The Anvil

THREE

‘It’s a long story,’ said MacLean. He leaned his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

‘There’s no hurry,’ said Tansy softly, ‘Begin at the beginning.’

‘I’m a doctor,’ said MacLean.

Tansy looked at him questioningly. She said, ‘You carry a gun, you smash your way through ice with your bare hands and you’re a doctor?’

MacLean smiled sadly at her reaction. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘I used to be a doctor. So much can happen in three years.’

‘Go on,’ said Tansy.

‘I was born and brought up here in Edinburgh,’ said MacLean. ‘I played on the canal banks out there. I fished in the water for tadpoles; I skated on it when it froze over in winter and I fell into it from rope swings in the summer. I went to the local schools with the rest of the kids from round here and then, when I was nineteen, I spread my wings and went south to study medicine in London.’

‘I was a good student, a lad o’ pairts, as they say up here and it was what I wanted to do. Don’t get me wrong, I had as much fun as the next student but I never lost sight of the main goal and that was to become a doctor. Six years later I achieved my ambition.’

‘Then what?’ asked Tansy.

‘After my pre-registration year I was determined to become a surgeon so I set off on that road. In time I decided to specialise in plastic surgery.’

‘Nose jobs and face-lifts?’ said Tansy with ill-disguised disdain.

‘No,’ replied MacLean evenly. ‘In my last year at medical school my closest friend was burned when some idiot threw paraffin on a barbecue fire. He was badly disfigured and had to give up any idea of being a doctor because of the damage to his hands. I’ve never forgotten how he looked when I went to see him for the first time after the accident. I wasn’t prepared and it must have shown on my face. His eyes told me that he’d seen the revulsion; I can still feel the guilt to this day when I talk about it. Anyway, that was what decided me that I should go into plastic surgery. I thought, if I could make a difference in improving the lot of such patients then it would be a life well spent.’

‘And did it work out that way?’ asked Tansy.

‘It was frustrating,’ said MacLean. ‘Everyone knows about the dramatic results in cosmetic surgery but repairing accident damage is a completely different story. Patients can go through dozens of operations over many years and still end up looking not much better than they did in the beginning. I wanted to do better for them.’

‘How?’

‘The way forward is always through research. I heard that Lehman Steiner, the Swiss-based Drug Company, was working on tissue regeneration so I wrote to them. I sent them my c.v. and after a couple of interviews they offered me a job on their research programme.’

‘Just what you wanted,’ said Tansy.

‘Exactly what I wanted,’ agreed MacLean. ‘I moved to Geneva and everything went like a dream. The facilities were magnificent, the research went well and I liked living in Geneva. Within three years I was made head of surgical research.’

‘You must have been young?’

‘I was thirty-one and on top of the world. I had a penthouse flat, a Mercedes car and complete job satisfaction. Then came Cytogerm.’ MacLean paused as if a dark cloud had come over him.

‘Cytogerm?’ prompted Tansy gently.

‘It was our biggest breakthrough, a brand new compound that aided tissue regeneration. Treating burns cases with Cytogerm reduced tissue damage by eighty-five percent. We could hardly believe it at first but the early indications were proved right. Suddenly we had the power to perform miracles.

‘It sounds wonderful.’

‘It was, until the nightmare began,’ said MacLean, his eyes beginning to show painful memories. He paused and Tansy remained silent, unsure if he would be able to continue.

MacLean looked at her distantly and said slowly, ‘We were all sworn to secrecy until full clinical trials were carried out.’ He paused again and Tansy could see that tiredness was overtaking him. She put a finger up to his lips and said, ‘Stop there. Continue in the morning.’

MacLean was prompted into saying, ‘No, no more, I have to go.’

Tansy restrained him gently. ‘No you don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Your room is ready.’

MacLean woke to the sound of Carrie’s laughter. She was playing in the snow in the garden. He listened to Tansy giving her advice on snowman building. After a few minutes he got up and went to the window to be struck by the brightness of the snow and the vivid colours of Carrie’s outfit. He was startled when Tansy saw him and waved a greeting. It wasn’t a film scene after all. He was really here.

Tansy came back into the house and announced breakfast. MacLean came to the kitchen and hovered uncertainly in the doorway.

‘How are you feeling?’ Tansy asked.

‘I’m fine,’ replied MacLean.

‘Well, sit down,’ directed Tansy with girl-guide bossiness and MacLean did as he was told. She put a plate, heaped with bacon and eggs, in front of him and added toast and a jug of steaming coffee to the table. ‘Eat up before it gets cold.’

