Hypocrite's Isle

Six

‘You’re late,’ said Jenny Simmons, standing at the sink as her husband came into the kitchen and wrapped his arms round her waist from behind. She moved her neck slightly away from his embrace as if to underline her annoyance.

‘Sorry. There was a staff meeting and then I had a beer with Jack.’

‘You two are a bad influence on each other.’

‘Staff meetings are a bad influence on both of us. I think they must be sponsored by the brewing industry. Sutcliffe was having a real go at Gavin and it really pissed me off.’

‘If you ask me, it’s about time someone had a go at Gavin. Worrying about that boy seems to take up so much of your time these days. Is he really worth the hassle?’

‘There have been times when I did wonder myself but yes, I think he is. I’m beginning to think... he’s got it.’

‘Got what? A chip on his shoulder the size of Ben Nevis?’

Simmons shushed her. ‘I know you two got off on the wrong foot but —’

‘The wrong foot!’ exclaimed Jenny. ‘The first time he came here he got hopelessly drunk and was sick all over the cat!’

‘Like I say, the wrong foot, and I’m not pretending that he doesn’t have shortcomings. He has. Lots. But just lately I think I see a glimpse of... that special something in him.’

‘What special something?’

‘The something that makes you a researcher. The thing that makes you more than just someone who can remember a lot of facts and figures and pass exams. You either have it or you don’t, and so many people who end up in research don’t.’

‘That’s a bit of a sweeping condemnation.’

‘Maybe, but it’s true. Don’t worry: they don’t know they don’t have it. They don’t even know it exists, and what you never had you never miss. You can have degrees coming out your ears, but if you don’t have that extra something that enables you to think in a certain way, you’re never going to do anything more than dot other people’s is and cross other people’s ts, however much you dress it up — and many do become quite adept at dressing it up.’

‘I take it you have this something?’ asked Jenny, turning to look at her husband.

Simmons let her go. ‘I thought I did, but these days I’m not so sure. I seem to spend most of my time on administrative chores, form filling and writing reviews. I bitch about it but maybe I’m using it as an excuse because I’ve run out of ideas...’

‘Oh, come on. You’re a top man in your field. You have the respect of your peers. You have a list of publications as long as your arm, and in journals that many of them would kill to get their work into, so stop talking nonsense. You’ve always been too modest for your own good. However well you did, it was never good enough for you. That’s one of the reasons I married you. I knew you were never going to end up stalking the corridors of power in a smart suit, checking the New Year Honours list to see if you were on it, but you were clever, funny, imaginative, honest — perhaps too honest for the environment you’re in — and you genuinely cared about sick people and what might make things better for them. That makes you an ace person in my book — unless of course, you don’t get your arse up the stairs in the next thirty seconds and read our children a story, in which case, I just might divorce you and bring in a man in a suit.’

Simmons smiled and nodded. ‘On my way.’

Later, as they sat having dinner, Jenny asked, ‘Have you heard about the extent of Gavin’s injuries yet?’

‘I talked to him this afternoon. He came in to set up some cultures.’

‘Gosh, that was keen. You seemed to have enough trouble getting him to come in to the lab when he was perfectly healthy. What’s brought about the change?’

‘I don’t think there’s actually been a change, although he was hugely embarrassed about having screwed up the cultures the first time round. It’s true I expected him to be just like all the others, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when he started back in October — you know the sort of thing, in first in the morning, making himself busy about the lab, generally creating a good impression as new students usually do — but Gavin doesn’t think that way. He doesn’t do good impressions. I thought he was skiving but he wasn’t; he was thinking about the project and how best to approach it. He simply didn’t do anything in the lab until he came up with something worth doing.’

‘And now he has?’

Simmons nodded. ‘And I suspect he’ll be prepared to work night and day if necessary to see it through — without any prompting from me.’

‘So why was Graham having a go at him?’

‘We ask the postgrad students to participate in the undergrad teaching programme — it’s supposed to give them teaching experience. Graham asked Gavin to take a first-year class and he refused. Now Graham’s afraid some of the others might follow suit.’

‘That sounds so like Gavin,’ said Jenny. ‘Setting out to make an enemy of the head of department... and you maintain he’s bright?’

‘The teaching is voluntary...’

‘But surely he can see —’

‘That he should play the game?’ interrupted Simmons. ‘Oh yes, he can see that. He just refuses to play it.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘On his own head be it... but surely the meeting wasn’t all about Gavin?’

Simmons told her about the BBC planning to visit the department.

‘Great. Does this mean you’re going to be on Horizon, holding up a test tube and gazing into the middle distance, while a soothing voice explains just how you made the breakthrough?’

‘No, I’ve nothing to tell them.’

‘How did I know you were going to say that?’ smiled Jenny. ‘What about Mary’s stuff? You were singing her praises the other day. She’s writing it up for publication, isn’t she?’

Simmons nodded. ‘Sure, and it’s a very nice piece of work, but it’s technical progress. It’s only relevant to scientists in the field. It has no bearing on anything that would matter to the general public.’

