The Hunt and the Kill

by Holly Watt

  ‘But surely a really new antibiotic would be worth a fortune to any pharmaceutical company?’ said Casey.

  Brennan smiled. ‘There isn’t much of a pipeline for new antibiotics,’ he said. ‘They cost a vast amount to develop, and then if you did actually find one, you would want to use it as little as possible. Because as soon as you started using it widely, drug resistance would start building up. It’s an endless cycle, you see?’

  Brennan drew circles in the air with his fountain pen.

  ‘The companies don’t invest in antibiotics because they wouldn’t make them much money?’ asked Casey.

  ‘It could take ten years and cost – ah – a billion dollars to develop a new antibiotic.’ Brennan pushed his glasses up his nose again. ‘And then you’d see resistance within two years.’

  ‘But the big pharmaceutical companies make billions every year,’ said Casey.

  ‘It’s much more fun to invest in something that the public will keep buying.’ Brennan gave her a surprisingly wicked grin. ‘If you were ill, you might use an antibiotic once or twice, and then be cured. But a cancer drug? Or – ah – a heart drug? Well, with a bit of luck, you might be on that for the rest of your nicely lengthened life. There are eight hundred ongoing trials with cancer monoclonal antibodies. Eight hundred trials. In antibiotics, there are maybe fifty drugs in the whole pipeline.’

  ‘But a good antibiotic could save millions of lives,’ said Casey.

  Poor Flora Ashcroft.

  ‘Yes,’ said Brennan gently. ‘Indeed.’

  Brennan shuffled back towards an untidy office, waving Casey into a chair.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘How do you take it? I think I’ve got some milk somewhere. At least, I do hope it’s milk.’

  ‘How would you go about trying to find a new antibiotic?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, at the moment,’ Brennan was prodding around in a small fridge, ‘some scientists are going back through abandoned antibiotics. That is to say, antibiotics that were developed in the sixties and seventies, but not taken forward commercially because there was no market for them back then. But now, because everything else has stopped working, they’re worth a shot.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And then there are antibiotics like colistin, which scientists never expected to be used by humans in the first place because the side effects are pretty dire. And since they never expected to give colistin to humans, they’ve been giving truckloads of it to animals for decades because it makes them fatten up nice and fast. And now it turns out we actually do need to use it on humans, because we haven’t got anything else, but that means we are starting to see colistin resistance.’

  The kettle was boiling. Brennan waved a carton at Casey, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Casey.

  ‘And then, of course, there are unintended consequences,’ Brennan went on, lobbing a teabag in the general direction of a mug but missing. ‘In the eighties and nineties, there was a big push to bring through cephalosporins, for example. A lot of companies developed them, and now we know that not only was that driving cephalosporin resistance, but – worse – it was enabling bacteria to produce a little enzyme called ESBL. And it turns out that ESBL doesn’t just block cephalosporin, it causes resistance to a whole raft of antibiotics.’

  Brennan retrieved the teabag from the floor and dusted it off.

  ‘So by using one antibiotic, you actually created resistance to a whole range of antibiotics?’

  ‘Exactly. In hindsight, it wasn’t – er – ideal.’

  As he was about to pour the boiling water, Brennan’s phone rang. He smiled apologetically at Casey as he answered.

  She half-listened to Brennan’s conversation. ‘Oh, how good to hear from you … I’ve got a young journalist here! Casey – ah – Benedict from the Post. Someone interested in AMR for once, can you believe it?’ As Brennan spoke, Casey checked her own phone. A message from Ed. I could meet you in Naples the weekend after next? Best pizza in the world. Fancy it?

  ‘We’ve been having excellent chats about everything from agar to zentetra.’ Brennan laughed heartily at his own joke.

  Young journalist? wondered Casey, and went back to her phone.

  She was startled by Brennan dropping the phone back into its cradle. The avuncular smile had disappeared.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Brennan stood up sharply, ‘that I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Miss Benedict.’

  ‘What?’ Casey was bewildered. ‘Why?’

