by Jane Shemilt
A tray appears before him; he takes a little scone with a lick of green on top, looks up to thank the bearer, turns away, turns back. The grey hair is sleekly blow-dried, the thin face carefully made up. He remembers the unusual hair but the glamour takes him by surprise. She returns his gaze, a gleam in her dark eyes.
‘Verdandi.’ He smiles. ‘I might have known you’d be helping.’
‘No names.’ Her lips twist, more of a grimace than a smile. ‘I’m in disguise.’
He takes a bite of scone, tasting courgette and poppy seeds, a hint of Parmesan. The salty tang of seaweed. ‘This is delicious. Did you make it?’
‘My mother,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t tell.’ She puts her fingers to her lips and backs away, disappearing into the throng. He cranes his neck for Skuld, who might be helping, but she is nowhere in sight – perhaps she’s in the lab, working late.
A burst of laughter pulls his attention towards the doors of the balcony, where Jenny and Ted are talking in a little group. Jenny looks tanned, better than the last time he saw her, nearly two years ago. Time and success have restored her, at least partly, at least outwardly. Ed holds hands with his pretty fiancée. A man with a thick mop of red hair lounges at Ed’s other side between him and his father, his eyes focused on Ted. He looks familiar – Beth’s foxy journalist from the paper, surely, Jake somebody. Albie moves towards them, wanting to catch Ted, but the journalist, Jake, is now resting a hand on Ted’s shoulder and murmuring in his ear. Ted’s mouth opens wide in a noisy, unfamiliar laugh. The younger man leans to embrace him, Ted reciprocates, a bear hug. Albie stares; Ted only hugs family. He is still staring when Ted glances in his direction. Jake’s gaze follows his as if intrigued. Albie smiles but Ted’s eyes narrow, his eyebrows draw together, his face seems to contract. He has seen that look before, when Ted is about to perform a difficult operation and is weighing the risks. It lasts a second, maybe two. Despite the pressing crowd and the deafening noise, they could be facing each other in a darkened room; all he can see are those glinting eyes. Albie’s heart begins to beat fast, as if his body senses a threat that his mind hasn’t grasped. Ted turns away and raises his glass. ‘A toast to the engaged couple.’
Glasses are lifted, congratulations shouted. Albie joins in the toast but the champagne tastes bitter, a little flat; he should have drunk it sooner. Ted is different tonight, as if with his family and this journalist fellow, their own friendship counts for less. He feels snubbed, like a child at a party left out of a game. He must find Beth, they should leave. It was a mistake to have come, they were both too tired. He will talk to Ted in the morning.
‘… head up the laboratory for a year, with immediate effect.’ Ted is looking straight at him again. He missed the start of this speech and the words hang in the air on their own in a moment of silence. Albie feels his neck and shoulders relax. Ted is making good on his promise after all; he’d been waiting for the right moment and hence the searching glance. Albie steps forward, assembling an acceptance speech. As he waits for the clapping to die down, Ted switches his gaze back to Ed, who ducks his head, smiling. Albie halts, confused, like a man at a crossroads where the signs have been changed, unsure of his direction.
‘We feel very lucky he’s accepted. This role will be challenging, but he has youth on his side. He will be helping to guide projects in the lab and will be taking forward some exciting commercial interest as well.’ Ted smiles at his son and his voice deepens with affection. ‘It comes at an auspicious time for Ed as we celebrate his engagement to our lovely future daughter-in-law, Sophie Valance.’ More clapping. Sophie hides her face in Ed’s shoulder. An orthopaedic surgeon standing next to Ed cheers loudly but Ted holds up his hand for quiet. ‘Perhaps I should add that Ed was the unanimous choice of the selection board for appointments. He will be in charge; I’ll remain on hand but in the background.’
Ted’s words scythe through Albie like a weapon used in combat, rough-edged to do maximum harm. He is motionless to contain the hurt. He probably looks the same but his hand is shaking to the wild rhythm of his heart and the room has dimmed. He is conscious of movement nearby, a circle forming around Ed and Sophie. Ted has turned his back, as if, having struck a fatal blow, he can afford to ignore his rival, felled and no longer a threat. Is that what he’s become without realising – Ted’s rival? Perhaps he’s always been a target, robbed at every turn and now dispossessed. Albie finishes his drink, slopping some. He must leave, go home and staunch the wound. He begins to shoulder through the throng, looking for Beth. He glimpses a slim girl through a parting in the crowd, her platinum head turned away in conversation with Owen: Skuld. His little spy. Did she know? Why didn’t she warn him? He manoeuvres himself closer and taps her shoulder; the head turns, a lined fifty-year-old face stares into his, plucked eyebrows raised high. He stammers an apology and backs away, nodding in response to Owen’s friendly smile. His face is sweating; he has to get out.
