Hypocrite's Isle

Seventeen

Frank Simmons took a call from John Chalmers at Unived at ten on Friday morning.

‘I’m afraid there’s been a slight hitch. Old College have deferred a decision.’

‘What on earth for?’ asked Simmons, his tone betraying the frustration he was welling up inside him.

‘They need clarification.’

‘Of what?’

‘Whether Valdevan is going to be available should the university fund a successful application for intellectual property rights.’

‘There’s no need to worry on that score. Over the past few days we’ve managed to establish that Jack Martin was quite correct in his suspicion that Valdevan is out of patent. Anyone can make it.’

‘Anyone with the facilities of a large pharmaceutical company, that is,’ said Chalmers.

‘Anyone who has an interest in treating cancer,’ snapped Simmons. ‘How long is this delay going to go on?’

‘I’ll pass on what you’ve said about the drug and get back to you when I hear something.’

Simmons put the phone down and rested his elbows on his desk while he massaged his temples. ‘Bugger... bugger, bugger.’

He was about to go through to the lab to tell Gavin when the phone rang again. It was a Dr Colin Mears at the University Medical Centre. ‘It’s about this small drug trial you’ve asked us to administer.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘No problem, but you do know that it’s no longer usual to give polymyxin by injection? Side-effects and all that.’

‘We know, but we’re using a quarter of the recommended dose.’

‘Won’t that defeat the purpose?’ asked Mears.

‘We don’t intend using it to fight bacterial infection.’

‘Fair enough...’ said Mears, with the air of a man who had thought about asking more but had decided not to. ‘There are still certain people we will have to exclude — anyone with a history of kidney problems and anyone prone to allergies. These were the groups shown in the past to suffer the worst side-effects.’

‘We’ll screen the volunteers,’ said Simmons.

‘Then we can start whenever you like,’ said Mears.

Simmons passed on the bad news to Gavin about the delay to the patent application and asked how the search for volunteers was coming along.

‘We’ve got twelve,’ said Gavin. ‘Six medical students from my girlfriend’s class including Caroline herself. Mary, Tom, Trish from tissue culture, Jack Martin and yourself.’

Simmons told him what Mears had said about exclusions.

‘I’ll check.’

‘I suggest we make a start on Monday morning. That should give us the data by the end of the week, and we should know about both the TV programme and when they’re going to submit the patent application by then.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Gavin.

‘Could be a big week.’

On Sunday, Gavin and Caroline took the bus down to Leith, once an independent and busy port, but now swallowed up to become Edinburgh-by-the-sea where the docks and shipyards of the past had given way to the flats and bistros of modern times. They had lunch in a waterside bar before starting a slow walk back to the city on the walkway which traced the course of the Water of Leith up through the heart of the city and out to the west. Both were excited at the prospects of the week ahead, and what the future might bring once Gavin’s discovery was put to the test.

‘I can’t believe it’s only a few months since I thought you were a complete bullshitter,’ said Caroline.

‘Thanks for that.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Caroline, squeezing his arm. ‘If someone suggests they’re going to cure cancer, the last thing in the world you’d expect them to do is... cure cancer. God, this is so exciting.’

‘Still a way to go,’ said Gavin.

‘That doesn’t sound like you. What made you say that?’

‘I’ve seen the early opposition. It can only get worse.’

‘But Frank’s on your side...’

‘He’s been brilliant. I couldn’t have asked for more support, but maybe even he doesn’t realise what he’s up against.’

‘And you do?’ challenged Caroline.

‘I was the one who spoke to Ehrman,’ said Gavin.

‘And?’

Gavin sighed. ‘That guy was as nice as ninepence when we met in Edinburgh, but when he got back to me after supposedly discussing my results with his colleagues, he was as cold as ice. I got the impression he would have signed my death warrant without batting an eye.’

‘Well, screw him. He’s in no position to do anything to stop you, so he’d better get used to the idea,’ said Caroline. ‘Your idea is going to work.’

‘Mmm,’ said Gavin.

‘I think you have to wear a morning suit when they give you a Nobel Prize,’ said Caroline.

‘Best get mine off to the dry-cleaners then,’ said Gavin.

