Tangled Web

Seventeen

Gordon arrived at Lucy’s house carrying a bottle of wine he’d bought at the supermarket on the Bangor Road and some flowers from the stand outside the filling station: there simply hadn’t been enough time to go back into town. He knew Lucy would understand.

As he walked up the path to the front door, he thought how good it was to see lights on in the windows again; it reminded him of how happy the house had been at Christmas and please God, it was the harbinger of better times to come. Lucy heard his feet on the gravel and looked out the corner of the window to smile and wave before coming to open the door.

‘Good to see you home,’ smiled Gordon.

‘It’s been a while,’ said Lucy.

Gordon had been apprehensive about how Lucy might feel once she was actually back in the house, knowing that this would be a difficult psychological step to take, but there was no outward sign of a problem. ‘How are you?’ he asked, as he was ushered in to the living room where a fire had been lit and table lamps created a cosy atmosphere, although for some reason, maybe the obvious one, it all seemed a little unreal.

‘I’m fine,’ said Lucy, adding, ‘really I am,’ when Gordon looked at her to see if she was telling the truth. ‘I suppose it’s you I have to thank for cleaning the mess off the walls?’

Gordon had hoped that Lucy might not notice the occasional small smudge of spray paint remaining from his clean-up operation — at least, not right away, but he should have known better. Now he didn’t quite know what to say; he hoped she wouldn’t ask about the words. In the event, his obvious discomfort told Lucy all that she needed to know and she smiled affectionately. ‘I’m grateful, Tom,’ she said, adding, ‘again.’

Gordon nodded.

‘Well, there weren’t too many yellow ribbons in evidence when I got back and the good folks of Felinbach haven’t exactly been rushing round to say, “Welcome home, Lucy”, but it’s still good to be back,’ said Lucy. ‘In spite of everything.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way.’

Lucy folded her arms and looked serious for a moment. She said with cold determination in her voice, ‘The way I see it is, the bastard who did this to John and I took away my baby, and my husband too. He’s not taking away my home as well.’

‘Good for you,’ said Gordon.

Lucy went through to the kitchen but kept talking. ‘This is not exactly going to be a culinary extravaganza, I’m afraid, but I did want to see you and thank you for all you’ve been doing. I can’t imagine how I would have coped without you.’

‘That’s what friends are for,’ said Gordon.

‘Seriously,’ said Lucy, returning to stand in the doorway. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough.’

Gordon who suddenly felt embarrassed said, ‘Shush, I’ll open the wine, shall I?’

The Palmers’ dining room was one of two bay-windowed rooms that looked out on the front garden, one on either side of the door. Lucy had set up the table by the window and Gordon looked out over it down to the lights on the Menai while he waited. He felt he knew the wall beneath that particular window intimately: it was the area that had given him most trouble during the clean up, the spot where the paint had run in rivulets down the rendering. Subconsciously he rubbed the knuckles of his right hand gently. The skin there was still raw in places.

Just before she brought the food in, Lucy came through and lit two candles on the table. They were of odd sizes and stood in different holders, a tall white one in a silver stick and a small coloured one in the middle of a plastercast Beatrix Potter scene.

‘This one is for John,’ said Lucy as she lit the white one. ‘And this one is for Anne-Marie; John bought it on the day we got her home for the first time and we lit it that night. The next time was going to be on her first birthday... but it hasn’t quite worked out that way.’ There was a short silence before Lucy stood back and said, ‘Bless them both.’

‘Bless them both,’ echoed Gordon, raising his glass.

The food was simple but good. Compared to his own efforts in the kitchen, Gordon found that this was the case with most food he came across. Lucy had made pasta with a deliciously spicy sauce and followed it up with lemon cheesecake and strong espresso coffee.

‘Last time we spoke you seemed to think you were on to something?’ said Lucy. The hope in her voice was muted but unmistakable.

‘I’m still working on it,’ replied Gordon, wondering just what to tell her. It was difficult to separate fact from what was imaginary in his own mind. He was pretty sure that Thomas’s unit was involved in something underhand, possibly illegal, but the only thing to tie Anne-Marie Palmer into the scheme of things was the fact that Thomas had her medical file in his lab.

‘There’s some kind of experimental work going on up at Caernarfon General,’ he said. ‘At the moment I don’t quite know what it is but I think there’s a chance that Anne Marie’s death is tied up in it in some way.’

‘What kind of research?’ asked Lucy.

‘Genetic manipulation.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Lucy as if it was the last thing in the world she expected to hear.

‘There’s something going on in Professor Thomas’s unit, involving children who were born there.’

‘But what could such experiments possibly have to do with Anne-Marie?’ exclaimed Lucy, sounding far from convinced. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I know, but there’s a link somewhere and that’s what I have to find out,’ said Gordon.

Lucy tried to cover up her obvious disappointment at not having been given more encouraging news by changing tack and offering to top up Gordon’s glass.

