Deep Water

by Christine Poulson

  She didn’t want to run into Will, and took the stairs to make sure she didn’t find herself in the lift with him. Instead she bumped into Minnie.

  “Hey, Katie. What’s happened with the western blot?”

  “I’m just about to run it again. Want to come and see?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  For the third time it came back blank, but in a sense that was a positive result. Because this time Katie had used a sample that she knew for sure contained her protein. The antibody should have detected it and it hadn’t. So the problem lay with the antibody. In all likelihood someone had tipped it out and substituted tap water. Anger flared up. She hadn’t lost her touch; someone else had lost it for her. It wasn’t just the undermining of Katie as a scientist that hurt; this was research that really mattered. She thought of Chloe, she thought of the anxious faces of the mothers in Paul’s waiting room. How could Ian have done this?

  “You were right,” Katie said.

  Minnie was looking at her, aghast. “I wish I wasn’t. I know I suggested it, but I didn’t really believe – ” She was struck by a thought. “Can we be sure it was Ian?”

  “Oh, come on. There can’t be two people getting up to this kind of thing in the lab – and it couldn’t possibly have been an accident.”

  “No, no, you’re right. Well, at least you know now.”

  “And a fat lot of good it does me, when I can’t replace the antibody. There’s hardly any grant money left, and – ” She looked at her watch. “Oh, blast! I’m seeing Paul in an hour.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Minnie pointed out.

  “Let’s hope he sees it that way.”

  Her mobile phone rang. She picked it up and saw that it was Lyle.

  “This is Lyle Linstrum’s PA,” said a brisk, female voice with an American accent, “returning your call. May I ask what your business is with Lyle?”

  “I’d rather speak directly to him.”

  Minnie gave a little wave, indicating that she was heading off.

  “Was this with regard to Calliope Biotech?” the woman asked.

  “Well, yes – ”

  “Then I have to inform you that Lyle’s connection with the company ceased as from six o’clock last night.”

  “But what – ”

  “I’m not at liberty to comment,” the woman said. “And I don’t believe I can be of further assistance to you, so I’ll wish you good day.”

  And that was it: she was gone.

  Katie sat back in her chair, feeling as if she’d trodden on a step that wasn’t there. What on earth had happened? She booted up her laptop and typed Lyle’s name and Calliope Biotech into Google. The first thing to come up was a link to the Financial Times with the headline: “Linstrum ousted from own company”. Katie clicked on it and skimmed down the report. “The market has been awash with rumours … share price affected …” So it was true, hard as it was to credit, Lyle was gone, just like that, dumped by his own company. She could hardly believe it. What to do? She could email Lyle – she had a private email address – or she could try ringing his home in Texas. But it was the middle of the night there. She pursed her lips, considering. What could Lyle do if he wasn’t even part of the company any more? She’d have to think about this.

  She looked absently at her watch and then looked more closely. Oh, no! She leapt to her feet, closed down her laptop, and grabbed her bag. She was going to be late for her meeting with Paul.

  “I suppose I can’t be 100 per cent sure it was Ian, but in any case…” Katie shrugged.

  “We’re up against the same problem.”

  Paul clasped his hands behind his head and rocked back in his chair.

  The silence was broken by the wind rattling the windows. From up here, Katie could see the tops of trees swaying in the breeze.

  She waited for Paul to work through the implications of what she had told him. It didn’t take long.

  He brought the legs of the chair down and put his hands on the table. “OK. There’s no way round it. Even if I could magic up some more cash, there’s no way of getting hold of any more antibody before your time’s up. So no more work in the lab.”

  She nodded. She’d use the next couple of months for writing up her report. It was laborious and time-consuming and would easily occupy her until her research time ran out.

  “You’ve done some great work,” he said. “This therapy could transform the life of some of the kids I see. No more bone marrow transplants, no more blood transfusions and all the rest. But I need a good publishable western blot to keep that research money rolling in. Let’s have a look again at that earlier one and see if there’s anything we can work with.”

  She leafed through the pages of her lab book until she found it. They bent their heads over it.

  She suppressed a sigh. She knew that she had got a result, that this was the band of protein she needed, but would other people be convinced? She waited to see what Paul would say.

  “You know, Katie,” he said slowly, “this isn’t quite as bad as I’d remembered. I’d say this was borderline. You were virtually there with this.”

  She looked again at the western blot. Was she virtually there? Was she really? She looked hard, willing it to be not quite so faint, for the edges to be more defined. And the more she looked at it, the more she thought he was right. It was nearly there.

  “If I got rid of that background contamination…” she said.

  He nodded. “Why don’t you see what you can do? See if you can clean it up a bit. After all, things are rarely black and white.”

  Maybe he was right and there was something she could salvage here. It wasn’t as if it was her incompetence that had screwed up that second western blot, or even bad luck. It was sheer malice. A bloody-minded streak was telling her that she was damned if she was going to let Ian get the better of her like this. It was only fair that she should have something to show for all her hard work.

  “I’ll go back to the lab and make a start,” she said.

  He closed the lab book and handed it to her.