Beth is in a corner near the window, talking to a tall Indian girl, whose arm is around Jake. Albie looks at him with dislike.
‘There you are.’ Beth turns towards him as he approaches; she sounds relieved. ‘I couldn’t find you anywhere so I went outside to look. I missed the speech.’ She takes his hand, drawing him into the little group. ‘This is Jake and Gita. It was Jake I was talking about when I spotted that newspaper article, remember? I’ve been congratulating him on his piece.’ Jake gives a little bow. ‘Jake’s Ed’s best friend; it’s his sister Sophie that Ed’s marrying.’ She smiles at Gita. ‘Gita and I have been discussing gardens.’
Gita’s pink sari is bright against her skin; her black hair sticks up in little points over a finely shaped skull but there are dark lines under her eyes. ‘Beth’s been suggesting what trees to plant for our son to look at from his pram.’ She smiles but her voice trembles. ‘He has hydrocephalus, so—’
‘I hear you’re a neurosurgeon, like Ted,’ Jake cuts in, looking at Albie.
Albie stares at him blankly. The words jar. He isn’t like Ted; he’s not a thief or a liar, he doesn’t break promises or cheat on his wife. Jake’s pointed nose lifts at the tip, as if scenting the air for a problem. Close up his eyes are coloured differently, one brown, one green. It’s hard to know which one to look at. Albie takes Beth’s elbow, ‘Excuse us, we have to leave straightaway.’
Beth glances at him; her eyes flick between his eyes and mouth, reading him. She slides her hand into his. As he draws her away, she turns back to Gita. ‘Don’t forget, a cherry tree, for the blossom.’
They are at the door when Ted’s voice calls from the crowd. ‘Leaving already?’ He approaches, holding a champagne bottle in one hand, a glass in the other, his black tie askew. Albie stares at the angle of Ted’s jaw where the tanned skin is stretched smoothly over the mandible, the place where in movies, fist meets flesh with a crunch of bone. But they are not in a movie; they are neurosurgical colleagues standing in the middle of a party. He wants to hurt Ted but he doesn’t know how.
‘… know how busy you are, Albie; you implied as much when I mentioned the post. It left an impression.’ Ted’s voice is a little slurred, his words run together. ‘Ed’s got more time to run a lab than you have.’
‘You gave that job to me, Ted; it’s mine.’ Albie’s face is burning. ‘I’m managing the two-dose trial, remember?’ He has never spoken to Ted like this before but the man is half drunk; he can say what he wants. Ted won’t remember a word in the morning.
‘Nothing was signed to that effect.’ Ted sounds regretful. ‘And as you’ve heard, turns out the lab wasn’t mine to give.’
He’s lying. Ted heads up that selection board; he could have achieved whatever outcome he wanted. Ted takes a step towards them. Beth instantly presses into Albie’s side, he puts his arm around her; she is trembling as if with fever.
‘Don’t worry.’ Ted smiles cheerfully. ‘Though Ed takes over the running of the trial from now on, you’ll still get your payout from the Viromex deal, plus
royalties; that’s if it all goes to plan. You modified the virus, after all.’ Then he shrugs. ‘There’ll be no deal if it fails, of course. Ed would design a new trial in that case, and any payout and royalties that follow would be his.’ His voice deepens. ‘I’ll take responsibility for this trial as it’s already started, that’s only fair while he’s so new to it all. Ed’s aware that the buck stops with me.’ Then he laughs. ‘Don’t look like that, Albie. I thought you’d be relieved. The trial is more complicated now there are two stages to manage.’ He glances at Beth, something sharp flickers across his face: anger? Regret? It’s gone before Albie can analyse it. ‘Lovely woman. She understands.’ Ted lurches towards her and Albie tenses, bunching his hand. Ted’s intoxicated, it wouldn’t take much.
