Donor

FOURTEEN

Dunbar decided to look at some of Ross’s published research before going out to Vane Farm; it might help him understand what he found there. Sci-Med had supplied him with reprints of Ross’s most recent papers, but he’d put them to one side until now. There were four, three on animal work and a fourth on something called ‘Immuno-preparation’, which he left in the file while he concentrated on what he thought the more relevant stuff.

He suspected he might find it hard going but Ross had a good writing style and presented his data in straightforward fashion. What really helped was the fact that one of the papers was a review article about current work in the field. Like all scientific reviews, it was aimed at scientists but not confined to those working in the same field. Technical detail was therefore kept to a minimum.

Ross’s papers made it clear that he believed the use of animal organs — pigs’ in particular — for human transplant was the way ahead. It would eliminate the awful uncertainty of patients having to wait for a human organ to become available, with the attendant moral dilemma of wishing misfortune on someone else. It would also obviate the continual struggle to convince an unwilling public that carrying donor cards was a good idea when their gut instinct told them otherwise. It was seen as tempting fate; courting disaster.

Whenever the medical profession made any headway in that direction, it seemed, a story would break about the recovery of some coma patient who had been declared brain-dead by the experts. This awakened fears akin to the age-old dread of being buried alive. Only now people imagined their organs being removed while they were still conscious but unable to communicate.

A further advantage of using animal organs, according to Ross, was that the donor animal could be kept alive until the very moment the organ was needed. It would therefore be well oxygenated and ‘fresh’. There would be no more rushing to and fro across the globe with tissue decaying in transit with each passing hour. There would be no more hoping against hope that unforeseen delays would not render vital organs useless. An added bonus was that the social and moral problems associated with hospitals ‘delaying’ the death of putative donors by keeping them on life-support machines, solely to keep their organs in good condition, would become a thing of the past.

The main focus of the research was the immunological problem associated with the introduction of foreign tissue. Like tissues from any other source, animal organs had to be made compatible with the patient’s own immune system, otherwise they would quickly be rejected as alien material, causing the transplant to fail and the patient to die. Ross’s experimental work had shown that it was possible to breed pigs with the immune system of a human patient in addition to their own. This scenario would ensure that the pig’s organs would be perfectly acceptable to the patient whose immune system the pig had been given. This was all experimental, of course, qualitative work performed to establish the validity of theory. The idea of preparing a pig donor for each and every human being in case they should need a transplant at some time in their life was beyond practicality. The morality of it was another issue.

Dunbar wondered if it could possibly have been attempted for selected individuals at Medic Ecosse, but concluded not. The timescale would have been all wrong for cases like Amy Teasdale or Kenneth Lineham. These patients had come to Medic Ecosse already very ill and needing transplants quickly.

The more he read, the more depressed he felt. Unless Ross had made some great secret leap forward in technology there would have been no point in attempting to transplant pig organs into human patients. Rejection would have been almost guaranteed. Had Ross made such a breakthrough? He hoped to find out at Vane Farm.

Douglas was already in the Crane when Dunbar arrived at five to eight. They shook hands and sat down on the same seats as last time.

‘How’d you get on?’ Dunbar asked.

‘It looks possible. The staff are all gone by ten o’clock. That just leaves two security men in the gate-house. They’re supposed to patrol the grounds every half-hour but they were a bit lax after midnight. They probably rely on the electric fence doing its job.’

‘Electric fence?’ exclaimed Dunbar.

‘Nothing too desperate,’ said Douglas. ‘It’s more of an alarm than a line of defence. Low voltage. We can bridge it easily.’

‘How about the building itself?’

‘That’s our biggest problem. We can’t use a window — there aren’t any — and the door has an electronic lock.’

‘But you said it was possible.’

‘I think it’s possible,’ said Douglas. ‘It’s going to depend on this.’ He took from his pocket a small piece of plastic the size of a credit card. It was unmarked save for a strip of magnetic tape across it.

‘A key?’

‘We’ll call it that if it works.’

‘Did you make it?’

‘Let’s say an acquaintance did. I persuaded him to take time off from giving the Bank of Scotland a hard time to manufacture it for me.’

