Harvester – Chapter 6

Before we start, lets dig into the chapter.

For Chapter 6 of Harvester, the inspiration behind the narrative is the way Broc's transformation and meticulous planning come to fruition. This chapter deepens the contrast between the calm, idyllic Dorset countryside and the cold, calculated mind of Broc as he sets the stage for his next harrowing act. In the quiet village of Kings Stag, Broc’s meticulous nature unfolds, mirroring the stillness of the setting, but beneath the surface, the chilling undercurrent of his actions brings a sense of dread.

Broc’s calmness, contrasted with his twisted inner world, fuels the suspense. The details of his background, the relationships he manipulates, and the trust he gains by posing as Kevin Saunders all play into the larger narrative of identity theft and deception. His surgical precision, both literal and metaphorical, shapes his approach to life, harvesting, and survival. Broc’s unsettling ability to blend into this community while maintaining his monstrous nature underlines the horror of his character.

This chapter also carries a haunting tone of inevitability—Lucy’s path has led her to Blackmore Vale Farm, her final destination. Broc’s past experiences, relationships, and newfound home in Kings Stag provide a sharp focus on his motivations and his emotional detachment, bringing a dark contrast between the bucolic setting and the terror he brings.

It's the story of a killer hiding in plain sight, fully immersed in his role while crafting an elaborate façade of normalcy, with only Broc knowing the sinister fate that awaits his victim. His presence in this unsuspecting community signals a grim, foreboding chapter in the narrative.

And for the main event…

Chapter 6

Broc turned off the main road and on to the B3143 from Sturminster Newton, approaching the final destination in the quintessential rural village of Kings Stag, in the heart of Dorset. The village was predominantly agriculture and cattle. Peppered with commuters from the financial powerhouses of Bournemouth such as Chase Manhattan or Barclays Bank. Steadily increasing with the affluent from London that could afford such idyllic weekend retreats. The downside of this was that the village became almost deserted during the week, which had a detrimental effect on local businesses and eateries.

The locals resented the newcomers or blow-in’s. Broc smiled at this term ... Broc wasn’t considered a blow-in, him being in the village was by choice. And entirely of his own making, the community welcomed Broc back from such a long absence as he had adopted an entirely new identity for his dissection and harvests. Not even Ng and his organization knew, so good was the deception. Prior to his first victim, only visiting the farm once,

Dorset would have never been on Broc’s radar. He was a city boy. A lover of the metropolis. The only time he ever ventured in the country, was cross-country at Eaton and that wasn’t country. The Berkshire countryside was too well manicured compared to this. Nonetheless, the mist hung heavy over the village. Almost comforting Broc: strangely, it felt like home.

He noticed the chocolate box houses with plumes of steam swirling from their vents. Warming the families in their beds, the morning was shaping up to be a beautiful fall day. Walking the dogs, kids playing in the leaves, the middle classes with new money from Bournemouth and London would rub shoulders with the Dorset aristocracy in the Green Man Pub. The landlord was cashing in on the blow-ins fortune. Quaffing £50 bottles of Merlot and warm ales priced at £5 a pint that would give most newcomers catastrophic bowel movements six hours later. The same beer was served to the locals at a fraction of the price. His comforting feeling evaporated at the thought of these happy people with their happy lives and perfect John Lewis kids, compared to the horrible upbringing he had endured. His face hardened like a hypnotist snapping their subject out of a trance state. He looked at Lucy’s vitals, as he did habitually every five minutes...all in the normal range.

Broc, nine years earlier had a patient called Kevin Saunders. A proud military man, who had fallen on hard times after leaving the army. Like many veterans who struggled in the civilian world. Saunders turned to drink and at the end of his military career, making it through the day without a drink was impossible.

Pigeonholed in an admin job in London, looking after the Queen’s Troop administrative needs while they went about their business guarding the number one tourist attraction in Britain, the Royal family. This job, given to senior soldiers that were gathering dust in the operational battalions and were poised to return to the life of civvy street.

By the time Saunders met Broc as a patient in his liver clinic. He was yellowed with jaundice. Had the worst ascites. Giving the impression of the third trimester of pregnancy. Almost homeless and being looked after by a local authority somewhere that was nowhere in London.

Broc formed a platonic, innocent, and genuine friendship with Saunders. He was a decorated Guardsman in the Coldstream Guards. On leaving home, Saunders purposefully joined the most northern infantry regiment he could so to escape the influence of his parents. Particularly his father Pete. Who behaved abominably towards his son. Learned behavior passed down the generations of emotional abuse and there was an assumption that after all that abuse, he would take over the reins of the family farm. But Saunders had other ideas and escaped Dorset. Joining the army and served in Northern Ireland, Kuwait, Bosnia Herzegovina, Kosovo, Iraq, and Afghanistan. He briefly saw action in Somalia but couldn’t talk about that.