  He was bustling round his desk, hunting for her bag.

  ‘I’m very sorry, but … ’

  Casey refused to be bustled. ‘I don’t understand. Why on earth do I have to leave?’

  ‘I’m afraid … ’

  ‘What’s changed, Professor Brennan?’

  He stared at his jumbled shelves for a moment. ‘There’s – ah – some urgent work coming in. I’m sorry, but I’m going to be horribly busy for the next few hours.’

  Brennan was a terrible liar, Casey thought. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers, flickering right to left.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.

  But Brennan was refusing to let go of his excuse.

  ‘It’s absolutely imperative that I get this work done straight away, I’m afraid. I really must ask you to leave.’

  ‘All right, but I really don’t understand … ’

  And a few minutes later, she was out on the dingy street, slouching crossly towards the Northern line.

  As her Tube rattled along the tracks, Casey looked at her watch. Late afternoon, sunny day, no point in going back to the office. Nobody would miss her anyway, she thought bitterly. Might as well get out at Hampstead, and wander round the shops, meander to the Heath.

  Later, dawdling along the high street, she messaged Ed. Popping to Hampstead Heath on my way back from Colindale. I need a walk.

  Did you have a good day? What did you find out?

  Casey thought of herself being chucked out of Brennan’s office, and suspected she might cry if she typed it out. Really interesting. Very glad I went.

  What did you find out?

  It’s complicated. I’ll tell you later.

  A short pause. Why don’t I come and meet you on Hampstead Heath? I can finish up early.

  Despite herself, she smiled. That would be lovely.

  I’ll see you at the top of Parliament Hill. Be as quick as I can.

  Casey drifted slowly along the paths, gazing up at the copper rust green of the trees as the sun sloped through the leaves. Someone was mowing a lawn in the distance, the smell drifting on a warm breeze. People in the mixed bathing pond were laughing, splashing about in the khaki-green water.

  Where are you?

  I’ll be there in a minute.

  It didn’t take long to reach the top of Parliament Hill, looking out over the whole sweep of London. The Shard, the Walkie Talkie, the Gherkin, all jigsawing into a steel blue sky. And there was St Paul’s, so perfect, alone in the crowd.

  Casey’s eyes softened as she thought about meeting Ed on another hill once. Twice, really. Crimson tulips, silver dark clouds and a city lit up by a storm. Thunder and lightning, and you don’t have to choose.

  That first kiss.

  She sat down on the grass and hugged her knees.

  A discarded Standard lay in the grass. Casey scanned the headlines idly, out of habit.

  Tourists flown home after Anglo Air collapse.

  Norovirus crisis: Hospital bosses warn ‘Stay away from A&E.’

  Teenagers were idling by the viewpoint at the very top of the hill. Flirtation and the indisputable smell of weed. Casey grinned to herself.

  The teens drifted off, down towards Highgate Cemetery, and for a moment there was silence except for the breeze whispering over tussocky grass. Casey enjoyed the strange tranquillity of the huge park in the middle of the chaos of London.

  Her eyes drifted across the grass. Far away, at the bottom of the
hill, a small child was flying a kite. The kite was a flutter of neon in the sky, his family watching on proudly. Casey heard footsteps behind her, and looked around lazily, wondering if it was Ed. A tall man in a sweatshirt, navy blue, the hood pulled over his hair, something in his hand.

  Not Ed: she turned back to the view.

  In his hand.

  A knife.

  A knife.

  6

  Casey was scrambling away before the thought was complete, fear like a bomb blast. The man surged forward, all ruthless athleticism. In a frenzy of motion, Casey scrabbled to her feet. Where? Even in her fright, the thought: not towards the child, and she spun round and bolted towards the trees, terror transformed into speed.

  It was darker in the woods. Casey could hear the man catching up with her, barely out of breath. His pace was terrifying. She darted between the trees, but already he was drawing closer, bounding effortlessly over the roots and brambles.

  In the twilight of the woods, the park seemed endless, empty, desolate. Casey ran, diving under low branches, dodging past saplings. As she ducked round one vast oak, her shoulder smashed into the trunk, and she cried out in pain.