‘Won’t there be a code number attached to the lock as well?’ asked Dunbar.

Douglas nodded. ‘The code is entered on tone buttons. I recorded the tones when one of the guards went into the building. I know the number.’

‘And if the key doesn’t work?’

‘Then it’s up to you. We could take out the guards and use their passkey.’

‘No violence,’ said Dunbar.

‘Please yourself.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight, if you’re up for it.’

Dunbar nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘When and where?’

Douglas looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Have you done anything like this before?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I have,’ replied Dunbar. He didn’t volunteer anything else and Douglas didn’t ask. He simply nodded and gave directions on how to get to the yard of a disused suburban railway station on the north side of the city. He could leave his car there and they would go on to Vane Farm in Douglas’s Land-Rover.

‘Just in case we have to rough it across country later,’ said Douglas. ‘Do you need clothing?’

‘I’ve got dark stuff,’ replied Dunbar. ‘I could use a balaclava, though.’

‘No problem. Gloves?’

‘I’ve got gloves.’

‘One o’clock, then.’

Dunbar returned to his hotel room and turned on the television while he looked out the clothing he was going to wear later and laid it on the bed. He needed some noise as a distraction from thinking about the repercussions if something should go wrong. Scottish Television was showing an episode of Taggart. A body was being pulled from the Clyde to the accompaniment of glum faces and bad jokes. This was not the sort of distraction he needed; he switched off the television and turned the radio on instead, tuning it to Classic FM. Mozart’s Horn Concerto would do.

At half-past midnight Dunbar checked his pockets for the last time, then left his room and walked quietly along to the lift. Adrenalin was starting to flow. He handed his key to the night clerk, who acknowledged it with a nod before returning to his paperback. Dunbar was pleased at his lack of interest.

The directions Douglas had given him were excellent; concise and to the point. He had no difficulty in finding the station yard; it was seven minutes to one when he turned into it. The traffic at that time of night had been negligible. He drove slowly round the yard, his lights illuminating the undergrowth that was encroaching on the pot-holed tarmac. He backed into a secluded corner where he could watch the entrance, and turned out his lights.

The moon slid out from behind a thin cloud curtain to light up the ribbon of road leading uphill from the car park and out into the country. It was nearly full tonight. The last time he’d watched the moon like this had been in the Iraqi desert. He and the others had been waiting for it to disappear before moving off. He was trying to recall the names of his companions that night when he heard the sound of a car approaching. At first he thought the vehicle was going to pass by, but at the last moment it slowed and turned into the car park. Dunbar was momentarily blinded by its headlights as it swung round, then turned slightly to the side. He switched on his own lights and saw that it was a darkgreen Land-Rover. He got out, locked his car and hurried over to join Douglas.

‘Found it all right, then?’ asked Douglas.

‘No problem.’

They drove in silence until Douglas said, ‘That’s it coming up on our left. We’ll drive past. There’s a farm turn-off about three hundred yards ahead. We’ll leave the Land-Rover there.’

Dunbar saw the headlights pick out the sign ‘Vane Farm Animal Welfare Institute’ as they passed. He smiled wryly.

‘That is the place?’ asked Douglas, sounding a little worried.

‘Oh yes, that’s the place. I was just taken with the name, that’s all.’

‘They’re all doing it these days,’ said Douglas, catching on. ‘I suppose it would be asking for trouble to call it Vivisection House or the Institute for Cutting up Wee Furry Things for No Good Reason.’

‘Quite so.’

‘What do they work on there?’

‘Pigs.’

‘Not quite as appealing as bunny rabbits in the emotional stakes, but I guess it doesn’t matter too much to the nutters.’

‘Has there been much trouble with animal activists up here?’ asked Dunbar.

‘A fair bit. They burned down a lab over in Edinburgh a few months ago and a couple of researchers got parcel bombs sent to them. They’re going to kill somebody soon.’

Douglas turned the Land-Rover off the road and parked it a little way down the farm track. He turned out the lights and said, ‘Time to go to work.’ He reached behind him and lifted over a small rucksack and two black balaclavas. He handed one to Dunbar and both men put them on.