MacLean knew that Tansy was mounting a rescue operation. There was nothing subtle about it. She was doing it with a disarming innocence that was much more effective than anything more sophisticated might have been. A part of him insisted on clinging to the belief that this was all just a momentary respite in a continuing nightmare but, as he ate, another part of him was beginning to waver ever so slightly.

With breakfast over, Tansy re-charged his coffee cup and her own and suggested they would be more comfortable by the fire. Carrie was outside working on her snowman.

‘You were telling me about Cytogerm,’ said Tansy.

‘I was,’ agreed MacLean, pausing for a moment while he considered whether or not to continue. He couldn’t see an easy way out of it and the expectant look on Tansy’s face pushed him into continuing his story.

‘The clinical trials were conducted in secret at an exclusive private clinic in the mountains. Burns cases at category five or worse — that’s severe disfigurement — would be referred to us with the approval of their relatives. All expenses would be paid by Lehman Steiner on the condition that the visiting rights of relatives were waived, an offer eagerly accepted by all. Burns treatment is a long, expensive business.’

‘But not to be able to visit your wife or husband… ‘ said Tansy.

‘Disfigurement cases are difficult for everyone,’ said MacLean. ‘You may not think so but pretending you’re not horrified when your husband looks like a boiled puppet can be an unbearable strain. Paper-thin smiles while guilt eats your insides out.’

‘I hadn’t considered,’ said Tansy.

‘The trials went like a dream. We would cut away damaged tissue, apply the Cytogerm compound and put on the bandages. Three weeks later the gaps would be filled with brand new healthy tissue as smooth as your cheek. The only scars would be where I’d cut away damaged skin at the junction, minor scars easily covered with cosmetics. It was a world away from the old skin graft routines over many months if not years. We were working in a surgical Camelot.’

‘So what went wrong?’ asked Tansy.

‘After the initial success it occurred to me that the treatment could have wider applications.’

‘How so?’

‘If Cytogerm could be used to repair accident damage then I thought we might be able to use it to repair deliberate surgical damage.’

‘Deliberate?’ asked Tansy, puzzled at the notion.

‘I suggested to the company that we might be able to treat people with bad birthmarks and congenital disfigurement.’

‘And?’

‘It worked,’ said MacLean. ‘I could simply cut away the offending area and let Cytogerm do the repair work. I felt like Jesus Christ making the blind see, only better. He would have taken it for granted.’

Tansy smiled. ‘Go on.’

‘Up until then we were a relatively small part of the company’s empire. Research and Development is always a gamble — the part of the business that spends money rather than makes it. Now we were suddenly flavour of the month. The potential returns from Cytogerm were plain for all to see. I was summoned to meet the company’s directors at the Stagelplatz Hotel in Geneva.’

‘Why a hotel?’ asked Tansy.

‘Lehman Steiner owned it. In fact it was quite difficult to find something that they didn’t own or control. Hotels, apartment blocks, restaurants; they made the soap in my bath, the toothpaste on my brush. Once a month the directors met at the Stagelplatz to decide what the world should pay for relief of its aches and pains.’

‘So you were summoned by the gods,’ said Tansy.

‘Gods in charcoal-grey suits who smiled but never stopped watching me. It was as if they were looking for weaknesses, searching for flaws in my character. Any word out of place would be questioned. Any ambiguity had to be cleared up immediately. Their philosophy was quite simple. You either made money for the company or you didn’t. If you didn’t you were out. If you did then the question became, how much more could you make?’

‘But surely your team were given credit for what they’d achieved?’ said Tansy.

‘Oh yes,’ replied MacLean. ‘They congratulated me on our research and flattered me till I beamed like the school clever-dick on prize-giving day.’

‘And then?’

‘Then one of them almost casually wondered out loud what Cytogerm could do for ageing skin… ‘

‘Oh,’ said Tansy as she saw the significance of the question.

MacLean smiled ruefully and said, ‘Until that moment I had not even considered that angle of Cytogerm. The commercial implications were enormous and I hadn’t even seen them. If crows’ feet could be removed from ageing eyes and wrinkles from the necks of dowagers then Cytogerm was liquid money.’

‘How did you feel about that?’ asked Tansy.

‘I was apprehensive. I insisted that our research into the repair of accident damage must remain a priority but they were prepared for that. “Of course.” they smiled. But the more money Cytogerm made the cheaper it would become and the cheaper it became the more accessible it would be. More patients would benefit in the long run. Could I not see my way into making a very preliminary study of the potential of the drug?’

‘Is that true about the cost?’ asked Tansy.

