by Jane Rogers
‘Good grief.’
‘Yes. And they’re doubling my salary. Are you interested?’
‘What do they want?’
‘It’s a small team, they want another immunologist with primate experience, and when they approached me I recommended you.’
‘Where is it?’
‘We stay here, use our own lab facilities: Kneiper will pay the university, and we become Corastra research fellows. The only big change is that the animal work is farmed out – which, given the state of our monkey house, is a consummation devoutly to be wished.’
‘Farmed out to where?’
‘A group called Carrington Bio-Life, all the surgical and routine stuff is contracted out to them. They have a dedicated staff who send us reports and samples for analysis, and we tell them how to adjust dosages. It’s a much more streamlined, efficient use of manpower.’
Con remembers the particular draw of the distant, professionally run animal house; the delightful and utterly unrealistic vision it conjured of contented animals in surroundings rather like a zoo, tended and monitored by kindly keepers who knew each animal individually and had no other concerns or claims upon their time than the welfare of the monkeys.
He remembers it now, less delightfully, as the attraction of not having to get his own hands dirty.
When Con discussed the idea with El she was less hostile to it than he had expected. For her, as for him, having Kneiper for his paymaster was the sticking point. ‘It’s the privatisation of knowledge, isn’t it? Research not to increase the sum of human knowledge, but to increase shareholders’ profits.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s hard to know which way to turn. Brock’s right, we’re not going to get any more government funding for monkey transplants. In the absence of public funding, the choices are pretty stark.’
‘They’ll make their profits out of knowledge and expertise like yours and Brock’s that only exists because of years of public funding.’
‘Yup. Like hospital consultants with their private patients.’
‘True.’
‘The thing about the level of funding they’re prepared to put in is that things will move quickly. There should be a breakthrough within a couple of years. And if that happens – if we can move to clinical trials – then whoever’s making the profits, it is lives saved, at the end of the day. It’s lives saved more quickly than they would have been without Kneiper.’
‘If it becomes standard practice, they can’t actually keep a grip on the world supply of transgenic hearts, can they?’
‘I don’t see how they could. They’ll rake it in to begin with, but someone else’ll soon catch up, make some slight modification, slither around the patent laws – it’ll enter the public domain, won’t it. Like generic drugs. You’ll be able to get a Boots own-brand pig heart, one tenth the price of a Kneiper one.’
El laughed. ‘Kneiper will be keeping the lid on it as long as they can. Bet you have to sign some sort of loyalty oath.’
He hadn’t thought of that, of course. Loyalty to Big Pharma. It was one thing to be paid by them to move swiftly on groundbreaking research. It was another to be their creature, his silence bought with their silver, his tongue shackled by chains of their clinking coins. He hadn’t thought seriously of what yielding up his freedom of speech might mean.
Which reminds him of his last visit to a monkey house. His last visit: the day he first met Maddy.
The day he meets her – nearly a year ago, only a year – is ever-present in his memory. The day when the nightmare breaks through and confirms itself as real. He finally visits the Carrington Bio-Life animal facility, where his research animals are housed. They have all been outsourced from the university animal house, which is where they were always kept in the early days of his research. Now other people – technicians, vets – dose them and operate and make notes on them; all he has to do is make sense of their reports. It is a two-hour drive, but it is something he has known he must do for a very long time. To be honest, since he started working for Corastra. But there has always been a good reason for putting it off. Now, longevity has apparently improved, and he has to check at what point they are sacrificing moribund animals, to ensure that this really is good news.
He knows it is not, the minute he is let into the building. There is no good news here. The smell is enough to tell him that; the smell of sickness and old faeces and urine, strong enough almost to block out the stink of oranges. The security guard who checks him in takes him as far as the glass-panelled office, where a youth sits with his feet on the desk, stabbing at his mobile. Con gives his name and lab address and the youth ticks a list and carries on stabbing.
Con goes into the changing room to remove his shoes and put on the biohazard suit, then heads to the primate section. Monkeys awaiting surgery scream and chatter from their perches. He lets himself through the final door into the sterile room, and finds the three surviving monkeys from his own tests. The new hearts have been grafted onto their necks, a quicker and simpler way of testing rejection, and all three look poorly. F20 is huddled in the corner of her cage, eyes closed, breathing rapid and light; the bigger of the two males, M17, is reeling against the bars, retching up small amounts of pale yellow fluid. The other has his eyes open but is lying on the floor of his cage and makes no move as Conrad approaches. Con glances at F20’s notes. She has been quiet and huddled for two days. He can see immediately that all three of them are suffering from too-high dosages of immunosuppressants. But there is no way out of this. Their bodies won’t accept the hearts unless their immune systems are utterly suppressed, and the suppression of their immune systems causes vomiting and renal failure. But there have been so many adjustments to the drug regime over the last year – he had hoped to have a couple of longer-term survivors out of this batch; he had hoped they might regain at least some quality of life for a short while. He reaches for M17’s notes. There is nothing written against today’s date; for yesterday, ‘Quiet but alert.’ How long has he been vomiting? He moves over to M20’s notes. They are in the same hand, up to and including today: ‘Quiet, unsteady.’ So have they just forgotten to make a note for M17? Or have these been filled in yesterday for today’s date as well? His sudden conviction that this is what has happened fuses with his earlier concern about the death rate in surgery.
