Resurrection

by Ken McClure

  ‘Of course.’

  The two men suited up in silence and checked each other before closing their hoods and again checking the seals. Malloy sprayed the exterior surface around the door they were entering through and turned the handle.

  The slight rush of air into the lab which caused several pieces of paper on a notice board to flutter was taken as a comforting sign. If air was flowing into the lab, nothing was flowing out.

  Simone Clary and the student, White were sitting together at the far end of the lab. Simone had her arm round the shoulders of the young man as he sat, round-shouldered, staring at the floor. Simone obviously mentioned the entrance of the newcomers because he looked up and regarded the presence of Malloy and Ferguson like a rabbit seeing an advancing car.

  ‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ yelled Malloy, trying to overcome the sound deadening of the hood he was wearing. He realised just how difficult it was to persuade someone who wasn’t wearing a space suit like his that this was the case. ‘Just stay still and wait till we clear up the mess.’

  Simone’s hands tightened on White’s shoulders to stop him getting up. Ferguson remained in front of the door to block any panic-fuelled rush. White seemed to settle so Ferguson joined Malloy in walking into the BL3 lab where they both saw the wet patch on the floor interspersed with broken glass.

  ‘No problemo.’ announced Ferguson. He poured concentrated disinfectant into the puddle and then sprayed the surrounding area with the pressurised disinfectant spray. Are we having an encore?’ he asked.

  ‘Suppose we better,’ replied Malloy.

  ‘One grenade or two?’

  ‘Better make it two. Give everyone their money’s worth.’

  ‘That old yen for show-business, eh?’

  Ferguson prepared two disinfectant gas shells and then waited while Malloy finished checking inside the BL3 lab before retreating to the exit and giving Ferguson a nod. Ferguson pulled the toggles on both shells and stepped back smartly to join Malloy as the first spiral of gas escaped. They closed the airlock behind them allowing the gas to fill the interior and destroy any rogue virus particles that might have escaped the decontamination fluid.

  ‘Shower time folks,’ announced Malloy as they rejoined Simone and Wright. All our clothes stay here for decontamination. We’ll use the surgical smocks in the cabinet to the right of the shower room. You first Simone. Simone appeared reluctant to leave White but Malloy nodded reassurance and she relinquished contact slowly with White and made for the shower.

  ‘You’ll be next Gregor,’ said Malloy.

  ‘What’s the point?’ mumbled White. ‘We were exposed to concentrated HIV virus for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘It didn’t splash on your skin and you’ve no obvious cuts or grazes it could have got in to so what’s the problem? HIV’s a bastard but it’s not that easy to catch in a lab situation. Just thank your lucky stars it wasn’t something like typhoid or plague you were working with.’

  ‘You’ve got suits on haven’t you?’

  ‘We like making a drama out of a crisis,’ announced Ferguson, taking his hood and visor off. If you catch AIDS son it’s because of what you’ve been doing with your dick not because of that wee puddle in there.’

  The comment forced a wan smile from White.

  ‘Go have your shower,’ said Ferguson, seeing that Simone had emerged from the shower room, wearing a white surgical smock and nothing else. Her wet, black hair hung round her face making her appear younger and more vulnerable than before.

  ‘What happens now? she asked.

  ‘When we’ve all showered, we’ll bomb this place too and leave it for a while. You and Gregor will be seen by the university health people and probably put on AZT treatment for a few months as a precaution. You’ll probably be offered counselling as well.’

  ‘You get that if someone as much as farts in the same room as you these days,’ interjected Ferguson.

  You’ll be blood tested for HIV right now and then again in a few months time but chances are you’re perfectly okay. I’d put money on it.’

  ‘Thanks Steve and you too George,’ said Simone.

