by Cenarth Fox
Lois wept.
Bernie felt helpless. Comforting his six-year-old niece, whose doll was broken, proved tricky. Comforting a 63-year-old spinster, whose mother doubled as a tyrant, proved impossible. He was about to suggest they go for a walk when Lois revealed her most hurtful experience.
‘She’s now accusing me of being selfish. Me, selfish.’ Again she repeated her mother’s words. ‘You’re punishing me by going to work and leaving me with all these faceless people.’ Lois mimicked her mother by shouting. ‘They’re not my family!’
Suddenly embarrassed, Lois shut down. At least her outburst had some cathartic benefit. In a small way, she felt better, although inside her turmoil thrived. Outside, she looked a mess.
‘I’m so sorry,’ muttered Bernie.
‘I think of your mother, bending over backwards to care for your father in his wheelchair, and never once complaining. Your mother’s a saint. Mine’s not even remotely human.’
Bernie sat on his stool. This was not the time to return to work.
‘Have you considered some form of psychiatric assessment?’
‘For her or for me?’
Things got worse as the silence lingered. Bernie was fresh out of ideas. He settled for a safe option.
‘How about I get some coffee and cinnamon doughnuts?’
Lois looked at him with glistening eyes. ‘You mean, how about you do what you always do only an hour earlier?’
They both smiled. Bernie felt a little better, and started for the door. Disaster. Wonder boss Ralph, “Call me Raife”, the Hyphen, swept into the lab. Lois turned her back.
Ralph looked peeved. ‘What’s this? An even earlier lunch?’
Bernie wanted to humiliate his superior by explaining his colleague’s predicament, but knew Lois would hate her private life becoming public knowledge. Besides, being keen to emasculate the R & D section, the Hyphen would relish any excuse to sack Lois.
‘What can we do for you, Doctor?’ asked Bernie in his best monotone.
‘I haven’t seen your report from the conference, Slim. I assume you bothered to attend.’
Bernie removed a folder from his satchel, and handed it to his boss.
‘Conference attended and detailed report completed — sir. I was about to come to your office. Thank you, for saving me the trip.’
Bernie lied well. The Hyphen bristled. He expected Bernie would fail to complete a report, and wanted to belittle him — again. Bernie and Lois took delight in seeing their supervisor falter.
‘Oh, right,’ he mumbled. ‘Okay.’ He left. The words thank you remained unspoken.
Bernie was thrilled to have shafted the Hyphen but far happier to see Lois distracted. She even winked as Bernie departed for the canteen.
Lois was no doughnut lover but indulged Bernie on this occasion even if for only half the confection. He was anxious to talk shop.
‘Lois, what do you know about Norman Doidge and neuroplasticity?’
‘Norman Doidge,’ she gushed. ‘Oh he is exceptional, fantastic; my idea of the perfect psychiatrist. He breaks new ground, explains things in clear and concise terms, and he’s just so personable.’
‘Right,’ said Bernie, not expecting such an answer.
Suddenly Lois became anxious. ‘Don’t tell me he was at the conference? Oh Bernie, why didn’t you say?’
‘No, no, he wasn’t there. His name came up in a discussion.’ Bernie felt a warm inner glow as his mind replayed an image of Claudia.
Lois changed from morose to motivated. ‘Now if he gave a paper, I’d be there in a flash.’ They sipped their coffee. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in neuroplasticity.’
‘I wasn’t, until I met a woman at the conference.’
‘Ah, I see. And did Norman Doidge become interesting because the woman in question just happened to be a bit of a looker.’
Bernie laughed. ‘A smidgeon above gorgeous,’ he said, and the coffee consumption continued. She caught him eyeing her half-eaten doughnut.
‘Go on, I know you want to.’
His cinnamon addiction took control. Between chews, he asked what had been bugging him for hours.
‘Lois, can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are we wasting our time?’
‘Eating doughnuts or working in R & D?’
‘I’m ashamed to admit I’ve never really studied neuroplasticity — no, let’s be honest, I knew bugger all about the subject — but last night I did some research, and then had this crazy idea.’
