Deliver Them From Evil

by Andrew Puckett

  3

  The room seemed to sigh as the Professor and Dr Ashby left. Marcus came back in and shut the door. ‘So now we wait.’

  ‘It stinks and Fulbourn knows it,’ Tom said. ‘I think he’ll agree.’

  ‘Even though it means falsifying medical documents? Lying, in effect.’

  ‘Yes, when he thinks about it. But if he won’t help, can’t you find someone else?’

  ‘I could, but I don’t want to. A referral from him will carry the most weight. Look, why don’t you two go and have some lunch?’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ said Tom.

  ‘I’m going to wait in case he rings. I’ll have a sandwich or something.’

  ‘OK. I’ll go and get my coat.’

  ‘By the way, Jo,’ Marcus said as the door closed behind Tom, ‘finance say they’re prepared to pay you seven and a half thousand.’

  ‘In view of what happened to Mrs Murrell, I’m not sure that’s enough.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll get any more,’ he said. ‘It is tax free, remember, and on top of your usual salary.’

  ‘I think I’ll wait and see what Professor Fulbourn has to say.’

  ‘I’ll need an answer today, Jo. I’m deadly serious about this, so please don’t mess me about.’ The door opened again and Tom came back in. ‘And as for Mrs Murrell, don’t worry, it won’t happen to you. Tom here’ll he with you, and I’ll not be far away. Now, off to lunch with you, I want to think.’

  ‘Yessir.’ Tom sketched a salute.

  *

  It wasn’t until we were on the pavement that Tom said. ‘Are you really worried about it being dangerous, because I—’

  ‘That’s part of it, but only part. I want to hear what the Professor says before I make up my mind.’

  ‘Is it because…?’

  ‘I’d like to leave it for now, OK?’

  He shrugged and started walking. ‘OK.’

  ‘Where are you taking me? Canteen a bit iffy?’

  He laughed. ‘In Whitehall? Hardly. No, We’ll go to a pub I know. Thought it might be an idea to get out for a bit.’

  His voice was just the same, south London with the edges rubbed off. We walked in silence for a spell. I don’t know why I was feeling so prickly. Yes I do.

  I couldn’t remember ever having walked down Whitehall before, although I suppose I must have done on a school trip. Budding leaves glowed in the strong spring sunlight, which also lit the pale stone of the massive government buildings behind the trees. They certainly looked the part, more than the part, in fact…then I remembered that they’d been built in the days when the country was rich and powerful. These were buildings from which nearly a quarter of the globe had been ruled.

  ‘Downing Street,’ said Tom, pointing to the policeman guarding the barricades across it. ‘Remember when you could walk up to Number Ten?’

  I shook my head. ‘Before my time.’

  ‘I can. And I don’t much like the fact that you can’t now.’

  ‘Progress,’ I said.

  He smiled hut didn’t say anything more, yet what he had said gave me a sudden insight into why he did the job he did.

  He turned down a side street and a couple of minutes later, we reached the pub. It was called the Harrow and bore a picture of said agricultural implement on its sign, although I suspected that hereabouts, the clientele would identify more closely with the school. Inside, it was long and narrow with a brass rail along the bar. Bare floor, comfortable wooden furniture and not a horse brass in sight. Tom asked me what I wanted to drink.

  ‘Half a shandy, please.’

  ‘Have half a bitter, it’s too good here to spoil with lemonade.’

  I shrugged. ‘OK.’

  ‘What about something to eat?’

  ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Ploughman’s lunch.’ Seeing my expression, he said. ‘It’s not like the usual pub ploughman’s.’

  He ordered and, of course, he was dead right. The beer was beautiful and the ploughman’s a huge wedge of mature cheddar that tingled pleasantly on the tongue and a hunk—the only possible word—of wholemeal bread that was crusty without being twee.

  ‘I think it’s the only place left in the whole country that still does a real ploughman’s,’ he said.

  ‘Get a lot of farm workers here, do you?’

  ‘Not so many, no.’ He took another bite of bread.