‘In general yes,’ replied MacLean. ‘When a new drug hits the market all the research and development costs have to be recouped before it starts to make money for the company. Consequently new drugs are usually very expensive.’

‘Did you agree?’ asked Tansy.

‘In the end I did. I asked for a volunteer at the clinic and Eva Stahl, our theatre sister offered herself. She was a very pleasant, intelligent lady who was approaching middle age with the trepidation that many women feel at that time. She jumped at the chance of losing the sagging skin under her eyes and having her neck rescued from a nno domini and too much sun.

‘What happened?’ asked Tansy.

‘Four weeks later she could have passed for twenty-five. She was beautiful. Not only did she look good but also her personality changed to match. The fact that she looked good was making her feel good. It was like being reborn.’

‘It sounds miraculous.’

‘Flushed with success, we admitted six more volunteers. I operated on three, my assistant Kurt Immelman on the others.’

‘You could delegate?’ asked Tansy.

‘That was one of the great things about the treatment,’ said MacLean. ‘A Boy Scout with a penknife could have done the surgery. It was Cytogerm that performed the miracles.’

‘What happened?’

‘Five of the six were brilliant successes just like the first but the sixth wasn’t.’ MacLean took a sip of his coffee. ‘Her name was Elsa Kaufman. She was thirty-eight and the wife of one of our production managers in Zurich. Two weeks after her operation and before the bandages were removed she began to complain of pain in her face. I didn’t think too much of it at first. Post-surgical pain is quite common but it continued and started to get worse. I didn’t want to disturb the bandages at a crucial stage in tissue repair so I treated her with broad-spectrum antibiotics in the belief that she had picked up an infection. If I’d removed the dressings there and then she might have stood a chance.’

‘What was wrong?’ asked Tansy gently.

‘A few days later when the pain became unbearable, I took her to theatre and removed the dressings. It was as if… ‘

‘As if what?’ prompted Tansy, seeing that MacLean was suffering at the recollection.

‘It was as if her face wasn’t there any more,’ he said. ‘It was completely covered with a livid red tumour, a hideous cancer that had eaten her features away. Mercifully she died within a few days when it reached her brain.’

‘How awful,’ whispered Tansy. ‘Was it Cytogerm that did it?’

‘That was the multi-million dollar question. We took samples from the tumour at autopsy but couldn’t classify it. It was different from any other kind of cancer we’d ever come across before. It grew so fast! In cell culture it grew eight times faster than any other reported cell line.’

‘What’s cell culture?’ asked Tansy.

‘We can grow cancer cells in test tubes,’ said MacLean.

Tansy shuddered.

MacLean returned to the story. ‘The clue to the whole thing was the speed of its growth. We had been using a compound which speeded up the growth of healthy tissue and here we were faced with a fast-growing cancer. There had to be a link and it had to be Cytogerm.’

‘Oh no,’ said Tansy.

‘I’m afraid so. Cytogerm was awakening dormant cancer cells and turning them into rampant tumours. Many people have moles or other small blemishes on their skin. They can be localised cancers. We think that was the problem with Elsa Kaufman. She had a mole on her upper lip. It must have been a melanoma. Cytogerm triggered it into uncontrollable growth.’

‘End of Cytogerm?’

‘End of Cytogerm,’ agreed MacLean. ‘Or so I thought.’

Carrie came into the room and announced that she was having trouble with the finishing touches to her snowman. Could she have some help?

Tansy smiled as she realised that the request was actually directed at MacLean. Feminine wiles at the age of five, she thought. She waited for MacLean’s reaction, ready to step in if he showed reluctance but he didn’t. His only concern was in being thought rude at interrupting the conversation. Tansy said, ‘Why don’t you two go out into the garden and I’ll have a think about lunch.’

‘His name’s Mr Robbins,’ said Carrie, ‘but his head won’t stay on.’

MacLean removed the blob of snow that served as Mr Robbins’ head and laid it on the ground. ‘I think it will be easier if we give him a mouth and a nose and eyes while his head is down here. What do you think?’

Carrie was clearly pleased at being asked her opinion. Grown-ups didn’t usually do that. They told you things. ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘We need pebbles for his eyes,’ said MacLean and Carrie scampered off to find some while MacLean re-shaped the head.

Carrie returned with a handful of pebbles of various sizes.

‘Well, what do you think?’ asked MacLean.

Carrie put her tongue out to aid concentration and examined the stones to pick out two. ‘These,’ she said.

‘Good choice,’ said MacLean. He inserted the pebbles as eyes.

‘What about his nose?’ asked Carrie.