‘Let’s go, Albie.’ Beth turns a white face up to his and he remembers the investigation she underwent that morning; he should get her home. He guides her through the door, but when he glances back, Ted is still staring after them. The smile has vanished and his face is quite empty.
Beth is sleeping; her lavender scent lingers in the room and on her skin.
His hands rest as if in prayer between her hips. They made love, a brief, intense coupling, and then, as though released, he’d talked into the night, tracing out the pattern of Ted’s betrayals. They seem so obvious now; the smaller ones that were the forerunners of this larger one. The theft of his patent nearly two years ago, then his PhD. Now Ted has stolen his job. Albie has accommodated everything until this point, made allowances, tried to understand, to take the long view. Now there is no view; Ted has blotted it out.
Sleep doesn’t come. He eases his arm from under Beth’s body, gets up and slides the window open as widely as it will go. The night is cold, there’s a harvest moon. He smells diesel fumes, decaying leaves, rubbish. A fox barks from somewhere close by. He hadn’t realised how quickly the year was passing, summer has disappeared. Journeys between home and work take place in the dark, the seasons have become invisible. The old wood of the lintel is damp, the paint flakes beneath his hand. Everything is in jeopardy.
The lab job has gone; without a body of research to his name, the chances of a consultant post anywhere will be diminished. All his plans to make a difference could come to nothing. If the rats in the virus trial survive he’ll at least own that research. His application for the next job will be strengthened, he’ll have a future; if any die, the work will be dismissed and his position weakened. Ed will devise other treatments, he’ll take the credit and the money. Without that money and without the salary from the lab to fund the mortgage, the house itself will be at risk. There will be nothing left for fertility treatment should they need it after all. Loss after loss.
The moon is obscured by cloud; as he gazes out at the dark trees his mind touches every shadowy possibility. He can hear Beth’s words again, as clearly as if she were beside him, whispering them into his ear.
What if the chances of a reaction could be eliminated?
That could only happen if the rats were to receive the virus once, rather than twice; his thoughts begin to slide towards a plan as if down a sloping path that Beth has already smoothed for him.
There might be things that can be altered.
The protocol is set and the virus ordered, but no one would know if the rats were injected with an inert liquid, saline for instance, instead of virus in the first round of injections.
The fox barks again, the noise lengthening into a scream. Another shriek cuts across the first; it sounds like a fight. The noises are getting nearer. When the virus is given to the rats on the second injection, it would be as if for the first time. There would be no reaction, the treatment would be judged successful, Viromex would release the payout as promised and the trial would go forward. If any rats were to die during Viromex’s own trials, the treatment would be terminated at that point, no child would ever be at risk. By then, at least he’d have the payout. If Viromex were to blame the Institute for a misleading trial, the blame would attach to Ted, who shoulders the responsibility and might even have to leave. The consultant job would fall vacant, and he’ll be waiting, next in line.
A fox jumps on to the wall and runs lightly along it, a small shape hanging wriggling from its jaws. A bird? A rat? The spoils of a fight. The fox jumps through the air as though flying, lands smoothly and disappears behind the tree next to the shed. If he follows this plan he’ll be stepping into wild territory where the shadows are thick, away from the straight path he has followed until now. He lifts his head, catching a faint iron tang. The victim has been laid open. He knows the scent of blood in all its guises, fresh in the operating theatre, putrid on a bandage, dried in the morgue. The wind blows the clouds from the moon and stirs the boughs of the pine tree next door; they lift and thrash like limbs. The garden becomes brighter in the moonlight.
Karim was smiling in the review clinic today, transformed. There will be others like him if the treatment can progress, generations of children to save. He owes it to them to take the research forward. He steps back and shuts the window then slides into bed. The warmth from Beth’s sleeping body envelops him.
The noise of the coffee machine wakes him early. Beth is in the kitchen at five a.m., her work uniform beneath her coat. A jug of squeezed juice on the table is turbid with fragments that stir as if alive.
‘I was thinking back to our discussion before the party.’ She hands him a cup of coffee. ‘I wondered if you’d thought any more about it.’ She scoops up the stiffening tea bags that have been left to bleed in brown pools and tips the orange peel away.
He nods, wrapping his hands around the cup, the heat stings his palms. ‘You were right, there are things that could be altered.’ He drops his voice. ‘Substituting saline for the virus in the first round of inoculations could be one of them …’ He stops, uncertain. The words sound wrong in the bright kitchen – they belong back in the night, in the silence and dark – but Beth’s eyes narrow instantly, she nods.
