‘The end justifies the means, you mean?’
‘No, I mean something really quite small.’
‘For instance?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. But she does strike me as being just as passionate as Professor Fulbourn about helping childless women.’
‘So why was Mrs Murrell killed?’
‘But was she? There’s no proof, ReMLA said as much.’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence. She was overheard telling her husband about what she’d overheard, and then she was very quickly dispatched. Every instinct I have tells me she was murdered.’
‘By instinct, do you mean the fact that you and Dr Kent dislike each other?’
He smiled. ‘No more than the fact that she obviously likes you has influenced your opinion.’
‘Ha, ha. As I said at Professor Fulbourn’s, I was impressed by her sincerity. Whatever it is she’s doing, she believes in it.’
‘Jo, try to hang on to the fact that Mrs Murrell was murdered, murdered because something bad is going on there. Why all that security otherwise?’
By now, we were arriving at the station.
‘Oh, you’re probably right.’ I said.
But do I really think that? I wondered as the train pulled away. I’d agreed with him because I was exhausted, browbeaten. The only certainty I felt was that whatever it was Dr Kent was doing, unlike me, it wasn’t for money.
10
‘Nervous?’
‘Too right I am.’
He didn’t say anything to that, just kept driving. ‘It becomes real today. I’ve got to start taking the medicine and I don’t know what it’s going to do to me.’
‘Fulbourn’ll be keeping a close eye on you.’
‘I feel as though I’m entering a tunnel,’ I continued as though he hadn’t spoken, ‘there’s light at the end of it, but it’s a light I daren’t reach. We’re going to have to find our way out before then, and that’s what makes entering the tunnel so frightening.’ Not to mention the fact that I have misgivings over the validity of what we’re doing, I added silently.
He reached over and touched my hand. ‘It isn’t going to happen, Jo. I’ll be with you all the time to make sure it doesn’t.’
I gripped his hand a moment and tried to smile although it felt as though my lips were being stretched across my face.
We were high on Salisbury Plain, nearly there. The lowering grey sky seemed to be trying to push us into the grey-green earth; no skylarks today. And I couldn’t even have a cigarette in case she smelt it.
‘You’ll feel better when we’re in there face to face with her,’ Tom said.
‘Like hell I will.’
But he was right as usual; once Leila had ushered us into her presence, I knew I could cope.
‘Well,’ she said, having greeted as and told us to sit down, ‘we now have the results of all our tests. These, broadly, confirm Professor Fulbourn’s findings. You’ll also be glad to know you haven’t contracted any unpleasant infectious diseases since he saw you.’
Her tone suggested an attempt at humour, so I dutifully smiled. Tom said, ‘Oh, good.’
‘So now we have to decide what treatment is appropriate. I expect’—this to Tom—‘your wife has told you about my visit?’
‘Yes. That’s right,’ Tom replied in the tone of one who would like to say more but has been told not to.
‘I took the opportunity to see her because the treatment I recommend will largely depend on attitude.’
‘My attitude, you mean?’
‘Yours and Mrs Jones’, yes. You’ve both already been through so much, and further unsuccessful treatment…’ she tailed off and leant forward slightly. ‘You see, as I told your wife, you’re a borderline case, Mr Jones. Yet I do believe, with patience and fortitude, there’s a very good chance of a happy outcome. But I do have to be sure of your attitude. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
I leant over and gripped his hand. He glanced at me before replying.
‘I think so, Dr Kent, yes. Like the Boy Scouts, we must be prepared, only in our case, for failure.’
Dr Kent smiled. ‘I’m glad you can joke about it, Mr Jones. That’s exactly the sort of attitude I mean. Oh, and the other thing is, you have both stopped smoking?’
‘Yes,’ we lied in unison.
‘Good. Now what I have in mind is this’—she looked at me—‘your period is due to start in eight days, if I remember correctly, Mrs Jones?’
‘Er—yes.’
