legitimate scientific pursuit.

  He smiled, clearly finding it difficult to express what he had to say.

  She waited, as he appeared to compose himself.

  ‘Emma, I’m sorry but I have some bad news and I’m not going to procrastinate about it. The centre has not been running profitably for some time and a decision had to be made to concentrate on those areas where we were likely to attract new business. I’m afraid that both yours and David Woolcroft’s team on sports science are to be rolled up. I know this is one hell of a blow for both of you and I deeply regret having to give you this news, but I’m afraid the executive and the board could see no other solution. That said, you have six weeks to wind up your activities, complete your final reports and hand them to me. Oh, and you will receive a severance payment equivalent to two weeks’ salary for every year you have been here.’

  She sat in profound dismay as Neals announced her marching orders – she thought she would be emotionally neutral, no matter the bad news, but as it came she was suddenly shaken by the reality of it.

  ‘I take it there is no alternative – even if there was the likelihood of more research contracts?’

&n
bsp; She was grateful that her query wasn’t vocalized in a tremulous voice; somehow she kept it unemotional.

  Neals gave a slight shake of his head. ‘No, I’m sorry Emma but unless you know something I don’t, the decision is final and irrevocable.’

  For a full fifteen seconds she made no move and said nothing.

  Neals too stayed mute, simply staring at her with a quizzical expression.

  Still silent, she got up from her chair and turned towards the door. As the office door opened, Neals’ voice wafted towards her. ‘Emma, please remember – you will need to sign the requisite composite non-disclosure agreement before you go. Oh, and I’m very happy to give you a reference, just drop me a note reminding me.’

  She half turned towards Neals and with a look of disdain shut his office door behind her. For a brief moment a surge of anger filled her, but then she let it go and turned her thinking towards survival. That was paramount.

  ‘Trust all is well, Dr Lilton?’ the secretary queried.

  ‘No – it bloody isn’t,’ she replied.

  Chapter 2

  SHE SIGNED THE job application form with a flourish, though there was no confidence implicit in the signature.

  This was the thirty-third snail-mail or email job application she had completed in the last four months and so far there had been almost as many rejections. At first, as each post or email response had arrived her spirits had lifted, but now she was resigned to the fact that every email or letter she opened would politely decline her services. This was invariably followed by a flash of anger, a sense of despair and then the trawling of her stoicism for yet more endurance. As she surveyed her paper-swamped desk, and her now untidy, well lived-in apartment, it became clear that her prospects were becoming less promising by the day. Every possible recruitment opportunity, via scientific journals, technical publications or the science-based internet websites, had been scrutinized in search of a position for which a woman with her qualifications and experience could potentially be shortlisted for an interview.

  But it hadn’t happened.

  Not surprising, she mused, the universities had already completed most of their recruitment for academic and research posts, and there were too few commercial research establishments likely to be looking for new staff – especially for someone with a background in psychology or behavioural sciences. In short, and in terms of her expertise, she was virtually unemployable. Even a private letter to her old UCL supervisor had been met with silence.

  She compiled all the necessary papers for what was now the thirty-fourth application and slipped them into the big A4 envelope – checking as she did so the covering letter, her CV, Neals’ reference, the official application form and a summary of her research programmes over the last seven years. That summary had been the hardest thing to compose, she was under stringent non-disclosure agreements and knew very well what would happen if she broke confidence on the secrecy surrounding the commercial interests she had acted for. Saying enough to attract the interest of those reading her job application was one thing, being tempted to give too much away was another. Even Neals’ brief reference added very little to her already weak reputation.

  But what else could she do? Having no publication record her credentials were competing with applicants who had some standing in terms of published research – on the face of it she was at least three steps further down the ladder.

  Her tongue moistened the adhesive strip on the envelope and she pressed it down with a strange kind of finality. This, she decided, the eleventh snail-mail application, was the last she would do – there was no time or money left for the process to go on any longer. Without an income, and one big enough to meet all her outgoings, she was in danger of losing her apartment and becoming destitute. So far her pride had made her disregard the state-based welfare she was entitled to, but now it offered an interim lifeline. A little money from Jobseeker’s Allowance would provide a short breathing space. But matters had reached the stage where her options were very limited, and where finally she would, reluctantly, be forced to invoke her long-neglected contingency plan.

  She thought back to the day Professor Neals had given her the bad news, the day she had given him a summary of progress in her research programmes, and had deliberately and with a fall-back contingency in mind, omitted to mention the work she and Mike Crossly, her team’s number two, had been working on in secret. The timing had been opportune – the day she and her colleagues had lost their jobs was the day she and Mike became convinced that their work on subliminal imprinting was now well understood and was applicable. Indeed, evidently it worked supremely well.

