Bad Medicine- A Life for a Life; Bed of Nails; Going Viral

by Puckett, Andrew

  Fraser had wondered at the time whether there had been a note of calculation in her voice, and a fortnight later, when Somersby turned down Parc-Reed’s offer, Connie and Ian raised so many objections to the retirement of Terry that the idea was dropped.

  However, in the weeks that followed, Terry moderated his behaviour slightly, but at the same time favoured Fraser with looks so malevolent as to suggest he knew what Fraser and Somersby had been planning for him.

  3

  May 1999

  He woke on the sofa parched and cramped at around four, drank some water and stumbled into bed. It was probably this that saved him from a worse hangover than the just-about bearable one he had when he woke in the morning.

  He showered, washed some paracetamols down with coffee, then backed his MG out of the garage and drove to the hospital.

  As he walked to the main entrance, a blackbird sang from a tree whose leaves were so green they seemed to fluoresce, and he was taken by a feeling of such profound surreality that he had to sit down on one of the red metal seats by the main door before his legs gave way.

  I’m Fraser Callan, he told himself. I’m Fraser Callan and I’ve come to see my fiancée… He began taking slow, deep breaths.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ said an old lady with a Zimmer frame.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘But thank you for your concern.’

  ‘Seeing someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’d better have these, they’re no use to me.’ She tossed him a bunch of flowers wrapped in cellophane and stumped on her way without any further explanation.

  He made his way up to the ward and found the sister.

  ‘She’s expecting you,’ she said. ‘Before I take you in, you know she’s under reverse barrier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know you’ve just come back from America, have you had any infections—’

  ‘No, sister.’

  ‘—no matter how trivial?’

  ‘No, sister.’

  ‘Even a cold—‘

  ‘No, sister.’

  ‘I suppose it’s no use asking you not to touch her?’

  ‘Not one whit, sister.’

  Filtered air hissed as she pushed open the door.

  Frances was sitting up in bed with a magazine she obviously hadn’t been reading.

  ‘Hello, Fraser. You look terrible, were you drinking last night?’

  ‘I’ll leave you,’ said the sister.

  ‘And you look beautiful,’ he said, going over to her.

  ‘No I don’t.’

  But as he said it, he realised it was true; she’d had her hair cut short in an attempt to delay losing it, and the drugs had somehow heightened her normally pale colouring, so that her cheekbones stood out like those of a girl in a Pre-Raphaelite painting.

  ‘I’ve got some flowers,’ he said, holding them up.

  ‘They’re lovely…’

  ‘An old woman gave them to me.’

  ‘Ever the Scotsman… Aren’t you going to kiss me?’

  He put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her; their lips touched, brushing gently, and he wished he could distil the moment…

  ‘I can taste the whisky,’ she said at last, shakily. ‘Did you drink the whole bottle?’

  ‘About half. I couldn’t sleep, I was that worried.’

  ‘Oh Fraser, I’ve been so scared,’ she said, her fingers digging into his shoulders. ‘Better now. You’re not angry with me, are you?’

  ‘Why did you no’ tell me? I’d have come straight—’

  ‘I know. I didn’t want you to.’

  ‘But why?’

  She looked down for a moment, then up into his eyes. ‘I know how you feel about Alkovin and Connie, but don’t you see? This is how she wants to get back at you – by curing me and proving you wrong. She’s the best friend we’ve got, Fraser.’

  He didn’t say anything. There was no point.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘it’s me, remember? I’m not going to get depressed or paranoid, not now that you’re here…’

  *

  Since it was Saturday, the department was almost empty. Fraser raised a hand in reply when someone called out to him, then made his way down the corridor to Connie’s room. The door was open.

  ‘Fraser! Come and sit down.’ If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn she was pleased to see him. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Late last night,’ he said as he sat. ‘Very late.’

  She said, ‘You know about Frances?’

  ‘I’ve just been over to see her.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Fraser. We all are. You know we’ll all do our best for her.’

  He nodded, unable for a moment to speak. She called up Frances’ file on the computer and showed him the results of all the tests they’d done so far.

  ‘She’s young and she’s healthy, Fraser – I honestly think we’ve got a good chance of a cure.’

  He looked at her face; it was a smooth, impermeable mask, showing proper concern and sympathy, but no clue as to what was going on behind it, no opening for what he had to say.

  ‘I wasn’t very happy to find you’d put her on DAP,’ he said. ‘I’d have liked to be consulted.’

  ‘That was out of my hands, Fraser. I did ask whether there was anyone she wanted to phone, and she said her mother.’

  ‘Nevertheless…’

  ‘Nevertheless what?’

  ‘I think I should have been consulted.’ He tried to keep his voice calm.

  ‘It’s not as though you’re her husband, Fraser – besides, I’m not sure I’d have been under any obligation to contact you even if you had been.’

  ‘You know how I—’ he began, but she overrode him.

  ‘So far as I and this department are concerned, DAP is the drug combination of choice. Neither Frances nor her mother made any objection when I explained this to them. Really, Fraser, I’d hoped you’d come back with a more positive attitude.’

