Hypocrite's Isle

Fourteen

On the following Monday, Gavin started out on the biochemistry of cells treated with Valdevan. He had little heart for it, but a deal was a deal.

The department was unusually quiet because of the conference at Heriot Watt, with staff sneaking out at intervals to cross the city and attend only lectures they were interested in, rather than register — and pay — for the whole conference programme. Frank Simmons had gone along to hear a talk on growth kinetics given by Professor Hans Lieberman from the Max Plank Institute in Berlin and Mary had joined him, leaving Gavin alone in the lab until Tom came back from a meeting that Sutcliffe had called for all senior postgrad students.

‘What was all that about?’ Gavin asked.

‘Grumman Schalk are on an early recruiting drive. They’re signing up postdoctoral workers for next year. Sutcliffe was asking if anyone was interested.’

‘Are you?’

‘I didn’t think I was until I heard the salary they were offering, then I was very interested. I’ve put my name down.’

‘Anyone else keen on what Mammon has to offer?’

‘Peter Morton-Brown and a couple of others said they’d give it some serious thought.’

‘You’re selling your soul,’ said Gavin.

‘If it turns out you don’t have one, that could be a pretty good deal,’ replied Tom. ‘Besides, there’s not much room on the moral high-ground for the likes of me, with you occupying it all the time.’

‘Ouch,’ said Gavin, but he smiled and asked, ‘How many are Grumman taking on?’

‘Sutcliffe seemed to think about twenty.’

‘Then you should have a good chance.’

Tom smiled and said conspiratorially, ‘Between you and me, Professor Ehrman told Sutcliffe that it’s pretty much in the bag. Good salary, new labs, nice working conditions, lots of fringe benefits. I can’t believe my luck.’

‘But can you really see yourself wearing a suit and driving a Mercedes, Tom?’ asked Gavin, tongue in cheek.

‘Damn right.’

The conference at Heriot Watt finished on Tuesday evening so the department filled up again on Wednesday and was positively crowded by the afternoon, when the BBC arrived to discuss details of their planned programme, along with the scientists from other universities and institutes who would be taking part and who had stayed on after the conference. The large meeting room with its table for thirty people had been pressed into use with Graham Sutcliffe at its head. For the BBC, the producer of the programme, two production assistants, two presenters and camera and lighting advisors were present. Sutcliffe had invited all his senior staff and they had been joined by Professors Gerald Montague from the University of Leicester, Rosie Kilbane from the Medical Research Council labs in Cambridge and Donald Freeman from the Cancer Research Campaign in London, along with Max Ehrman from Grumman Schalk. Three others were to join in by live video link: a consultant radiologist from the Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford, an expert in chemotherapy, and a consultant in palliative care from one of the large UK hospices. Representatives from the Department of Health would be interviewed separately to give their views on current cancer care initiatives.

Sutcliffe got to his feet and formally introduced the scientists. The BBC producer, Steve Paxton, a short man in his late thirties with a high forehead, and wearing glasses with brown and white striped frames which Simmons felt were being worn to divert attention from his lack of height, did likewise for the programme makers before going on to give an outline of what he thought the programme might reflect. ‘We all know that great strides have been made in the field of cancer treatment in the past few years. What we would like you folks to do is spell out for the benefit of the man in the street just what they are and what their significance will be to cancer sufferers in the short, medium and long terms.’

‘A toughie,’ murmured Simmons to Jack Martin.

‘Pity the poor bugger who gets the short term,’ Martin whispered back.

‘Well, how long have you got?’ exclaimed Gerald Montague. ‘I think we could go on all night about the strides we’ve been making in terms of our understanding of the disease and the wide range of approaches we are pursuing. I’m sure the same applies to the clinicians and radiologists when it comes to treating the disease. Radiotherapy can now be given with pinpoint accuracy and new drugs which extend life expectancy are coming on to the market all the time...’

Frank Simmons, who had been prepared to sit through Montague’s ‘act’ in silence, adopting his usual neutral but polite expression, suddenly found that what he was hearing was pushing him over the edge. He conceded that it might have had something to do with the way he had been feeling about cancer research in general for the past few months, or maybe even Gavin’s less than complimentary views about the man in particular, but he found that he couldn’t take any more. He got to his feet and interrupted. ‘But they don’t cure the disease. They extend the course of it. They permit the patients to suffer for longer.’

Simmons spoke loudly and clearly, but he could feel the pulse beating in his neck. He waited until the hubbub died down and a heavy silence had enveloped him like a cold, wet mist before continuing. ‘The truth of the matter is that after all these years, we still really don’t understand cancer that well and we certainly can’t cure it.’

Gerald Montague took on an air of righteous indignation. ‘Personally, I find that an extremely negative view of things and even downright insulting to the many excellent scientists who dedicate themselves to the cure of this dreadful disease,’ he said.

‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Graham Sutcliffe.

Steven Paxton appeared bemused. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose I assumed that the programme would automatically reflect a positive attitude. I didn’t realise there was disagreement. We hear such a lot about breakthroughs these days.’

‘They’re usually diagnostic,’ said Simmons flatly. ‘Medical science can tell you sooner that you have an incurable disease, but still can’t do anything about it.’

‘But...’

‘Science, like so many other professions these days, has discovered that image can triumph over substance and is a damned sight easier to generate. Many scientists are dressing up largely technical progress as ‘breakthroughs’, when they are not what the public understand by ‘breakthroughs’, and certainly not what disease sufferers understand by the term. They announce their findings and hit all the right buttons so the press will pick up on it, but if you look carefully at the text, you’ll come across give-aways like Work is at a very early stage and Hopefully within three to five years this will lead to improved treatments — three to five years being the average span of the new research grant that they are really angling for — and the chances are that it won’t.’

‘What an utterly cynical view,’ said Sutcliffe.

‘I call it realistic.’

‘I agree with Frank,’ said Jack Martin, attracting a look of gratitude from Simmons, to whom the rest of the room now appeared hostile. ‘Real progress when it comes to cancer has been extremely limited.’

‘Are either of you willing to put this point of view across on the programme?’ asked Paxton. There was another deathly silence in the room.

‘No,’ said Simmons. ‘It was never my intention to take part in the programme. I have nothing positive to report, but I felt compelled to try and put the brakes on those who would have the public believe that a cure is just around the corner. It isn’t. On the other hand, I recognise that being negative could be as damaging to patient morale as being absurdly positive without cause. It would serve no point to say what I really think on air.’

‘Then I would have thought that your being here any longer serves no purpose,’ said Sutcliffe, clearly angry at what had gone before.

Both Simmons and Martin left the room.

‘You might have warned me you were going to do that,’ hissed Martin when the door closed behind them.

Simmons shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to. It was just that Montague hitting the bullshit button so soon really got to me.’

‘You didn’t make many friends in there.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Simmons. ‘I feel better, as if I’d just owned up to something that’s been bugging me for ages and now I’m out in the open about it. Incidentally, I’m grateful for the way you backed me up.’

‘You can’t argue with the truth. Catch you later.’

Simmons watched Martin walk off before returning to the lab, collecting his things and going home. He told the others in the lab that he wasn’t feeling well — not untrue, although there was nothing physically wrong with him.

Jenny was having a sandwich for lunch after her morning stint at the surgery and was sitting in the kitchen when he got in. She was flicking through the previous weekend’s copy of a Sunday supplement.

‘Smug bastards,’ she said. ‘Look at them, sitting on their cream leather sofas on their reclaimed wooden flooring, looking pleased with themselves, bleating about the old mill they’ve just rescued which has been lying derelict since the fifth century BC.’

‘I get jealous too,’ said Simmons.

‘So what are you doing home at this time?’

‘My tongue ran away with me.’

‘Oh dear. Dare I ask?’

Simmons told her what he had said at the meeting and Jenny shrugged, ‘Well, it was true, wasn’t it?’

‘I think so.’

‘So what’s to feel bad about?’

‘Nothing, I suppose, when you put it that way. I was expecting you to give me a lecture about learning to live in the real world and keeping my mouth shut where authority is concerned — like you keep saying Gavin should do.’

‘There’s a world of difference between expressing genuine concern and what Gavin comes out with simply because he has a chip on his shoulder about being working class in a middle-class environment.’

‘Strikes me he’s getting better and I’m getting worse.’

‘You’ll probably end up meeting in the middle and becoming lifelong buddies.’

‘Gavin’s okay. Different, but okay.’

‘Yes, dear. Did anyone support you this morning?’

‘Jack Martin.’

‘Good for him. I’m surprised you didn’t go off to the pub with him instead of coming home.’

‘Maybe it’s a different kind of comfort I’m looking for...’ said Simmons. He reached out and caressed the outline of Jenny’s bottom as she stood with her back to him.

‘Oh, is it?’ she said, not sounding entirely averse to the idea.

Simmons squeezed her bottom.

‘Will you buy me an old mill and furnish it with leather sofas and reclaimed wooden flooring?’

‘Yes.’

‘Liar,’ giggled Jenny. ‘Whatever happened to the high moral values of a moment ago?’

‘A regrettable lapse,’ replied Simmons, getting to his feet and escorting her towards the stairs.

Gavin finished the first part of the biochemistry protocol he was following and put the beaker containing his cell preparation in the fridge. It was just after four o’clock so he thought he’d take a chance and phone Caroline.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Conception,’ she replied.

‘What?’

