by Jane Shemilt
Outside colours seem fiercer, the heat more intense. He feels dizzy with excitement; he wasn’t expecting this just yet. He texts Beth the news but a faint ringing noise starts up, like a car alarm that’s so far away it might not even be real. How could Ted have known Beth wouldn’t mind if he worked late? He deletes the text. He can tell her the news later, in person.
Chains of policemen have corralled the group of protesters on the opposite pavement; the shouts are quieter. Albie walks over. The crowd has been in the sun for hours, people are sitting on the ground. A neatly dressed woman stares at him, her mouth turned down as though repulsed. The man in the orange tee shirt gets to his feet. He is larger than Albie and looks much fitter. He slips around the line of policemen and moves close. Albie holds his ground. On the operating table, the belligerent face would relax; that broad chest would inflate with anaesthetic gas and oxygen. The man would be vulnerable, like all patients. Albie wants to tell him about Karim. He has the scans on his phone, before and after treatment, showing the way the tumour has begun to shrink, more quickly than predicted. He’d like to ask him how he’d feel if Karim was his own son. His phone bleeps the arrival of a text. Owen again. The man is very close now. Albie can read the exhaustion in his eyes. Albie raises the hand holding the phone in a gesture of apology and recognition, and then walks rapidly away.
‘I’ll manage.’ Beth looks away from him into the garden. Ted was right, she doesn’t mind. The remains of supper and a bottle of wine are on the table between them. Night insects hover at the thick candle she has set between the plates; a speckled moth seems to be sipping from the little pool of melted wax under the flame.
A hose spins backwards and forwards in the dark garden, the roses Beth planted are soaked; their Turkish delight scent mixes with the woody smell of wet earth. The water pulses in the silence, darkening the dry stone of the walls. Yesterday a junior accidentally opened the carotid artery; the blood had sprayed on the walls, spattering everyone.
‘You have to do this.’ Beth turns back to him, her eyes shadowed. The builders are converting the top flat now and taking their time; the noise must be wearying. ‘Whatever it takes. As head of the lab, you’ll be free of Ted.’ Her voice is bitter.
‘Ted was within his rights to present my research, sweetheart; he’s been very generous to me.’ He leans to take her hand. ‘He’s on our side, you must see that. My main concern is that you’ll be alone far more; I’ll be working longer hours.’
‘You will be doing this for us,’ she replies, lowering her cheek to his palm. Her skin feels very soft. ‘It makes us safe.’
He nods eagerly. ‘We can pay off the mortgage with the extra salary, and crack on with the conversion project.’ He hesitates, then leans forward, speaking softly. ‘There’s another advantage to putting in the hours now. I should be able to take time off in the future, if a baby arrives, I mean.’
She is silent, her eyes move back and forth, following the undulating water.
He squeezes her hand. ‘So …?’
She turns her face away. ‘I’m not pregnant, Albie.’
‘Perhaps I’ll get myself checked out.’
‘It’s only been a year, surely—’
‘David Smith is the man. He specialises in conception. If I’m okay, he’ll look at you.’
She releases her hand and rises without answering.
‘Beth?’
‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’ She stoops to kiss him.
The disappointment settles in the pit of his stomach, a background ache. It was foolish to allow hope to grow. He gets up, turns off the water and bends to blow out the candle on the table. The speckled moth is lying at its base, the wings still. Attracted to the flame it has paid a heavy price. The bulging eyes on the tiny head are thickly coated with wax.
10
London. Late Summer 2017
A video is projected on to the back wall.
A man genuflects on a hill. The shot is grainy, unsettling, a rite of some kind – religious, maybe, a sacrifice perhaps. The audience sit up but the commentary is calm, the voice female.
‘He has come to worship his gods in the open, high up, as his ancestors did. They prayed for success, to defeat the enemy in battle, for children to continue the line.’
This man wouldn’t call his prayers, prayers. They are thoughts, wishes, desires. Ambitions. It’s all the same to the gods; he’ll do as his ancestors did. He’ll cheat, lie, steal. He’ll kill, given time. There will be a sacrifice, though not yet.
