by Jane Shemilt
‘Thanks.’
‘I really meant Viromex’s own trials,’ Albie calls out above the noise of grinding. ‘The ones they did to confirm our findings. Ed told me they were fine, that’s what I can’t understand.’
‘My God, didn’t anyone tell you?’ Ted gets up and begins to pace backwards and forwards, running his hand through his hair. ‘I thought you knew. It turns out that there were no reruns of our trial.’
‘But Ed said—’
‘He was misinformed.’ Ted is shouting now. ‘Some bloody junior researcher at Viromex who couldn’t give a fuck got his facts completely wrong.’
Albie slops burning coffee on his hand and holds it under cold water. There had been no safety net then, nothing to save the children from what he did. It means he killed them as surely as if he had stood them together side by side and shot them, one after the other. He turns off the tap and wipes his hands slowly, his mind spinning with guilt.
‘Viromex relied completely on our data.’ Ted’s voice is quieter again, much flatter. ‘Our lab has such an excellent reputation they decided not to bother with their own trials, despite promising to do so. They got permission from the Federal Drugs Administration to proceed straight to the children’s trial on the back of the rat data we handed them; they made their case on the grounds of urgent clinical need.’
Albie is silent. Just six months ago he had been in Bruce’s room meticulously removing the viral solution from each little bottle and swilling the fluid away, unaware as he did so that he was signing two death warrants, possibly more. He puts the coffee on the table near Ted and sits with bowed head, listening to the countdown to disaster.
‘By the time we’d finished, Viromex were all ready to go. Ethics committee approval took less time than they thought. Then the permission from the FDA was hurried through; not bothering to run the trial on their own lab animals saved more time. I guess they couldn’t wait to get their money.’ Ted pauses, his eyebrows knit together in a solid bar. His voice quietens, ‘Once the trial finally got underway, things happened quickly. The children became ill just days after the brain infusion.’ He takes a gulp of the coffee then spits it out. ‘Jesus, it’s boiling.’
Albie fetches a towel from the kitchen. Ted stands to wipe his shirt and then sits again, making a visible effort to compose himself. He puts both hands on his knees and leans forward.
‘Viromex have approached a contract research organisation to do a retrial on a fresh batch of rats with brain tumours. It will take three weeks minimum: the first immunisation, two weeks to develop immunity, then the intracerebral inoculation.’ He lifts his face to the ceiling and closes his eyes as if in prayer. ‘If their rats survive, I’m in the clear. If they die, our results will look faked, in which case, game over. I’m fucked.’
‘Even though you weren’t in the country?’
‘Doesn’t matter. My lab, my responsibility.’
‘And Ed?’
‘He’ll be okay, thank God. I was always going to be responsible for this trial, remember – he was new to the lab, and away in Germany for most of the time anyway.’
‘What about Bruce?’
‘I spoke to Bridget about Bruce on the phone yesterday, we couldn’t meet in the lab, no one’s allowed in for a month. The Board have commissioned an investigation; the police are involved.’ His face tightens, he pushes himself to standing and begins to pace. ‘Bridget told me Bruce had been stressed. She was worried he’d make errors in the trial, so she supervised every inoculation and recorded it all. He performed faultlessly, I’m told. He’s no more to blame than you – and you, of course, were gone before the trial finally kicked off.’ He glances at Albie ruefully. ‘Thank God for that at least.’
Guilt rises like vomit but Albie swallows it down. He stares at Ted, telling himself that if Ted hadn’t given the lab to his son, none of this would have happened, that he has brought this on himself. The door opens and Harris sits up, tail beating the floor, as Beth comes into the room clasping a pot which holds a small tree. Her face is screened from the room by pink blossom. She navigates past the sofa and bends to kiss Albie.
‘Look what I found.’ She sounds happier, more determined. ‘I’m going to plant it near the shed, so we can see it. I thought we needed cheering up—’
He interrupts quickly, ‘Ted’s here.’
The pallor is instant, for a moment it seems she might faint. In the midst of despair his thoughts spin to hopes of a pregnancy; if she’s started a child, she shouldn’t be carrying a heavy load. He takes the tree from her, while Ted gets up and comes forward, leaning as if to kiss her at exactly the same time that she steps away.
