Hypocrite's Isle (4 page)

He pressed the button on the base of the table lamp and turned out the room light, immediately feeling at home when he saw the circular island of light in the darkness – the learning pool. He’d slid a lot of books into the learning pool over the years, and it was something he could create wherever he was in the world. He brought out the photocopy from his rucksack and pushed it under the light to begin reading.

Valdevan had been launched by the large international
pharmaceutical
company, Grumman Schalk, in 1979, amidst a blaze of publicity. The company’s research laboratories had trumpeted their success in finally coming up with a product which targeted tumour cells in preference to the patient’s healthy cells, killing the cancer cells in dramatic fashion in lab experiments. The drug had shown no significant toxic side-effects during volunteer trials, and licences had been granted for its use across the world. It seemed too good to be true, and so it had proved. The impressive success the drug had achieved in the laboratory had not translated into
in vivo
situations, and patients on Valdevan had fared no better than those being given other drugs. After a year of what amounted to dismal failure, the drug had been withdrawn from the market. Gavin scribbled down details of the lab methods used. The photographs of cell cultures had not come out well on the photocopy, but he thought he could see what he was looking for: a slight difference in the membrane of tumour cells undergoing treatment with Valdevan, when compared to those growing without the drug. He was, however, conscious of the danger of seeing what he wanted to see. After reading the paper in
Cell
, he had predicted in his own mind that there might be such a difference. He examined both illustrations again, turning them this way and that under the glow of the table lamp. Once again he felt that he could see a difference – a periodic pinching of the cell membrane in the presence of the drug – but the smudging on the photocopy definitely wasn’t helping. He would have to go back and take another look at the originals. He would drop into the library first thing in the morning.

He switched off the fire, cleared the table and got ready for bed, tiptoeing to the bathroom across the cold vinyl of the hall in order not to wake the others. When he came back, he turned out the light, opened the curtains so that he could see the sky, and slipped between the sheets. They were icy cold. A frosty moon looked back at him.

Gavin saw Caroline come into the library as he was returning the last of his books to the shelves. She didn’t notice him standing off to her right as she walked purposefully towards the photocopier on the other side of the room, her arms full of journals. He
hesitated
for a moment and then walked slowly over to join her. ‘Hello again,’ he said awkwardly.

Caroline gave him a look of cool appraisal before saying, ‘Hello, cured cancer yet or has there been a setback along the way?’

Gavin looked down at his feet, adopting the look of
embarrassed
contrition that had served him well in the past where girls were concerned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I must have come across as a right prat last night. Maybe you could give me another chance? I’d really like to see you again.’

‘Gavin, we bumped into each other in the library last night. Let’s not make
Brief Encounter
out of it. You’re two months into a PhD and I’m two years into a medical degree: we don’t have time to even think about other things.’

‘I thought maybe an occasional beer …?’

Caroline softened her expression and shook her head. ‘You’re a strange mixture, mister: insufferable arrogance and … something else. All right, hangdog charm wins the day. An occasional drink – as long as we both understand that that’s all there is to it?’

‘Great … tonight?’

‘No, maybe Friday.’

 

It was after eleven when Gavin appeared in the lab. Mary’s smile was neutral; Tom just nodded.

‘Professor Sutcliffe was looking for you earlier,’ said Mary.

‘Know why?’

‘It’s usual for postgrad students to be asked to help out with tutorials for the undergrads. It’s supposed to be good for us –
teaching
experience and all that – something to put on the CV. I think he’s pencilled you in for next Tuesday: microbial respiration.’

‘Well, he can un-pencil me and teach his own students. The lecturers in this department are not exactly overburdened with teaching duties as far as I can see, and that’s what they’re paid for.’

‘If you say so,’ said Mary, giving up and turning away. Tom pretended to be hard at work at his bench.

‘Is Frank in?’ asked Gavin.

‘He’s in his office,’ said Mary.

Gavin knocked on Frank Simmons’ door. ‘Got time to talk?’ he asked.

Simmons swivelled slowly round in his chair and looked over his glasses. ‘I suppose I should grab the opportunity while you’re actually here, Gavin. Come in. Sit down.’

‘Sounds like I’m in trouble?’