  No time to stop. Who is he? Mugger? Rapist? Wallet, here, throw.

  Her lungs were burning and her legs were agony. The man was closer now, almost able to grab her. A fleeting glance back. A glimpse of hollow eyes, short dark hair, and she sprinted as fast as she could, the world a blur.

  A slash of his knife and she screamed as he tried to trip her, snatching at her jacket. She wriggled out of it and leaped from his grasp, running, racing, everything terror.

  Out of breath now, couldn’t go much further, legs tiring.

  Ahead was a thicket of trees, lower to the ground. She dived towards it – last chance – scrabbling under the low-slung branches as the bushes tangled over her head. Casey forced her way through, caring only about survival. The bushes ripped at her face, her hands.

  Those teenagers.

  Casey spun towards Highgate. They must be here somewhere. She broke out from the thicket and darted with a dying surge of energy. And at last there they were, the same small group, all baggy clothes and studied nonchalance. She ran to them faster than she ever had, and almost skittled them over.

  They were surprised, polite, sweet-natured. Nice kids, it turned out.

  You all right, miss? What’s happened to you? It’s OK. It’s OK.

  ‘A man.’ Casey fought for breath, her body juddering with exhaustion. ‘Back there … A man … ’

  But they all looked, and there was no one.

  ‘Don’t be scared.’ A tall boy, their natural leader, it appeared. He was amiable, slightly stoned. ‘We’ve got you, don’t worry.’

  ‘But he was chasing me. I ran … ’

  The teenagers were excited by the drama, almost enjoying it. Loud voices and wide eyes. But the woods were empty, the quiet only broken by shouts from a rounders game starting in the far distance.

  ‘Shall we call the police?’ one girl said, uncertainly, the whiff of weed in her clothes.

  She saw them all hesitate.

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ said Casey. ‘I can report it later.’

  They relaxed at once.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Casey, meaning it. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Exuberant now, they escorted her to the road and waited while she called a taxi.

  ‘You take care now, miss. Look after her, yeah? She’s had a shock,’ they said through the window to the taxi driver, and he grinned at their adolescent importance, and promised he’d look after her all right.

  In the back of the car, Casey dug her phone out of her pocket.

  Something horrible happened. Someone chased me in the park.

  A pause. No answer.

  Can you meet me back at the flat? I’m in a cab. Hurry. Please.

  Silence.

  Are you there?

  Ed?

  A flood of fear, visceral. To the taxi driver, calmly, urgently: ‘Can you be as quick as you can, please?’

  She knew. Before she even entered the flat, she knew. A pain like she’d never felt before.

  Through the hallway, up the stairs, running her fingers along the wall as if to touch something real. The front door to their flat, the scrape of her key. Into the bedroom.

  A shape on the floor.

  A wail started from somewhere, and swallowed her up. She stumbled forward, a puppet, strings slashed.

  There was no point in rushing, she could see. No point in screaming down the phone. You have to hurry. You have to save him.

  His eyes, his beautiful eyes, flecked with grey and green, blue and gold.

  They were fixed, staring at nothing.

  She dropped to her knees, touching his cheek, his forehead, his hair. He was warm still. She stroked his chest, his arm, his hand, so gently. Held his fingers for a moment, as if she might lead him back.

  Then she pulled away, and looked at him again. That grey jumper, so familiar. The tatty old jeans, all ready for a walk on the Heath.

  No blood, he looked perfect.

  My love.

  She pushed herself backwards, leaning against the cool of the wall as the world whirled. Bile in her throat, and she shoved her fists to her mouth, hard. Blood was metal against her teeth.

  No. No. It was impossible.

  Beloved.

  Impossible.

  Behind her, she heard a commotion. Felt no fear though. Nothing worse could happen now. Nothing.

  It was only a neighbour, a voice timorous but brave, calling through the front door left ajar. ‘I thought I heard a scream, dear. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, dear.’