Albie gets up at five thirty each Sunday. The weekly routine involves prolonged immobility. In theatre his movements are meticulous, minute. By the weekends he is restless, like a horse that’s been kept in the stables too long. He pulls on his running shorts and an old tee shirt. Beth is still sleeping, her bare arm on the sheet as cool and smooth as the metal arms of the mother in Queen Square, the bronze woman who holds a child. He can never decide if she is meant to represent the Madonna or any mother cradling her child; to him, she is Beth with her flawless face and lowered eyelids. Beth with a child.
He jogs down the quiet crescent. The mansions are curtained at this hour. The flowers in the gardens are radiant in the early light, roses spill over the walls. Some are dying, others are tight buds. Close up, they must be swarming with greenfly. Beth removes the insects from their own roses and crushes them to slime between her fingertips.
He increases his speed on the Heath, running past the duck ponds and willows then up the path that winds through leaning trees to the steep slope of Parliament Hill, the sky opening around him as he ascends, lungs beginning to burn. He rests at the top. Ahead is the familiar rosary of buildings: St Paul’s, Canary Wharf, the Shard, now tipped with gold by the rising sun. He knows the view by heart. He reaches high then bends from the waist to touch the ground. The week went well; he’d pushed Bruce on as Ted had asked and the data from the dosing studies was sent off to Viromex a few days ago. Viromex now own the patent. The payout should arrive in a week. There are children waiting all over the world; success will be swift once the Boston children’s trials are done. He stretches as high as he can, his hands against the sky as if reaching into infinity.
He sets off again, sprinting downhill to the tarmac path between lakes of water either side, left by the women’s pond, back past the gates of Kenwood House. He is slowing so he imagines Ted and Owen alongside, pacing him. Running together on Sunday mornings used to be their weekly ritual. They took it in turns to decide where to meet. Ted would choose Hyde Park, Albie the Heath and Owen always took them round Brockwell Park. Back then Ted came to them, picking them up in his car, never the other way round. He must have been hiding the girlfriend in his flat, probably still in bed. Albie imagines a soft-faced young girl, pliant and pretty – perhaps still around; Ted inspires devotion. With a renewed burst of energy, he swings down hard through the trees. There are more people about now, dog walkers and runners, the day is heating up. Half blinded with sweat, he is crowded off the path by three women runners and their panting dogs, he almost falls. He turns in time to glimpse three ponytails swinging in unison as they disappear into the trees. Grey, red, blonde. He walks to the shops, determined not to feel disconcerted. It’s unlikely to have been the sisters, they don’t seem the type. Then he remembers the swimming. He picks up a weighty pack of Sunday papers from the newsagent’s. They can’t have seen him with all those dogs in the way, they would have been unaware of causing him to stumble.
Once home, he shucks off his trainers and socks with relief. He takes three perfect oranges and slices them as cleanly as if he were operating and the peel was skin, the orange flesh subcutaneous fat, shining in tiny packets. He juices them and, gripped by thirst, drinks straight from the bowl before juicing three more for Beth. He starts the coffee machine and then walks barefoot into the sitting room, circumnavigating packed boxes. Beth has been storing photos and books ahead of the builders moving downstairs. He squares up to the papers on his desk, a w
eekly task. He files bills and discards junk, scarcely attending to the contents. At the bottom of the pile is an unfamiliar bundle. He pauses to flick through. The sheets are headed with the National’s blue and white logo – the papers he’d picked up at the conference a couple of months ago and overlooked till now; copies of research projects from the different speakers. As he folds them a title catches his eye: ‘Immunotherapy: a warning note’.
He unfolds them again and walks back into the kitchen. The coffee is ready, and he sips as he reads. The research has similarities to his own. The study in New Zealand was small, but involved cancer patients. Varicella virus was used to switch on immunity … in ten cases of malignant melanoma the tumours decreased in size … two patients had a severe adverse reaction which was fatal. Fatal? His eyes flick back; he reads more slowly. A sample of twenty adults was infused with varicella virus through a drip into the arm. Improvements were noted in all but two individuals who experienced a severe asthmatic response followed by catastrophic liver and kidney failure resulting in death. Trial withdrawn forthwith. Post-mortem histology showed an inflammatory reaction indicating an aggravated immune response, presumably in individuals who had been infected with the virus before by chance. A red flag warning advised the withdrawal of similar trials of treatment pending the results of further investigation.