MacLean thought for a moment then said, ‘If you ask Mummy very nicely she may give you a carrot.’

Carrie’s eyes opened wide at the thought. She dashed into the house and returned in triumph with a carrot, which she handed to MacLean.

‘No,’ said MacLean gently, ‘You do it.’

Carrie pushed the carrot into place and stood back to admire her work.

‘Excellent,’ said MacLean and Carrie flushed with pleasure. He picked up the remaining pebbles and formed them into a grinning mouth for Mr Robbins. Carrie beamed as MacLean lifted the head into place. She ran inside to fetch Tansy who came outside and made admiring noises. Her offer of a cap and scarf for Mr Robbins was eagerly accepted by Carrie.

After lunch Carrie announced her plans for the afternoon. She said to MacLean. ‘I’m going to build a glue house.’

‘A glue house?’ repeated MacLean.

‘Like the Eskimos.’

‘Oh,’ said MacLean softly, ‘an igloo house.’

‘Yes an igloo house,’ Carrie agreed, looking out of the corner of her eye for any sign of ridicule. She didn’t find any.

‘You’ll need snow bricks.’

Carrie looked at him questioningly.

‘We need an empty cardboard box.’

Carrie shot off and came back with two. ‘Can we go now?’ she asked.

‘First the dishes, young lady,’ said Tansy.

Momentary dissent from Carrie gave way to resignation and she buckled down to assisting with the washing up but, as soon as it was finished, she was off out into the garden like a red-wellingtoned greyhound. MacLean showed her the rudiments of snow brick construction and came back inside. Tansy smiled at him and thanked him for being so patient.

‘I enjoyed it as much as she did,’ MacLean confessed.

‘You seemed to suggest that there was more to the Cytogerm story?’ said Tansy.

MacLean nodded and accepted a cup of coffee. ‘Three weeks after the closure of the Cytogerm project I received a letter from the directors. It said simply that a Dr Von Jonek would be calling on me and that I was to afford him every co-operation. Two days later he came to call.’

‘Who was he?’

‘One of the most unpleasant people I’d ever met. He was overbearing, rude and arrogant. He demanded all the research files on Cytogerm and all relevant case histories. I refused, partly because he’d put my back up and I was determined to be as obstructive as possible, but mainly because he wanted the originals as well as copies. He wouldn’t even tell me why he wanted them. He just informed me that I had my orders and that I should obey them. I’m afraid I got rather rude at this point.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Tansy.

‘The next day I was summoned to the Stagelplatz to explain myself. I decided to go on the offensive and went in to the meeting with all guns blazing. The Cytogerm project was the brainchild of my division I insisted and no petty bureaucrat was going to tell me to hand over my files without explaining why.’

‘How did they take that?’ asked Tansy.

They smiled and nodded like these little dogs you see in the backs of cars. They were niceness itself and apologised for Von Jonek’s rudeness. It rather took the wind out of my sails. Von Jonek was the company archivist, they explained. It was unfortunate that he had such an abrupt manner but he simply wanted the information for the company’s records.’

‘I felt pretty stupid and to cover my discomfort I asked innocently where they kept these records. They took this as a sign of disbelief on my part. The temperature suddenly fell ten degrees and all the smiles round the table faded like snow in summer. One of the directors got up and came round from behind the table. He came right up to me and leaned down until his face was less than inches from mine. I could even admire the bridgework on his teeth when he spoke.

‘Dr MacLean,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve finished with you. Get out.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I got out.’

‘Did you have to give them the files?’ asked Tansy.

MacLean smiled ruefully and said, ‘I didn’t get the chance. Shortly afterwards, there was a fire at the clinic. Officially, the records were destroyed.’

‘And unofficially?’

‘The fire was started deliberately.’

‘But why?’

‘To cover up the fact that the clinic had been broken into and all the files on Cytogerm removed.’

‘By the company?’ asked Tansy.

‘I was too stupid to realise that at the time. I thought some outside agency must be interested in Cytogerm. I even reported this to the directors.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Tansy.

‘Oh dear indeed,’ agreed MacLean.

The silence grew long and Tansy said softly, ‘What happened then?’

MacLean sat looking at the floor but not seeing anything as he was forced to rekindle memories that he would much rather have left undisturbed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘No more.’

Tansy put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. She said, ‘Occupational therapy Doctor.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said MacLean.

‘I’m prescribing occupational therapy for you… an igloo?’