‘We’ll go back by the field, hugging the hedgerow until we reach the farm perimeter, then head north along the wire to the northeast corner and go through the wire there. Okay?’

‘Understood.’

Douglas handed Dunbar a pair of wire-cutters and said, ‘I’ll bridge the circuit. You cut the wire.’

They locked the vehicle and slipped quickly off the track down a slight embankment and into the field, where they courted the shadow of the roadside hedge as they made their way back to Vane Farm. Douglas, who led the way, held up his hand and both men dropped to their knees. Dunbar could see the farm gate-house. Through the large, well-lit windows he could see two men. They appeared to be reading.

Douglas gestured to his right and Dunbar followed him as they made their way to the furthest corner of the fence. When they reached the corner-post Douglas removed his rucksack and took out a pair of cables, each with a large crocodile clip on either end. He connected them both in the form of big loops to the fence and Dunbar cut the wire at two places inside the loops so that the electrical circuit was not broken. They separated the severed wires and crawled through the gap, Douglas first, followed by Dunbar after he had re-packed the wire-cutters and passed Douglas’s rucksack through to him.

Douglas signed that they crawl on their bellies from here on. Dunbar felt this was being a bit over-cautious but he was happy to have a companion who was inclined this way rather than the other. He complied without comment. They crawled side by side up to the main building, using their elbows to propel them over the rough ground.

From their position just short of the main door they could see the gate-house. One of the guards was sitting reading a newspaper, facing in their direction. If he looked up while they were unlocking the door, he would see them. Douglas looked at his watch and whispered, ‘Let’s wait a bit. See if he moves.’

Minutes passed and the guard showed no sign of becoming bored with his paper. Douglas and Dunbar exchanged grimaces but steeled themselves to continue the wait. Another ten minutes had gone by before the guard made a play of folding up his paper and picking up a kettle. He got up from his chair and disappeared from view.

‘Let’s do it!’ said Douglas, getting to his feet and running up to the door to insert his card. He punched in the number code while Dunbar looked anxiously towards the gate-house, fearing the imminent return of the guard. The lock stayed shut.

‘C’mon, c’mon!’ muttered Douglas as he re-inserted the card and tried again. Still nothing happened.

‘We’re running out of time!’ hissed Dunbar through his teeth.

Douglas tried once more with the same result just as Dunbar said, ‘He’s back!’

Both men dived headlong to the ground and looked towards the gate-house to see if they had been spotted. The guard opened his paper and sat down.

‘What do we do now?’ whispered Dunbar.

Douglas looked towards the gate-house and said, ‘We could take them?’

Dunbar shook his head. ‘Let’s take a look round the building. There might be another way in.’

‘No windows, no other doors,’ said Douglas. ‘I reccied it, remember?’

‘Humour me,’ said Dunbar. He led the way round to the back of the building, where they were out of sight of the gate-house. They crawled along the back wall, which was featureless apart from a large, square pipe about halfway along.

‘What do you suppose that is?’ Dunbar asked.

‘Some kind of waste pipe?’

They continued along the back wall, still without finding any means of access. The same applied to the end wall. They backed off to see as much of the roof as possible. There were no skylights or unshielded ventilation shafts.

‘I told you,’ said Douglas.

‘Let’s take a closer look at the waste pipe,’ said Dunbar.

The pipe comprised riveted metal sections and was about two feet square. Scraping away the earth round its base, Dunbar uncovered two metal drain covers. Douglas saw what he was about and gave him a hand to raise one of them. The smell that emanated made them both gag.

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Douglas.

‘Pig slurry,’ said Dunbar. ‘Let’s have the torch.’

Douglas handed him a long rubber-shielded torch and he inspected the pit. The end of the pipe was clear of the slurry. He reached down to check that there was no grille over the end. It was clear. He straightened up and said, ‘I think we could get up the inside of that pipe.’

Douglas screwed up his face at the thought but had to agree it was possible and there appeared to be no other option. He looked down at the slurry pit and asked, ‘How deep do you think it is?’

‘Only one way to find out.’ Dunbar eased himself over the edge of the pit and lowered his legs into the foul morass. It had just covered his knees when he said, ‘I’ve touched bottom.’

‘I’ll have to stash this,’ said Douglas, taking off his rucksack.