‘Couldn’t you sex it up to make it seem that way? You know, Edinburgh scientists in cancer breakthrough... hopefully in three to five years’ time this will lead to significant new treatments...’

‘I could but I’m not going to,’ said Simmons flatly. ‘You know how I feel about that rubbish.’

Jenny looked at him and smiled. ‘God, you rise to the bait so easily. I can never resist...’

Gavin left the flat at just after nine the next morning and set out to walk to the lab. He was sore, but the pain was offset to some extent by the fact that it was such a pretty morning, with the sun shining on the castle ramparts as he crossed Princes Street at the junction with Hanover Street and started up the Mound. The Norway Spruce Christmas tree — a traditional present to the city from the Norwegian government — was already in place near the top awaiting the night, coming soon, when its lights would be ceremoniously switched on by some local celebrity.

He couldn’t help but think that the decorations he could see on the lamp-posts in Princes Street paled into insignificance against the natural beauty of the frost on the grass in Princes Street Gardens. Their presence, however, reminded Gavin that he had still not decided whether to go home for Christmas or stay here in Edinburgh.

He knew he’d been putting it off because he’d been hoping that Caroline might invite him home with her to the Lake District — but that, of course, was now out of the question. Whether it had ever been a real possibility was open to conjecture, and he was well aware that falling heavily for someone, as he had done for Caroline, could lead to a sense of the unreal intruding on his grasp of things. He’d been finding it all too easy to fantasise about walking through snow-covered woods in Cumbria with his arm round her as they sought out holly berries and sprigs of mistletoe to bring home and decorate a room where a log fire burned bright, filling the air with its scent. He saw them sipping mulled wine and cuddling up on the couch while Caroline’s parents — who had taken to him instantly — smiled benevolently and exchanged knowing glances of approval about a possible future son-in-law.

That fantasy had been destroyed. Caroline would be going home for Christmas, but she would be travelling alone to a house where overwhelming sadness would preside like a blanket of fog, where people would find it difficult to say anything and long silences would prevail, despite forced attempts to avoid them. Cancer would be spending Christmas with Caroline and her family, not him.

‘You shouldn’t be here. I told you I would check your cultures,’ said Mary Hollis when she saw Gavin come in to the lab.

‘I just had to see for myself,’ said Gavin. ‘But don’t think I’m not grateful.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘A lot better, thanks... and don’t say I don’t look it,’ Gavin warned Tom who looked as if he were about to say something.

Tom shrugged and returned to what he was doing.

Gavin brought out his cell cultures one at a time and examined them under the inverted microscope. Mary watched him out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his reaction. Tom, with his back to the others, stopped in the middle of a calculation he was scribbling and said out loud, ‘You’re not going to believe this but I’ve forgotten the molecular weight of sodium...’

‘Twenty-three,’ said Gavin, without taking his eyes from the ’scope.

‘Cheers.’

‘How are they looking?’ asked Mary.

‘Well, at least they’re not contaminated this time,’ replied Gavin. ‘On the other hand, there’s not much sign of anything happening.’

‘It’s only been a day, Gavin. Give them time.’

Gavin returned the last of the culture bottles to the incubator. He had just closed the door when Peter Morton-Brown came in, full of smiles and bonhomie. ‘Hi, guys. Have you heard about my new journal club?’

‘Frank mentioned something about it,’ said Mary, keeping her tone neutral.

‘Well, what d’you think? Are you going to come along and boost the numbers?’

‘I suppose...’ said Mary.

‘Sure,’ said Tom with his usual lopsided shrug.

Gavin had busied himself with something at his desk.

‘How about you, Gavin, are you going to join?’

‘No.’

‘Not interested in current research progress, huh?’

Gavin turned round and looked daggers at Morton-Brown. ‘On the contrary, I am very interested. In fact, I’m currently engaged in it. It’s your journal club I’m not interested in.’

‘Don’t you think it would be the perfect way to keep up to date with what’s going on in science?’

‘No, it would involve sitting through a lot of talks about stuff I’m not at all interested in.’

‘Please yourself. I just thought it would be a help to everyone...’

‘No, you didn’t. You thought it would look good on your CV.’

‘Now wait a minute...’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ interrupted Mary. ‘Just let us know when you plan to have the first one, Peter,’ she said, giving Morton-Brown his cue to leave. When he did, she turned to Gavin and said, ‘You really are the limit.’

‘He’s a bullshitter.’

‘You have to get along with bullshitters.’

‘Why?’

‘You just do!’

‘You know,’ said Tom thoughtfully, ‘there’s only one thing worse than a bullshitter...’

‘What’s that?’

‘A bullshitter with a journal club to promote.’

All three of them burst out laughing. It was a good moment, a bonding moment that none of them had seen coming.

Over the next few days, Gavin came in early each morning to check on his cultures before going off to the library to read up on everything surrounding his project. On Monday morning his customary response to Mary’s enquiry changed from ‘Nothing yet’ to ‘Wowee! Now we’re cooking.’