  FIVE

  It was raining in Manchester when Dewar got off the train but he’d expected it would be. That was the thing about reputations, once acquired, justified or not, they tended to stick. The thought led him to think of one head of a university department he’d known, now retired, who was not remembered for any of the work he’d done in his professional life but solely for the fact that he’d used other people’s used tea bags in the common room rather than contribute a few pence a week to the fund himself. Dewar was convinced that Manchester would not get the Olympic Games it craved, not for any locational or logistical reason, nor for any lack of facilities but because people had an image of runners splashing through rain water.

  The taxi driver asked if he’d seen ‘the game’ last night on television. Replying that he hadn’t ensured that he got a ball by ball account until they reached the university some ten minutes later. Standing out in the rain was suddenly a welcome experience.

  ‘I’ve an appointment to see Professor Kelman,’ he said to man behind the reception desk after shaking the rain from his hair.

  ‘Third floor.’

  With apparently no more information on offer, Dewar took the lift to the third floor and found what he needed to know on a board facing him when he got out. It even had personnel photographs on it. He was now looking for a bald man in room 317/18.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked the woman who occupied the outer office (317) and whose severe features suggested that helping anyone was the last thing on her mind.

  ‘I’ve an appointment with Professor Kelman.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Dr Dewar.’

  ‘Ah yes. from …’ She slipped her spectacles down to the end of her nose and tilted her head back slightly to ease reading from the diary in front of her. ‘The Sci-Med Inspectorate.’

  Dewar was shown into a well appointed room by university standards and greeted by Kelman, a tall, angular man with sloping shoulders and a university tie drawing his shirt collar a little too tight. He had very large hands and feet and wore fawn coloured twill trousers that ended a couple of inches short of where they should have. This, in turn, exposed chequered socks that Dewar assumed could only have been a Christmas present from a close but colour-blind relative.

  ‘I understand we have been naughty boys,’ said Kelman.

  Kelman’s seeking to diminish the crime at the outset did not endear him to Dewar. Apart from anything else it cast him in the role of petty official come to annoy an important man with better things to do.

  ‘You do appear to be in contravention of a WHO/UN ruling endorsed by HM Government, Professor,’ he replied, pushing the stakes right back up again.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ replied Kelman, now unsure which facial expression to adopt. It was too late to play the contrite card and trivialising the infringement clearly hadn’t worked. ‘What exactly is it that we’re supposed to have done?’

  Best you could do in the circumstances, thought Dewar. Ignorance of the crime. Not acceptable in law but always a good first step in moving yourself sideways away from blame.

  ‘You are licensed to hold two fewer fragments of the smallpox virus than you admitted to in your recent audit submission. This actually brings you above the twenty percent of the genome limit that the WHO has recommended.’

  ‘Recommended?’ said Kelman, thinking he’d found an linguistic loophole.

  ‘Enforceable by law in this country,’ added Dewar, closing it off.

  ‘I see,’ sighed Kelman, ‘Well, this appears to be more serious than I thought and it’s Dr Davidson’s territory, I fear.’

  ‘It was bound to be someone else’s,’ thought Dewar. No matter, the buck stopped with the head of department, as far as he or anyone else in authority was concerned. It was now just a question of how many others Kelman was going to take down with him. />
  ‘Perhaps I could have a word with Dr Davidson?’

  ‘Of course. Would you like me to be present?’

  ‘As the responsibility is finally yours Professor, I’ll leave that up to you,’ replied Dewar.

  Kelman’s grin lacked conviction.

  A small, thin man wearing Levi jeans and a crushed, grey Tee shirt came in through the door. Dewar thought he knew the type. They were common enough in academia, undersized, spectacle wearing, Mummy’s boys, bad at games, lousy at PT, unattractive to the opposite sex, guys with more hang-ups than a washing line, guys who’d finally found a safe, secure environment in the institutionalised world of academia where they could relax and call themselves, Mike or Steve, where on the outside they’d always been Michael or Steven. They could now wear jeans and be ‘team leaders’ where before they’d always been the type nobody wanted on their team in any capacity let alone as leader. For them an academic appointment was, get-your-own-back time.