Dunbar squatted down so that he could get into the end of the pipe. The smell threatened to overpower him in the confined space as he entered, arms first, then his head and shoulders. He straightened up and tried to find hand-holds on the slimy interior walls. It was difficult, but he found that there was enough space for his fingers to curl over the inner portion of the box joints. If he could pull himself up another three feet, he’d be into the horizontal section of the pipe and could crawl up to the end.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Douglas.

‘So far.’

Dunbar pulled himself agonizingly upwards, using only the tips of his fingers, then managed to scramble in ungainly fashion into the flat section. He crawled slowly along to the far end and found himself up against a wire grille; but he was inside the building. He pushed hard against the grid and it sprang off, enabling him to crawl out into a wide, shallow metal basin. The noises all around him said that he had pigs for company. He turned round to encourage Douglas, who emerged a few moments later, seemingly using a curse for each foot of the way.

‘This is where they keep the pigs,’ said Dunbar.

‘You don’t say,’ replied Douglas sourly.

Douglas turned on his torch. They were standing in the sluice for pig waste. There were two large taps on the wall beside the pipe exit. Dunbar turned one on and started to wash himself down, then waited while Douglas did the same.

‘We’ll probably die of pneumonia now,’ said Douglas, wringing out as much water as he could. ‘But it’s better than smelling like that.’

The two men made their way out of the pig-house and into the main corridor of the building. The lack of windows meant they could use the torch freely, although they didn’t risk turning on any of the main lights. There were several small laboratories, one large one and finally what Dunbar was looking for, an office equipped with computer facilities. He turned on a desk light and started looking for useful information. There were several letters on the desk addressed to James Ross, so he knew he was in the right place. He searched the desk drawers that were unlocked, but there were no disk storage boxes there. The bottom drawer was locked. He asked Douglas for help.

Douglas knelt down to examine the lock and smiled. He brought out what looked like a series of metal spikes and selected one. He looked up at Dunbar as he twisted and turned the spike, all the time feeling for what was going on inside the lock.

‘And… Abra… cadabra!’ he announced as the lock turned and clicked.

Dunbar pulled open the drawer and found a plastic computer disk box. Each disk was meticulously labelled, something he put down to Ross’s nature and something he was extremely grateful for. He put to one side those concerned with accounting and record-keeping and kept the ones marked ‘Experimental Data’ with relevant dates. He turned on the computer.

‘How long are you going to be?’ asked Douglas, anxiety in his voice.

Dunbar reached inside his jerkin and brought out a plastic bag containing several blank disks. ‘Not long,’ he replied. ‘I just have to copy these.’

‘I’ll take a look around,’ said Douglas.

‘Don’t move anything,’ cautioned Dunbar. ‘We don’t want anyone to know Santa’s been.’

Dunbar made copies of the three data disks, switched off the computer and put everything back as he’d found it. ‘That’s it,’ he said when Douglas had returned. ‘Can you lock the drawer again?’

Douglas looked at him as if it was the strangest request he’d ever heard, but complied. He had slightly more trouble locking the drawer than he’d had unlocking it, but it eventually clicked and everything was as it had been.

‘Let’s go,’ said Dunbar.

As they left the office and started to make their way back down to the pig house, Douglas said, ‘Do you notice anything strange?’

‘What?’

‘Take a good look, then think back to how the building looked from the outside.’

Dunbar did as he was bid, shining the torch all over the walls. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Part of the building is missing. I twigged it while I was having a nose around. Look at the length of the place.’ Douglas swung the torch to and fro. ‘Now think about the length from outside.’

‘You’re right,’ said Dunbar. He pointed the beam straight ahead. ‘That must be a false wall.’

‘If there’s no access from the outside, there has to be a door in here.’

They walked over to the end wall and started searching for a way through.

‘Strange,’ muttered Dunbar, running his hands over the wall. ‘Seems unbroken.’

‘Crazy,’ agreed Douglas. Suddenly something he had touched caused a panel in the wall to slide back. It startled him and he dropped the torch, which went out, leaving them in darkness.

‘Christ! What’s that?’ exclaimed Douglas as the sound of grunting filled their ears.