  She looked back at her desk. Lying under all the cuttings, discarded application letters and photocopied CVs was the thick folder containing all the research results on the subliminal work. It had been difficult to keep all their experiments out of sight of the other team members, but they had succeeded and very quickly came to realize how commercially valuable the unfolding results were likely to be. All that they had done was now a concealed treasure, a future in the making and her potential salvation. Therein lay her contingency plan, and she was going to exploit it for all it was worth.

  Chapter 3

  HE HAD STARTED to sweat, and that came as no surprise. The last two hours with the board of Morley, Swan & Bramly, the nation’s one-time premier advertising agency, had tested his endurance almost to breaking point. He had held on to his temper for the whole of the grilling they had instigated, and had maintained his dignity and self-assurance against every insinuation, accusation and expression of distrust thrown at him. Even when he had been charged with incompetence he’d refrained from forcefully reminding them of how dire things had been with the agency’s balance sheet when he had first been appointed as CEO. But so much for his past record!

  He had been in charge of MS&B for the last two years and up until six months ago had overseen a 35 per cent increase in earnings with a commensurate improvement in profits. Almost single-handedly he had won, and secured, some very big commissions from major corporate interests and had at times literally ripped the contracts out of the hands of his competitors. He’d offered guarantees about improved turnover and sales, had promised more TV airtime for the same fee they had paid in the past and had assured them of a broader cultural message. Similarly, an advertising campaign that would not only be innovative and grip the viewers’ attention, but more importantly, endear the brand to the viewer.

  It was he who had set up an independent video production company tied directly to the agency. Likewise, he had initiated a purge of unwanted and poorly contributing staff and had seen them replaced with highly motivated and supremely imaginative people. Oh yes! It had transformed the way the agency worked, and had given them a competitive edge and a quality in their advertising campaigns that made all the other agencies envious of a success they could only dream of. His clients were ecstatic as their sales levels almost doubled and their product competition floundered.

  But the honeymoon period had ended.

  What he had done, his competitors had eventually done too, bringing in new blood and new ideas. They had even hijacked his own people, making them offers they couldn’t refuse. Slowly, his advantage had been eroded and now he was faced with a dilemma he thought would never occur; he was back to square one, back to the situation he was in two years previously – only this time he didn’t have an immediate answer to the dilemma. He had to think again.

  For Emma Lilton it had required very little in the way of research – the internet had thrown up at least ten major advertising agencies in the UK and she had started seeking access to the top ten the moment she had either an email address or a telephone number. In nearly all cases she had both, but when trying a telephone call first, she found it difficult to break down the barrier between herself and the senior manager’s secretary. Too often she was told that her request for an interview would be conveyed to the individual in question and an answer would be forthcoming.

&
nbsp; ‘When?’ she would ask.

  ‘As soon as possible’ or ‘When he returns’ was invariably the reply.

  And so it went on, the same kind of reply time after time.

  It was only when she dialled the number of Morley, Swan & Bramly that she struck gold.

  A soft, well-modulated male voice answered as the ring tone ended.

  ‘Morley, Swan and Bramly – who’s speaking?’

  She felt her heart lift.

  ‘Good morning, my name is Dr Emma Lilton, may I ask to be put through to your managing director?’

  There was a slight pause before the voice said, ‘Are you sure you want this office? This is the CEO’s office. If you wish to report a medical problem you need to contact our personnel office, if you hang on I’ll transfer you to their num….’

  ‘No – I’m not a doctor of medicine. I’m a behavioural scientist – this enquiry has nothing to do with anything medical – I may have some interesting research results that could advantage your advertising campaigns. But I need to talk to the right person on your staff – someone who can make decisions.’

  She again experienced a brief silence at the end of the phone, then the voice replied, ‘My name is Jonathan Woodbridge, I’m CEO here, will I do?’

  The offices were in central London in Fleet Street, further down and across the street from the law courts. As she stood outside looking up at the recently cleaned Victorian façade of the building, the old brickwork now mingled with reproduction period double-glazing. Though converted to an office complex, it had been tastefully done.

  As she stood her ground, throngs of people hurried past and around her, on their way to what she imagined were far more interesting occupations than hers. It occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, it had been a mistake to pursue a scientific career. Perhaps she would have been more successful sticking to something more mundane and more lucrative with less chance of being isolated and redundant. She was a specialist with too limited an expertise to be useful in any other area except her own narrow field. As she hesitantly entered through the swing doors into the foyer she remembered the old curse about specialists – they were people who knew more and more about less and less and ended by knowing absolutely everything about nothing!