‘I can manage.’ She pulls open the folding glass door, takes the tree back from Albie and walks out into the garden. Ted straightens, his face expressionless.
‘Gardening seems to be all she can think about right now,’ Albie tells him.
‘I respect passion.’ Ted’s eyes follow Beth. ‘It must be good to immerse yourself in a garden. I envy her, I envy you both.’ He picks up his jacket. ‘I’ve bribed my lawyer with Sunday lunch, we’re going through my options.’
Albie opens the front door; the green Mini is still parked opposite, the driver staring across at them.
‘Hell,’ Ted mutters, stepping back. ‘They never give up. I can’t escape. They’ve even staked out the cottage in Dorset.’
‘It might be easier for you back in the States.’
Ted shakes his head. ‘Once the results of the contract research team are out, I’ll have to meet representatives of the Medical Protection Society and the consultant board at the hospital who think I’ve cheated and lied. I’ll need to return to the lab when it’s open and hunt around, though I doubt I’ll be allowed much freedom; they’ve already asked for my resignation. Most of all though, I long to escape the bloody press.’ His eyes rove the room as if searching for a hidden door.
‘Come to Jura with us. We’re going in three weeks,’ Albie hears himself saying. Ted’s company on Jura is the last thing they need, but the idea catches hold. They’ll be leaving for Scotland before the lab reopens – if he’s with them, Ted won’t be able to search for evidence, should any exist. Beth will see the logic, though she’s never liked him. He puts a hand on Ted’s shoulder, feeling the sharp outline of bone through the jacket. Ted has lost weight. Pity flares, a thin, hot flame. ‘I’ll text you the details. You’ll be safe from the press up there.’
‘You know, that might just save my life.’ Ted pats the pockets of his jacket and draws out keys and mobile. Albie opens the door again; the green car has gone. There is a discreet clunk and a flash of lights from the red Mercedes parked further down the road. ‘Thanks, Albie, I’ll be in touch.’ He walks to his car and opens the door, then ducks into the thickly upholstered seat, phone to his ear.
The Mail on Sunday is lying where Ted tossed it on the sofa. Albie turns the pages, scanning each column. He finds what he is looking for on the fifth page. The title is lurid.
EXPERIMENTAL BRAIN CANCER TREATMENT KILLS TWO CHILDREN
He reads on, feeling nauseous. Professor Edward Malcolm of London’s National Hospital oversaw research … rats given tumours … miracle cure … sold for undisclosed sum to US pharmacy giant Viromex … one year later in a Boston hospital, children began to die.
There is a grainy picture of Ted smiling as he shakes the hand of a man Albie recognises, a tanned man with a crew cut. Exciting new treatment on its way for children struck with deadly brain cancer runs the caption dated two years previously. ‘We are delighted to partner Prof Malcolm to take his thrilling treatment forward’ says Viromex chief. Below that another picture: an emaciated child in a hospital bed. Grieving parents want answers.
Albie puts the paper down; a headache has started. In the garden, Beth is digging a deep hole and is oblivious of his approach. The little tree has been freed of its pot and placed on its side; white roots curl round and round in the compact drum of earth.
&nbs
p; ‘Should you be doing that, sweetheart? For a moment back there I thought you might faint.’
‘Fine.’ She is breathless from digging. ‘Forgot breakfast, that’s all.’
‘Not pregnant then?’ He attempts a laugh.
She shakes her head and, taking a knife from her pocket, starts to slash at the drum of earth. His headache is intensified by the blade stabbing into the soil.
‘Surely you are slicing through the roots?’
‘That’s the point. You need to sever them; the cut ends will be stimulated to grow outwards and anchor the tree to the ground.’
She lifts the tree with both hands and then lowers it into the hole. Albie holds it steady as she tips the soil around the trunk, stamping it firmly down. She replaces the spade in the shed and walks towards the house. ‘Is Ted still here?’
‘Gone to see his lawyer. Beth, listen. Viromex didn’t repeat Bruce’s tests after all. They took the results for granted.’
