by Jane Shemilt
‘How long will you be?’
‘An hour.’
‘I’ll wait; meanwhile I need to get into Ted’s room.’ Albie rises. ‘Have you a key?’
A complicated expression passes across Bruce’s face, annoyance and satisfaction both. ‘No one can go in; police orders. There was a fire in there just over two weeks ago. The furniture was wrecked. It was all over the news, animal rights were implicated. I’m surprised it didn’t reach you.’
‘The internet is patchy on Jura; we didn’t buy papers … what happened to my boxes of equipment?’
‘Carbonised, I’m afraid.’
He feels sick. ‘How the bloody hell did this happen?’
‘Remember the fire in my room that everyone blamed on me? The police now think it was the same bunch, though this time the fire alarm had been disabled. It gets worse, I’m afraid.’ A smile flickers, quickly suppressed. ‘That breed of immune deficient rats you’d earmarked for your next trial have disappeared. All eighteen of them.’
‘They stole my rats?’
‘It’s almost as if they knew about your trial.’
‘No one knew, Bruce. The designs were in the notebook which I kept with me, always.’
The notebook which has nevertheless vanished completely; he’s looked everywhere: at home, Bridget has searched in the lab on his behalf, he’s gone through the wards and even theatres. Someone might have found it in the changing room while he was operating and used it to target his work; a jealous colleague, perhaps. A protester could have followed him to the tube and stolen it from the seat next to him. It might be in a taxi. It could be anywhere, but it has his name inside; he’ll see it again if he waits long enough.
‘… similar case of fires breaking out in an Oxford lab about three years ago.’ Bruce is continuing. ‘The police think that was animal rights protesters too, they’re linking the two episodes. They advised the installation of CCTV cameras and took fingerprints. Mine, Bridget’s, Skuld’s. Everyone was cleared, of course.’ He gets up.
Albie stands with him, thinking fast. This bad luck could be turned to his advantage. The lab is vulnerable. Bridget has never understood the importance of security and animal rights protesters have taken advantage. Ed has disappeared; this could be an opportunity to present himself as the stable, experienced candidate for the long term. Bruce doesn’t deserve to waltz into the job that was originally promised to him. There has to be something he can do. Bruce has prepared his fortifications well, but every castle has a weak place if you search long enough: a drawbridge left down, a door that’s unmanned. They leave the room together. Bruce doesn’t bother to lock up; he is only walking round the corner to the lab. Albie enters the lift, closes the door, descends to the ground floor then re-ascends, and walks swiftly back to Bruce’s room where he shuts the door then locks it.
He begins to leaf among the papers on the desk, looking for information, a strategy to hijack, contacts he can anonymously email with unhelpful information about his friend. His eyes roam the room seeking lists or numbers; catching instead a picture of a naked girl on the cork board, he moves closer. Bruce’s professed interest in young girls is something he could use. The girl straddles a scarlet motorbike on a calendar; she’s young, probably younger than she looks, and a plan begins to shape itself from the racing thoughts in his head. When his mobile sounds a second later he answers without glancing at the caller’s name on the screen. Muffled sobs come down the phone.
‘Can it wait, Beth? I’ll phone you back in an hour.’
‘It’s Gita, Albie. Billy’s ill.’
‘Billy’s ill?’ He is back in his other world, where illness rules and doctors are helpful to their patients. ‘How can I help?’
‘He’s off his food; he’s been sick a couple of times. The nurse at the practice thinks it’s just the usual sort of virus going round, but I know Billy. Jake’s away. Ted usually … Oh God, Ted. It’s so sad. How terrible for you all.’
‘Yes.’ It had been the most terrible moment of his life. ‘Tell me about Billy,’ he continues quickly. ‘Is he hot? Sleepy?’
She pours out a list of symptoms, though none seem particularly worrying. He invites her to bring Billy to Ward Three at Great Ormond Street Hospital and then contacts the staff asking for a side room. One of Prof Malcolm’s special patients, a member of his family, almost; the little boy with hydrocephalus. Yes, that’s right, Billy. He’ll see him himself. He’s unlikely to need admission.