Gordon pushed it across the table but just at that moment, something came hurtling in through the window and hit the glass: it burst into fragments. He shut his eyes and flung up his hands as flying glass peppered his face and Lucy’s screams filled his ears.

Almost immediately, he felt blood running down his cheeks and he found that he couldn’t open his eyes properly to see what was going on. As soon as he tried, he felt a burning pain that made him fear that his sight had been damaged. It was a nightmare thought that induced its own panic. He tried to see again, wiping away the blood and managed to make out a blur that he thought might be Lucy’s face. He saw it only briefly before she toppled backwards off her chair.

Gordon felt the table cloth go with her and heard plates and glasses crash all around his feet as he was forced to close his eyes again to get some respite. Suddenly there was a terrible smell of burning in his nostrils. A yellow blur flared up in front of his eyelids and a sudden blast of heat made him recoil. The toppling candles had set light to Lucy’s dress and she was now screaming in pain and fright as she writhed on the floor, fighting to free herself of the toppled chair and the general mess around her.

Gordon was aware of the bright glare of the flames but not much more as he struggled to find the table cloth at his feet and get a grip of it. He needed something to smother the flames with and this was it. He found a corner of it, recognising it by its thickness and tugged at it ferociously until he had it in his hands and could make an attempt to extinguish the flames that were now engulfing Lucy. He fell on top of the brightly glowing bundle, using his own body in addition to the cloth to snuff out the bright blur but paid the price as the fire found his own skin to add to his pain.

Lucy had stopped screaming but she wasn’t unconscious; she was whimpering and gasping, obviously now in shock. Gordon was pretty sure that the flames had been smothered because there was no more heat only the sickening smell of charred flesh and burnt fabric. The smoke and fumes caught in his throat as he staggered to his feet and started to feel his way to the door, knocking over a succession of unseen and now unimportant objects on his journey.

Incredibly, the street outside seemed devoid of people. But they must have heard the glass break, Gordon thought angrily. What the fuck were they all doing? Watching? Hiding behind the curtains? Pretending nothing was amiss? His temper soared out of control as he yelled out, ‘Get a fucking ambulance, you bunch of mindless cretins!’ He continued his half-blind stagger down the path, trying to get a response from someone, anyone, his only vision a mess of blurred colours. Yelling out brought on a paroxysm of coughing that hurt his throat and he sank to his knees, retching and spitting and suddenly filled with a deep loathing of the world or more correctly, its inhabitants.

He recoiled when he felt a hand on his shoulders and snapped out angrily, ‘Who’s that?’

‘I’m from next door, an ambulance is on its way, won’t be long. What the devil happened here?’

‘Some bastard threw a brick through the dining room window. We were sitting there...’

‘I suppose they didn’t realise that,’ said the voice evenly.

Gordon could hardly believe his ears as he knelt on the ground, his hands flat on the path in front of him, blood dripping from his face. ‘And that makes it all right, does it?’ he exploded. ‘What kind of people are you?’

‘No need to be like that,’ retorted the man, obviously aggrieved at Gordon’s language and tone.

If Gordon could have seen him, he might have been sorry later for his actions. His fist positively itched to swing into the face of what he saw — or rather, didn’t see — as the insensitive twerp next to him. Instead, he said nothing for a few moments as he struggled to regain his composure. Finally, he said, ‘See if you can help Lucy, will you, she’s badly burned.’

Gordon was aware that the man hadn’t moved. ‘Do it, will you,’ he snapped.

‘That’s probably best left to them who know about these things,’ came the uncomfortable reply. ‘The ambulance will be here shortly.’

‘Give me bloody strength!’ cried Gordon. ‘Get the fuck out of my way!’ Gordon got to his feet unsteadily, feeling his way back to the house, his progress fuelled by anger and adrenaline, following the kerb on the path and calling out Lucy’s name. He found the doorway and dropped to all fours to crawl through to the dining room where he found Lucy, still lying where he’d left her on the floor. She was unconscious. He felt for a pulse in her neck and, at the second attempt, found a small beat in his fingertips. Somewhere, far off in the distance, a siren started to make beautiful music.

Gordon came round with the smell of antiseptic in his nostrils, and a soft pillow under his head. He felt warm and comfortable and a bit drowsy but this only lasted until he realised that either the room was in total darkness or he couldn’t see! His fingers flew to his eyes and were stopped by heavy bandaging. Panic was replaced by relief but only briefly. ‘Nurse!’ he called out. He was on his third chorus when a voice said, ‘So you’re back with us then.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Student Nurse Gwen Richards, and before you ask, you’re in Ysbyty Gwynedd.’

‘My eyes... Lucy, where is she? What happened to her?’

‘Take it easy,’ soothed the nurse. ‘I’ll tell the doctor, you’ve come round and she’ll deal with all your questions. ‘Won’t be long.’

A few moments passed before Gordon became aware of someone near him; it was a woman; he could smell her perfume. He almost recognised it but couldn’t quite find the name in the whirl of his subconscious. It was the one that smelled like the American Cream Soda of his youth.