Only one of the original volunteers had to be replaced on Monday morning. One of Caroline’s medical student classmates confessed to suffering from a range of allergies including one to penicillin. He was replaced at the last moment by his girlfriend — also a medical student — and all twelve volunteers were given their first injection of polymyxin. This was followed an hour later by the taking of a blood sample from each to assess the levels of the drug present at that time. The week continued with regular injections and blood sampling until by Wednesday there was enough data to make a preliminary judgement on how things were going. None of the volunteers had suffered any side-effects, and all of them had achieved blood levels of the drug above that required to destroy Valdevan-treated tumour cells.

‘Looks good,’ said Simmons.

‘Looks great,’ said Gavin.

There was a bad moment on Thursday morning when Tom Baxter appeared in the lab looking very ill, but close questioning revealed that he had been out on the town the night before, celebrating the success of one of his friends in gaining his PhD in biochemistry. His ‘illness’ had more to do with alcohol than with polymyxin.

The relief, however, was short-lived when Simmons took a call from John Chalmers. He took it in the open lab so that the others heard one side of the conversation.

‘I’m sorry; they’ve decided not to go ahead with the application.’

‘Why not?’ exclaimed Simmons, feeling the numbness of disappointment invade his limbs.

‘When push came to shove, Old College felt they had a duty not to waste university funds, and the risk inherent in applying for intellectual copyright over something that could not be guaranteed to be made available was deemed too great. I’m sorry.’

‘And where do people with cancer come into all this?’

‘I’m sorry?’

Simmons put down the phone.

Gavin took the news like a punch in the stomach. He turned on his heel and left the room without comment.

‘What are they playing at?’ said Mary, shaking her head. ‘Why is everyone solely concerned with money, with something like this at stake?’

‘I’ll go see if Gavin’s okay,’ said Tom.

Gavin had escaped to the Meadows. His first impulse had been to seek out a pub where he could spend the rest of the day drinking in an attempt to numb the feelings of frustration and helplessness that were threatening to overwhelm him, but thoughts of what Caroline might say acted as a deterrent. Instead he walked and walked, all the while cursing an establishment that couldn’t see further than the end of its cheque book. When he’d calmed down, he came round to wondering what to do next. If the university wouldn’t provide any support, surely there was someone else out there who would.

He came round to considering the very people who were funding his studies, the Medical Research Council. They should certainly be interested in a new treatment for cancer. In fact, this sort of thing should be more up their street than the University’s when all was said and done. He had the number of the MRC’s head office in London entered in his mobile phone, so he brought it up on the screen and called it. After saying who he was, he asked if the Council had any sort of interface between its researchers and the commercial world.

‘We certainly do,’ came the reply.

‘Brilliant,’ said Gavin, asking for details, punching in the number, and making sure there was no misunderstanding by asking about the function of the unit.

‘Its remit is to make sure that the work of the Council’s researchers is brought to the attention of possible developers and manufacturers, and to safeguard the Council’s interests,’ said the woman.

Gavin thought he heard warning bells ring in the last phrase, but he called the number and asked to speak to the person in charge.

‘That would be Dr Welsh. May I ask what it’s about?’

‘A cure for cancer.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘A possible cure for cancer.’

‘One moment, please.’

Gavin shifted his weight from foot to foot as he waited, mainly to keep warm, but nerves were also playing a part.

‘Graham Welsh; who is this, please?’

Gavin said who and what he was, and gave a brief outline of his research work on Valdevan.

‘Can I just stop you there?’ said Welsh. ‘You say you have already contacted the makers of the drug?’

‘Yes, it was the first thing we did. We thought they’d be pleased with our findings.’ Gavin grimaced at the hollow sound his words had now.

‘Telling them was a mistake,’ said Welsh. ‘Once you’ve done that it’s no longer possible to patent your idea.’

‘I don’t want to patent it,’ exclaimed Gavin. ‘I want someone to try it out.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Welsh. ‘But I’m afraid that’s something we really can’t help you with. It’s outwith our remit.’

‘Outwith your remit,’ echoed Gavin. ‘You mean, if you can’t sell it, you’re not interested?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

‘How would you put it? Christ, you’re the Medical Research Council! Isn’t there a wee clue in the name?’

‘Does your supervisor know you’re making this call?’

‘Do they stick batteries up your arse in the morning?’

Gavin walked back to the med school, still fuming. He was met on the stairs by Tom Baxter who said, ‘I’ve been looking for you all over the place. Sutcliffe wants to see you and Frank.’

