Hypocrite's Isle (20 page)

‘Peter Morton-Brown and a couple of others said they’d give it some serious thought.’

‘You’re selling your soul,’ said Gavin.

‘If it turns out you don’t have one, that could be a pretty good deal,’ replied Tom. ‘Besides, there’s not much room on the moral high-ground for the likes of me, with you occupying it all the time.’

‘Ouch,’ said Gavin, but he smiled and asked, ‘How many are Grumman taking on?’

‘Sutcliffe seemed to think about twenty.’

‘Then you should have a good chance.’

Tom smiled and said conspiratorially, ‘Between you and me, Professor Ehrman told Sutcliffe that it’s pretty much in the bag. Good salary, new labs, nice working conditions, lots of fringe
benefits
. I can’t believe my luck.’

‘But can you really see yourself wearing a suit and driving a Mercedes, Tom?’ asked Gavin, tongue in cheek.

‘Damn right.’

 

The conference at Heriot Watt finished on Tuesday evening so the department filled up again on Wednesday and was positively crowded by the afternoon, when the BBC arrived to discuss details of their planned programme, along with the scientists from other universities and institutes who would be taking part and who had stayed on after the conference. The large meeting room with its table for thirty people had been pressed into use with Graham
Sutcliffe
at its head. For the BBC, the producer of the programme, two production assistants, two presenters and camera and lighting
advisors
were present. Sutcliffe had invited all his senior staff and they had been joined by Professors Gerald Montague from the
University
of Leicester, Rosie Kilbane from the Medical Research Council labs in Cambridge and Donald Freeman from the Cancer Research Campaign in London, along with Max Ehrman from Grumman Schalk. Three others were to join in by live video link: a consultant radiologist from the Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford, an expert in chemotherapy, and a consultant in palliative care from one of the large UK hospices. Representatives from the Department of Health would be interviewed separately to give their views on current cancer care initiatives.

Sutcliffe got to his feet and formally introduced the scientists. The BBC producer, Steve Paxton, a short man in his late thirties with a high forehead, and wearing glasses with brown and white striped frames which Simmons felt were being worn to divert
attention
from his lack of height, did likewise for the programme makers before going on to give an outline of what he thought the programme might reflect. ‘We all know that great strides have been made in the field of cancer treatment in the past few years. What we would like you folks to do is spell out for the benefit of the man in the street just what they are and what their significance will be to cancer sufferers in the short, medium and long terms.’

‘A toughie,’ murmured Simmons to Jack Martin.

‘Pity the poor bugger who gets the short term,’ Martin
whispered
back.

‘Well, how long have you got?’ exclaimed Gerald Montague. ‘I think we could go on all night about the strides we’ve been making in terms of our understanding of the disease and the wide range of
approaches
we are pursuing. I’m sure the same applies to the clinicians and radiologists when it comes to treating the disease. Radiotherapy can now be given with pinpoint accuracy and new drugs which
extend
life expectancy are coming on to the market all the time …’

Frank Simmons, who had been prepared to sit through
Montague
’s ‘act’ in silence, adopting his usual neutral but polite
expression
, suddenly found that what he was hearing was pushing him over the edge. He conceded that it might have had something to do with the way he had been feeling about cancer research in general for the past few months, or maybe even Gavin’s less than complimentary views about the man in particular, but he found that he couldn’t take any more. He got to his feet and interrupted. ‘But they don’t cure the disease. They extend the course of it. They
permit
the patients to suffer for longer.’

Simmons spoke loudly and clearly, but he could feel the pulse beating in his neck. He waited until the hubbub died down and a heavy silence had enveloped him like a cold, wet mist before
continuing
. ‘The truth of the matter is that after all these years, we still really don’t understand cancer that well and we certainly can’t cure it.’

Gerald Montague took on an air of righteous indignation. ‘
Personally
, I find that an extremely negative view of things and even downright insulting to the many excellent scientists who dedicate themselves to the cure of this dreadful disease,’ he said.

‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Graham Sutcliffe.

Steven Paxton appeared bemused. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose I
assumed
that the programme would automatically reflect a positive attitude. I didn’t realise there was disagreement. We hear such a lot about breakthroughs these days.’

‘They’re usually diagnostic,’ said Simmons flatly. ‘Medical science can tell you sooner that you have an incurable disease, but still can’t do anything about it.’

