by Jane Shemilt
In the changing room Albie makes a few rapid sketches in his notebook to record his approach to the tumour. He chats through the operation with Owen as they strip off their blue cotton togs and dump them in the laundry bin, both relieved. The operation went well, Karim and his family have been bought a reprieve. Owen dresses swiftly then leaves to check the boy on the ward, raising his hand in a laconic gesture of congratulation at the door. Albie grins back, though his mouth is dry with thirst and his head throbs painfully. In the shower, the water hammers down on his skull, millimetres away from his own grey matter, whose glistening health he takes for granted but which is no more immune from catastrophe than the patients he sees daily. Afterwards he rubs his scalp vigorously with the towel as if trying to rub away the thudding headache. It is possible that within his own skull the seed of some deep-seated monster is growing; a hidden malignancy swelling in the dark folds of his brain, waiting to overwhelm his life. He dresses; dehydration, he tells himself, is far more likely. He collects his notebook and walks slowly from theatres to the ward, head lowered to minimise the pain, eyes half closed against the light. He collides into a ledge at hip height; there’s a sharp rattle of crockery and a suppressed gasp. He looks up to see Skuld behind a trolley which is laden with used cups, plates with dark cake crumbs and half-finished jugs of juice.
‘So we bump into each other again.’ He smiles. ‘Shouldn’t you be in the lab or do you only visit secretly at night?’
It was meant as a joke but her face burns. ‘I was in the lab early today to make up my hours.’
He glances at the remains of the orange juice on her trolley. ‘I won’t tell if I can steal a drink.’
He watches her pour out a glass of orange juice. ‘One of Urth’s personal events, I suppose?’
She hands him the glass, shaking her head. ‘Not exactly. The consultants’ special planning meeting. I help every time now.’ Her glance slides to his face. ‘It’s only once a month; she says I make all the difference.’
‘You’re lucky. I’m still waiting for my invitation.’ He drinks rapidly; the liquid seems to seep into his very bones. Sighing with relief, he holds the glass out for a refill. ‘But then I’m only a locum consultant.’
Her mouth twitches. ‘It’s very boring.’ She empties the jug into his glass. ‘They were arguing about employing more nurses. They always argue.’
‘I bet they do.’ He laughs but takes note; a little spy in that camp could be useful when it comes to future appointments. Skuld would make a perfect spy; her English has already improved. He drains the juice; the headache is receding. ‘Thanks.’ He gives her back the glass. ‘You saved my life.’
‘You still have that book with you.’ She nods towards his notebook.
‘My whole life is in there,’ he says jokingly, though his reply is near the truth. His entire working life is mapped in those pages, recorded in sketches and charts, operation notes and plans for future research. She returns his smile with a fleeting one of her own and replaces the glass, pushing the trolley past him without saying goodbye, as though he had become suddenly invisible. He watches her dipping gait until she is out of sight. Her sisters make him feel awkward but he relaxes with Skuld. He has never met a girl with so little need for pretence; it’s as though she has known him for years.
He hurries on down the corridor. One day he will be at the meeting himself, maybe even chairing it. He’ll wait as long as it takes; it’s a matter of work and time, that’s all.
9
London. Early Summer 2017
The stage is empty now except for the hooded ones, their weaving finished. They point into the shadows at the back; their voices hiss.
‘Here he comes, the man with red hair. Red for danger. Red for blood and lust and fire.’
He’s out of breath, late but not too late, naïve but not innocent, impatient but not desperate. Dangerous but not yet.
The chant begins: ‘DNA, Destiny. Destiny, DNA.’
Of all people, he should know that they are, more or less, exactly the same.
By the morning of the seventh consecutive day of unseasonable heat, London feels like a city further south, habituated to sun. Sleeveless women in sunglasses stroll on the pavements, awnings are up outside cafés, people spill into the roads with their drinks. The atmosphere is celebratory. Men in suits eat ice creams. The streets are hot, as though the air itself might ignite.
The taxi is caught in traffic as it approaches the hospital. Albie is on his way to Ted’s lecture. Ted has flown back from California specially to present research at the conference. Albie will reveal his viral work at another meeting, once Ted has returned his PhD with amendments. The locum ends next month; he hopes to discuss the timings today.
The morning has been marked as study leave; there is a spacious feel to the day, like the start of a holiday. Beth was half asleep when he left, her skin luminous, the nipples darker. She could be pregnant; it’s been a year. Their first wedding anniversary was last week, Istanbul for a snatched weekend: a dizzying round of mosques and minarets. In bed this morning her face reminded him of Mary’s in a Byzantine fresco in Hagia Sophia, as mysterious and peaceful. He couldn’t bring himself to ask.