‘Well, you know what Samuel Langhorne Clemens said. A person with a new idea is a crank until the idea succeeds.’
Bernie added the name of Mr Clemens to that of Professor Doidge on the list of people he needed to investigate. He continued.
‘Our drugs help people with depression, anxiety, schizophrenia and the like. But can we create a drug to change people’s behaviour?’
‘Sorry?’
Bernie didn’t understand her question. He thought about re-wording it when she interrupted.
‘Bernie, that’s the purpose of our drugs. Surely you know that.’
‘Yes but you’re talking about people with mental health issues. I’m talking about healthy people who behave badly.’
Lois raised an eyebrow. That stopped her. ‘Okay, give me an example.’
Bernie took a punt. Would it backfire? He jumped in.
‘As an example, let’s take your Mum.’
Lois sucked air through clenched teeth, and Bernie felt sick.
Why did I say that? Lois has stopped talking about her nasty mater, and now I’ve dragged my colleague back to her trough of despair.
‘I wish you would,’ replied a subdued Lois. ‘I’ll even pay the postage.’
‘As far as we know, she’s not mentally ill, but treats you terribly even though you’re bending over backwards to give her the best quality of life.’
Lois rediscovered sadness. Bernie felt lousy but prattled on, hoping Lois would stay calm and breakdown-free.
‘Does your Mum know her behaviour is wrong?’
Lois blew air. ‘I know she’s in pain with arthritis and osteoporosis, and her glaucoma’s getting worse. She hates being old, and lashes out from fear or frustration or … whatever.’
‘But is she ashamed of her behaviour?’
Bernie made Lois think. The issue of her mother being ashamed had never entered Lois’s thoughts. She thought she knew why her mother did what she did, but not if the behaviour troubled her mother’s conscience.
‘I’ve no idea. Is she ashamed?’ She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘Have you ever asked her?’
Lois shook her head. This was new territory. Bernie continued.
‘Have you ever challenged your mother; told her you think she’s being unfair, unkind or boorish and rude?’
‘You really don’t understand, Bernie. If I stood up to my mother, she’d call me a bully, or worse, or have a heart attack, real or fake. And if I say nothing, I’m weak. Whatever I do, I lose.’
Bernie moved on tippy-toe. This subject was super sensitive for Lois, and Bernie’s idea was vague and untested. It had no substance. It was a momentary thought, a wild idea, a crazy notion.
But can Lois test my theory? Possibly, but what is my theory?
Bernie took the plunge.
‘Do you think your mother would act differently if her moral compass controlled her behaviour?’
‘Her moral compass?’
‘What if we developed a drug which impacted a person’s conscience; a drug which helped a person know right from wrong?’
‘Define right and wrong.’
Bernie nodded. ‘Okay, I agree some issues involve value judgments, but many are clear cut. I mean, is child abuse right or wrong?’
‘Silly question.’
‘Is bullying or making racist remarks, or cheating, right or wrong? Is your mother physically and mentally abusing you, right or wrong?’
Lois jum
ped in. ‘Okay, I’ll play. They’re all wrong.’
‘Of course there are grey areas but many actions are clearly good or bad. I mean if I murdered the Hyphen, would that be good or bad?’
‘That’s definitely a grey area.’
They failed to laugh because something interesting began to happen. Bernie struggled to control his enthusiasm.
‘If we could develop, let’s call it “a conscience drug”, people would see the difference between right and wrong, between good and evil.’
‘That’s one big if. And anyway, knowing something is evil doesn’t stop evil being done. Criminals know murder is wrong but their conscience is non-existent, or buried within their hatred and greed.’
‘Let me finish. There could be two parts to this new drug.’
‘Two parts to a non-existent drug that could take decades to create.’
He paused. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
She paused. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
Bernie shook his head. ‘No, please, shoot me down.’
‘Okay, fire away.’
Despite her cynicism, Lois was giving Bernie’s idea serious thought. His excitement grew as he continued to explain.