Saunders and Broc chatted for hours about his exploits. Broc genuinely interested and excited by the war stories. Broc wanted a military career but, unlike Saunders, did as he was told and went to medical school on his father's instruction. He admired Saunders for that. For a seventeen-year-old boy to be so desperate to leave home, and never return was one of the bravest things possible, Broc thought. Their upbringing similar with the abuse. But Broc never having the courage to go.

Saunders’s drinking became worse, having more admissions into hospital. When Broc diagnosed him with stage-4 liver cirrhosis. The only hope of survival was a transplant.

Broc discussed this with Saunders on many occasions, after finally coming to terms with his addiction and mortality, as do most. Agreed to go on the transplant register.
With the great Broc as his surgeon, he didn’t have to wait long.

Prepped for surgery, Broc consented Saunders and went through the usual risks that a surgeon consults with all his patients. Saunders reached out with his blackened nails. His skin saggy and yellow like a corn-fed chicken. Touched Broc on the arm.

“If you can't do it, or things start to fail, let me go, Dale,” he pleaded. “I’ve had a great life, there's nothing out there for me now.”

Broc looked down, placed his hand on top of Saunders.

“I’ll do my best, Kevin. You’re in good hands, my friend,” he said gently. He meant it. He didn’t want Saunders to die.

The risks were stacked against Saunders making it through the surgery - and that was the easy bit. He had months of rehab ahead. With an already active alcohol addiction coupled with regular medication to keep the rejection symptoms down. Broc didn’t feel that the outcome was going to be good.

The removal of Kevin's calcified liver went without a hitch as if the body helped Broc remove it from its bed with marginal blood loss.

The liver looked more like a loofa left to dehydrate on the side of the bathtub.

Johann Sebastian Bach was playing serenely St. Matthew's Passion on the stereo in the corner of the theatre. The choir almost in unison with the medical professionals going about their business in silence like a ballet troupe.

Organ donation is an exceptional occasion. Treated with the utmost respect for both patients. The donor, in this case, was unidentified for reason of confidence. To protect the anonymity within the transplant service. A twenty-five-year-old male, who, as with any change of weather, collided at speed after slipping his 1200cc Yamaha into a brick wall. Brought to the hospital with multi-organ dysfunction. Massive terminal brain damage. The only viable organ in the victim's body was the liver.

Function test with a blood chemistry analysis, he was a donor and therefore viable. The chemistry matched Saunders.

Broc went to the cold box that had been brought to the theatre via courier. Blue-lighting their way from Southampton University Hospital. As the choir was singing solemnly, he raised the liver. Rich, dark red tinged with a bluish purple. Perfect in its appearance; touching it Broc felt the exquisite smoothness of the organ. His loins tightened. The most incredible organ in the human body. It puts up with everything that we throw at it. Drink, drugs, poor diet, helps fight infection, processes blood and eliminates cells. Produces bile to break down and emulsify fat. Synthesizes proteins and detoxifies the body.

On the other side of the operating table was Broc's registrar. Mr. Squibb, a particularly gormless no-hoper from Westminster School for boys. Educated in the Nottingham medical school that was once a polytechnic. Morbidly obese. Broc hated Squibb. He nodded to Squibb, passing the liver to him to transplant.

To Squibb. The most amazing time in his life, he would remember this moment forever. In crystal clear detail, his grandchildren will be told of this moment when he worked with the great Broc and allowed him to plumb a liver in while being tutored by the great man himself.

What Squibb didn’t realize, as part of the grand plan. Broc had resected the portal vein too short. With already calcified vessels surrounding the organ, there was no way even the Great Broc would be able to join them together.

Squibb seated the liver in place. Saunders, according to the anesthetist, was stable. Broc noted that Squibb was savoring every nanosecond of this experience. It took him back to his surgical training; the room full of medical students, standing on stools and tables to gain a good view of the procedure. The hepatic artery was anastomosed without any complications. They both checked the patency of the vessel, and it didn’t leak. All that was left was the most challenging vein to join; the portal vein.

Squibb released the DeBakey clamp and instantly lost control. Broc didn’t have to resect the portal vein too short to frame Squibb in his incompetence. The incompetent fool had released the clamp prematurely. The clamp should have been released once the anastomosis was completed. Squibb had had a momentary lapse of concentration and, as with most inexperienced surgeons, wasn’t three steps ahead of the procedure.