  And then there was nothing, as the world folded her into a clamour of sirens and ambulances and uniforms, and finally a merciful silence.

  7

  ‘No,’ said Casey. ‘That’s not right.’

  The policewoman looked at her sympathetically. ‘It’s what they said it looked like. I know it’s very difficult when you’ve had a shock like this. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘But it isn’t true.’

  ‘It’s a terrible tragedy,’ said the doctor. ‘Especially when he was so young. It does happen though.’

  ‘No,’ said Casey firmly. ‘He didn’t have a heart attack. They have to check again.’

  The doctor gave her a smooth, professional smile, her eyes on the cut on Casey’s forehead from when she’d fainted. They had brought her to hospital to get it checked out.

  ‘There’ll be an autopsy, of course.’ The doctor was making conversation as she smoothed a large plaster into place. ‘And they’ll run a tox screen anyway, to make sure there wasn’t anything in his bloodstream.’

  ‘Did he take drugs?’ The policewoman was leaning against the wall of the hospital’s small waiting room.

  ‘No,’ Casey muttered. ‘Ed was a Marine.’ The policewoman’s eyes were world-weary. ‘He would never do drugs.’

  There was a rising babble in the hall outside, and Casey felt the doctor’s eyes go past her, the attention switching to people who might survive.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ A last flick of sympathy as she hurried away.

  Casey stared at the policewoman.

  ‘You have to understand.’ She could hear the hysteria in her voice, ‘Ed didn’t just die. Someone killed him.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked the policewoman. ‘It will help.’

  A memory surfaced, as if it had happened a thousand years earlier and not a few hours ago.

  ‘There was a man on Hampstead Heath earlier. He chased me. He had a knife.’

  The policewoman regarded her.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘A few hours ago?’

  ‘Why didn’t you report it?’

  ‘I was going to.’ Casey felt the frustration boil up, ‘I was going to call the police as soon as I got back to the flat.’

  ‘What did this man look like?’

  ‘Tall. Wearing a
dark blue hoodie, I couldn’t see his face very well. I only caught a glimpse of him … ’

  ‘And did anyone else see him?’

  ‘There was a group of teenagers.’ Casey’s despair rose. ‘But they didn’t see him. I ran towards them, and when we looked back he had gone.’

  Her voice wobbled. She could feel the policewoman’s scepticism.

  ‘Is there anyone,’ the policewoman’s eyes were kind, ‘who I can call?’

  Miranda raced into the small waiting room in a flurry of distress. ‘Casey, I am so sorry. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I couldn’t think,’ Casey was crying again, ‘of who else to call.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ and Miranda enfolded her in a sweet-smelling hug. ‘Now, let’s get you home. You need a hot bath and bed.’

  ‘No.’ Casey jerked away. ‘I want to go to the office.’

  ‘The office?’ Miranda’s eyes widened. ‘You need to go home, Casey. You’re in shock.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Casey scrubbed away tears. ‘And I have to go. I have to go to the office.’

  ‘Casey. No.’

  They argued for several minutes, until Casey stood. ‘Fine. I’ll make my own way.’

  And Miranda gave up.

  They were all very sympathetic, oddly soft voices in the quiet of the investigations room.

  ‘Did you get the teenagers’ names?’ asked Ross.

  ‘No.’ Casey struggled to stay calm. ‘They were up there smoking weed. They wouldn’t have wanted to speak to the police.’

  ‘Right.’ Ross looked down, made another note.

  ‘I’m not delusional,’ Casey protested. ‘It happened.’

  ‘Of course it did,’ Dash said evenly.

  They were sitting in the investigations room. Casey was on the sofa, Miranda at her desk. Dash was leaning against the door, with Ross perching on the radiator. Tillie and Hessa had made some excuse and faded out of the room.

  The news had already spread around the office. They all knew Ed, knew what he meant to Casey, and she had felt dozens of eyes on her as she walked through the newsroom to the little office.

  In the office, Miranda handed Casey a cup of tea and a slice of dry chocolate cake from the canteen. You need to eat.