‘Conception, growth and development. I’ve got an exam tomorrow.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m just clearing up. I thought you might fancy a coffee?’

‘Could do, I could do with a break, but then I’ll have to spend the rest of the evening on this stuff.’

‘Let’s go up to that little café in the High Street — the one that does the good scones?’

Caroline agreed, and they arranged to meet in ten minutes outside the medical school. It was another ten-minute walk to the café and Caroline was rubbing her hands in deference to the cold by the time they arrived. ‘Hope it’s warm in here,’ she said as she gripped the door handle.

It was, and the air was full of the comforting smell of home baking. Only two of the ten or so tables were occupied, one by an elderly couple who had kept on all their outdoor clothing, including hats and scarves, and the other by a mother with a two-year-old sitting in a push-chair beside her. She was keeping the child amused by blowing bubbles from a toy that comprised a plastic battery-operated fan and a small tub of soap solution. The child squealed with delight each time a stream of bubbles left the soap-filled loop. Gavin and Caroline found the laughter infectious: Gavin pretended to try to catch the bubble that drifted briefly in his direction and caused yet more laughter as he feigned complete incompetence.

A waitress, who seemed immune to childish laughter and to whom smiling would have required maxillofacial surgery, brought a tray with their coffee and fruit scones on it and laid it down without comment. Gavin made a face behind her back and the child giggled.

‘You’d cause trouble in an empty house,’ said Caroline.

Gavin munched on his scone. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘What’s been happening?’

The BBC was in the department, talking about some cancer programme they’re planning.’

‘Is Frank going to be in it?’

Gavin shook his head. ‘He was asked, apparently, but declined — said he’s got nothing worth reporting.’

‘So who has?’

‘Ain’t that the big question?’ replied Gavin. ‘There were plenty of big names around.’ He paused to make a funny face at the child, who had been strapped into his pram and was being wheeled to the door. ‘As for big results... it’s my guess the big discoveries will all be round the next corner as usual. And like tomorrow... they’ll never come.’

‘You’ll change all that,’ said Caroline.

‘I love you,’ said Gavin.

‘I love you too, but right now I have to get down to some serious study of the process of conception if I’m to pass this exam tomorrow and move on to neurological and musculoskeletal.’

‘Well, if I can be of any assistance in the study of conception...’

‘Watch it.’

As they walked back to the medical school, Caroline said, ‘You like children, don’t you?’

‘I suppose. What made you say that?’

‘The child in the café.’

‘He was a lot more fun than the waitress. Did you see the look in his eyes when he saw the bubbles? I like that, a mixture of joy and wonder. You don’t see it in adults. Too many other things pop up in their heads at the same time — it’s a trick; it’s a trap; there must be a logical explanation.’

‘I liked the expression on his face when you tried to catch them.’

‘When there was more chance of catching the moon.’

‘But he thought you could do it.’

Gavin stopped walking and stared straight ahead.

‘What’s the matter?. Gavin, what’s the matter?’

‘The bubbles...’

‘What about them?’

‘The bubbles were so fragile that they ruptured at the slightest contact. If something came along to disrupt an already damaged membrane... the cell might rupture and die...’

‘Gavin, would you please tell me what you’re talking about, instead of behaving as if you’re getting messages from Mars?’

Gavin looked at her, but still seemed distant and preoccupied. ‘Valdevan causes damage to the cell membrane. These little blips could be vulnerable areas: they might cause the cells to explode like the bubbles did if they came into contact with... something... but only the cells that had them would die. There’s a concentration of Valdevan which only produces blips in tumour cells. We might be able to kill these cells off without damaging the healthy ones!’

‘Wow,’ said Caroline. ‘But cells aren’t soap bubbles.’

‘In effect they are. They have a thin phospholipid membrane that keeps them intact despite the fact they are under quite a bit of internal pressure. If anything should rupture the membrane they’ll explode.’

‘But how would you make them... explode?’

Gavin wrapped his arms round her and said, ‘That’s what I have to find out.’ He kissed her forehead and ran off, saying that he was going to the medical library. He’d call her tomorrow. ‘Good luck with the exam!’

After four hours of flitting between internet searches on the library computer and the pharmaceutical bookshelves, Gavin decided that cationic detergent drugs — in particular the polymyxins — might be his best bet for some initial experiments, but his problem might be getting his hands on some. He had two choices. One, he could confide in Frank Simmons and hope that he might be enthusiastic enough to let him order some on the lab grant and carry out preliminary work on the idea or, two, he could try to obtain some on his own and perform a couple of trial experiments at night before he said anything to anyone. He thought the latter possible because he had just read that polymyxin was not only used as a drug, it was also used by microscopists as a spreading agent. There was a good chance that the microscope lab downstairs in the medical school might have some.