  I did the same and looked round. I’d been right about the clientele: pin-stripes and softly murmured accents. An awful lot of them seemed to be eating the same as us, though.

  ‘Seems funny to think of you being a father,’ I said a few moments later. ‘Were you at the birth?’

  ‘I was.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t want to be at first, but Holly insisted and I’m glad I was now. It was’—his eyes flicked away, then back again—‘quite something.’

  ‘Does he spoil your beauty sleep much?’

  ‘Not so much now, although I sometimes sneak off to the spare room anyway.’

  ‘Typical.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to go to work in the mornings.’ He bit off some cheese. ‘She hasn’t.’

  ‘So nursing a baby isn’t work?’

  ‘Not in quite the same way, no. Besides, what’s the point of having two of us tired out?’

  ‘Moral support?’

  He ate some more bread and cheese, washing it down with beer.

  ‘I was a bit surprised that you were interested in this job at all, Jo. Thought you’d settled down with that nice Inspector Ansley.’

  ‘Anslow. No, it didn’t work out and we split up.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘If it’s any of your business, the demands of our respective jobs. They simply weren’t compatible.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ he said softly. ‘You weren’t compatible.’ He and Colin hadn’t liked each other.

  I shrugged. ‘If you say so. You always did know my business better than me.’

  ‘And that’s why you’ve agreed to consider this job?’

  ‘Yes. D’you really think it’s going to go ahead, Tom?’ I asked to change the subject.

  ‘I’m sure of it, with or without the good Professor’s help. It stinks and this is the only way to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Couldn’t ReMLA have investigated it themselves? Or handed it over to the police? I’d have thought suspected murder was their job.’

  ‘There’s no way murder can ever be proved now. And neither of them could investigate without alerting the clinic to the fact. No, ReMLA did the most sensible thing when they came to us.’ He drank some more beer. ‘Are you really worried about what happened to Mrs Murrell?’

  ‘Of course I am, a bit.’

  ‘So why do I have the feeling you’re going to accept?’

  ‘Because I probably will, although I do want to hear what the Professor’s got to say. What does Holly think about it?’

  ‘She’s not happy, naturally, but she accepts that this sort of thing is part of my job.’ He regarded me pensively. ‘Which brings me to another matter.’

  ‘Well?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Holly’s pretty tolerant, but I think she guessed there was something between us last year. We really do have to play it straight this time.’ He gave a deprecatory smile. ‘Platonic and all that.’

  ‘You arrogant bastard!’ I rose to my feet without thinking. ‘Is that why you thought I was going to accept the job?’

  The pin-striped muttering faded and eyes, although not faces, flickered our way. ‘Well, you can stick it!’ I grabbed coat and bag and marched out. I’d reached Whitehall before he caught up with me.

  ‘Jo, I didn’t mean it like that…’

  ‘Oh? How did you mean it, then?’ I kept walking.

  ‘I just felt that it was something that we ought not to have any misapprehensions about, since—’

  ‘You thought I wouldn’t be able to resist your wonderful body.’

  ‘No—’


  ‘Well, you can go and tell Marcus why I’ve gone home.’

  ‘Jo, please, he’ll fillet me.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We’ll never find anyone quite as suitable as—’

  ‘Good.

  ‘But Jo—’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  I sensed him standing, irresolute. I kept walking. He caught me up at Downing Street.

  ‘Jo, you did misunderstand me.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You see,’ he swallowed, trying to keep pace with me, ‘what I was trying to say was that I—I care for you and would find it very difficult to—to resist you. That’s what I meant. And I can’t afford that now.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ But still, it was quite a slice of humble pie.

  ‘Jo, why did you want the job?’

  I stopped dead and looked at him. ‘Money.’

  ‘Money? Marcus did say…Are you short of money?’

  ‘Why the hell d’you think I want some so badly?’

  ‘I dunno. Why?’

  I told him. His face fell.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jo. If I were to tell Marcus—’

  ‘Was that an apology I just heard, or merely an expression of sympathy?’

  ‘Both. If I told Marcus, maybe he—’

  ‘I’ll think about it after the Professor’s had his say.’