  Alison tells me there’s some bureaucratic problem,’ snapped Davidson, pointedly looking at his watch. Dewar noted it was a double Y-chromosome man’s watch, one that could probably tell you the time, in Tokyo at two hundred feet under the Baltic Sea. It looked like a soup plate on Davidson’s scrawny wrist.

  ‘There’s a problem with your audit return for the smallpox virus fragments you’ve been using, Mike,’ said Kelman.

  ‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Davidson. ‘Why don’t we all stop doing research and just fill in forms. That’s what it’s coming to.’

  If he expected an apologetic response from Dewar, he was badly disappointed. ‘If you don’t come up with good explanation for the discrepancy in your return that’s exactly what you’re going to be doing anyway, Dr Davidson,’ said Dewar, matter of factly.

  Davidson looked shell shocked. ‘Who is this … What the … Can he do this?’ he appealed to Kelman.

  Kelman shrugged his shoulders. ‘I understand the Sci-Med Inspectorate do have considerable powers should they choose to use them.’

  ‘Look, it was obviously just a clerical error,’ said Davidson, starting to back-pedal

  You’ll have to do better than that, thought Dewar.

  ‘Perhaps we could go through the audit statement and you could point out just where the error occurred, Doctor?’

  ‘I suppose I could try.’

  And you’ll have to do a lot better than that.

  Davidson’s lab was on the floor below. He led the way as if every step were an intrusion on his day and he wanted Dewar to know it. When they finally reached ‘The Davidson Lab’ as it was posted on the outside of the door, they were met by a tall blonde man who was just exiting with a rack of tubes in his hand.

  ‘Eric, I need the list of the smallpox fragments you made up for me,’ snapped Davidson.

  ‘Okay, just give me a moment.’

  ‘Now, Eric!’

  The big Swede, towering over Davidson gave an embarrassed shrug and retreated back into the lab. He put down his rack and went off to get the list. When he came back, Dewar gave him a smile of reassurance and it was returned. ‘There is a problem?’

  ‘We seem to have more fragments than the regulations allow.’ Davidson endowed the word with distaste. This gentleman has come to check up on us.’

  Dewar held out his hand and said, ‘Adam Dewar, Sci-Med Inspectorate.’

  ‘Eric Larsen. I’m a post doc here.’

  The two tall men stood with Davidson in between them like the meat in an under-filled sandwich.

  ‘You must have screwed up the paperwork, Eric,’ said Davidson petulantly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied the Swede. ‘I think you checked it yourself when I was finished.’

  ‘I didn’t check it, I signed it. God, do I have to do every little thing myself in this place.’

  Larsen moved uncomfortably from one foot to the another. Dewar sympathised with the big man but decided to keep a stony countenance. It was always unwise to get involved in the politics of such a situation. He opened his brief case and brought out his copy of the official fragment list for the department. ‘Maybe you could read from yours and we can identify and agree the extra pieces.

  ‘Sure,’ said Larsen. He started through the list.

  Half way through, Dewar said, ‘No, I don’t have that one.’

  Larsen read out the number again.

  ‘No, definitely not.’

  Davidson snatched the paper from Larsen and asked, ‘Are you absolutely sure about this fragment?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. I went through the fridge, just like you asked. This one was there. I couldn’t have made the number up,’ said Larsen, letting his anger show just a little.

  Dewar suddenly sensed in Davidson the stirring of a memory that he would rather not have recalled. It was something to do with his eyes that gave him away. There was a slight pause while Dewar presumed Davidson was searching for some way out of his predicament. Eventually he just said, ‘Oh dear.’

  Humble pie time, thought Dewar.

  ‘I remember now,’ Davidson announced, clearing his throat to cover embarrassment, ‘Six months ago, I was talking to a French scientist; I met at the Birmingham virus meeting, you remember, Eric?’

  Larsen nodded. He was enjoying Davidson’s discomfiture as much as Dewar was.