This will be some minor problem. Gita is on her own, everything will seem worse. He turns off his phone and, opening his briefcase, retrieves the gloves he stowed long ago. It doesn’t take long to find Bruce’s personal laptop behind the door. He unzips the case and slips it on to the desk. New, top of the range. Bruce has given himself a present in advance of the salary rise he imagines will be his. All Albie needs is the password; offering up a silent prayer that Bruce has the same one for personal and hospital use he taps in DEADRATS. He is in, immediately. Then he pauses, conscious he is navigating a path that’s leading him into a dark forest. He could step off the track now, put the laptop back in the case, meet Bruce as planned, work out some compromise. He sits, sweating with indecision, but here in Bruce’s office, Bruce’s face comes easily to mind: falsely modest, fresh as if he slept well, untroubled by plaguing nightmares. Bruce hasn’t suffered for this, as he has. He hasn’t committed terrible crimes. Albie reaches swiftly for the memory stick that is jammed into a mug with felt-tip pens and a cigarette lighter. Slotting it into the side of the laptop, he begins to search on Google, typing in terms which make him shudder. ‘Child images … Young sex … Pre-pubescent naked child abuse images.’ He trawls each website for images and scans them, feeling sick, though by some standards these images would be mild. He would probably have to pay for the worst ones or join the dark web; these will be sufficient for his purpose. He saves whole web pages to the memory stick, downloading fifty. He removes the stick, zips up the laptop and replaces it behind the door. He sits in front of Bruce’s hospital desktop, slides in the stick and taps in the same password. It takes moments to copy the images on to the home drive. Finally, he brings up Google and taps in ‘Child porn’.
Immediately a red message fills the screen: ACCESS DENIED.
He shuts the computer down and slips the stick back into the mug. He pulls a handful of tissues from a box on the desk and wipes his face. Every week, at least once, the hospital computer checks for highly sensitive words, searching all transactions. A month ago, a pathologist was sacked for looking at pornography. This is child abuse, incalculably worse. The abortive Google search on the hospital computer will alert them and all Bruce’s files will be meticulously explored. Those obscene images will be quickly discovered.
Albie puts the gloves back in his case and leaves the room as he found it. He descends to the underground car park as before, then walks back to his office in the hospital. He checks his watch. An hour has gone by, an hour to wreck a career. After five minutes he phones Bruce to explain he has been held up on the wards. Next week should be easier. Thursday?
‘Fine.’ Bruce sounds cheerful. ‘I should have lots of news for you by then.’
Albie sits back in his chair. His shirt is sticking to his skin. By next Thursday his friend could be in custody. He feels increasingly nauseous. The path he was travelling along has just steepened; he’s accelerating downwards, out of control. He must get out of his room, he needs air.
As he crosses the road a pizza delivery bicyclist swerves to avoid him. He stumbles to a bench in the gardens, feeling giddy. At the far end, the old man in his green woollen hat drinks from a bottle of cider. Albie sits, head bent, gasping for air; a weight is bearing down on his chest and he struggles to breathe. His hands tingle painfully. Two children died as a result of what he did; he murdered a colleague and has just ruined another to justify that. He pulls off his tie and opens his collar. Every step he has taken had a logic at the time but he can’t remember it any more; he�
��s gone too far to turn round now. There is no alternative but to battle on, plunging deeper and deeper into the forest where the trees grow closely together and it’s impossible to see the way out. He breathes as slowly and fully as he can but his lungs feel restricted, the giddiness is worse. He leans further forward; his face runs with sweat, the drops falling on the paving at his feet. He can see tiny cracks in the stone, fissures branching out in a fine network too small to notice from a distance. They must be flaws that occurred since it was placed here, or perhaps when cut from the quarry years ago.
‘Okay, mate?’ The drunk has manoeuvred himself down the bench and is next to him, proffering his bottle of cider. The stench of stale urine is strong.
