Hypocrite's Isle (30 page)

It seemed that the entire world saw him as an arrogant,
insensitive
nobody whose work was viewed as a threat to colleagues, to the department – even to the university – and whose carelessness had resulted in a colleague probably being disfigured for life. Even the girl he loved couldn’t stand the sight of him.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

‘Are you all right in there, Gav?’

‘Just pissed.’

‘Then shut the fuck up, will you? Some of us have got work in the morning.’

Gavin mumbled an apology. A few minutes later he tiptoed back to his room and lay on top of the bed, looking up at the few stars he could make out in the sky through the pinkish glow of light pollution from the city. He got under the covers – as the temperature demanded he must – but stress had put sleep out of reach, making him toss and turn as he struggled to come to terms with what was happening. Worst of all was the feeling of
helplessness
he got when trying to fight back. It seemed that the best he could manage was an assertion that all he’d done was speak the truth. Why should that cause such problems? Why should that
always
cause such problems?

It wasn’t in his nature to pussyfoot around. He couldn’t
pretend
to Carrie that rushing off to the Lake District to be with her mother was going to do either of them any good when it clearly wasn’t. Why couldn’t she see that? Carrie was an intelligent woman; she had a mind of her own; she was studying medicine, for God’s sake. Surely she must have realised that he’d just been telling the truth? But she hadn’t wanted to hear that … she’d needed something else, something that he had failed to provide. Couldn’t provide? Love? He loved her dearly and she knew that. Comfort? Reassurance? How could he offer these when it would just be empty, meaningless nonsense. And, coming from him, that’s exactly what it would have sounded like. He screwed up his face as he recalled his pathetic attempts at reassuring Mary that everything was going to be all right when he’d held her in his arms after the fire. Now he hoped that she hadn’t heard. Telling someone that everything was going to be fine and dandy when it wasn’t was quite beyond him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t care. He did. He felt as deeply as anyone else. He just couldn’t go through the motions of uttering meaningless crap with any great conviction. Nor was he able to concede to Frank Simmons’ request that he consider the possibility of having made a mistake over the
contents
of the instrument beaker, when he was damned sure that he hadn’t. This, of course, brought the unthinkable alternative back into focus. Someone had made a deliberate attempt on his life.

This was not a happy thought for someone giving birth to the mother and father of all headaches, involving, as it did,
facing
up to the sheer number of people in the department who disliked him, and questioning who among them might go so far as to cause him actual bodily harm. A brief flirtation with the notion that, having failed the first time, they might try again, he dismissed as being over the top. The person who’d done this was not some psychotic Mafia hit man; it was someone on the staff; someone who hated him; someone who had tried to harm him, but who had got it tragically wrong and devastated the life of someone else, someone everyone liked. Being inside his own head right now was bad enough, but he suspected that being in theirs must be even worse.

 

‘Are you all right?’ asked Jenny Simmons as her husband came back to bed. The green digits on the bedside clock said it was 4 a.m. She’d heard him get up about an hour before, and had been aware of him pacing around the house when she’d stirred at intervals from her own restless sleep.

‘Sorry, I just can’t stop thinking about Mary,’ said Simmons, sitting on the edge of the bed. He shook his head.

‘They can do wonders with plastic surgery these days.’

‘No they can’t,’ said Simmons. ‘That’s something that everyone pretends, but ten years and twenty operations down the line she’ll still not be right.’

Jenny sighed deeply. ‘I know it’s no help and a bit of a platitude, but these things happen, Frank. It was a tragic accident.’

‘Gavin thinks not.’

‘How very like Gavin not to face up to the possibility that he might not be infallible.’

‘But if he’s right …’

‘You don’t think he’s right, do you?’ asked Jenny, propping herself up on the pillow on one elbow and rubbing her husband’s shoulder.

‘Maybe I don’t want to think he’s right.’

‘It was an accident, Frank. Gavin screwed up but won’t admit it.’

‘Gavin’s not a liar. I don’t think he knows how.’

‘But who in their right mind would do something like that deliberately?’

‘No one said anything about right minds.’

‘Are you saying you think there’s a homicidal lunatic on the staff?’

‘No, but you’re assuming that whoever did it meant to inflict personal injury. It could have been a crude attempt to cause a fire in the lab that went wrong. Flash fires aren’t predictable.’

‘Even so, who would want to stop Gavin’s research so much that they’d turn to fire-raising?’

‘Most of the staff, the head of department, the university, one of the biggest drug companies in the world. How am I doing?’

