by Ken McClure
‘Frightening,’ said someone.
‘Intriguing,’ said another.
‘Both,’ said someone else.
The meeting continued with a report from a graduate student, John Spiegelman, who was monitoring volunteers recruited to the study by virtue of either being unusually happy, content and optimistic or continually low in spirits and pessimistic although not regarded as clinically depressed.
‘I’ve added details of another ten of each type and their DNA is being sequenced as we speak,’ said Spiegelman. ‘That’ll bring the total for the study so far to thirty of each and we have blood samples awaiting analysis should the computers come up with something interesting,’ he added.
‘Good. Dare I ask how things are going with our suicidal subjects?’
Dorothy had turned to a red-haired girl who had been tasked with investigating more extreme subjects – those receiving treatment for clinical depression.
‘I’m working on my tenth patient,’ replied Linda McLeod, Dorothy’s youngest researcher, a girl who had recently gained her PhD from Newcastle University. ‘Mary Lennox has tried three times to take her own life without being able to tell anyone why. She’s proving quite harrowing to be with.’
‘Understandable,’ said Dorothy.
‘I’m finding it hard to think of her objectively as a subject in a scientific study. I mean she’s first and foremost a person, a human being, and my instinct is to want to help her, but I can’t because I don’t know how. She always seems to be beyond my reach as if there’s some kind of invisible barrier between us and she’s . . . floating away.’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Dorothy abruptly, ‘but ultimately the best way to help Mary and people like her is going to be through the successful application of science. We’re not social workers. Others can provide shoulders to cry on and the short-term fixes of pills and potions, but at the end of the day and sooner or later, we’re the ones who are going to come up with long term solutions. Understanding the scientific basis for anything is the key to controlling it. We should all remember that.’
‘Yes, Dorothy,’ said a rather sheepish Linda.
‘Tell me if it gets too much for you.’
Dorothy turned to the others and said, ‘We must all keep our focus.’ She paused until she got the nods she was looking for. ‘I’ve been discussing our new financial situation with the university and our DNA sequencing requirements are to be given top priority in a soon-to-be-expanded facility. We will also be re-equipping with the latest biochemical analysis equipment and advertising for new technical staff will begin next week. We should be in a position to start generating serious amounts of data within a month.
‘Thinking ahead, I’d also like our studies to expand to include people who have apparently experienced miracle cures. You know the sort of thing; they’ve been suffering from cancer and their tumour miraculously disappears. Good for selling newspapers, but maybe, just maybe – and for whatever reason – the right switches were thrown at the right time.’
Dorothy held up a couple of empty wine bottles to lament the fact that they were empty. ‘Maybe we should get started,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’d like the post docs and post-grads to stay behind.’
The technicians, lab assistants and undergrads left the room wearing smiles and chattering about a future that looked much more positive.
SIX
The door closed, leaving Dorothy alone with her senior staff. ‘Well, she said, ‘what do we really think about the schoolgirls’ rashes?’
‘On the surface, a classic example of mass hysteria,’ said Jane Lincoln. ‘The literature is full of such reports.’
‘What about below the surface?’
‘We seem to have quite a bit of information this time,’ said John Spiegelman. ‘The fact that the girl who was lying displayed a nettle rash while the others – our mass hysteria girls – the interesting ones – had the real deal, an insect bite rash. That is pretty cool.’
‘No spider, but clear evidence of its bite on all these girls. Now that really is spooky,’ said Linda McLeod.
‘Cool and spooky are not quite what I’m looking for,’ said Dorothy acidly. ‘How do we explain it?’
‘Something happened to make all these girls display evidence of an insect bite without them having been bitten.’
‘Is stating the obvious,’ said Dorothy. ‘What happened?’
‘I’d guess at a switch being thrown,’ said Linda.
Dorothy rubbed her forehead lightly. ‘Well, yes. I think that’s why we’re all here,’ she said, betraying a hint of irritation that just stopped short of open sarcasm. ‘But why? What made it happen? What happened to throw the switch?’
‘Fear,’ said Owen Barrowman.
‘Go on,’ said Dorothy quietly as all eyes turned towards Owen.
‘They were young girls, frightened of spiders, terrified in fact, so much so that the report of a giant one in their presence and evidence of what it had done to one of their friends triggered off a response in their own bodies to something that actually hadn’t happened.’
‘Wow,’ said Spiegelman. ‘You’re suggesting that if you manage to convince someone that something bad has happened to them, their body will respond as if it really had?’
There was a short silence before doubt surfaced and Jane Lincoln said, ‘No, there’s something missing. There has to be, otherwise . . .’
‘You’re right,’ acknowledged Spiegelman. ‘Otherwise this sort of thing would happen all the time and it doesn’t. . . but state of mind must play a part.’
‘Agreed,’ said Dorothy. ‘And in this case, I think Owen was right. The strong emotional factor was fear. Fear was the key.’
Dorothy looked to Owen who had paled visibly. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
Barrowman appeared not to have heard, causing the others to become concerned. Jane Lincoln touched his arm and his gaze returned from the middle distance.