  ‘Let me speak to him, please.’

  ‘No. No hard luck stories. I don’t want to be in his debt.’

  *

  Marcus was grinning broadly when we got back. ‘He’s agreed to help,’ he said. ‘He wants us to go round and see him at St Michael’s at two.’

  4

  St Michael’s Hospital had been built in the sixties and belonged to the lavatorial-tile school of architecture, although I believe it has a very good reputation. Professor Fulbourn lived on the fourth floor. His secretary showed us to his office along a fluorescent-lit corridor whose walls were covered in photographs of babies. I guessed (correctly) that these were the clinic’s successes.

  Prof stood up as we were shown in.

  ‘Do take a seat. Tea or coffee? No? Good.’ He nodded to his secretary who silently withdrew.

  ‘As I told Mr Evans over the phone, I’ve decided to help you, if I can.’ He resumed his seat behind his desk.

  ‘We’re very grateful, Professor,’ Marcus said. ‘Also for your seeing us so quickly.’

  Prof made a think-nothing-of-it sort of gesture, then continued, ‘The situation as I see it is that you want me to refer Miss Farewell and Mr Jones to the Catcott Fertility Clinic, so let’s firstly consider what your medical histories should be. Are you going as a married couple?’

  ‘We thought so, yes,’ Marcus answered for us. ‘Not that it really matters, we just wondered whether it might make acceptance that bit more likely.’

  ‘Shouldn’t make any difference. Where are you going to be living?’

  ‘If you mean the fictional Joneses, that hasn’t finally been decided yet,’ Marcus said.

  ‘So long as it’s not too far from here, since you’re supposed to have been treated at this clinic.’ He turned his attention to Tom and myself. ‘You would’ve had to have been trying to conceive for at least two years before I’d have treated you, and we would have tried up to three cycles of IVF before advising you to look elsewhere. So what condition can we give you that will stimulate their interest?’ A pause, while he considered us. ‘I think you, Mr Jones, should have oligozoospermia, which is what Mr Murrell has, hut asthenazoospermia as well. This means you have both a low sperm count, and also that less than half the sperm you do have display any forward motility. This is the sort of case that Catcott Fertility Clinic seems to find most attractive now.’

  Tom gave a forced smile. ‘I imagine, assuming they accept us, that they’ll want to check this for themselves?’

  ‘I’m certain they will, yes. So, how can we mimic this condition?’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Certainly possible. There’s a drug we could use called Salazopyrin’—I gave a slight jump—‘you recognise it. Sister?’

  ‘Isn’t it used to treat Crohn’s disease?’

  ‘Correct. D’you remember the side effects?’

  ‘Er…nausea and vomiting, I think. Quite severe.’

  ‘Yes. Also headaches, skin rashes and epigastric discomfort. You can stop worrying Mr Jones, you’d have to take it for at least two months before it depressed your sperm level sufficiently, and I imagine you’re in a bigger hurry than that.’

  ‘Er, yes, we are,’ Tom replied quickly.

  ‘We need to be in there as soon as possible, Professor,’ said Marcus. ‘Before they decide to stop doing whatever it is they’re doing. Especially in view of the fact that their lease is due to expire before long.’

  ‘So we’ll have to prepare a specimen for you to take along.’

  ‘You can do that?’ Tom asked, with some relief.

  ‘I should think so. D’you know how sperm samples are produced for these investigations?’

  ‘Er, masturbation. I believe.’

  ‘Which, fortunately for you, is something normally done in private. You’ll be shown into a cubicle. Stay in there for a realistic amount of time, say, ten or fifteen minutes, then transfer the sample you’ll have kept warm in your pocket to the container they’ll have given you.’

  ‘Won’t they be able to tell it isn’t from me?’

  ‘It’s highly unlikely they’ll even try. However, what’s your blood group?’

  ‘O positive.’

  ‘Good. I’ll try and make the specimen the same group. Now, Miss Farewell,’ he turned to me, ‘do we need to simulate a condition for you as well, I wonder?’