‘More pigs, I suppose.’

‘Don’t smell like pigs,’ replied Douglas, cautiously entering the new part and reaching to the side to feel for a light switch. ‘Where is the bleeding thing?’ he murmured as he failed to find one.

Dunbar inched his way along the wall, guided only by the sound of Douglas’s voice. He froze suddenly as Douglas let out a scream that rent the air.

‘What the hell…? Where are you?’ gasped Dunbar. He reached the entrance and felt for a light switch. He found it and clicked it on. Douglas’s face was contorted with pain. He had unwittingly reached into the steel-barred cage of a large female ape. She had grabbed his arm and bitten it and was now trying to tear it off. Douglas’s eyes pleaded for help; blood was streaming down his arm.

Dunbar attacked the ape as best he could, punching at it through the bars, shouting at it, trying to distract it, but the animal kept hold of Douglas. Dunbar looked around for something to use as a weapon. He saw the torch that Douglas had dropped just outside the opening in the wall and retrieved it. One particularly good blow to the animal’s head made it release its grip and stumble backwards. Dunbar was able to pull Douglas away.

Douglas sank to the floor, shivering with shock.

Dunbar did his best to staunch the flow of blood, using two towels that he retrieved from a wash-basin at the far end of the room. As he was applying one as a tourniquet, he became aware of his audience. There were five apes in the room. All were female and all were pregnant. Despite the distraction of the moment, he couldn’t help but notice that all of them had scars across their bellies as if they’d had Caesarian sections, yet they were all still swollen in pregnancy.

Douglas clutched weakly at his neck and muttered something Dunbar couldn’t make out. He leaned closer.

‘Omnopon,’ murmured Douglas.

Dunbar suddenly realized what he meant. He reached inside the man’s shirt and found a little bag of the painkiller Omnopon hanging from a leather thong round his neck. ‘Old habits die hard,’ he said. Douglas must have served with a Marine Commando unit at some time: this was standard operational practice. He administered the drug to Douglas and took off his jerkin to make it into a pillow for his head while he thought what to do next. At that moment he heard the front door open. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he whispered. He stood up and clicked off the light.

‘I’m telling you, I heard a bloody scream,’ said an animated male voice.

‘It was your imagination,’ replied a calmer voice. ‘It was something on the radio.’

‘It was James fucking Last on the radio.’

Dunbar pressed himself against the wall, trying to decide what to do. Both security men had come to have a look, so there was still some doubt in their minds. It sounded as if only one man had heard something, so the chances were that they hadn’t yet reported anything. If he could close the wall panel, the guards might go away without finding anything amiss; unless, of course, they decided to search the whole building routinely. He was feeling for the button when Douglas tried to move and let out a loud moan. The game was over; the guards came running.

Almost without thinking, Dunbar pulled down his balaclava and ran towards them as the main lights came on. The two men were taken by surprise. One had hardly opened his mouth when Dunbar hit him sharply on the left side of his chin and he went down like a felled tree. The other turned to run for the door, but Dunbar caught him and dropped him with a blow to the side of his neck. He lowered him to the floor and dragged him back to lie beside his companion. He had been as restrained as possible. He wished them no harm.

Dunbar ran back to see to Douglas. The painkiller was doing its job, and Douglas was conscious and calm, sitting up, holding the towel against his arm.

‘Can you stand?’ asked Dunbar.

‘Sure.’ Douglas tried to get up, and succeeded with some help from Dunbar. Dunbar put his jerkin back on. ‘Put your good arm round my neck.’

Dunbar half carried Douglas to the front door, then turned out the lights before pressing the door-release button. The door slid back letting them breathe in fresh night air.

‘Where did you leave the rucksack?’ Dunbar asked.

Douglas seemed sleepy. He hesitated before saying, ‘Behind the pipe.’

They made painfully slow progress along the back of the building till they reached the waste pipe. Dunbar retrieved the rucksack and started to put it on, but Douglas stopped him.

‘Inside…’ he said. ‘Paint… Spray paint…’

Dunbar’s first thought was delirium, but then he understood. Despite his pain and shock, Douglas was still thinking about their mission.

‘In case… things went wrong. Someone… to blame.’