She faces him; there is a pause while her glance flickers over his face. Her expression hardens. ‘So it’s their fault. Not yours. Not ours. You trusted Viromex would do their tests—’
‘I’ve asked Ted to Jura,’ he interrupts. He wants to stop her talking, blaming Viromex won’t bring the children back.
She stares at him in silence, her eyes unreadable.
‘I know you’ve never liked him,’ he says slowly. ‘But we need him out of harm’s way. The lab’s closed for now, but I know Ted. He’ll turn it upside down as soon as he’s allowed in.’ He doesn’t talk about guilt or pity; she seems tense, she might not understand.
‘Of course, Albie, though it could be awkward. I don’t know him as well as you do.’
‘He told me you were his theatre nurse once.’ He frowns, feeling wrong-footed. ‘You must be reasonably acquainted.’
‘Oh, that. I was just one of his team for a while.’ She turns away and steps into the house; he follows. ‘You know what it’s like in theatres.’ She picks up the empty coffee cups and takes them to the kitchen. ‘No one gets to know anyone very well.’
He thinks of Ted in theatre telling stories, joking, keeping the team going; of the hours Ted spent teaching him, patiently watching and guiding. In theatre he’d felt he knew Ted better than at any other time. Through the window he looks at the little tree, standing in its circle of mud. He closes his eyes, trying to shut out the image of the flashing knife, slashing and cutting the strands of root tissue.
There is a phone call at midnight exactly three weeks later. Beth passes him the phone. Ted’s voice is slurred. He tells Albie that the results from the contract research organisation are out. Eighty per cent of the rats inoculated with attenuated varicella died when they received the cerebral infusion of the same virus later. Pathology reports showed a massive inflammatory infiltrate of the brain. In the opinion of the General Medical Council, the trial from Ted’s lab was grossly misleading. The children should never have received the treatment. The Trust has suspended his employment; he may be facing criminal proceedings.
Albie is silent. He had wanted revenge but this is extreme. He imagined his success trumping Ted’s; he never envisaged prison.
‘Jura in a couple of days, Ted.’
‘I have a meeting at the Trust headquarters on Thursday. I’ll follow you up at the weekend.’
Albie is unable to sleep after the call. He gets up and roams the house, turning his laptop on then off again. He can’t face emails, but then he remembers his notebook, neglected since the news. Not work – something different. A drawing might soothe him, he could sketch Dunbar, settled into its curve of land as if it had grown with the landscape. He knows the shapes by heart. He walks to the hall but his notebook is not on the table; he stares at the empty surface, treading down disquiet. Beth’s journal has gone too; she must have moved both to polish the wood. He’s too tired to search now. He picks up a book of poems he doesn’t read, and makes a cup of tea he doesn’t drink. As he is drifting into sleep an hour later he hears a scream from outside. Foxes again.
Very early the next morning, he wakes in the dark, his heart thumping. At four a.m. he gets up to search for his book. He looks in his desk and the kitchen and on every surface in the house. The notebook contains all his thoughts and clinical plans, his future trials. It’s a record of his working life, past and future, part of who he is. Panic washes through him at the thought of its loss. He pulls the books from the bookcase, emptying each shelf, and tips out all the drawers. He turns out the kitchen cupboards; the clattering pans wake Beth.
‘Why is everything all over the floor?’ she enquires sleepily on her way to make tea.
‘My notebook’s missing.’ The admission feels dangerous; he can hardly get the words out. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘Not for a while, sorry.’
‘Your gardening journal’s not there either—’
‘I think I left it in the shed the other day. I did notice that yours had gone, but I assumed you’d taken it to work,’
‘When was that?
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Wish you’d said.’
They sit in silence over breakfast that neither eat; she is gazing into the garden when her face clears. ‘If it helps I do remember the last time I saw your book, Albie. It was our anniversary, the day that turned out to be so terrible. I checked my journal before I went into the garden to do some planting. I’m sure yours was next to it then.’