  ‘I can’t honestly see that you do.’

  ‘Perhaps not. It would have to be blocked tubes, or possibly antibodies to your husband’s sperm, but we don’t want to give them any excuse for doing a laparoscopy on you, do we?’

  ‘We do not,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Very well. I think that your husband’s condition will be sufficient explanation for IVF not working.’ He made notes on his pad. ‘So, we’ll say that you received three cycles of IVF with no result.’

  I said, ‘Wouldn’t you have tried something else?’

  ‘Possibly GIFT, although I doubt that would have worked any better in your case. And you’d have been offered Artificial Insemination by Donor of course.’

  ‘But you, Tom, feeling this slighted your manhood, refused,’ said Marcus.

  ‘Let’s say you were on the point of accepting when you heard about microinjection,’ said Professor Fulbourn.

  ‘But wouldn’t you have told us about microinjection yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘I might well have, since we’re in the process of evaluating it here. Let’s say that I have told you about it, but you decided you didn’t want to wait until we started it here.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Tom.

  I said, ‘Yes, fine. But now can we have the bad news about what I’ll have to suffer for the cause? Assuming I agree to go through with this, that is.’ I was becoming a little irritated at the way they were taking my participation for granted.

  Professor Fulbourn raised his eyebrows at me. ‘I was under the impression that you’d already agreed, Sister.’

  ‘That rather depends on what you have to say, Professor.’

  ‘I see.’ He glanced at Marcus. ‘That puts me in rather an invidious position.’

  ‘Why not just tell the truth,’ I suggested.

  ‘Very well.’ His eyes met mine for a moment. ‘I can’t honestly tell you exactly how unpleasant or otherwise treatment will be, that depends on how you react to the drugs they give you, but I must add that some women, who already have children of their own, actually volunteer to do it for the purposes of egg donation. So it can’t be that bad, can it?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  He pursed his lips momentarily. ‘I don’t know what regime of drugs
they use at Catcott Manor, although I don’t imagine it will much differ from ours.’

  ‘What is your regime?’

  ‘Buserelin, by nasal spray for two weeks to calm the ovaries, followed by one to two weeks of Perganol to stimulate them, administered daily by deep intramuscular injection into the muscle of the buttock.’

  ‘Ouch! Sounds more like purgatory.’

  He grinned appreciatively. ‘Depends on who’s wielding the needle, Sister.’

  I found myself grinning back. ‘Then what?’

  ‘A single injection of Profasi to induce ovulation, given thirty-five hours before egg collection. The timing is critical, so the injection is usually given in the middle of the night.’

  ‘What are the side effects? Not very pleasant, as I remember.’

  ‘Not altogether, no, although it varies considerably from person to person. Buserelin produces menopausal-like symptoms: hot flushes, night sweats, loss of libido…’

  ‘Well, I think I can live with that.’

  ‘Also nausea, headache, increase in weight, increase in breast size and tenderness,’ Marcus, to his credit, shifted and wriggled uncomfortably, ‘fatigue, dizziness and mood changes, including depression and nervousness. But that’s the worst any of my patients have had to put up with.’

  ‘That’s had enough, and they have an incentive. What about the other drugs?’

  ‘Perganol isn’t too bad, in fact, it often alleviates the Buserelin side effects. Profasi can cause similar effects to Buserelin, but for a shorter time.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Here in my clinic, the eggs are collected by ultrasound, which, as I said earlier, only requires local anaesthesia.’

  ‘Although Catcott Manor used laparoscopy on Mrs Murrell, which requires a general anaesthetic.’

  ‘I can only assume that was an exception.’

  ‘I certainly hope so. Then what?’

  ‘The eggs are taken to the laboratory and fertilised by the addition, or in your case, the microinjection of sperm. They’re then incubated and a check kept on their growth. When they reach the four-cell stage, they’re replaced into the womb.’

  I looked at Marcus. ‘That’s the bit I really don’t like. Whatever else I may agree to, I want a tablet of stone guarantee that we’ll be finished before any eggs can be replaced in me.’