He straightens up quickly and goes through to the room labelled Technicians’ Office. It is empty. Why is the place so deserted? He rifles through the filing cabinets until he finds ‘Monkeys, surgical’. He takes out a handful of folders; the first one he glances through electrifies him. Piglet heart found to be unsuitably large at 10.75 oz. Subject died on the table. How could they have a 10.75 oz heart? The heart sizes are specified, nothing over 6 oz. The piglet itself must have looked large, and they must have known as soon as they opened it up – did they have no piglets in reserve? And why should the monkey die? Could they not repair the neck surgery?
For an enraged moment he simply tots up the costs: £3,000 for the monkey, then the drug regime it has been on, the cost of the transgenic piglet, the man hours of planning and preparation…
He thumbs quickly through the other notes. They lack detail. One states simply, ‘Technical error’, and another, ‘Failed to recover from anaesthetic.’
Con makes himself put the files back carefully. He is trembling with rage. As he heads back out of the primate house he forces himself to look, to not allow his eyes to close. There are numerous comatose animals, who should have been sacrificed days ago. Cages have not been cleaned out, old vomit and excreta and spilt food litter the floors. He reminds himself that monkey houses are always bad, but this is intolerable. When he has changed he strides back to the office. ‘What time do they do the rounds?’
The lad glances up at him and shrugs.
‘What time do they come round to check the animals?’
‘Afternoon? Yeah, s
ometime in the afternoon, I think.’
‘I need to talk to them. What time will they be here?’
The lad scrabbles through a few papers on his desk but does not seem to find anything. ‘Around 2-ish?’ he offers.
‘Have you been round yourself this morning? Some of them need water.’
‘Cleaners see to that first thing.’
‘Well, what’s your job?’
‘Keeping an eye on things,’ he mutters, restoring his attention to his phone.
Conrad realises there is no point, though he’d like to slap the lout off his chair. There’s no point, it’s not his fault, they’re probably paying him all of £5 an hour. ‘I’m coming back at 2,’ he says. ‘Please make a note.’ He stands over the youth while he scrawls Conrad’s name in the slot beside 2pm. Con can see now that all the other time slots are empty.
When he gets out he goes to the car but can’t face getting in. He tells the guy on the gate he’ll be back, and slips through as soon as the gap is wide enough.
‘Two miles into town, mate!’ the man calls out, and Con raises his hand in acknowledgement. Two miles is what he needs, walking fast, breathing clean air, eyes staring blankly through leafless March hedges to newly ploughed fields beyond. He can’t think who he can safely talk to about this. Brock was the one: but Brock died last year of a heart attack. And after his death, Saul decamped to the States. Con is the only Corastra fellow left in the department. Maybe he can sort it out on his own? Maybe if he tells someone at Corastra? He thinks of the loyalty clause, of the hunger for results, of the increasing sense of futility. Maybe they would pull the plug on the whole thing. Maybe that would be a good idea. More likely, he thinks, they would tell him to keep it quiet. And if they told him they had dealt with it, would he believe them? Isn’t it perfectly likely they already know? They are spending an awful lot of money – presumably Carrington Bio-Life come cheap.
By the time he arrives at streets with houses and gardens he is able to focus on his surroundings again, and when the smell of coffee wafts at him from an open café door, he turns in and orders a drink. He sits by the window, cradling his mug between his hands.
‘May I join you?’ A woman’s voice. He’s so startled he slops coffee across the table. She apologises, slipping into the other seat, and mops up the spill with paper napkins. There are several tables empty but she is already sitting opposite him, smiling timidly. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s so nice to sit by the window. Do you live here?’
Con feels he is staring wildly. What is this? Why can’t she leave him in peace? But she is inoffensive enough; mouse-brown hair, pale and serious and devoid of make-up. She looks like a librarian. She looks like someone he might already know. ‘No,’ he says.
She nods. ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘Apart from one thing. There’s one big skeleton in this town’s cupboard.’
‘Really?’ He sees her clocking that he’s afraid she’s a nutter; she adjusts, and gives a little laugh.
‘Sorry. It’s my obsession, but there’s no need for me to bore you with it. You probably came here for some peace and quiet.’ She half-turns her chair, so that she’s facing the window, and stares fixedly into the street.
Why did she sit by him? Is she trying to pick him up? The thought almost makes him smile, but why not? ‘What is this skeleton? You can’t leave me in suspense like that.’
‘You’d be surprised how many people don’t even know. There’s a vivisection laboratory. Where they do experiments on living animals.’
As soon as she says it he realises he knew she would. She is part of the same nightmare, but at this stage he does not realise her role. ‘Do you work there?’
‘God forbid! I love animals. I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe we should ever hurt animals, or people.’