  ‘I have, Connie. While I was in America, I did some research and found John Somersby’s original source.’ He leaned forward, ‘He’s assembled more data now and is about to go public with it. Alkovin is a dangerous drug, Connie.’

  ‘Can you give this mysterious source a name?’

  ‘Yes. Dr Sam Weisman, haematologist at Stanford General Hospital, New York,’

  Her expression didn’t change. ‘Have you seen this data for yourself?’

  He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘I made a copy.’

  She extracted some sheets of paper, unfolded them and put on her glasses…and he found himself thinking, She’s looking older – is it the glasses, or the stigma of being in charge…?

  She quickly scanned the paper, then went through it again more thoroughly before looking up.

  ‘I’d need more than this to convince me,’ she said. ‘I haven’t noticed anything like this level of disturbance in my patients.’

  ‘Why don’t you phone him?’

  ‘I think I will.’

  ‘You notice his findings are in accord with my own observations? In that the effects often don’t manifest themselves until after consolidation.’

  ‘Your own observations, as you term them, were based on an insignificant number of patients.’

  ‘But that’ – he indicated the sheets of paper – ‘is a significant number.’

  She regarded him in silence for a moment before saying, This isn’t really getting us anywhere, is it? Will it satisfy you if I speak to Dr Weisman myself and then raise the matter with Parc-Reed again?’

  ‘It’d make me happier, certainly, but there’s still the question of Frances.’

  ‘We’ll keep a look-out for any signs of depression or any other neurological disturbance, and if they should appear, we’ll treat her with antidepressants.’

  ‘By which time it could be too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘The disturban
ces Dr Weisman describes are profound and can make permanent changes—’

  ‘What are you suggesting then, that we stop the treatment?’ Her voice became shrill as her patience gave out.

  ‘No, that would probably do more harm than good at this stage.’

  ‘I’m glad you realise that at least…’

  ‘Dr Weisman suggests prophylactic antidepressants, preferably Prozac.’

  ‘I don’t see any sign of that here…’ She scanned the sheets again.

  ‘Those are his observations. If you look—‘

  ‘I’m not happy about prescribing antidepressants without a good clinical reason. Perhaps some counselling would help.’

  ‘If you’ll just speak to him on the phone, he’ll—’

  ‘Certainly I’ll speak to him, but I’m not prescribing antidepressants just on his say-so.’

  He gazed back at her, felt his own control slipping… ‘Tha’ is the most blinkered, obdurate piece of—’

  ‘I think you’d better leave, Fraser, before you say something you regret.’

  He got slowly to his feet, his pulse dancing wildly in his temples. ‘I’m sayin’ this, I’m holdin’ you personally responsible if anythin’ happens to her—’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Fraser?’

  ‘If you care to put it like that, yes, Connie, I am threatening you.’

  She laughed, a wild, unpleasant sound. ‘With what? What could you possibly do to me?’

  He gazed back at her impotently.

  ‘There’s nothing, is there, Fraser? Only violence. Dig deep inside yourself and that’s the only answer you can find, isn’t it?’ She leaned forward, spoke softly, almost conspiringly. ‘So what are you threatening me with, Fraser? A beating? Or are you threatening to kill me?’

  ‘If anything happened to Frances because of your stupidity,’ he said slowly, finding his voice at last, ‘I believe I would…’

  Now she smiled, her eyes flicked over his shoulder and he turned to see Terry Stroud in the doorway staring at them.

  *

  What the hell am I going to do…?

  As though by way of answer, the small flock of sparrows that had gathered round him when he’d sat down in the scruffy little park flew off in disgust at his meanness.

  The answer, in normal circumstances, would be to come to some sort of accommodation with Connie, even if it meant apologising to her – after all, she was his boss, and his career depended on her blessing. But now, even the most abject of apologies was not going to persuade her to change her mind about treating Frances with antidepressants.

  How serious was it? He searched his memory banks for the words Sam Weisman had used… ‘There’s a better than evens chance of getting through the treatment without any symptoms at all…’ But for the rest that did have symptoms, there was no way of predicting how serious they would be, or whether the damage they caused would be permanent.

  His best chance was to phone Weisman himself before Connie did, explain the situation and hope he could persuade her to change her mind… He looked at his watch – ten thirty. Was that all? Which meant it would be 5.30 a.m. in New York… He’d try him at half-past two.

  He leaned back on the tired old bench… How had things gotten (he’d been going native) so bad between him and Connie?

  Then he smiled with one side of his mouth as the answer, part of it, anyway, came back to him: the conference in Birmingham they’d gone to together almost exactly two years before…

  4

  (i)

  May 1997

  They’d driven up in her car and the heavy traffic had prevented them talking in anything other than desultory snatches. But as he’d reflected at the time, although she’d always been pleasant and helpful to him, she’d always maintained a certain distance. They’d checked in at the hotel and arranged to meet in the bar in an hour.

  He’d unpacked, showered and gone down after fifty minutes so that she wouldn’t be left on her own, only to find her already ensconced with a party of others she obviously knew. She introduced him and one of them bought him a drink, but they all seemed to be senior consultants and he quickly found himself out of place.