MacLean got the message and nodded. He got up and went out into the garden to help Carrie. Tansy was right about the therapeutic value of physical distraction. MacLean directed all his energy and concentration to the construction of Carrie’s igloo and she was delighted. Grown-ups usually got bored after half an hour and said that they were going for a cup of tea and, in her experience, they seldom came back. The pair of them stayed in the garden until the light became a leaden grey and the orange glow from inside the bungalow beckoned them indoors.

Carrie went off to her room to change her wet clothes and MacLean joined Tansy in the kitchen. ‘I have to go,’ he said.

Tansy did not turn round but she stopped what she was doing. ‘Why?’ she asked.

‘This is not my world,’ said MacLean.

‘Why not?’ asked Tansy.

MacLean found the question difficult. He searched for an answer but only came up with, ‘Because it isn’t. You and Carrie are just two people I bumped into by accident yesterday.’

‘You saved Carrie’s life,’ said Tansy.

‘I happened to be there that’s all,’ said MacLean. ‘There is no obligation on you because of it.’

‘It has nothing to do with obligation,’ said Tansy. ‘You are welcome here in this house. You build snowmen in the garden with my daughter. You sit at our table and by the fire and we like having you here so why rush away? You have nowhere to go… so stay.’

MacLean shook his head. The resolve he had built up while out in the garden had all but gone.

‘Just one more night?’ said Tansy.

MacLean’s stony expression relaxed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘One more night.’

MacLean found himself being manipulated into telling Carrie a bedtime story but he didn’t resist. He had moved from constantly reminding himself that this was not a real part of his life to momentarily wishing that it were.

With Jack safely back down the beanstalk and everyone living happily ever after he joined Tansy by the fire. She asked, ‘Do you like music?’

‘Yes.’

‘Schubert?’

‘Yes.’

Tansy put on the music and sat down again. She said, ‘The day is over. No more questions. Just relax.’

MacLean sank down deeper into his chair and watched the flames in the fire subside into glowing embers as time passed and the warmth and the music washed over. He was mercifully free of all anguish when the music finally ended and silence filled the room. He was in the margins between sleep and wakefulness when Tansy got up and stretched out her hands towards him. ‘Come,’ she said softly.

MacLean got up and looked questioningly at her.

‘Come,’ she repeated, leading him with both hands to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes.

MacLean could not take his eyes from her. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said gently. ‘Why?’

Tansy put her finger against his lips and said, ‘No more questions

… remember?’ She undid his shirt buttons and kissed his chest lightly while her fingers began to move over his arms and shoulders.

MacLean felt himself shiver slightly at the feel of Tansy’s hair on his skin. As desire grew he tried to find her mouth but she drew back slightly and said, ‘Lie down.’

MacLean lay back on the bed while Tansy stood in front of him and undressed. He was conscious of her body but his eyes never left hers. He was looking for an answer but all he found was a distant smile. Tansy sat astride him and undid his belt buckle then, moving backwards a little on her knees she undressed him completely. MacLean made to take her in his arms but again she stopped him saying, ‘No, lie still.’

Tansy moved her mouth expertly over MacLean’s body until he felt he couldn’t bear it but each time he made to move he was pushed back and told to lie still. The sweat was running freely down his face when Tansy suddenly rolled over on to her back and said, ‘Now; take me now.’

MacLean felt himself penetrate deeply and Tansy’s gasp made him want her all the more. Her soft cries made him thrust himself deeper and harder into her as if driven by a will to hurt her for causing him so much confusion. His head was full of questions but his body insisted they wait. Tansy gasped again and said, ‘Now Dr MacLean, that is what it feels like to be alive… Don’t knock it.’

Post-coital drowsiness washed over MacLean like the waves of some summer ocean. ‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered in Tansy’s ear as he snuggled close to her. ‘Why?’

‘I told you,’ whispered Tansy. ‘I saw Keith in your eyes. Now go to sleep.’ She suffixed what she’d said by burying her fingers in his hair and massaging his scalp gently.

Long after Tansy had taken away her fingers MacLean could still feel them. The affection that had been in them lingered on until exhaustion insisted he close his eyes and sleep.

As the first light of morning, made unnaturally white by the snow outside, crept in through the window, MacLean got up and collected his clothes. He tiptoed out of the bedroom and dressed quickly in the cold of the living room where the fire had gone out. He was putting on his jacket when Tansy spoke from the bedroom. The voice was even and controlled. ‘No sugar in my coffee,’ she said.

MacLean froze for a moment, staring at the bedroom door and wondering whether Tansy realised his intention to leave or not. He looked to the front door through the hall then back at the bedroom. He relaxed with a smile of resignation and took off his jacket again. ‘How about milk?’