‘But …’

‘Science, like so many other professions these days, has
discovered
that image can triumph over substance and is a damned sight easier to generate. Many scientists are dressing up largely technical progress as ‘breakthroughs’, when they are not what the public
understand
by ‘breakthroughs’, and certainly not what disease
sufferers
understand by the term. They announce their findings and hit all the right buttons so the press will pick up on it, but if you look carefully at the text, you’ll come across give-aways like
Work is at a very early stage
and
Hopefully within three to five years this will lead to improved treatments
– three to five years being the average span of the new research grant that they are really angling for – and the chances are that it won’t.’

‘What an utterly cynical view,’ said Sutcliffe.

‘I call it realistic.’

‘I agree with Frank,’ said Jack Martin, attracting a look of
gratitude
from Simmons, to whom the rest of the room now appeared hostile. ‘Real progress when it comes to cancer has been extremely limited.’

‘Are either of you willing to put this point of view across on the programme?’ asked Paxton. There was another deathly silence in the room.

‘No,’ said Simmons. ‘It was never my intention to take part in the programme. I have nothing positive to report, but I felt compelled to try and put the brakes on those who would have the public believe that a cure is just around the corner. It isn’t. On the other hand, I recognise that being negative could be as damaging to patient morale as being absurdly positive without cause. It would serve no point to say what I really think on air.’

‘Then I would have thought that your being here any longer serves no purpose,’ said Sutcliffe, clearly angry at what had gone before.

Both Simmons and Martin left the room.

‘You might have warned me you were going to do that,’ hissed Martin when the door closed behind them.

Simmons shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to. It was just that Montague hitting the bullshit button so soon really got to me.’

‘You didn’t make many friends in there.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Simmons. ‘I feel better, as if I’d just owned up to something that’s been bugging me for ages and now I’m out in the open about it. Incidentally, I’m grateful for the way you backed me up.’

‘You can’t argue with the truth. Catch you later.’

Simmons watched Martin walk off before returning to the lab, collecting his things and going home. He told the others in the lab that he wasn’t feeling well – not untrue, although there was nothing
physically
wrong with him.

 

Jenny was having a sandwich for lunch after her morning stint at the surgery and was sitting in the kitchen when he got in. She was
flicking
through the previous weekend’s copy of a Sunday supplement.

‘Smug bastards,’ she said. ‘Look at them, sitting on their cream leather sofas on their reclaimed wooden flooring, looking pleased with themselves, bleating about the old mill they’ve just rescued which has been lying derelict since the fifth century
BC
.’

‘I get jealous too,’ said Simmons.

‘So what are you doing home at this time?’

‘My tongue ran away with me.’

‘Oh dear. Dare I ask?’

Simmons told her what he had said at the meeting and Jenny shrugged, ‘Well, it was true, wasn’t it?’

‘I think so.’

‘So what’s to feel bad about?’

‘Nothing, I suppose, when you put it that way. I was expecting you to give me a lecture about learning to live in the real world and keeping my mouth shut where authority is concerned – like you keep saying Gavin should do.’

‘There’s a world of difference between expressing genuine
concern
and what Gavin comes out with simply because he has a chip on his shoulder about being working class in a middle-class environment.’

‘Strikes me he’s getting better and I’m getting worse.’

‘You’ll probably end up meeting in the middle and becoming lifelong buddies.’

‘Gavin’s okay. Different, but okay.’

‘Yes, dear. Did anyone support you this morning?’

‘Jack Martin.’

‘Good for him. I’m surprised you didn’t go off to the pub with him instead of coming home.’

‘Maybe it’s a different kind of comfort I’m looking for …’ said Simmons. He reached out and caressed the outline of Jenny’s
bottom
as she stood with her back to him.

‘Oh, is it?’ she said, not sounding entirely averse to the idea.

Simmons squeezed her bottom.

‘Will you buy me an old mill and furnish it with leather sofas and reclaimed wooden flooring?’

‘Yes.’

‘Liar,’ giggled Jenny. ‘Whatever happened to the high moral values of a moment ago?’

‘A regrettable lapse,’ replied Simmons, getting to his feet and escorting her towards the stairs.

 

Gavin finished the first part of the biochemistry protocol he was following and put the beaker containing his cell preparation in the fridge. It was just after four o’clock so he thought he’d take a chance and phone Caroline.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Conception,’ she replied.

‘What?’

‘Conception, growth and development. I’ve got an exam tomorrow.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m just clearing up. I thought you might fancy a coffee?’

‘Could do, I could do with a break, but then I’ll have to spend the rest of the evening on this stuff.’

‘Let’s go up to that little café in the High Street – the one that does the good scones?’

Caroline agreed, and they arranged to meet in ten minutes
outside
the medical school. It was another ten-minute walk to the café and Caroline was rubbing her hands in deference to the cold by the time they arrived. ‘Hope it’s warm in here,’ she said as she gripped the door handle.