‘Those kinds of changes would have to be done soon, before Bruce starts the trial. It will be too late after that.’ She extracts toast from the toaster, butters the slice and passes it to him. Her mouth shines with lipstick, her hair is pinned neatly with a clasp. She looks fresh after her night’s sleep, moving rapidly as though impelled by her thoughts. Harris sits by her feet, staring fixedly at her. She takes his biscuits from the cupboard, weighs a handful then pours them clattering into the bowl. The dog crunches them down in seconds. ‘After my theatre list I’ll start planning what we need to do.’ She turns to him. ‘We’ll need to know if there are any CCTV cameras in the lab, perhaps call in to check if you have time.’ As she walks about the kitchen, clearing the table and replacing milk in the fridge, the ring on her finger catches the light and a green splinter dances on the wall. He gazes at it as he bites into the toast, his thoughts veering wildly.
She kisses him goodbye, then the door closes behind her. His list starts later than hers. He dresses slowly, pulling his clothes from a heap on the bedroom floor, the black silk dress crumpled amongst them. The plans that seemed so clear last night are muddled now, the way ahead tangled with doubts. He replaces the towels on the bathroom rail, glancing in the mirror. His lips are stained red with her lipstick. The taste is unfamiliar. He scrubs his mouth clean with the flannel, looks round the untidy bedroom and, closing the door on the mess, hurries from the house.
13
London. Autumn 2017
Scalpel. Wound retractor. Forceps. Diathermy. She knows the order by heart. The surgeon next to her is trussed into crackling cotton like a warrior into armour. He doesn’t look up but holds out a gloved hand into which she places instruments, slapping them against his palm one by one. They act with precision as if shadow-dancing while images from yesterday rise up to bob against her mind: the swollen tubes on the screen, Albie’s joyful face and later his stricken one; Ted lurching towards her.
The surgeon glances up. She hands him the bone saw, handle first, and an e
ar-splitting whine fills the theatre. She swabs blood and rinses debris; the images submerge again. When the leg is removed, it is passed to her, the weight heavier than she’d expected, much warmer; she hands it on to an assistant, then turns back again, passing the diathermy instruments, needles and thread. Stitching draws the wound edges together as neatly as a zippered purse. When the operation is finished and the patient has been attended to in the recovery room, she follows his bed to the ward and delivers the notes and instructions before descending again to wash white bone dust from her face. Leaving the hospital, she looks about her for a moment as if she has stumbled ashore in a strange place and is wondering exactly where she is. She walks part-way back, needing sun and air after a morning of artificial fluorescence and the rusty scents of blood and bone. Once home she changes into her oldest tracksuit and ties her hair high. Her eyes look different in the bathroom mirror. They shine more brightly, her jaw seems sharply defined, as if the muscles have grown from clenching her teeth in her sleep. She turns away from that pale, determined face.
The kitchen first. Order seems necessary for the task ahead, like her trolley of instruments before the surgeon goes to work. She clears shelves, scouring the sticky rings and throwing away broken strands of pasta and grains of rice. As she scrubs and sluices, the stain of her encounter with David yesterday seems to fade a little. She sweeps dog hair, blackened fragments of meat and translucent slivers of cheese from the corners of the floor. Harris watches from the door, whining softly as she works; after a while he settles to sleep, nose on his paws.
There are bones behind the compost bin in the garden where she dumps the waste, blackish faeces, a musky smell. Foxes. She leaves their mess untouched, not wanting to scare them away. What if there are cubs about? She walks back to the house, glancing around at the garden as she goes. There are more trees now, a large vegetable patch in the corner behind a hedge, but she hasn’t thought of flowers for the spring. By then Albie’s trial could be done, the children will be improving; Albie will be feted everywhere, Ted’s betrayals fading. They’ll need to gaze out on celebratory yellows and oranges, colours that cheer and heal. Leaving the kitchen floor to dry, she shuts Harris in the house and walks round the curve of the road to Rosslyn Hill. Her feet crunch on the curled leaves that drift on the pavements as she hurries to the village, out of breath by the time she turns into Flask Walk. At the flower shop, she squats to fill a bag with hard cream and brown daffodil bulbs from an open sack on the floor, scooping them up in handfuls.