  “You do that and I’ll get to work on the grant proposal.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It was five o’clock and Katie had been at her bench for two hours. Her eyes were sore and gritty from gazing at her computer screen. It was amazing what you could do with Photoshop. She’d got rid of the meaningless background contamination on the western blot, and the band already looked sharper and cleaner by contrast. The next thing was to tidy the edges so that they were less ragged and indeterminate. There, that was better; it was already much more convincing – and yet, and yet… if only it wasn’t quite so pale. She moved the marker on the contrast bar the minimum amount and that helped, definitely. She tried to look at it with fresh eyes. What would she make of it if she were looking at it for the first time? She tried to imagine it on a page in a journal. Mmm, maybe if it was just a tiny, tiny bit darker?

  Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had a proper meal all day. Wasn’t there some flapjack in the box that she’d brought over from her old lab? The box was tucked away under her bench. She pulled it out and rummaged in it. Yes, there it was. In reaching for it she disturbed a postcard that was tucked in beside it and caught a glimpse of familiar, italic handwriting. She pulled it out and read it. It brought back a rush of memory. She couldn’t help smiling. She’d been so lucky to have Michael as her PI. She had been going through a bad patch early on in her research, had even thought of jacking it in. She hadn’t said anything to Michael, but he had picked up on it somehow. She’d found this postcard in her pigeonhole. On one side was a photo of a craggy-featured Samuel Beckett, and on the other side Michael had written that Beckett quote about failing, and trying again, and failing better. That was so typical of him. He wasn’t one of those scientists who were interested in nothing but science. He’d once told her that he’d done the first year of a French degree before he switched to medicine. He was always talking about books he’d read,
exhibitions he’d seen. How she missed him.

  She ate the flapjack – much too sweet, this commercially produced stuff always was – and went back to the screen. But her concentration had been broken. As she edged the marker up and down the contrast bar, Michael kept intruding into her thoughts. What would he say if he could see her now? She thought of the words Paul had used – “clean it up a bit” – weasel words that she couldn’t imagine passing Michael’s lips. She wasn’t cleaning up, or tidying up, or whatever euphemism you cared to use. She could at least be honest with herself about what she was doing. She was manipulating the data, simple as that.

  She toyed with the mouse, dragging the marker first one way and then the other. In one direction the band grew paler and paler until it disappeared altogether. Pull the marker the other way and the band grew sharper and sharper. One way it vanished, and with it her scientific career; the other way both of them grew stronger and brighter. Of course, she’d have to be careful not to overdo it, because a perfect image wouldn’t be plausible, might even look downright suspicious. Up and down, paler, darker.

  She was sure that it worked, that she’d succeeded in transferring her gene, and that they’d lose time and maybe even lives if she didn’t produce something publishable that would lead to more grant money. She knew what Michael would say to that: “You think you know, but where’s the evidence? Are you on solid ground? If you’re wrong, work will continue on a very expensive therapy that could turn out to be nothing but snake oil. And those children and their parents – their hopes raised, only to be dashed – ”

  But wait a minute, she told the Michael in her head, if she didn’t do it, what was to stop Paul finding someone less scrupulous to manipulate the image – or he could even do it himself? The Michael in her head didn’t dignify that with a response. He just raised his eyebrows in that infuriatingly quizzical way that he had. Oh, hell!

  She brought the marker to rest at its original position. This was it; for better or for worse, this was her result. And she was going to stick with it. How could she have thought for a moment of doing anything else? She buried her face in her hands. She was tired, so tired.

  There was a footstep behind her. She looked up with a start. It was Minnie.

  “Are you alright?”

  Katie pushed her chair back. “Yep. Well, not really. I still haven’t got a publishable result. I thought there was a way round it, but there isn’t. Oh, what the hell. Perhaps I’ve been at this game too long. I hear there are some very good careers in accountancy.”

  Minnie screwed up her face in commiseration. “Why don’t you pack it in now and come and join us? There’s a party starting. Will’s had some good news.”

  A version of the old marimba classic “Sway” was playing in the background. The common room was full of the buzz of conversation and the damp heat of a lot of bodies in a small space. Will was shaking something in a glass flask. Seeing him reminded her of her dream: the tiny Will shaking with anger.

  He called over. “Hey, Katie! Honor’s heard from the patent lawyer. We’re home and dry. It’s not even going to court. When the other company saw the lab books, they threw in the towel. So let the good times roll!”

  She was too taken aback to reply straightaway. In her worry about the western blot, all the business with Will had slipped to the back of her mind. Could it really be that it was all over and settled?

  She recovered herself. “That’s good.”

  He came over with the improvised cocktail shaker in one hand and a glass in the other. “Good? It’s more than good. It’s great, it’s fantastic.” His face was flushed. He was already a bit drunk, she realized.

  People were drifting in from other labs, attracted by the rumour of free drinks, and were greeted by Will and his cocktail shaker.

  “What’ll you have to drink?” Minnie asked. “Will’s making margaritas. Or there’s some beer.”

  “You know what I’d really like? A cup of tea.”