  Nothing overt was said or done, but he realised that staying with them would call for some fairly strenuous shoe-horning on his part, so he finished his drink and quietly slipped away.

  He’d grown used to his own company over the years, so he went to the inaugural session on his own. At dinner he ran into some old lab colleagues from Glasgow and spent the evening with them.

  He didn’t see Connie again until the last evening. He was checking something with the receptionist when she hurried into the foyer, looked round and then said, ‘Damn!’

  ‘Problems?’ he asked her.

  ‘Oh, hello, Fraser. No, not really. I was going to meet some friends here, but they’ve obviously already gone.’ She smiled. ‘My own fault, I told them to go if I wasn’t here.’

  ‘You could probably catch them in a taxi.’

  But she wasn’t entirely sure where they’d gone, she told him, and she certainly wasn’t about to chase round Birmingham in a taxi looking for them. She wrinkled her nose rather attractively as she said this. ‘What are you doing this evening?’ she asked.

  ‘I was about to go over to the Trade Fair. First chance I’ve had.’

  ‘D’you mind if I come with you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  It was only about a quarter of a mile away, so they walked.

  Had he enjoyed the conference? she asked.

  Very much, he told her. He’d found the sessions on tissue-typing particularly interesting. ‘Did you go?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t notice you.’

  ‘No,’ she said, then, after a pause, ‘I’m afraid I’ve rather neglected you.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ He smiled at her. ‘I ran into some old friends from Glasgow.’ I’m quite capable of looking after myself thank you, ma’am…

  She smiled back. ‘Good.’ I can see you are…

  They pottered round the Trade Fair for half an hour without seeing much to arouse their interest. Fraser’s Glaswegian colleagues waved from across the floor.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you from your friends,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t,’ he replied.

  Ten minutes later, they’d seen enough.

  ‘Where were you going to eat?’ she asked.

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it. Back at the hotel, I suppose.’

  ‘Let me stand you dinner,’ she said. ‘My treat. To make up for my bad manners.’

  ‘You don’t have to make up for anything,’ he said. ‘But I’d be delighted anyway.’

  She chose a Mexican restaurant and the hot, spicy food, the cold, heady wine and the mournful voice of the floor singer worked on their reserve and melted it.

  ‘You are ambitious,’ she said.

  He’d just told her how he was prepared go anywhere to make the next jump up the rickety ladder.

  ‘I’ve no choice,’ he said.

  ‘How d’you mean?’ she asked, curious.

  He thought for a moment, then said, ‘With my background, I have to keep going up, I can’t afford to mark time.’

  He drank some wine as he tried to find the right words.

  ‘It’s not just ambition,’ he said. ‘It’s also that I don’t really belong anywhere now.’ He smiled at her. ‘I was as much out of place with my old colleagues as I was with yours… so I have to keep going up.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ she said. ‘I think—’

  ‘What about you?’ he said, anxious to change the subject. ‘D’you have any wild beasts to slay?’

  ‘What an interesting turn of phrase.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, I mean it… Can I have some more wine, please?’

  He topped up her glass and she took a mouthful. ‘A year ago, I wouldn’t have had the remotest idea of what you were talking about. I might as well admit it, life had been a smo
oth progression for me until then…’ As she spoke, she dipped her finger into the wine and ran it round the rim of her glass. ‘I don’t know how much gossip you’ve picked up round the department… I know that I’m more than good enough for the job I do, but I won’t pretend that having a surgeon for a husband has hindered my career.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Fraser.

  ‘Don’t doubt what, that I’m good enough for my job, or that—’

  ‘That you’re more than good enough for your job.’

  ‘But you know what they say about surgeons?’

  ‘They say a lot of things about surgeons, Connie. Which had you in mind?’

  ‘Perhaps you should have been a diplomat, Fraser, not a doctor. That without exception they’re complete and utter bastards.’

  He’d been expecting something more subtle, less obviously emotional.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’m not about to embarrass you. It’s common knowledge that he ran off with a nurse half his age six months ago.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear it.’

  Her eyes flicked up. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘I’d heard something. How long had you been married?’

  ‘Seventeen years.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Two. Both at boarding school, thank goodness – it meant they missed the worst of the nastiness. Anyway,’ she hurried on, ‘we were talking about slaying wild beasts… I want to rebuild my career.’

  ‘Most people would think that being a consultant haematologist represented a pretty sound edifice,’ Fraser said after a pause.

  ‘Yes, but there are those who think that I only got the job because of Charles. That’s the beast I want to slay.’

  ‘I thought you said he was a bastard. Rather than a beast,’ he added at her puzzled look.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, laughing. ‘No…’ After a pause, she said slowly, ‘I won’t deny there was a time when it would have been pleasant to see him turning slowly on a spit, but… that’s in the past, I’ve moved on from that. I want to put the department on the map, to see us in the forefront…’ She giggled. ‘Mixing metaphors, always a bad sign. But that’s why I was so… disappointed when JS turned down the Alkovin trial.’

  ‘I suppose he must have had his reasons.’