Albie slowly sits down on a cardboard box; he stares ahead, unseeing as if at the wreckage of his dreams. Empty minutes tick by before he stands, wiping his face with the edge of his tee shirt, and pulls his laptop from the case. He brings up the paper after searching the archives and scrolls down for detailed analysis and editorial comment. As he reads, he begins to relax. The trial was heavily criticised by the editor: a fixed dose had been given to all patients irrespective of their size, resulting in overdose in the two individuals who died. Albie’s heart slows, he exhales a long, slow sigh of relief. It is unsurprising he missed the report: because of the faulty set-up, it never reached the wider scientific press.
The time is eight a.m., midnight in California. Ted’s hour for reading emails. The phone is answered on the second ring. Ted listens and when he speaks his voice is very quiet. ‘So there was a secondary immune response in two individuals, severe enough to be fatal?’
‘The implication is that those patients with a catastrophic reaction were given too much virus for their size. They might also have been infected with varicella virus before, so yes, an immune response gone wrong.’
‘Why doesn’t this happen more often? After all, most people get reinfected with virus, they don’t develop a deadly inflammatory response.’ Ted is angry, as though this problem was directed at him personally.
‘It’s idiosyncratic, the risk is very small. I admit there’s a theoretical concern, but in our trial the virus is delivered straight into the brain. It can’t even cross over the blood-brain barrier, so the body wouldn’t generate an immune response, only the brain. There’s a vanishingly small chance of a similar catastrophe—’
‘A theoretical concern?’ Ted explodes. ‘You may be in charge for the moment, Albie, but this research was done in my laboratory. Any risk is unacceptable. We must inform Viromex they’ll have to wait for us to carry out further tests before proceeding. We’ll need a new cohort of rats; each animal should be given two separate exposures to the virus. If any die on the second exposure, we’ll have to scrap everything and start again.’ A harsh sigh down the phone. ‘This is a bloody nuisance; we were just about to receive that payout. Home Office permission for a double procedure will take a long time; the delay could be considerable. I rely on you, Albie, I can’t think how you missed that research.’
‘Sorry, Ted.’ Best to keep it simple. The truth is he’s busy, with Ted’s patients, ward rounds, clinics and operations. Private lists. Meetings and appraisals, GPs’ letters and phone calls; fifty emails a day to respond to. There’s research to plan and coordinate, review meetings with Bridget, Bruce to keep in line. He doesn’t say any of this. If he does, Ted will return and might reclaim the lab. Albie’s future could be jeopardised.
‘I’ll have to come back and help you,’ Ted says. Albie forgot Ted can read his mind. There is the sound of rapid footsteps, Ted is pacing as he thinks.
‘I’ll organise everything,’ Albie rejoins swiftly, walking to the end of the sitting room and back again, phone tight against his ear. ‘I’m in charge, remember; leave it to me.’
‘If there is any perceived danger, it will kill the Viromex deal.’ Ted isn’t listening to him; his voice rings with anxiety. ‘No one would run a trial in children with a risk like that, we’ll lose everything.’
‘Leave it to me,’ Albie repeats, raising his voice, ‘I’ll contact Viromex tomorrow and inform them there’ll be a delay for a few months while we run a two-stage trial.’
There is silence at the other end of the phone; Ted is listening at last.
‘Bruce can order in more rats and organise the infusions,’ Albie continues quickly. ‘Bridget will buy in the virus and apply for approval. I’ll copy you in at each stage.’
‘Are you sure you can handle it all?’ Ted is wavering. ‘We can’t afford to cut corners.’
‘I know that, Ted. Trust me.’
‘Good man.’ The relief is audible. ‘I’m back in a couple of months for Ed’s party, you can fill me in then.’