Mary came over to take a look at the cells. ‘Not much doubt about that,’ she said. ‘Quite a dramatic effect. What concentration is this?’

‘Manufacturer’s recommended.’

‘Gosh, it’s hard to see how a drug that can attack tumour cells like this in the lab had absolutely no effect at all in patients.’

‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Gavin. ‘I thought when I first read up on Valdevan that the company might be exaggerating the facts in order to make their drug seem better than it actually was, and that they had selected exceptional cells to photograph and make their point, but I was wrong. All the cells in the monolayer are behaving the same way. This drug is absolutely wonderful.’

‘Except that it doesn’t work in people,’ said Tom.

‘Maybe something inactivates it in the body?’ suggested Mary.

‘I guess.’

‘Stomach acid maybe,’ said Tom.

‘I think Grumman Schalk would have checked that out,’ said Gavin. ‘You don’t spend multi-million dollars developing a drug and then throw it away because you can’t take it by mouth. You inject it.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Gavin’s right: they must have checked every possibility under the sun before giving up on it,’ said Mary. ‘Why not ask them... or ask Frank to find out just what they did?’

‘Ask Frank to do what?’ said Frank Simmons, coming out of his office and hearing his name mentioned.

‘I’ve reproduced the Valdevan effect on tumour cells,’ said Gavin. ‘It’s much more dramatic than I expected. I can see why the company must have been excited by it at the time. We were just wondering how it could possibly have had no effect in vivo. Mary was saying that the company must have investigated this fully and we were wondering if you think it might be worthwhile asking them what they came up with?’

Mary positively beamed at Gavin’s diplomacy. Tom looked as if he were witnessing an unnatural act.

‘Worth a try,’ agreed Simmons. ‘But you mustn’t get bogged down in investigating why an old drug didn’t work. Keep sight of the original aim of the project, which is to investigate the action of the S16 gene. There’s a danger of going up a blind alley here and ending up repeating everything the people at Grumman Schalk did years ago, with exactly the same result.’

‘Okay, boss,’ said Gavin.

‘How are the cell membranes looking?’

‘There are big changes,’ replied Gavin. ‘Definite pinching of the lipid bilayer at intervals.’

‘At the lower concentration too?’

‘I haven’t looked yet.’

‘Let’s take a peek now, shall we?’

Mary and Tom returned to what they had been doing while Simmons sat down at the inverted microscope and Gavin brought out the low drug concentration culture from the incubator.

‘They look quite normal,’ murmured Simmons. ‘Take a look.’ He got up from the chair to let Gavin take his place.

‘You’re right — I can’t see any pinching of the membrane.’

‘And no cell death at that concentration?’

‘Agreed,’ said Gavin.

Simmons looked thoughtful. ‘I think you should set up another series of cell cultures — maybe ten different concentrations of Valdevan this time. See if you can find a level that gives us membrane change but no killing. If not, we’ll have to conclude that knocking out the S16 gene is a lethal event. But if you can, we’re in business, and we can create stable cell populations with an altered membrane structure.’

‘Okay, will do.’

‘And congratulations. You’ve done very well. Things are really beginning to happen.’

‘Thanks. You won’t forget to contact the drug company?’

‘I’ll give them a ring now.’

Simmons returned to his office and looked out the covering letter that Grumman Schalk had sent with the drug. He saw from the letterhead that the head of development was one Professor Max Ehrman. He asked the switchboard to make the call to Denmark and waited while he was transferred three times within the company.

‘Ehrman,’ said a younger voice than Simmons had expected.

‘Hello, Professor, this is Dr Frank Simmons at the University of Edinburgh. Your people kindly sent some Valdevan for one of my postgraduate students to use in his research.’

‘It’s company policy to help where we can, Doctor. Do you need more?’

‘No, well, not yet anyway. I wanted to ask you something about the history of the drug.’

‘The sad history of the drug,’ said Ehrman ruefully. ‘It’s a bit of a taboo subject. We lost millions on it.’

‘So I understand. We were just wondering in the lab if you ever found out what the problem was, and why it didn’t work in patients?’

‘We spent almost as much again trying to find that out,’ said Ehrman. ‘We had a whole research section — ten PhDs with full technical support — assigned to the problem, but in the end we drew a blank. We simply don’t know.’

‘And that’s the way it was left?’

‘We had to move on, turn our attention to new drugs, make up for lost time and money. Valdevan was consigned to the dustbin of history, as you people say.’

‘But you survived,’ said Simmons.

‘We survived,’ agreed Ehrman. ‘I’ll look out the final report on the drug and send you a copy if you like. Can I ask what your student is using it for?’

Simmons told him.

‘Ah,’ said Ehrman. ‘I noticed some people suggesting recently that Valdevan probably affected the S16 gene. It’s a clever approach. I’d be interested to hear how it works out.’

‘I’ll keep you posted — and yes, it would be interesting to see that final report you mentioned.’

‘On its way. And if there’s anything else we can help you with, just let us know.’