Albie waves him away and the man backs off, looking scared. The movement shakes Albie free. This is a panic attack, that’s all. He forces himself to breathe more slowly. The sound of birds in the square begins to filter through the noise in his head. A panic attack, he has diagnosed plenty. He walks slowly around the path that skirts the grass; the quiet tread of his feet leads his thoughts back into order. Under his stewardship the laboratory will become a centre of excellence. He will employ the right people: workers, not mavericks like Bruce. He will direct the research to bring new vaccines to market. Hundreds will benefit. Thousands. He will plough the money back into research, safeguard the lab with cameras and locks and invite people he trusts to look after the animals, Skuld, for instance. He sits again, this time on an empty bench. A pigeon by his feet begins to strut, staking out its little circle of pavement, watching, assessing danger. The purple feathers on the neck shimmer in the sun. Police sirens sound nearby; he hears the familiar rumble of taxis arriving at the hospital. The normal noises of a normal-seeming day.
With Bruce out of the running, only Ed remains as a contender for the leadership – conceivably he has made his bid already. The pigeon at his feet comes close, cocking his head to one side, listening to every sound. Ed might have been discussed at the most recent consultants’ planning meeting, favourably perhaps in view of the six months he’d already been in charge. Skuld could have been helping at that meeting if it had taken place before she left; she might have picked up something he could use to assess the threat Ed presents and then oppose it. He stands at the thought and the pigeon flies away; panic spreads quickly and the air becomes full of the clapping sound of birds’ wings as he hurries towards Great Ormond Street.
Gita turns to him with a little cry of relief. She looks different from the pretty woman at Ed’s party; her face is drawn with worry, her eyes dark with tiredness. She is cradling Billy who is grizzling and kicking wildly.
‘Are you all right?’ Gita asks, kissing Albie. ‘I can hardly imagine how dreadful it must have been for you all.’
‘Thanks, Gita. Tell me about Billy.’ He indicates the chairs. Billy quietens as they sit; the room is peaceful, despite the medical equipment banked against the walls, and the clashing colours of the toys in their red and orange plastic containers. The atmosphere is innocent. Albie hasn’t slept properly for days; his limbs grow heavy, his eyes close.
‘… blocked shunt maybe? He’s so unsettled.’
His eyes snap open. Gita is studying Billy’s face; she didn’t notice Albie’s second of sleep. Just then the child gives a little snore.
‘He seems settled enough now,’ Albie comments; they both laugh.
‘Isn’t that always the way?’ She sounds irritated and relieved at the same time. ‘He was up most of the night.’
‘And as you mentioned, you are on your own—’
‘That’s nothing new.’ Her voice hardens. ‘Jake’s driven Ed back to Jura to collect Ted’s things. My husband takes his role in that family very seriously, more seriously than his own, sometimes.’ A short laugh.
So that’s where Ed has gone. Grief could make him ineffective but Jake is sharp, professionally curious; he might pester Beth with questions and she could let something slip. He needs to get them back, especially Jake. With Billy in hospital, Jake will feel obliged to return and Ed will have to accompany him in the only car.
He examines Billy, his fingers gently exploring the child’s head, two centimetres above, two behind his right ear. He finds the small silicone dome implanted under the skin, a reservoir connected to two tubes, one from the ventricles in his brain, where the cerebrospinal fluid is produced, the other to the inside of his abdominal cavity so it can drain away. When he depresses it, the dome refills, albeit slowly; unlikely then, though not impossible, that the shunt is blocked. He slips a finger round the silky little wrist to take his pulse. The child screams and struggles. Gita holds him still while Albie looks at the back of his eyes, already reassured. A protesting child is not one who needs immediate action. He turns to Gita.
‘His pulse is a little raised but he feels cool and the optic discs are normal. He’s not sick enough for an infected or blocked shunt and the dome refills, which supports my judgement.’ Gita nods, her face taut with concentration. ‘The nurse at your clinic could be right,’ he continues. ‘It might be a viral infection, usually upper respiratory. We’ll keep him in for monitoring for twenty-four hours just in case. In the meantime, get that husband of yours back. We can discuss further treatment and any investigations when he arrives.’
Her face lightens. ‘Thanks, dear Albie. You are being very kind to us.’
He talks to the nurse in charge; they can stay in the ward overnight, he is promised that Billy will be carefully watched and any deterioration reported immediately to the registrar on call. Albie takes leave of Gita who is settling him into a cot; he’s quieter now and she looks relieved.
‘Say hi to your lovely wife,’ she says as she kisses him goodbye. ‘She was so sweet to Billy.’