Dunbar searched the sack and found a can of spray paint.

‘Will you be okay for a minute?’ he asked.

‘Go…’

Dunbar went up to the wall of the building and started spray-writing. ‘No to Vivisection… Free the Animals… Scientist Bastards… Stop the Experiments… Evil Bastards’. The can was empty. He ran back to where Douglas lay and put the empty can in the sack before slinging it on his back and helping Douglas to his feet. ‘We’ve got to get you to a hospital,’ he said.

It seemed to take forever to cover the three hundred yards or so to where they’d left the Land-Rover, but there was still no commotion behind them. The security guards must still be unconscious. Dunbar took the keys from Douglas’s pocket and eased him to the ground while he unlocked the vehicle. He manoeuvred Douglas into the front seat and strapped him in securely. Douglas’s head rested on his chest but he was still conscious.

‘Are you okay there?’

‘I’m okay,’ grunted Douglas.

Dunbar started the vehicle. He considered briefly the idea of driving across country to avoid the possibility of meeting the police on their way out to Vane Farm, but decided that Douglas could not take the rough ride. He’d have to risk the road.

He glanced to the right as they passed the farm entrance. The gate-house was empty. He turned to Douglas and asked if the Omnopon was still working.

‘Still floating,’ said Douglas but he was clearly in shock.

When they reached the station yard, Dunbar parked the Land-Rover next to his own car and transferred Douglas. While they were outside he took the opportunity to relax the tourniquet on Douglas’s arm for a few moments. He didn’t want any problems arising from cut-off circulation.

‘We’ll have to leave your car here,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to leave mine in case they trace it and connect me with Vane Farm. They’ll be less suspicious of a Land-Rover.’

‘I’ll have one of the lads pick it up,’ said Douglas.

‘The sooner we get you to hospital the better,’ said Dunbar.

‘No hospital,’ croaked Douglas.

‘You need proper treatment,’ insisted Dunbar. ‘That’s a bad wound.’

‘No hospital,’ repeated Douglas. ‘They’ll ask all sorts of questions and I want to work again. I need it. There’s nothing else for me, man.’

‘If you don’t get proper treatment you might never work again anyway. You could lose your arm.’

‘That serious?’

‘That serious,’ confirmed Dunbar.

‘You a doctor, then?’ asked Douglas, expecting a negative reply.

‘I am.’

Douglas shook his head as if in disbelief. ‘Then what the… You fix it, then,’ he said.

‘With what? A car jack and some tyre levers? You need a hospital.’

Douglas let out a sigh. ‘Get me back to the Crane,’ he said.

‘The Crane closed hours ago.’

‘I live in the flat above it. I can call up help from there. He’s done it before.’

‘You mean some struck-off old lush who stitches wanted heads for beer money?’

‘Something like that. I’m not going to hospital.’

‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ said Dunbar. ‘We’ll go to your place but I call up my people. I’ll tell them it’s vital that you be treated in secret.’

‘Do you think they’ll play?’

‘They’ll play, but it might not be a substitute for a hospital.’

‘No hospital.’

They had just entered the built-up area when two police cars shot past in the other direction. Dunbar felt relieved, not just because they had passed them by but because it meant that at least one of the security men had come round.

They reached Salamander Street without incident and Dunbar parked outside the pub, which he had trouble finding in the dark without the tell-tale spillage of light from its windows. Its inconspicuous frontage merged perfectly into the long, dark stretch of unoccupied tenements. Douglas himself couldn’t help much. The painkillers were starting to wear off and increasing pain was occupying all his attention. He sat with his head back, his eyes tight shut.

‘I really think-’ began Dunbar.

‘No!’ snarled Douglas.

Dunbar shrugged. ‘How do we get in?’ he asked.

‘Door… to the left. Keys… side pocket of the sack.’

Dunbar found the keys and got out to unlock the heavy door to the left of the pub. He returned to the car, helped Douglas out and supported him across the pavement and into a long, dark entrance hall. Sounds of scuttling feet reached them from the blackness.

‘Which flat?’ Dunbar asked.

‘First… and first door. It’s the only one occupied.’