The taxi driver swears under his breath; the traffic is at a standstill. A large crowd has gathered outside the hospital, blocking the road. Albie gets out and is confronted by placards displaying posters of bloodstained mice and chimps behind bars. There are no photos of unkempt rats grown thin with tumours, but all the same, as he pushes his way through the crowd, it’s as though he is pushing through tangled threads of guilt meshed across the road – his guilt. If these protesters knew about his research they would probably turn on him. As if on cue, a muscled young man in an orange tee shirt approaches and begins to shout in his face, clenching a meaty fist; a punch is imminent. A policeman steps swiftly between them allowing Albie to pass through the entrance of the hospital; once inside, he removes his jacket with trembling hands. The wide entrance hall is empty; the talks must have started. He hurries through deserted corridors to the Wolfson lecture theatre and collects a pack of research papers and a timetable from a desk by the door. He tiptoes in and eases into an end-of-aisle seat, struggling to breathe quietly. The attendees around him are focused on the stage where he sees Ted pointing out slides on the giant screen, he hears the familiar voice ring round the theatre. He leans forward eagerly, smiling to himself. He’s missed Ted, he’s missed that voice. As he listens, the demonstration outside recedes from his mind.
It takes a while to realise that the mauve and pink stained slides of rat brain are those he sent to Ted for approval. The images are impressive but they are his images, his rats. The people next to him are leaning forward as they absorb the evidence of tumour shrinkage with viral infusions, the work which he was due to present; his own work. The words he wrote, rebranded in multi-coloured bullet points, flash on the screen in front of him. Ted is walking back and forth, his head held high as he points to the slides, all taken from Albie’s PhD.
He lowers his head; his face hurts as though he’s been punched after all. There is a loud drumming in his ears. It happens, he knows this; the head of a research laboratory often presents the work done in that lab – why should it be any different for him? He breathes deeply and slowly, containing the hurt. It shouldn’t be a surprise. He is too close to it, probably, all those long days and late nights in the quiet lab, an enclosed world that he’d thought belonged to him. That was an illusion. The discoveries he made aren’t his property, nor are they his to present. The information needs to be out there; the results belong to the world. Nevertheless, when the clapping starts he walks out. He feels light-headed, not yet ready to meet Ted.
A voice by his side penetrates; a short man is standing at his elbow. The round face, soft as a bun, is marked by trickles of sweat. He jerks his head towards the door.
‘I said, are they finished already?’
Albie nods. The man’s voice seems to come from ver
y far away; the shock has distanced the world. There is a drumming noise in his head. He needs coffee and something to eat. He begins to walk down the corridor but the man follows, his breath rasping as he unfolds a map of the hospital interior, the kind given to patients when they arrive.
‘I came a long way for this.’ The crumpled sheet is thrust into Albie’s hands; it shows a circle around a room beyond outpatients. ‘There’s a lecture going on somewhere else, it’s only just started. Do you know where this is?’ The man jabs at the circle. His accent is reminiscent of Amil’s; he looks about to cry. Albie relents.
‘Follow me.’
He leads the way past outpatients, turning right by a reception desk, then up a few steps to the function suite. The man keeps pace, wheezing noisily. A faint voice comes from a door to the left, Albie pushes it open and they enter a small lecture theatre. His companion dives for a seat while Albie stands with his back against the wall, catching his breath. A tall woman with a soft Canadian accent is talking in front of a screen. The room is cool and dark, the voice is soothing. The drumming noise in Albie’s head begins to lessen.
‘We can see that the amygdala of the rats in Group A, the animals exposed to stress in early life, look different from those that were protected.’ The lecturer uses a long pole to tap the screen where a lit diagram of the brain glows in the dark. Albie picks up a flyer on the seat in front of him: The Neurobiology of Evil. He sits down next to the man who followed him here.
‘It was this group who were most aggressive to intruder rats. As with rats …’ She clicks to the next slide; he sees the familiar curving shape of the human limbic system on the screen, lit up in red. ‘So in humans: here we have the amygdala again.’ The pole taps insistently against a circled density in darker red on the screen. ‘Murderers and other criminals have amygdalae that are smaller than average.’
Albie stares at the slide, imagining his own limbic system lit up in crimson, pulsing with blood as it processes what just happened. He closes his eyes and Ted’s face slides into his mind, all the faces of Ted, serious in the operating theatre, alight with good news or calmly assured as in the auditorium just now, a face he thought he knew better than his own.
‘Our newest research in the university of San Francisco has sought out specific genes that predispose people towards antisocial behaviour. Seven have been identified; these are the suspects for neuroscientists looking beyond brain anatomy to the genetic origins of evil.’
The silence in the theatre seems to deepen. Evil. The word conjures images of towns in flames, of men in orange forced to kneel in the dust with a butcher’s knife at their throats. The savagery of war. A medieval word that jars in a medical lecture in a hospital in London; he’s not even sure what it means.
The tall lecturer turns away from the screen to address the audience. ‘In summary, we think early adverse environmental influences alter genetic expression, triggering changes in the amygdala that lead to criminal behaviour.’ She puts down her pointer. The lights spring on and she gazes around, smiling expectantly, ‘Any questions?’
Albie’s phone vibrates. A text from Owen: they need to discuss the patients for theatre tomorrow. When he sees Albie get up from his seat, the man who came in with him stands too.
‘She hasn’t addressed the main problem,’ he whispers as he accompanies Albie through the door; he trails him down the corridor. ‘Are some genes more vulnerable to the environment than others, or would everyone become a criminal given the right amount of stress?’