He walks towards the lift. He must be more tired than he thought; her words make him want to cry. His lovely wife. The wife he loved. Please don’t lose control, Beth, he tells her silently. Wait. I’ll fetch you, soon. We’ll come back together. There’ll be time to talk, understand. Forgive. Heal.
He glances at his watch; he’s due in clinic and begins to walk so quickly he’s almost running. There isn’t time now. Beth will wait, she’ll understand. In the few moments he has in the lift, he sends a rapid text.
Jake and Ed coming back to Jura. Stay.
He hurries from the lift to the clinic. She’s used to waiting, after all; it won’t be for much longer.
26
Jura. Summer 2018
Beth is weeding in the hot afternoon when Albie’s text comes through; she reads the message then, after a moment, deletes it. Stay. What you say to dogs.
The weather has been perfect since he left. The air ripples with heat, even the birds are quiet. At night the scent of warm hay rises to the window. She walks slowly back to the house. Jake and Ed are coming back. They’ll collect Ted’s clothes but they’ll want to search for the vials, they’ll ask questions. After the brightness of the garden, the air in the house is as dark and cool as water. She stands in the sitting room, tapping her fingers on Albie’s desk. She has looked everywhere but she’s forgotten to search this desk. She opens it quickly. Science prizes and certificates are jumbled together. She picks out Albie’s school-leaving photo; his face was fuller back then, the hair much longer. His expression is serious but there is a glow under his skin, as though lit from inside. When he left two weeks ago he seemed full of darkness. She turns over books full of maths, physics and chemistry, but no art or music. To progress in his world, you had to focus on fact. Toughen, push distractions aside. She’s done the same, but tough fibres have a breaking point; in fact they fracture more easily. In the last few days it’s as if the strands holding her together are snapping one by one. She piles everything back and slams the lid.
Harris begins to whine then bark loudly; she’s forgotten to feed him and now can’t remember when she last did. Tin in hand, she rattles through the knives in the drawer for the can opener. When the door opens she crouches down in blind panic,
pulling Harris to her. She hasn’t thought to lock the doors, even at night.
A tall figure blocks the light. Ted. The same height, the same slant to the shoulders. Ted as a young man, tall, clear-eyed and back for revenge. Her mouth dries; she can’t move; her legs are paralysed by fear. It’s too late to beg for forgiveness. She opens her mouth to scream for help, though there is no one who could hear her across the miles and miles of moorland; no one will come to her aid. A second later the figure dissolves into Ed. Jake pushes through the door behind him. Harris runs to greet them, tail wagging. Beth stares, her heart banging, unable to speak.
Ed halts, he looks surprised, a little uncomfortable. ‘Oh, you’re still here. Sorry to barge in. There’s no car, we thought you must have left.’
She stands up slowly. ‘Albie took the car, he had to go back to work. How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Ed’s reply is automatic. He is not fine, of course, he looks ill.
‘It’s good to see you both again.’ She is lying as well; they loom large in the kitchen and the past has entered with them. She will have to be very clever, more careful than she’s ever been. ‘Would you like some tea?’ She turns on the kettle; her hands tremble. ‘You must be tired after the journey.’
‘We’re here for Dad’s things,’ Ed says, staring around at the room as if he expects to see his father, slumped and sleeping in a chair.
‘Of course.’ She warms the pot and spoons in tea, adds the water. The little ritual is soothing. She can get through this; they’ll go to his room in a minute, take his case, and then disappear. She’ll call Albie, he can fetch her, together they’ll go home.
‘Everything is upstairs, ready for you to take.’ She hands Ed a cup of tea and gives one to Jake.
‘The coroner returned an open verdict at Ted’s inquest.’ Jake accepts the cup but his eyes watch her face as though he were a lawyer and she in the dock. She was wrong to hope. He wants far more than a case of clothes; Jake is after the truth. Her heart begins to race uncomfortably. Meanwhile Ed is staring at the chair where Ted had sat at supper on the last night of his life. He grips the table, his eyes fill. Jake pulls out a chair, tugs him to sitting and then stands near as if on guard. ‘The coroner was unable to reach any other conclusion; there was insufficient evidence for accident or suicide.’