Dunbar helped him up spiral stone steps, feeling his way in the dark. The narrowness made it difficult, as did the fact that the steps were badly worn in the centre. It was a relief to reach the landing. Still supporting Douglas, he felt his way along the wall to the first door, found the lock and unlocked it with the second key he tried. He clicked on the hall light and helped Douglas, who was now only semi-conscious, into a room where he half collapsed on to a couch.

‘Where’s your phone?’ Dunbar asked but didn’t wait for a reply; he saw it on a small table to the left of a gas fire. First he closed the curtains and lit the fire. Douglas was shivering badly, partly from cold but mainly through shock.

Dunbar called Sci-Med and told the night duty officer that he needed urgent medical help for an injured man. ‘Severe upper arm trauma inflicted by a laboratory primate,’ he reported. ‘Biting involved. No known disease implicated in the animal, although it can’t be ruled out. Blood loss severe.’

It occurred to Dunbar that Douglas, as an ex-Marine, would know his own blood group. He asked him and repeated the answer down the phone: ‘A — positive.’ He gave details of their whereabouts and asked how long help would be.

‘Can’t say. We’ll do our best.’

After ringing off, Dunbar undid the tourniquet and dressing and took a look at the wound. ‘I’m going to clean your arm up a bit,’ he said. ‘Do you have any whisky in the flat?’

‘You’re not going to pour that over it are you?’ demanded Douglas.

‘No, I’m not,’ agreed Dunbar. ‘This isn’t a John Wayne film. You’re going to drink it because this is going to hurt like hell.’ He re-applied the tourniquet, poured out the liquor and foraged in the bathroom cabinet for anything useful. Back in the main room, he handed the half-full tumbler to Douglas and removed the tourniquet again, substituting finger pressure while he examined the wound and dabbed at the torn flesh with cotton wool and antiseptic.

Douglas took a gulp of the whisky and gasped, ‘What do you think?

‘Hard to say.’

Douglas threw back his head in anguish. ‘Christ,’ he exclaimed. ‘Pigs! I was expecting pigs!’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know,’ said Dunbar guiltily.

‘Not your fault,’ said Douglas. ‘I’m grateful. You saved my life back there. That fucking ape was all for turning me into a Lego set. Did you see she was pregnant?’

‘I did,’ agreed Dunbar. ‘They all were.’

Time passed. Douglas dropped into a state somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness. Fitfulness and occasional moans said that he wasn’t at peace but he had achieved some respite from the pain through the combination of alcohol and painkillers, sometimes an unholy alliance that ended in tragedy but occasionally in other circumstances, as now, a blessing. Dunbar had to disturb him at fifteen-minute intervals to loosen the tourniquet so that circulation was maintained. Two hours went by before he heard a car draw up in the street and then a knock on the front door.

Two men stood there. In the first grey light of dawn, he could see that they were dressed in surgical tunics and trousers and each had the words Bladen Clinic on the left breast of his tunic. One carried a folded stretcher, the other a black equipment box.

‘Dr Dunbar? We’ve come for your patient.’

Dunbar led them up to where Douglas was lying along the couch.

‘Is he stable enough to be moved?’

‘He’ll do. I’ve been unable to do anything apart from stem the blood flow,’ said Dunbar. ‘He had Omnopon about four hours ago and a fair amount of alcohol since for the pain. Maybe you should get some fluid into him before you move him, and if you have some proper dressings there I’ll change them.’

The attendants put up a saline drip for Douglas and Dunbar changed the dressing.

‘What the hell did this?’ asked one of the men when he saw the state of Douglas’s arm.’

‘An ape.’

‘Jesus!’

‘The clinic’s ready for him?’

The attendant nodded. ‘There’s a theatre on stand-by. Surgeon’s on his way.’

Douglas was transferred to the stretcher and Dunbar held up the saline drip bag as they worked their way downstairs, with great difficulty on the spiral turns. Mercifully, Douglas was still only semi-conscious. Dunbar took hold of his good hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Good luck, Jimmy,’ he said as the attendants prepared to close the doors of the ambulance. Dunbar watched its lights disappear before returning to the flat to lock up. ‘What a mess,’ he whispered as he came downstairs again. ‘What a fucking mess.’