‘First, the patient is clearly able to define right and wrong. Second, they come under terrible pressure if they don’t follow their conscience.’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Terrible pressure? Your drug causes pain? What physical or mental? And please don’t say both.’
‘Yes but it’s good pain.’
‘Good pain? Bernie, that’s lunacy. You want to create a legal drug which actually injures the patient?’
‘Pressures rather than punishes, helps rather than harms.’
‘This is thinking way, way, way outside the box.’
‘But you have to consider the benefits. And remember, the patient only suffers if they continue doing the wrong thing, acting against their conscience. If they respond to their conscience, the pain disappears.’
‘But what if their conscience is wrong or their brain is scrambled?’
‘Look, I didn’t say it was perfect. I don’t even know if it’s possible.’
‘At least you’re honest.’
‘And hopefully realistic.’
Lois persisted. ‘Okay, so what’s the major benefit?’
‘You know; it’s obvious.’
‘Really?’ She stared at him forcing him to explain.
‘Ah, this so-called wonder drug aims to cause people to mend their wicked ways. Your mother wouldn’t need a lecture from her GP. The new drug would cause her to treat you with respect. How’s that for a benefit?’
They paused, thinking, and then both started on the jokes.
‘I’ll take a dozen,’ said Lois.
‘A dozen conscience tablets? Certainly madam,’ grinned Bernie.
‘Not a dozen tablets; a dozen cartons.’
More enthusiastic laughter; Bernie had no idea if his idea could or would work. Lois believed it had great potential as a thriller starring Matt Damon. She chose not to tell Bernie about her proposed movie.
Bernie remembered his TV viewing from the previous night.
‘Just imagine if hardened crims took a drug which made them see their behaviour as evil, and, and this is the crucial part, imagine if they suffered mental torment if they continued to go against their conscience, and kept breaking the law, and this torment only went away if they stopped doing evil. I mean, if that happened, society would change for the better all over the world.’
Shock from Lois. ‘Change society for the better? Are you mad? Bernie, Big Pharma, our magnificent employer, doesn’t exist to improve society.’
Bernie wasn’t sure if this was sarcasm. He soon knew.
‘We exist to make profits.’
Bernie twigged. ‘I like your cynicism, madam, but what of the idea?’
‘You sure you’re not talking science fiction?’
‘Do you think it’s science fiction?’
Lois made a face and shrugged. Bernie tackled the second doughnut still thinking out loud, and spoke with food in his mouth.
‘If a drug stimulated an understanding of right and wrong, and your Mum took this drug and it worked, she would see her behaviour towards you as cruel, wrong and counterproductive.’
Lois paused. ‘Now you’re being cruel. You’re offering me false hope.’
‘And if that same drug caused anyone who went against their conscience to suffer mental anguish, people would stop being baddies.’
‘You hope.’
‘They may not become goodies but hopefully they’ll stop sinning.’
Lois instantly became a telly-evangelist. ‘Hallelujah brother.’
‘So what are our chances? Can we create a Moral Compass Pill?’
‘What’s this “we” business? It’s your idea, Mr Slim.’
‘You can slip a pill to your Mum, and I’ll slip one to the Hyphen.’
Lois smiled. She knew Bernie meant well even if his idea was to the right of loopy. She humoured him. ‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Give me a time. How long will it take to find the right formula?’
‘Is your name Methuselah?’
Bernie laughed. ‘I still think it’s an interesting idea,’ he said.
‘Create that drug, sir, and I’ll buy you a life’s subscription to Cinnamon Doughnuts Inc.’
Bernie purred. The more he spoke about his idea, the more he liked it. It might be pure fantasy and, for a scientist, his behaviour was unscientific, but as Lois seemed to take him seriously, his enthusiasm grew. It got busy when she remembered something.
‘There was a scientist here when I first arrived, oh, thirty odd years ago. She worked on some birdbrain idea like yours.’
‘So now it’s a birdbrain idea.’
Lois turned serious. ‘Sorry. I’m not quite myself this morning.’
‘Lois, I didn’t bring this up to take your mind off your Mum.’
‘I know that.’