  “You sit down and relax. I’ll have one too. Actually, I don’t really drink. I’m still stone cold sober.”

  That was more than could be said for the rest of the crew. Katie pushed past a couple of blokes arguing about the merits of their football teams. She found a couple of armchairs that had been pushed against the wall and sank into one. No one paid any attention to her. She leaned back and closed her tired eyes.

  There was a touch on her shoulder. She opened her eyes. Minnie was in the next chair. “Here’s your tea,” she said, handing her a mug. “What a life, eh?”

  Katie nodded.

  Minnie leaned closer in so that Katie could hear her. “Don’t despair,” she said. “Think of Will.”

  She gestured and Katie turned to look. Through a gap in the crowd she could see Will slumped in a chair, conducting the music with his eyes closed.

  Minnie said, “Things couldn’t have looked worse for him after that clinical trial went wrong, could they? I mean, someone actually dying. Of course, it wasn’t his fault, but still it must have looked as if his work had gone down the pan. And all that stuff with the patent. But now look at him. Turns out the patent’s fine and he’s got a job lined up in the States.”

  So that was common knowledge, was it?

  “Is Katie here? Katie, there’s a phone call for you.” It was one of the young postgrads.

  “Who is it?”

  “Dunno. It came through to the office in the lab.”

  Who could be ringing her on the office line instead of on her mobile? Katie went to find out.

  The voice at the other end of the line was young and nervous. “You don’t know me, but I’m Emma Gladwill. I’m Ian’s daughter.”

  “Oh… how is he?”

  “Well, he’s not having quite so much morphine, so he’s conscious more, and talking to us. And he asked me to ring you. Can you come and see him?”

  Katie didn’t know what to say. Really, she hardly knew the guy, and in the light of what had happened, it was the last thing she felt like doing.

  The voice went on. “He said he needs to tell you something. It’s very important.”

  “I really don’t think –”

  “Oh, please, he’s in such a state about it. He says it’s very, very urgent and that you’ll want to know. Something to do with an antibody?”

  It wasn’t only dusk that was darkening the vast Fenland sky as Katie drove to Cambridge. Black cumulus clouds were massing on the horizon, and as she drove into the hospital car park, there was a splattering of rain on her windscreen.

  Ian’s daughter was waiting for her at the door of the ward. She was young, twentyish, and had smooth, honey-coloured hair. She was unmistakably her father’s daughter. She looked anxiously at Katie.

  “Dad’s really sorry,” she said.

  “That’s OK,” Katie said. She wasn’t going to take it out on this poor young woman.

  When she saw Ian, she knew that she wasn’t going to take it out on him either. He was propped up on the pillows, both bandaged hands outside the sheets. His head was bandaged too. He wasn’t reading or listening to headphones. He was just staring into space. He didn’t see Katie as she made her way down the ward, and only registered her presence when she arrived at his bedside.

  His face lit up, only to cloud over again. He looked away.

  She sat down by the bedside and laid a bunch of flowers, bought at the hospital shop, on his bed.

  “You shouldn’t have.” He was on the verge of tears and she got a sense of his emotional fragility. His eyes looked huge. His face was thinner, she realized.

  “I’m so sorry.” His voice was weak. “The antibody. Have to tell you. It’s in the top drawer of my desk. Pushed right to the back.”

  She gaped at him. It took a few moments to find her voice. “So you really did do that? You replaced my antibody with water?”

  He nodded. “I’m so sorry,” he said again.

  “How could you do it? How could you wreck my experiment when so much rested
on it?”

  “I just wanted to help – to be able to help – to be part of it. I was going to offer to run it again for you. And then when I did it…”

  “Hey presto! It would work. Ian saves the day!” She couldn’t help herself. When she thought of all that anxiety, all that wasted time…

  “It’s not too late, is it?” he asked.

  It was hard to forgive him for putting her through all that. He moved his hands restlessly on the sheet and his face creased in a grimace of pain.

  She softened and shook her head. “No, it’s not too late.”

  He closed his eyes and moaned.

  “Shall I get the nurse?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She looked round. A nurse was already on her way. She adjusted Ian’s drip. More morphine, probably.

  “You shouldn’t stay too much longer,” she told Katie. “He’ll be getting drowsy soon, anyway.”

  “Don’t go, not yet…” Ian murmured.

  “I won’t.”

  He was at least trying to make amends, she thought. She could understand – sort of – what had motivated him in mucking up her experiment: wanting to be important, wanting to be needed. But the other things…

  “What about the radioactivity tracked around the lab?” she asked. “Was that you?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  “But the gas taps,” he said. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t cause the explosion.”

  “Oh… OK...”

  She could see that he thought she was humouring him. He spoke more urgently. “Really, I didn’t do that. Too dangerous.” Then he added – and she heard the old Ian: “Wouldn’t be such an idiot as to switch the light on if I had.” He sighed. His voice grew slower, as if he were having difficulty putting his thoughts together. “Sleeping in my office some nights. After Moira threw me out. Heard someone moving around and went down to the lab. Put my hand on the light switch, and – boom.”