‘Rather than wait a month, I propose to put you on what we call the fast track. We’ll start you on Nafarelin today—that’s a nasal spray very similar to the Buserelin Professor Fulbourn prescribed, so you’ll be aware of the side effects?’
I smiled wryly. ‘Yes.’
‘This time, continue the Nafarelin, two doses per day, throughout the treatment. On day one of your period, you will commence daily injections of Humegon—preferably at St Michael’s, so that they can also scan you at the same time. On day ten, you will come here and we will monitor the treatment for the final two or three days until your eggs are ready. Then we will give you a single dose of Pregnyl and collect the eggs thirty-five hours after that.’
‘So you want me to stay here, at the clinic, for two or three days before you take the eggs?’
‘Yes. As I said earlier, you’ve both already been through a lot, so we want to monitor your hormone levels to make you don’t shed your eggs before we can harvest them.’
‘That’s fine…’ I looked at Tom, ‘so long as my husband can stay with me. I do want him with me, if you don’t mind.’
‘Far from it—we’re geared up for couples here.’ She smiled, with her mouth, at Tom. ‘Besides which, we’ll need you here, Mr Jones, to supply sperm before the eggs are collected, so it’s as well to make sure you’re on the spot.’
Tom smiled faintly back. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘After we’ve fertilised the eggs in the laboratory, by microinjection of your sperm, we’ll want to study their development for at least three, possibly four, before replacing them in your womb, Mrs Jones.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘It was never more than two days with Professor Fulbourn.’
‘No. Microinjection is, by its very nature, a traumatic process, however careful we are. Look…’ she rose, went over to her demonstration flip-charts and turned several of the sheets over, ‘the human egg. We have to pass a needle through the zona pellucida, here, into the cytoplasm, here, to deliver the sperm. Some of the eggs will not withstand this treatment and will simply disintegrate.’ She returned to her desk and sat down. ‘That’s why I’m hoping to harvest at least ten eggs from you, Mrs Jones. We will microinject all of them, and if more than half develop into embryos, we shall have done very well. I hope to replace at least four embryos into your womb, but I must be certain that they all have a good chance of bringing about a pregnancy. That’s why we need the extra time.’
‘And you want me staying here during that time?’
‘Certainly. My past experience has shown that the more rested and relaxed the recipient, the better chance of a favourable outcome.’
‘And Tom will be able to stay with me throughout?’ This was critical so far as I was concerned.
‘Of course, so long as he helps you to relax.’ Tom gave me an encouraging smile, but Dr Kent went on. ‘Although I must sound a note of warning here. There must be no sexual activity. I’m sorry if this seems a hardship, but it’s absolutely imperative.’
‘We understand,’ I said, glancing at Tom.
He nodded and murmured, ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now, here are three weeks supply of Nafarelin, and a prescription for Humegon for you to give Professor Fulbourn.’
She showed me how to use the Nafarelin (one measured spray per nostril twice a day).
‘And you want me to start this immediately?’ I said.
‘When you get home, yes, and continue it through the Humegon treatment. It’s really not muc
h different from the Buserelin you used before.’ There was a short pause before she continued. ‘I think that’s covered everything. Was there anything you wanted to ask me about?’
‘There were a couple of things,’ Tom said.
‘Yes?’
‘We were hoping you’d show us the accommodation. And’—he smiled—‘I must admit, as a salesman of medical equipment. I’d regard it as a real favour if you’d let me see your micromanipulator. Professional interest.’
‘Certainly I can show you one of the suites for patients, there is one empty at the moment. As for the laboratory equipment, well, it’s not something we usually do, but…’ she hesitated, regarding him, ‘Let me check whether it’s in use at the moment.’ She glanced at her watch, then picked up the phone and keyed in a number. It occurred to me that both she and Tom were making an effort to be pleasant to each other.
‘Carla? It’s Davina. I have two patients with me at the moment who have expressed an interest in the micromanipulator, would it be possible…? No, nothing like that, just a couple of minutes…fine, we’ll be round.’