The conversation is over. Albie leans against the counter; the glow has gone from the morning. He makes coffee for Beth and puts it on a tray with the juice and the paper. Beth is still in bed; she glances up from her book. He’ll tell her about the phone call next week after her test at the clinic; no point in worrying her now. He sets the tray down on the table, puts the paper on the bed and hands her the cup of coffee.
‘You were pacing downstairs.’ She sips the coffee. ‘Back and forth, like a caged animal.’
‘Was I?’ He sits on the edge of the bed. ‘I didn’t realise. I was on the phone to Ted.’
‘Bet he was pacing too.’ A smile flickers across her face.
‘What makes you think that?’
Her eyes are lowered to her cup. The window is open, but there is little traffic on a Sunday down their road, it’s completely quiet, as though she were holding her breath.
She looks up, still smiling, ‘You’ve told me enough times.’ She replaces the cup on the tray. ‘You always say how much it annoys you and now you’re doing exactly the same.’
He’d forgotten. He forgets everything these days, though a memory gleams out from the past at her words, of stags pacing each other up and down on the hill behind the house, as they assessed their rival’s strengths before the rut. There hasn’t been time to go to Jura this summer. He stares outside at the sky circumscribed by roofs and the parked cars glittering in the sun. In Jura the sky is untrammelled, the sun lies on wide expanses of grass where the deer run wild. Next year.
‘Albie, look.’ Beth’s voice pulls him back. She is pointing to a column at the front of the paper. ‘I’ve seen this guy before.’
He leans to read the headline. ‘Man accused of Greenwich Murders, released after a ten-year campaign led by Jake Valance.’ A haggard face stares from the page. The man looks ill, as though freedom came too late to make up for ten stolen years. ‘Poor guy. How on earth do you know him?’
‘Not him, sweetheart, the journalist, Jake Valance.’ Beth indicates a small picture by the side of the piece above the byline. The reporter has a shock of hair, an intense stare. ‘I remember the name. He was at that party where we met. He was with Ed. I happened to be standing near, I heard them talking. He looked just like a fox, he still does.’
‘I’m surprised you remember so much detail; it was a long time ago now.’
‘I can’t think why you’re surprised.’ She smiles up at him. ‘I remember everything about that party.’ She slips her arms round his neck. ‘It was the most important night of my life.’
He smiles as he bends to kiss her. ‘Now why would that be, I wonder?’
<
br /> ‘I met this incredible man,’ she murmurs into his ear. ‘He was exactly the kind of guy I’d been waiting for.’
Later, while Beth is showering, he takes the paper and breakfast things downstairs, then retrieves his notebook from its shelf on the dresser. He has to plan the new two-stage trial now. He begins to draw up a list of what he will need: three rats in each dose group, and three in each control. Separate quantities of virus for abdominal and intracerebral delivery. He pauses, pencil in hand, to glance over at the newspaper left on the dresser, neatly folded. The photo of the young journalist is uppermost. Unlike Beth, Albie hadn’t noticed Jake Valance at all. He can’t remember anyone that night apart from her. He hadn’t been waiting, though; she’d arrived in front of him like a gift from the gods, all the more thrilling for being completely unexpected. It was just a turn of phrase, but it’s strange to think it might have been quite different for her and that she had been waiting, as she said, for a guy just like him, all along.
11
London. Autumn 2017
It was a mistake to have lied; biological evidence always trumps a lie.
Two weeks ago they had been sitting opposite David Smith in the slippery leather chairs of his fertility clinic in Harley Street. The appointment had come through in a month, but Albie had to change it twice because of emergency operations. Beth had been glad of the delays; she hadn’t wanted to go at all, frightened that the past might emerge from the shadows, but she was unable to think of an excuse. They finally met him, pink-cheeked and white-haired, apparently genial though the small eyes had moved back and forth rapidly as though this was a game of piggy in the middle and he was trying to catch what was passing between them. He told them Albie’s tests were fine and then took Beth’s medical history; he didn’t have it to hand, he explained, because hospital and private notes were held separately. No GP’s letter either, this being a favour for Albie, a colleague; so when he asked her if she had ever been pregnant, she lied.