They are back in the entrance hall now. There is a table in the corner surrounded by a jostling mass of attendees; he glimpses a white fall of tablecloth and inhales the scent of coffee. The crowd shifts; a woman with curly red hair is handing out cups. Urth – maybe she has brought her cakes along. He starts towards the table but the man bars his way again.
‘She talks of murderers but is all killing evil? Killing of animals, even?’ He gestures to the protesters outside still waving their placards. Albie gazes down at the sweating face. It depends, he wants to say. It’s complicated, and who is he to pronounce about the killing of animals? He shakes his head and steps to one side.
‘No, please.’ The man plucks at his sleeve. ‘I have one more question, it’s important. If you kill in the name of your tribe or of your God, are you evil or simply being obedient?’ His voice has risen to a shout, there are beads of spit in the corners of his mouth. This is personal.
‘If you go back and ask the lecturer, she might be able to answer your questions.’ He should seek out the victims of war; they would have all the definitions of evil close to hand. At a guess he’s from the Middle East. Syria or Iraq. Amil’s territory, Karim’s too; he could be a victim himself. Albie nods as he edges away uneasily. The man in front of him might tell him that edging away from questions of evil amounts to encouraging it, and perhaps that’s true. Nevertheless, he decides to forego coffee and turns to the door.
‘Hello there!’ Ted’s voice behind him is cheery. Has he been lying in wait? ‘Thanks for dropping in. How’s married life treating you?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘It’s a pity you had to leave early; you missed the slide at the very end, the one that gave you credit for your work.’ The smile dazzles against the tan. ‘I hoped to catch you.’ He puts a hand on Albie’s arm. ‘It’s getting hard for me to manage the lab from the US. There’s a few problems, Bruce being the main one. I gather he caused a fire the other day. It’s not clear to me where he is with our dosing studies, either.’ He sighs, shaking his head, ‘Well, Bridget does her best as laboratory manager but I’d prefer a clinician at the helm. You have the context; I’d like you to head up the laboratory going forward, starting now. Get Bruce to complete those studies; Viromex are waiting on the data. It’s been a year since the contract was signed. You’ll be in charge of research; I’ll be in the background. What do you say?’
How like Ted: at a moment of taking, another gift arrives and the landscape shifts. It happened with the Viromex deal. Taking and giving. Whether or not there had really been a slide bearing Albie’s name which he missed, Ted is trying to make amends. If Ted feels guilty, this is his way of saying sorry.
‘That sounds brilliant, Ted. The locum ends in a month,’ – the consultant locum and the lab together might be tricky, and he needs to do his best if he’s to make a good impression – ‘so if I can delay starting in the lab till then—’
‘I managed both.’ Ted grins. ‘I need you to start right now. We should talk about that locum too. I’ve been offered the chance to extend my time in the US for an additional year’s sabbatical, teaching and operating. The hospital management at the National has agreed to extend your locum for another year.’ He looks thoughtfully at the floor, nodding as he speaks. ‘If you take over the running of the lab as well, I may not need to return before I retire from the NHS, which is when the two roles will be up for grabs …’
Here it is, already. The future. Albie’s heart begins to race; the consultancy and the lab are coming his way far sooner then he’d thought. They want to hire someone ahead of the Professor retiring to take over his jobs when he goes … Eighteen months ago, Skuld overheard the departmental plan; it seems he is being prepared for the final stages already. He smiles at Ted, thinking fast. He’ll be able to protect his own work when he’s in charge of the lab, no one will use his research then. He’ll sign his own contracts as well. In addition, his salary will increase.
‘I’ll start straightaway then, and give it my very best shot,’ he replies quickly. ‘Thanks, Ted.’
‘Good man. We have to leave the current contract with Viromex as it is for the moment.’ The blue eyes follow his. ‘But there’ll be other trials based on other viruses. When your future patents are sold, your name will be on the contract, not mine. To be acting head of the lab is a huge opportunity for you, Albie.’
So they are keeping track, the pupil watching the teacher who is watching him back, shadowing each other’s very thoughts. It�
�s as if Ted can read his mind. Should he be more on his guard?
‘Thanks, Ted,’ he repeats more slowly. ‘It’s an honour, I’m sure I’ll cope.’
‘You’ll cope all right, you always do.’ Ted laughs, aiming a mock punch at Albie’s shoulder. ‘I want you to assume leadership as soon as possible; Beth won’t mind you working late.’ He glances at a group of Malaysian attendees who are hovering near. ‘I’m heading back to California tomorrow, but Jenny will send you an invite to our party – Ed’s engagement to Sophie. Early autumn. Everyone will be there; I’ll formally announce the transfer of the lab that evening. I’ll get my secretary to set up the official contract to take effect from that date and in the meantime pay you out of research funds. Between us, it’s all yours from now on. I’ll be in touch.’ Then he’s gone, striding down the corridor, the Malaysian doctors running alongside. Others fall in behind them and the blond head disappears, borne away by the river of people. Albie stares after him, feeling the tug of a current flowing between them, connecting them even as Ted vanishes from sight.