She replaced the receiver and looked up. ‘She’s just finishing off something, so if I show you the accommodation first, we should be just about right.’
She led us back along the corridor to the main hall and up the stairs. Tom’s eyes flicked briefly round, looking for the blind spot I guessed. Dr Kent ushered us through a door on the upper landing.
‘This is what we call the patients’ corridor. There are four self-contained suites, and a nurse is always on call in the room at the far end of the corridor.’
She opened the door marked 4 and stood aside for us to go in. Inside the light, spacious room were two single beds. One was the sort of bed you’d expect to find in a hotel, the other was a hospital bed, although of a rather superior kind. The room was comfortably furnished with a dressing table, desk, TV and armchairs.
‘Each suite has its own bathroom,’ she said, opening a door and showing us. If it hadn’t been for the hospital bed, the room could have been in a good hotel. I said as much.
Dr Kent smiled. ‘As I said earlier, we feel it’s very important for you to be in a relaxed atmosphere.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly achieved that.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Jones.’
We descended the stairs again, then went back along what I thought of as her corridor, past her room, the scanning room and round a corner. ‘Here is our theatre where we carry out egg collection, whether by ultrasound or laparoscopy.’ She opened the door so that we could see inside. It was small, but well equipped, with its own recovery room to one side. ‘It’s next to the laboratory, so that the harvested eggs travel as short a distance as possible,’ she said.
‘And that’s where they’re fertilised?’ Tom asked.
‘Yes, either by IVF or microinjection. Let’s go and see whether Dr Goldberg is free yet.’
She led us round another corner, past a door bearing the legend: LABORATORY. NO ADMITTANCE FOR UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL. The corridor seemed to be parallel with the outside wall, and I guessed it ran round the whole of the inside of the building.
Dr Kent stopped at an open door, tapped and went in. A woman looked up from the desk where she had been working.
‘Carla, These are the two patients I told you about, Mr and Mrs Jones. Mr Jones’s firm markets medical equipment, which is why he’d like to see our micromanipulator.’ She turned back to us. ‘This is Dr Carla Goldberg, Scientific Director and my deputy.’
Dr Goldberg stood up and came from behind her desk. ‘Good-morning,’ she said.
‘Hi there’ might have been more appropriate, since she was very clearly American, in appearance somehow, as well as accent. She was about my height, five feet four, with a slim, almost wiry body. Very dark hair in ringlets framed a small-featured, conventionally attractive face, made somehow plainer than it need have been by gold-rimmed spectacles.
‘Does your firm manufacture micromanipulators, Mr Jones?’
‘Not manufacture, no,’ Tom said with a smile, ‘but we are considering importing them.’
‘I see.’
‘Which is why I’m very keen to see your equipment.’
‘Well, there’s nobody using it at the moment, so let’s go.’
We followed her through a door which led directly into the lab. This had been partitioned longways, and the side we were in was a conventional laboratory with shelves of reagents, a centrifuge, analysers, balances and dispensing equipment. Behind the glass partition, a black girl wearing a gown and face mask was taking a tray from an incubator. We went through another door into a smaller room.
‘Well, there she is,’ Dr Goldberg said, indicating a stainless-steel microscope surrounded on all sides except the front by a Perspex cabinet.
Tom slowly approached it.
‘Linear flow cabinet?’ he asked, looking round at Dr Goldberg.
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you show us how it works?’
‘Sure.’
She seated herself in front of it and flicked a switch. An electric motor started up and a fluorescent light stuttered on. A breeze touched me as the fan pushed out the linear flow of sterile air which protected the eggs from infection.
‘Here,’ Dr Goldberg indicated a delicate piece of equipment to her left, ‘is the low vacuum suction tip which picks up the egg and holds it in place. And over here is the glass pipette that injects the sperm.’ She indicated to her right.
‘Beaudouin syringe?’ Tom asked.
‘A modified version, yes. Would you like to take a look?’
‘Please.’