Why is she telling him this? And what’s the reply? He sips at his coffee. ‘My son’s a vegetarian,’ he offers.
‘That’s good. So am I.’
They sit in a brief silence; the librarian takes small bites of her sandwich and quickly chews them. ‘I’ve joined a protest group,’ she tells Con. ‘Against animal testing. They test make-up, you know. They put the chemicals in dogs’ eyes. And sweeteners, they feed them artificial sweeteners till they die of poisoning.’
‘Better poison an animal than a human,’ says Con automatically.
‘Oh no, they force-feed them huge doses of the stuff, more than a human would ever consume, and that’s why they die. From the overdose.’
‘I see.’ The woman has soft downy hairs on her upper lip; when she turns they catch the light. He has a sudden pang of – what? Jealousy? – for her complacency. Her cleanliness. He knows he is still contaminated by the stench of the animal house. ‘You haven’t been inside?’ he says.
‘No. No. I don’t think I could bear it.’
‘So how do you —?’
‘PECA. Prevent Experiments and Cruelty to Animals. The protest group. Sometimes they manage to get information, or pictures. Photos really help because anyone who sees them knows they want this to stop. Even a small blurry picture, it turns your stomach.’
‘So how do you protest?’
She smiles at him gratefully and he finds himself smiling back. She looks younger when she smiles. ‘The main thing is to let people know. Education. Because people don’t imagine such things can be done in a civilised society. Nearly everyone loves animals, don’t they?’
He visualises the motley assortment of Evanson family pets: the short-lived funfair goldfish, the escaping budgie, Megan’s rats, Paul’s hens. El’s constant opposition, ‘Haven’t we got enough to look after with four kids, never mind a menagerie?’ Yes, nearly everyone loves animals. El never stops to stroke a cat or pat a dog. Hard-hearted, practical, busy El. Yet it is Con who tortures monkeys. The woman is looking at him. ‘Yes. Of course. But how do you educate people?’
‘Posters. Articles. Protests. We hold monthly vigils outside the gates, and we advertise them in the town, sometimes new people join us. And online, of course; if we get any information we put it on the website. That’s the way to reach people.’
‘But does it have any effect?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Does it make any difference to what – what they are doing in the labs?’
‘Don’t you think it would?’
Why is she asking him? ‘I suppose if someone who worked there saw it from a protestor’s point of view…’
‘Exactly! Cruelty becomes routine – well, look at the Nazis – and then if you step outside the routine a moment you realise how awful it is.’
‘I’m sure they aren’t Nazis.’
‘No, but I often wonder, do you think they have pets? D’you think they go home after a day of inflicting pain on their fellow creatures, and take the dog for a walk?’
Con drains his coffee. It is enough. He needs to find his own thoughts again before it’s time to go back. ‘I expect they do,’ he says, pushing back his chair.
‘I believe in the power of love,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I go and sit outside the fence and will love and strength to the animals.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes. I want to give them hope.’
He imagines her, in her mousey grey coat, sitting on a plaid rug beside the prison-high fencing, her serious gaze fixed on the animal house roof, goodness radiating from her. ‘That’s – well,’ he gives a laugh and shakes his head, ‘that’s impressive.’ He is on his feet, threading his arms into his coat.
‘You’re a scientist, aren’t you.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘I saw you. I was by the fence. I followed you.’
When Con replays the scene this is the moment of pause. Why doesn’t he walk away? She reveals her hand; she has already lied to him and manipulated him, she is far more serious than she has
led him to believe. Why doesn’t he walk away?
He doesn’t walk away because she is his creature and he must collude with her. She is his, conjured out of his visit to that hell hole and his own guilt, spawned by his queasily churning stomach. She is his own distress made manifest. This must be how God got Jesus, he thinks. His own distress made flesh. What He saw in his great experiment, Earth, was so wicked, so unendurable, that He conjured a human being to go deal with it; He externalised the simplest part of the argument. The good part.
He doesn’t walk away because he thinks she is good. Conrad sits down on his chair again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I had no right.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘But your face looked so kind and I could tell you were upset by the way you hurried out. I just thought, he’s my chance, maybe he’s my one chance to try and save those poor innocent creatures.’ She takes an instamatic camera from her bag and places it on the table.
So much for her fancying him. ‘How did you think I could help you?’
‘I thought you might tell me what you’ve seen, and I could put it online. Or you might be going back, you could take some photos for me.’
‘My research is based on some of these experiments.’
‘But you’ve seen what they’re doing. You know it’s evil. Don’t you?’
‘It’s not that simple. Experiments are done for a reason. To try to save human lives. I can’t – this is a really long argument. Discussion.’
She bobs her head. ‘I know. I know. But there must be ways for you to find out what you need to know without hurting animals.’
‘If there were, don’t you think I wouldn’t choose an alternative?’
‘You would, you would. You’re a good man. But some of it is so pointless – the cosmetics, the sweeteners – so unnecessary.’
He checks his watch: 1.15, time to head back to the animal house. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I have to… I have an important meeting now. I’m afraid I have to go.’