‘And they told me being a GP in this country was pretty dull,’ said a voice that he immediately recognised with a tingle of pleasure. ‘You’re Mary,’ he said. ‘Mary Hallam?’

‘That’s right, and you are the Scottish GP from Felinbach. I’m surprised you remembered me. I don’t think we got round to introductions at the meeting.’

‘Of course I remember,’ said Gordon, stopping himself from going on to say that he’d thought about her a good deal since the meeting at Caernarfon General.

‘My eyes?’ he asked.

‘Not as bad as you thought, I’m sure,’ said Mary. ‘Glass fragments perforated your lids, making you think that your eyes were full of glass. Right? Damage is minimal although there has been a little scratching to your right cornea. We’ve removed all the fragments and cleaned you up. We’ll take off the dressings tomorrow after you’ve had a chance to rest and then we’ll have a reappraisal. You’ve got various small cuts from flying glass, nothing serious and your forearms have minor burns on them, again, nothing too serious.’

Gordon felt relief flood through him like a wonderfully powerful analgesic but the moment quickly passed and he asked, ‘What about Lucy? Her burns?’

Mrs Palmer has not been so lucky, ‘said Mary. ‘She has a couple of deep cuts from flying glass, one on her left cheek and one on her neck but it’s her burns that are giving us most cause for concern.’

‘She’s in danger?’

‘Her life is not in danger...’ said Mary.

Gordon heard the hesitation in the reply and read the worst into it. ‘She’s going to be disfigured?’

‘She’ll need plastic surgery but...’

‘Her face?’ interrupted Gordon

‘Thankfully no, although the left side of her neck sustained some tissue damage. Her torso took the brunt of it. Her dress melted and fused with her skin in places.’

‘God almighty,’ sighed Gordon. ‘Poor Lucy.’

‘Lots of people have been ringing up about you,’ said Mary.

‘Who?’

‘The newspapers for a start. I’d be careful there, if I were you.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I took one of the calls. They wanted to know if it was true that John Palmer’s wife had been having a cosy candlelit dinner with her GP while her husband was “banged up inside”, to use their expression.’

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Gordon angrily. It really hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would look at it like that.

‘I think these people make up their own rules,’ said Mary.

‘They’re the cause of so much of this in the first place,’ said Gordon bitterly. ‘The Palmers never had a chance after the way they turned public opinion against them.’

‘But John Palmer confessed, didn’t he?’ said Mary.

Gordon said nothing.

‘The police want to see you as well.’

‘For all the good that will do,’ said Gordon bitterly. ‘They couldn’t find their arse in their trousers. Sorry, I was thinking out loud.’

‘Don’t apologise. I prefer people to say what they’re thinking. Inscrutability is best left to the Chinese in my book.’

‘And you? English or Welsh, I can’t make up my mind.’

‘Welsh and proud of it. From Beaumaris.’

‘Almost a local girl,’ said Gordon.

‘While I remember, your practice partner, Dr Rees, asked to be informed when you were able to have visitors.’

Gordon nodded. Julie was getting more than she’d bargained for over this.

‘Get some rest now,’ said Mary. ‘Everything else can wait.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Three-fifteen.’

‘In the afternoon?’

‘In the morning.’

Gordon heard Mary leave and he smiled. He’d wanted to meet up with her again and fate had decreed that it happen; only the circumstances were not quite what he would have wanted. Silence returned to the room to accompany the complete blackness imposed on him by the bandaging, but the lingering scent of Mary’s perfume took away any threatening edge and kept the smile on his lips.

He reflected that it wasn’t often that he had experienced total darkness. Waking up in the middle of the night was nothing like this. Little reference points of light from some source or other were always there to aid orientation. The bandages afforded him nothing like that, just an endless dark infinity where there was nothing to do but think.

As he lay there, unable to sleep, his thoughts returned to Carwyn Thomas and what evidence there was for his involvement in human cloning. There were of course, the bad figures for ICSI treatment when compared to those of other labs using the same technique. Although these could be explained away for other reasons, there was no doubt that an increase in failure rate would be expected if human cloning was being attempted under the guise of IVF treatment. Cloning experiments with animals had shown that this would certainly be the case.

The more he thought about it, the more Gordon began to appreciate that an IVF unit would be the perfect cover for carrying out cloning experiments. Once the technical problems had been sorted out, it would be a case of obtaining eggs from women patients in the usual way, but then removing the nuclei from them and injecting them with DNA from the subjects being cloned instead of sperm from the prospective fathers. The perfect cover.

Gordon shivered at the thought but also saw the problems that would arise if such a secret cloning were to be successful. A baby would be born after an apparently normal pregnancy but it would not be the one the parents were expecting. They of course, wouldn’t know that. In reality, the mother would have acted as a surrogate for an entirely foreign child but she’d be none the wiser.

And then what?