She manoeuvred tip and pipette under the microscope and stood up. Tom took her place and looked down the eyepieces.
‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Beautiful.’ After a few moments, he looked round at Dr Goldberg. ‘Operating this must take a very high degree of technical skill.’
‘It certainly does,’ she said dryly. ‘Our technician. Chrystal, who’s very good at it, gets paid almost as much as me.’
Dr Kent said, ‘I mentioned to you earlier that the injection of the sperm is a traumatic process that can often actually destroy the egg; well, Chrystal has the best survival rate I’ve ever heard of. I can’t think how we’d manage without her.’ She paused after this speech, then said, ‘If you’ve seen enough now, Mr Jones.’
‘Of course. Thank you very much for showing me the equipment, Dr Goldberg.’
‘My pleasure.’
We followed her back through the lab. I looked at the technician, Chrystal, with new interest; the work she was doing looked so mundane, yet I had the feeling Dr Kent hadn’t exaggerated her worth.
Back in Dr Goldberg’s room, Tom thanked her again somewhat fulsomely.
‘You wouldn’t have a spare brochure on the micromanipulator, would you? I’d he most grateful…’
‘I’ll have a look.’ The slightest edge of impatience had crept into her voice: she was tired of him and I couldn’t altogether blame her.
She pulled open a drawer of her filing cabinet and shuffled through it a moment before extracting a glossy brochure and handing it to him.
‘Is that the sort of thing?’
‘It certainly is—may I keep it?’
‘Sure—’
She broke off as the door opened and Chrystal came in. ‘Carla, we need to order—oh, I’m sorry,’ she said as she saw us.
‘That’s all right Chrystal, we’re just going,’ said Dr Kent quickly. ‘Er—this is Mr and Mrs Jones, new patients.’
Chrystal really did say, ‘Hi there’, for she, too, was an American.
Dr Kent led us back through the middle of the house to the main hall where we said our goodbyes.
‘We’ll look forward to seeing you both in just over a fortnight,’ she said, seeing us off the premises.
‘I think we may have overstayed our welcome,’ I said as we drove away.
‘I know damn well we did, but I had to
see as much as possible to compare with the plans.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure she’ll put it down to my general pushiness.’
‘I hope so.’ I found a cigarette and lit it. ‘God, I needed this.’
‘She will,’ he repeated. ‘I’m going to have to get into Kent’s office somehow, possibly Carla’s as well. Cold fish, wasn’t she, Carla.’
‘Probably in response to the warmth of your charm.’ I grinned at him to take any sting out of it.
‘Funny how the scientific side of it is all-American. Not to mention Cal.’
‘Perhaps Carla and Chrystal knew each other before they came here.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet you’re right.’ He glanced at me. ‘D’you still have doubts?’
‘I honestly don’t know, now.’ I drew on my cigarette. ‘The strange thing is, I found her, Dr Kent, a lot more believable at the flat. In the clinic, she’s somehow more—’
‘Clinical?’
‘Yeah.’ I sighed and looked down at the package on my lap. ‘The thing I have the most doubts about is taking this stuff.’
11
I took my first dose of Nafarelin that night before bed and was pleasantly surprised to wake up the next morning without suffering any side effects, other than a slight headache—and so throughout the day at work. I arranged with Mrs Compton to be away as from the twelfth and for Mary to take over.
The full force of the side effects hit me the next day, Friday. I’d heard about hot flushes, but the half had not been told me. It was like a heated tidal wave coming from somewhere in my middle, flooding up through my body to my face.
‘Are you all right?’ Mary asked. ‘You’ve gone ever so red.’
‘I know. I’ll go and sit down a few minutes. I’m sure it’ll go off.’
I went to my office and after a while, the tide receded.
The next few days were awful. Night sweats that left me drenched and drained the next day. More hot flushes, a nagging headache and a feeling of being bloated. And an increasing conviction that it was all for nothing, that I wouldn’t be able to cope with it even if there was something going on at the clinic.
Deliver Them From Evil Page 8