Three weeks ago; grief and regret have emptied his mind since then. He simply cannot remember where he put it down. He has an operating list later but continues to rummage at haste through the loft, the airing cupboard, in wardrobes and under rugs. In a box in the tool cupboard he comes across the rat poison his father gave him years ago for an infestation. Out of date, but he hurries into the garden to slide a tube under the shed before he leaves. He asks Beth to search when he’s gone, to keep searching; he’ll look on the wards and in theatre. A notebook can’t simply vanish into thin air.
18
Jura. Late Spring 2018
Glasgow is hotter than London, darker. The air feels heavy. The man hired to garage Albie’s Range Rover removes his glasses to wipe his sweaty face; he winks at her in a friendly way. An ordinary-looking chap, square-framed in blue overalls, a decent man. If he knew exactly why the children in the newspaper headlines had died, the smiling face would darken; he would spurn their money, spit on the ground and drive away.
Albie settles himself behind the wheel and begins to drive in silence. He hardly said a word on the flight. Rain begins to spatter against the windscreen near Loch Lomond, the Trossachs loom towards them in the greenish light. Inveraray passes on the left, then the long, grey gleam of Loch Fyne. By the time they arrive in Kennacraig, the black and white ferry is docked and waiting, its funnel scarlet against the grey sky. Albie installs them in a corner of the dining room, buys sandwiches, opens his laptop and starts to work. Her eyelids droop in the stuffy heat. Sleep closes in; she is in a hospital ward, one she vaguely knows. Parents are crying by a bed; as she approaches to comfort them, she sees writhing movements on the pillow where a nest of rats squirm together as if in pain. She wakes with a gasp of horror. Albie is focused on the screen and doesn’t look up. She walks unsteadily to the window; dark grey waves swell beyond the dirty glass. She has hardly dared think of the children. After the initial shock Albie hasn’t talked about what happened; he has barely talked at all. The disaster is still too raw for him, the damage too great. He is not used, as she is, to burying tragedy. A young man in a green vest with a mauve shock of hair walks by, a baby held close to his chest; the child is wrapped in white, tufts of dark hair just visible. The past heaves under her feet. She holds tight to the window sill and after a minute walks slowly back to her seat, summoning resolve. The mothers of the trial children had them for longer than she’d had her baby, they saw them grow before they died, they have more memories to treasure than she does. She sits down nearer to Albie. There will be a
way to encompass this, she will find them a way. Albie doesn’t look up; she doesn’t touch him though she wants to. They will have time before Ted arrives; she has brought him a volume of poetry and a new notebook to use until his own turns up. There’s a soft rug for the garden in her holdall and silky underwear in her case. When he has slept his fill, he will read in the garden, they’ll make love. Somehow they will draw together again.
The boat docks in Port Askaig in Islay, a cluster of white houses that huddle close around the harbour and then thin out down the road; the white line is broken by the red of a telephone kiosk and the peeling beige of a dilapidated pub. Albie fills the car from a small petrol station by the dock; his phone rings as they join the second queue for the Feolin ferry to Jura. He is still listening as he eases the Range Rover on to the ferry. An unshaven workman in stained oilskins waves them in to park close up behind a blue van. Albie finishes the call, but when they get out to stand by the rail, the man scowls at him.
‘Is he angry because you were on your mobile?’
Albie shakes his head. ‘It’s an old Scottish belief that men with red hair on board a ship bring bad luck.’ He would have grinned at this absurdity once, but he is focused on the sea ahead of the boat where white birds drop like bombs into the waves. His face is tense. ‘That was Ed on the phone, by the way. He’s coming up with his father, along with Theo.’
‘The boys are coming? I didn’t know you’d invited them as well.’
‘They invited themselves. Does it matter?’
She shakes her head, pushing down apprehension. Ted will keep quiet about the affair, he has so far. Ed saw them together once but was sworn to silence by his father. He might have forgotten by now. Theo never knew, or so Ted promised at the time.
‘… can’t let him out of their sight,’ Albie is continuing. ‘He’s become so depressed they feel he should be watched all the time.’ He glances at her. ‘You know how I feel about him, Beth, but I can’t forget I’m responsible.’