Simmons, who had been waiting for Gavin to turn up, was checking his watch and on the point of leaving the lab when Gavin appeared. They hurried along the corridor to Sutcliffe’s office together, only to be told by Liz that the time for a private meeting had passed. The departmental meeting about the BBC programme was now in progress in the small seminar room.

Simmons inclined his head towards Gavin as if asking a silent question, and Liz went on, ‘Graham said you should both attend.’

They entered to find Graham Sutcliffe and the academic staff in the early stages of discussing the programme format.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘I did want to have a word in private with you two before the start of this meeting but... you weren’t available. Anyway, not to put too fine a point on it, I have decided that Gavin’s work, laudable though it is, should not be included in the programme at this particular moment in time.’

There was a hush in the room. ‘Why not?’ asked Simmons. ‘It has all the signs of being the most significant development in cancer research for years.’

‘It has potential, I’ll grant you, but all the objections I raised at the outset still stand, I’m afraid.’

‘Except one,’ said Simmons. ‘We’ve been running a trial on low-dose polymyxin treatment over the past week. Twelve volunteers were injected with the drug at the low dosage required and we’ve seen no side-effects... None at all.’

‘Be that as it may...’

‘Don’t dismiss it lightly, Graham; that was one of your major objections,’ said Simmons.

‘One of them,’ countered Sutcliffe.

‘Perhaps you’d care to remind everyone of the others?’

‘I will not be cross-examined in this manner,’ snapped Sutcliffe.

‘It’s important that we all know,’ said Simmons, as calmly as he could with a racing pulse and the feeling that he had just crossed the Rubicon uppermost in his mind.

‘I will not be party to anything that promises false hope to vulnerable people,’ announced Sutcliffe.

‘It’s real hope, Graham. It’s what you plan to put in the programme that’s going nowhere. I don’t mind the old boys patting each other on the back and calling each other distinguished, even dishing out prizes to one another, but not at the expense of the exclusion of something like this. If you won’t include Gavin Donnelly’s work in the programme, I’ll seek publicity for it elsewhere.’

‘Which would be totally irresponsible and might well be construed as bringing this university into disrepute,’ stormed Sutcliffe.

Simmons noted the threat of bigger guns being brought to bear on him, but did not react.

‘I urge you to think again,’ continued Sutcliffe. ‘To announce publicly that an untried —’

‘We are not exactly getting the chance to try it, are we?’ interrupted Simmons.

Sutcliffe continued unabashed. ‘By announcing that an untried and untested treatment could be their salvation would be putting the health and welfare of thousands of vulnerable people at risk.’

Simmons snapped. With a preliminary glance at the heavens as if seeking divine help, he leaned forward and fixed Sutcliffe with blazing eyes. ‘THEY’RE DYING OF CANCER, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! THEY DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING HEALTH AND WELFARE ISSUES. THEY ARE DYING, OR HAD THAT ESCAPED YOUR ATTENTION?’

Jack Martin leapt to his feet, holding up his hands in an attempt to interrupt proceedings and limit the damage. He was helped by the stunned silence that enveloped the audience. ‘Gentlemen, this is getting us nowhere,’ he pleaded. ‘I suggest that we all calm down, get some coffee and reconvene in say, half an hour?’

People were ready to agree.

Gavin was back in the lab first. He told Mary and Tom what had happened. ‘Frank lost it big time. What a hero. You should have seen Sutcliffe’s face.’

‘I really don’t understand why Graham refuses to have your stuff in the programme, as a preliminary study if nothing else. You’d think it would do the department nothing but good,’ said Mary.

‘It’s personal,’ suggested Tom. ‘He really doesn’t like you.’

This brought a smile of resignation from Gavin just as Simmons came into the room. He looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I don’t think you should come back into the meeting, Gavin,’ he said. ‘Just in case the professor decides to make it a double crucifixion.’

‘You were brilliant,’ said Gavin.

‘No, I wasn’t,’ insisted Simmons. ‘I lost my temper and blew any chance we might have had of getting Professor Sutcliffe to change his mind.’

‘He was never going to do that, Frank,’ said Gavin.

‘I don’t think so either,’ said Mary, and Tom nodded his agreement, adding, ‘He hates Gavin.’