  ‘He was working as a post doc in Malloy’s lab in Edinburgh. Maybe he still is. He was working on much the same thing as us and he’d obtained DNA for a couple of smallpox fragments that I thought would be useful to us too. He agreed to send some to me to save me going through the usual bureaucratic channels. I quite forgot about that.’

  ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have declared them on your audit,’ said Dewar.

  Davidson remained silent.

  ‘As it is, you delegated the job to someone else who came up with the truth and declared it.’

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Davidson, coming as near to contrition as someone like him could.

  ‘Six months ago, this sort of thing was little more than a paperwork offence,’ said Dewar. ‘But things have changed. There is an absolute ban on the movement of these fragments, official or unofficial and the twenty percent rule is being rigidly enforced. Decide what fragments you no longer need and I’ll take them away with me to bring you under the twenty percent mark. On this occasion this will be the last you hear of it. You will of course be subject to unannounced auditing from time to time in the future. I’ll also have to ask you the name of the French scientist you mentioned.’

  ‘Is that really necessary. He did it as a personal favour to me.’

  ‘He knew the rules too.’

  ‘Pierre Le Grice. He works at the Institute for Molecular Sciences in Edinburgh.’

  As Dewar headed south again he looked around at his fellow passengers in First Class and wondered if any of them were carrying anything as bizarre as two fragments of smallpox virus DNA in their briefcases. It seemed unlikely but there again, making predictions about human behaviour was something you could never do with absolute confidence.

  Looking back on what had happened in Manchester did not bode well for his current assignment. One institution had been caught out simply because someone had told the truth. How many others were holding illegal stocks and falsifying their returns so that officialdom would see what they wanted to see? From previous experience he knew that researchers were a competitive, self-centred breed. Rules were there for other people to obey unless it either suited or caused no inconvenience. Nothing would be allowed to get in the way of their pet projects if they could help it. There wasn’t much he could do about that. Swimming against the tide of human nature was not an option for the intelligent. He had to be pragmatic in the circumstances. If he couldn’t change the way things were in the scientific establishment he could at least be firm about stressing the consequences of not complying with the WHO/UN ruling. The prospect of having their labs closed down and their careers damaged should do the trick. If there was one thing researchers c
ared more about than their research it was their careers. Any good that came out of research was almost invariably a by-product of the competitive struggle for career advancement and personal glory.

  He felt tired when he got into the flat. He kicked off his shoes and took a cold Stella Artois from the fridge, rejoicing in the first ice-cold swallow. After a second, he ‘woke up’ his IBM Aptiva computer and checked the message centre. There was one from Sci-Med and one from Karen. He played that one first.

  ‘Adam, I’m going to be tied up at the lab all evening. There’s been a Salmonella outbreak centred on Kensington. We’re trying to find the source. Give me a call when you get back. Love you.’

  Dewar permitted himself a small smile at the idea of Salmonella in Kensington. He played back the Sci-Med message. The voice said, ‘Fax for you on code 9.’

  Dewar frowned and sat down to bring up the Fax Centre on the machine and then prompt the unscrambling code with his password. The printer whirred into a life and spawned a single page message. It was an update on the institutions complying with the audit request. All had now reported and all had declared having only what they were supposed to have. There was however one addendum — the reason for the message coding. The Sci-Med computer had come up with a piece of information that it had correlated as being relevant to his current assignment. A PhD student, working at the Institute of Molecular Sciences in Edinburgh, had recently committed suicide. He was Iraqi.

  Dewar stared at the name, Ali Hammadi. ‘Now, what were you working on, Ali, I wonder,’ he muttered out loud.

  He looked at his watch and called Karen at the lab before it got any later. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Like a fairground. We’ve had seventeen confirmed cases over the last twenty-four hours and we’ve got another nine suspected ones to check out.’

  ‘No idea where it’s coming from?’

  ‘Eight cases ate at the same Greek restaurant, the others didn’t so it must be something coming from a common supplier. It’s just a question of which one and what product. How was Manchester?’