‘Going way over the top. Try to get some sleep. You’re going to make yourself ill.’

Simmons swung his legs up on the bed then changed his mind. ‘I’m going to have some coffee. Want some?’

‘No.’

 

Gavin was in the lab by nine thirty, despite how bad he was
feeling
. He regarded the hangover, as he had so often in the past, as a penance to be paid without question. He knew he’d feel better as soon as the alcohol cleared from his system and, to start the process, he’d walked to work. His progress towards feeling better, however, was impeded when, on entering the building, at least three people blanked him in the corridor and, when he went down to the cell culture suite to ask for yet more cultures, Trish was cool, almost to the point of being aggressive.

‘I don’t think anyone expected to see
you
in here today,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘I would have thought you’d have other things on your mind after what happened to Mary …’ She half-turned to the other girls, who were looking daggers at Gavin. ‘We all did.’

‘It may suit the department to believe I was to blame for what happened to Mary yesterday, but I wasn’t,’ said Gavin, in as
measured
tones as he could manage.

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so. Now, about these cell cultures …’

‘I’m afraid we’re really busy at the moment. Tell us what you want and you’ll be put in the queue.’

‘Any idea how long?’

‘Not really.’

 

Gavin felt himself flush with anger and frustration as he walked back to the lab. He couldn’t see a way out of the impasse. Whatever he said or did, the whole department from the top down was going to continue blaming him. He considered reporting the affair to the police himself, but knew that as soon as Sutcliffe and the academic staff let it be known that they thought him to blame, the police would be happy to go along with that. Like water running
downhill
, they would go for the easiest option.

The lab was full of men in suits when he got back. They were carrying clipboards, taking measurements and making notes. One was replacing the used fire extinguishers and checking the others by weight, using a spring balance. He too was making notes. There was a light on in Frank Simmons’ office, so Gavin knocked on the door. As he did so, he heard one of the men say to another, ‘Aye, some silly bugger made a mistake and a lassie got it in the face.’

Gavin screwed his eyes shut and fought the urge to snap back at him, while willing Simmons to respond quickly.

‘Wait!’ said Simmons from within.

Gavin couldn’t remember him ever saying that before. He sat down at Mary’s desk-his own was being used by the men in suits – and didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He was
reluctant
to touch anything. He looked along the neat row of A4 folders containing Mary’s experimental notes: three years of work for a PhD, and the foundation of a research career that would be on hold for the foreseeable future. He subconsciously ran his fingers lightly over the skin on his face as he pondered yet again that it could have been – should have been – him.

Simmons’ office door opened and Tom Baxter emerged, tears running down his face. He seemed too distraught to take in anything around him. ‘I just need a bit of time,’ he insisted as he shrugged off Frank Simmons’ attempt to put a hand on his arm. Gavin got up to offer help, but Tom was already out the door. Simmons turned and motioned to him to come in.

‘Tom’s taking it very badly.’

‘I can see that,’ said Gavin.

‘I didn’t realise he and Mary were that close.’

‘Everyone liked Mary … as I’ve been finding out to my cost.’

Simmons raised an eyebrow.

‘People are blaming me. The tissue culture people have decided I’m to be at the back of the queue when it comes to supplying cell cultures. Others have decided that I don’t exist any more.’

‘They’ll come round. People do.’

‘I don’t want them to come round,’ said Gavin. ‘I want them to believe that I had nothing to do with what happened.’

Simmons sighed. ‘Of course, I forgot. You don’t make mistakes.’

‘Not that one.’

‘Well, you’ll just have to face up to the fact that people think otherwise. I think they’d be more sympathetic if you didn’t keep denying even the possibility that you made a mistake.’

‘Look, Frank, I didn’t do it, and I’m going to keep on denying it, so where do we go from here?’

Simmons adopted a resigned smile. ‘The works department tell me that it will take at least a month to put the lab back together again.’

‘Maybe I’ll have some cell cultures by then,’ said Gavin sourly.

Simmons looked at his watch. ‘I’ll have to get myself out to the Burns Unit. Mary’s parents are due there at eleven thirty. They’re flying in from Dublin.’

‘Have you heard how she is?’

‘Not much change. Her life’s not in danger, but she has yet to be told about the full extent of her injuries.’

Gavin nodded and looked around. ‘Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do here at the moment.’

‘Best stay away for a bit.’

‘Everyone would like that.’

Simmons shrugged, but felt he could offer no reassurance.