‘All the same...’ Simmons let out his breath in a long, weary sigh. ‘Any coffee going?’

The four of them stood in the lab sipping coffee, Simmons preoccupied by what had happened and the others trying to think of something light to say. When all else failed, Gavin told Simmons of his earlier conversation with the head of the MRC technology transfer unit. Simmons shook his head. ‘Christ, who would have thought that it would be so...’ He let the slump in his shoulders say the rest.

Simmons suggested that Gavin maintain a low profile for the time being. He would call him when there had been some kind of resolution. He started out to return to the meeting when he met Liz in the corridor. ‘I heard what happened,’ she whispered in confidential fashion. ‘Graham’s desperately afraid he’ll lose it if you don’t back down over Gavin,’ she said.

‘Lose what?’

‘The block grant...’

Simmons’ eyes opened wide. ‘Are you saying that Grumman Schalk have been pressurising Graham?’

Liz looked alarmed. ‘I thought you knew,’ she murmured, as the enormity of her slip hit home to her. ‘Oh, my God, what have I done?’

Simmons patted her arm, although his mind had just gone into overdrive. ‘It’s all right, Liz,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it. It would have come out anyway...’

It was Jack Martin, not Graham Sutcliffe, who was first to speak when the meeting reconvened. It seemed only right as he had cast himself in the role of peacemaker before the break. He did his best to make light of what had gone before with references to passions running high and the ‘emotional minefield’ of a subject like cancer. He expressed the hope that they could put it all behind them.

Simmons’ regret and embarrassment at his earlier outburst had now been replaced by an anger that smouldered inside him as he watched the head of department get to his feet.

Graham Sutcliffe began in conciliatory tone. ‘I fully recognise the enthusiasm that some of you feel for Gavin Donnelly’s work,’ he said. ‘But I must emphasise that my first consideration as head of this department has to be the reputation of the department and, indeed, the university. It would be foolish for us to go over the top about something which is, at this point, little more than an interesting observation in a test tube. It was for that reason that I decided that Donnelly’s work will not be included in the BBC programme. I hope that after giving it some thought, you, my colleagues, will come to agree with me and not seek ill-advised publicity for what is after all —’

‘A thorn in Grumman Schalk’s side,’ interrupted Simmons in a level monotone.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Simmons’ gaze did not waver as he asked, ‘What was the threat, Graham? Keep the lid on Gavin’s work or you lose the block grant?’

There were gasps in the room and all eyes were on Simmons, whose unwavering and accusing stare at Sutcliffe suggested a man very sure of his ground.

‘How dare you!’

‘No, how dare you, Graham? I was prepared for Grumman Schalk’s interference in what we could or could not submit for publication if we accepted their money, but I didn’t expect them to start running the department before we’d even got it.’

Sutcliffe was almost apoplectic.

‘Will everyone please calm down,’ appealed Jack Martin, above the hubbub which had broken out.

As order was restored, Martin looked at Simmons and said, ‘That is a very serious accusation, Frank.’

‘And I’m waiting for a response.’

Martin turned and looked almost apologetically at Sutcliffe, who took a deep breath and got to his feet. ‘This is a total misrepresentation of the facts,’ he said, but his words lacked conviction and the room sensed it. ‘Quite understandably, Grumman Schalk, like me, believes that it is not in the interests of anyone to have publicity given to Donnelly’s work at this stage.’

‘Or any stage,’ said Simmons coldly. ‘Did they threaten to withdraw the offer of the block grant if you didn’t play ball?’

There was a long pause while it seemed to Simmons that Sutcliffe was trying to work out just how much he knew. ‘Not in so many words...’

All around the room eyes were cast downwards as Sutcliffe’s answer was seen as an admission.

‘Well, of course “not in so many words”, Graham. How did they dress it up?’

‘It’s not a question of dressing anything up,’ spluttered Sutcliffe. ‘The company simply feels that if Donnelly’s work were to be given undue publicity on such a programme as the BBC intends to produce, their refusal to put Valdevan back in production might lead to adverse publicity and — a misinterpretation of their motives — something that might well have financial repercussions for them —’

‘And lead to a withdrawal of the grant offer,’ completed Simmons.

‘Which is a perfectly understandable point of view to those of us...’

Who have to live in the real world, thought Simmons as he saw it coming.

‘Who have to live in the real world.’

Simmons left the room.