‘Sorry, yes,’ he stammered. ‘I’m fine.’
Dorothy looked doubtful but let it go at that. ‘Well, I think we’ve all been given food for thought. The girls’ anxious state allowed some factor to take control of their bodies and make them react in the way . . . it thought appropriate.’
All traces of humour surrounding mass hysteria disappeared in an instant as people found themselves focussing on the word ‘it’.
‘Well,’ said Dorothy resting both elbows on the table, ‘Let’s all have a think and meet again, say on Friday? In the meantime, Owen, could you stay behind?’
Dorothy waited until the door had closed after the departing post docs before saying, ‘I didn’t ask you to report on your work because Mr Anthony Medici from Scarman, Medici and Weiss, the lawyers acting for our benefactors is going to be joining us. I’d like you to brief us privately.’
‘He’s the go-between?’
‘Yes, and before you ask what you say to a lawyer, he’ll be bringing a scientific adviser with him.’
Owen nodded but said nothing. Dorothy knew that anger still simmered inside him, a source of some irritation to her. ‘It’s always a good idea not to bite the hand that feeds you,’ she said.
‘Fine, let me know when I’m to perform,’ said Barrowman getting up.
‘You’ve changed, Owen, and it’s not just the funding business. I don’t know what the problem is, but sort it out.
’
Barrowman returned to his lab, swore out loud and slapped his notebook down on his desk. He was sick to the back teeth of people questioning his mood or telling him he’d changed. If it wasn’t Lucy it was Dorothy. Most of all he was sick of constant distractions. He was on the verge of an important discovery and he needed peace and quiet and time to think. He hadn’t had time to go through the biochemical results he’d asked the lab to repeat so he’d have to do that at home tonight, but that meant more moaning from Lucy.
The phone rang and he snatched it from its cradle, growling, ‘Barrowman.’
‘Owen? It’s Steven Dunbar. Bad time?’
‘’Oh, Steven, sorry about that . . . having a bit of a bad day. Look, I’m sorry about bending your ear last night . . . I guess I went on a bit.’
‘Not at all. Actually, I’m ringing to suggest we might meet up and have a proper conversation and I’ve got a bit of news for you . . . about Moorlock Hall.’
‘Really? I’m all ears.’
‘Maybe not over the phone. How about this evening? Same place as last time? Any time suits me.’
‘Yeah . . . God, there aren’t enough hours in the day at the moment. Let me see, I’ve got a meeting with the money people or rather their representatives this afternoon and I promised Lucy I’d try to make it home for dinner this evening . . .
He was still dithering when he heard Dorothy’s voice outside and that of a stranger. The man who paid the piper was about to call the tune.
‘Oh shit . . . got to go . . . okay, this evening, eight o’clock . . .the Moorings.’
Steven looked at his phone as it went dead. ‘A man on the edge,’ he murmured.
Steven noticed that Barrowman’s hands were shaking slightly as he poured his beer from bottle into glass. ‘Are you sure you should be here?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. You said you had some news about Moorlock Hall?’
‘It’s no longer a secret,’ said Steven. ‘A parliamentary committee is being set up to investigate what’s been going on. You seemed excited about the progress you were making there and I wasn’t sure how this might affect your research so I thought I’d let you know.
‘Shit, that’s all I need, a bunch of interfering busybodies sticking their noses in.’
‘You said you just had the one patient there, Malcolm Lawler. Do you still have a lot of work to do with him, or are you close to having all you need?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
The question startled Steven. ‘I don’t really,’ he replied. ‘I just thought I might ask John to see if he could delay things for a bit if you needed more time.’
The fact that Steven had maintained unwavering eye contact with him while giving his answer made Barrowman realise that his snapped question and what lay behind it might have been out of order. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m under pressure from all sides at the moment to explain myself and what I’m doing. That was very decent of you, I’m grateful.’
‘So, do I ask him?’
‘Yes, thanks, I do have quite a lot of samples but I need Lawler to talk to me some more. He holds the key to something I’d really like to understand and there’s no way of knowing how a distraction might affect that.’
‘You say you’re under pressure. I don’t understand. Why’s that?’’
‘There’s a chance I’m on to something big,’ Barrowman confided, ‘something really big.’
‘Surely that’s something you should be pleased about, not a source of anguish?’
‘You don’t understand the research community,’ said Barrowman.
‘Tell me.’
Barrowman took a swig of his beer and sighed. ‘People imagine researchers all work for the common good, they share ideas and results and encourage and help each other in any way they can in the fight to cure disease and understand what makes us the way we are.’
‘I guess.’
‘Wrong. It’s one big competition. You don’t help the opposition, you beat them any way you can. You don’t get a Nobel prize for being second to discover something. Pharmaceutical companies aren’t interested in curing disease – that doesn’t make money – they make money from treating it. Designing products to treat chronic conditions is the real name of the game. Why produce vaccines to prevent disease when you can produce pills that people will need and perhaps will take for the rest of their lives. Vaccines wipe out potential customers.’