‘I spent half the night studying Norman Doidge and neuroplasticity, and thinking about criminals reforming their wicked ways.’
‘Can I swap your night life for mine?’
They looked at one another. Both were glad they’d spoken out. Lois needed to unload her misery and rage, and Bernie needed to share his ridiculous idea with a scientist he trusted. Lois turned serious.
‘You know that some of the greatest scientific discoveries started life as an idea which at first was ridiculed within an inch of its life.’
Bernie grinned. ‘So Samuel Langhorne Clemens got it right?’
‘You mean Mark Twain.’
Lois grinned and Bernie laughed. He enjoyed having his leg pulled. She liked him, and the feeling was mutual.
He became inquisitive. ‘So tell me about that former scientist.’
‘God, what was her name? She was short, Hungarian, and weird, and worked on coercing the brain to respond to one’s behaviour.’
‘What happened?’
‘No idea. But her research should still be in the archives.’
Bernie mimicked his future speech to the firm’s librarian. ‘Excuse me, Madam Librarian. I’m looking for research notes created 30 years ago by a weird Hungarian midget.’
Lois threw an empty plastic cup at Bernie. Bullseye.
In the company library, Bernie found the research material created by the Hungarian scientist, Dr Annuska Eszes, PhD. Talk about fascinating.
Then he located said person, very much alive but retired, and residing in suburban Melbourne. Bernie telephoned, and made an appointment.
Next Saturday he stood outside a solid Victorian house in Balaclava. The gardener’s name was Run Riot, and Bernie pushed aside vegetation en route to the front door. He rang the doorbell, and heard footsteps.
The door opened revealing an extra from The Hobbit.
‘You must be Bernard,’ she said, her teeth downstage centre. ‘As my Scottish grandfather used to say, “Come away in”
.’
The former scientist had more Hungarian blood than British, and vast reserves of energy. She was quicker to jump over than run round, and had masses of grey hair often mistaken for terrified steel wool. Despite its octogenarian status, her brain remained super active.
Bernie met Annuska’s friend of 53 years. ‘This is my lover, Bernard,’ chirped the scientist. ‘She’s Dorothy, a friend of Dorothy on the distaff side.’ Dorothy sighed having heard the so-called joke a million times, and Bernie had never felt more at home.
He and Annuska chatted about Labcope while Dorothy fetched tea and expensive biscuits. Black coffee, and you know what, would have made this the perfect visit.
‘I am intrigued, young man,’ said Annuska. ‘Why would anyone be interested in my research? The company wasn’t. And why now?’
Bernie gave a vague description of his conscience drug idea. She seemed trustworthy but secrecy in science is more vital than vital. He gently probed Annuska who had no such fear of secrecy.
‘Years ago I had this idea about drugs being able to control the brain and our thinking. The management laughed at me. “It can’t be done. You could take 50 years to discover it won’t work. There’s no money in it. “Migraines before miracles”, they used to say.’
‘I must admit I found your research notes extremely interesting.’
‘Now Bernard, please. Phoney flattery or more likely flattery with an interior motive demeans you.’
Interior motive?
She continued. ‘The truth is you have a crazy idea and want to pick my brain to see if your boat will float.’ Bernie froze. ‘Or you’re a Labcope spy sent to see if I’ve continued my research since I left the company.’
Wow.
‘I’m afraid, Dr Eszes, you give me far too much credit.’
‘Do I? You could be a spy. They don’t all look like Alec Guinness.’
Bernie’s heartbeat quickened. This woman promised a goldmine of information with a touch of lunacy thrown in gratis.
‘So which is it?’ she asked.
Dorothy entered. ‘Don’t bully the boy,’ she said carrying a tray.
‘I assure you, ladies, I would make the world’s worst spy.’
Annuska replied. ‘So your flattery does mask an interior motive.’
‘Ulterior motive,’ said Dorothy. ‘Milk, Mr Slim?’ He nodded.
‘You could be the best scientist in the world, Bernard,’ continued Annuska, ‘but Labcope is only interested in profit. You want my advice?’