Steven remembered Sci-Med’s latest turn-down, but said, ‘Surely there must be some good guys out there?’
Barrowman pursed his lips but didn’t say more.
‘Another beer?’
Barrowman nodded.
Steven went up to the bar and used the wait to figure out where he went from here. Barrowman sounded completely paranoid, but he suspected there was more to it? Paranoid was an adjective applied freely to everyone who felt put-upon and for whatever reason. Barrowman was a researcher at the top of his game who believed he was on the verge of discovering something important, but he seemed convinced that he was surrounded by people who wanted to steal the glory from him. To compound the situation, he had been keeping company with psychotic criminals to such an extent that he might even be seeing life through their eyes. What a mess.
Steven paid for the beers and brought them to the table, still undecided as to whether he should proceed with more questions or call it a night. Barrowman looked up and smiled self-consciously. ‘Sorry about that. I think I needed to let off steam.’
The fact that Barrowman had calmed down helped Steven make his decision. ‘So where do you fit into this fun-filled picture of science?’ he asked. ‘You’re a researcher on to something you think might be big and you’d like recognition if it works out. Who do you see standing in your way? Professor Lindstrom?’
‘The head of the group always takes credit for whatever comes up in the lab. Her name will be on the paper, which she will probably insist on writing, and there will be an asterisk next her name making herself corresponding author.’
Steven gave him a questioning look.
‘People will write to her with comments and questions.’
‘Does that make you feel bitter?’
‘That’s just the way it is, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘She used my work to get funds for her whole group without any reference to me. That still pisses me off, particularly as it turns out we don’t know where the money’s coming from or why they’re giving it.’
‘Ah,’ said Steven, ‘I can understand you feeling upset about that.’
Barrowman seemed pleased to hear what he took as support.
‘You said you were having a meeting with your benefactors this afternoon,’ said Steven. ‘How did that go?’
‘It was a bit bizarre really. They sent along a lawyer and some scientific advisor guy. Dorothy asked me to give them a run down on what I’d been up to and then take questions from their advisor.’
‘Sensible questions?’
Barrowman thought for a moment before saying, ‘Yes, he seemed to know what he was talking about . . . maybe a bit too informed if you ask me.’
Steven adopted a puzzled look.
‘I didn’t mention Moorlock Hall in my talk because I didn’t want to say anything about Lawler. I wanted to keep that to myself for the time being so I confined my report to my work with the prisoners I’d seen in other establishments and stressed it was too soon to come to any conclusions about anything as we haven’t had the facilities for sample analysis.’
Sounds like you really didn’t want to tell them anything at all,’ said Steven.
Barrowman shrugged.
‘Not something you can keep up for too long.’
‘I suppose not,’ Barrowman conceded.
‘What did you mean when you said you thought the advisor might be too well informed – did he have a name by the way?’ Steven’s inquiry was a long way from being ‘by the way’.
‘He was introduced as Dr Neil Tyler, Scottish by the sound of him, a forensic psychologist. He asked about the number of samples I’d collected, whether I had enough and was finished doing that or whether there were still more to come . . . and where from. I suspected he knew about Moorlock Hall and was trying to wheedle information out of me.’
‘Was he successful?’
‘I felt I had to tell him I was still working with a patient.’
‘At Moorlock Hall?’
‘I thought I’d better say that in case Dorothy had already told him.’
‘Had she?’
‘She
said not when I asked her afterwards.’
‘Did Tyler know about Moorlock Hall?’
‘He said he’d never heard of it. It could have been an act of course.’
Or it could be paranoia on your part, Steven thought. ‘Did the lawyer have much to say?’
‘Very little, struck me as a cold fish. Dorothy introduced him as Mr. Medici from a law firm with three names. His was one, I can’t remember the other two.’
‘I can see why the Medici name stuck,’ said Steven with a smile. ‘Any jokes made about Venice?’
‘I don’t think Mr. Medici would recognise a joke if it kicked him up the arse.’
‘So, no clues dropped about who the funders are?
‘None at all.’
Steven took a deep breath. ‘You know, I think it would be in both our interests to find out who they are
‘What’s your interest?’
Steven ignored the defensive edge in the question and said, ‘Sci-Med likes to know what’s going on in science and medicine; it’s our job and we’re talking about a big investment here. I think we’d both feel better if we knew everything was above board, don’t you?’’
Barrowman nodded although Steven noted signs on his face that said real paranoia was still in the mix.
SEVEN
If there was anything that could make Moorlock Hall look even worse than it usually did, it was rain. This was Owen Barrowman’s conclusion as once more he crested the hill under leaden skies and saw the building come into view. He found himself wishing the wipers could sweep away the building and all thoughts of it so that he could wake up and find it had all been a bad dream, but it hadn’t. He was living in the real world but his real world had changed out of all recognition over the past few months. It had turned against him; they had turned against him. Who? Everyone, his boss who blamed him for having changed when it was her who had changed with her desire to get money for what she was about to call her research, Jesus! The colleagues he’d thought of as friends who’d grown distant as they chose to side with whoever had the money and could offer them security.