‘You were until Mary mentioned that she met you last night on your way to spend the evening in the medical library. If it hadn’t been for that I think I might have been coming round to the view – that everyone else seems to hold around here – that you’ve been doing damn all since you came through the door of my lab two months ago.’

Gavin gave an exaggerated shrug, but didn’t have time to
respond
before Simmons continued, ‘The Medical Research
Council
has given you a three-year postgraduate research studentship on my recommendation – and I don’t have to tell you how stiff the competition was. I’d hate to suffer the embarrassment of being proved wrong …’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Gavin.

‘What about?’

The tone of Simmons’ voice left Gavin in no doubt that this was not a casual enquiry.

‘I’m just about to tell you,’ said Gavin, placing his rucksack on the floor between his legs and bringing out his bits and pieces in an untidy jumble, causing pens and pencils to cascade on to the floor. ‘You wanted me to work on the genetics of membrane architecture … right?’ he said, dropping to his knees to start
retrieving
things. ‘You suggested trying to mutate a gene we agreed was likely to be a suitable target …’ His voice took on a strained quality as he had to reach under a radiator to retrieve the last pen. ‘Well, it occurred to me that that might be really difficult …’

‘I don’t remember suggesting that it would be easy …’ said
Simmons
, watching the proceedings with a bemused look on his face. He was finding it difficult to remain angry with someone who was behaving like an untrained Labrador puppy in his office.

‘Well, it turns out … we don’t need to do that at all,’ said Gavin, finally straightening and getting to his feet. ‘There’s
another
way.’

Simmons’ expression was carved in stone, but he was inwardly impressed at the change that had come over Gavin. His usual
sullenness
had been replaced by an intense, youthful enthusiasm which was a pleasure to see.

‘I don’t know if you saw the Grieve and Morton paper in
Cell
last week, where they mentioned an old anti-cancer drug in passing called Valdevan?’

‘The drug that failed because it only worked in the lab and not in people?’

‘Yes, but that’s not the point. The authors of the
Cell
paper
mentioned
somewhere in the discussion that the probable target for that drug was the gene we spoke about – the S16 gene – the one you asked me to mutate …’

Simmons examined the notes that Gavin handed over, outlining the proposed chemical action of Valdevan. ‘You do have a point …’ he conceded.

‘I’ve been down in the library, trying to find some pictures of cells treated with the drug to see if they show any obvious
membrane
changes, and I managed to come up with these. Look, I think it’s quite clear. There’s an irregular but definite pinching of the membrane like you thought might happen if we knocked out the S16 gene. See for yourself.’ Gavin presented Simmons with a journal opened and folded back to display a photograph.

‘Gosh, I see what you mean,’ agreed Simmons, picking up a magnifying lens from his desk and examining the photograph more closely. ‘It’s not blindingly obvious but it’s there. You know, I think you just may have wiped out some of these yellow cards you’ve been accumulating … if not all of them. This is an excellent piece of investigative work. Well done.’

Gavin, beaming with pleasure and growing in confidence, leaned towards Simmons and said, ‘If we could get the drug company to give us some Valdevan, we could use that to simulate knocking out the gene and forget all about the hassle of trying to induce
mutations
. We’d save a whole bunch of time and it should be absolutely straightforward.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Providing the company still has any after all this time,’ said Gavin.

‘Oh, I think they will,’ said Simmons. ‘I’m sure it’s a long time since they made any on a production line, but they’ll certainly still have stocks of it or the ability to make it in pilot quantities.’
Simmons
nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think you’ve just made a cracking start to your PhD project.’

‘I was hoping you’d think that,’ said Gavin. ‘I thought I might write to Grumman Schalk and ask for some Valdevan; tell them it’s for research purposes and see what they say?’

‘It might be better coming from me,’ said Simmons.

‘It was my idea,’ said Gavin, causing an electric pause.

‘No one’s denying that, Gavin,’ said Simmons evenly. ‘And a very good one it is too.’ He was taken aback at Gavin’s reaction but managed to remain calm. ‘I just thought that a request from me might carry more weight, that’s all.’

Sensing that he had overstepped the mark, Gavin softened his tone. ‘I’d like to do it if you don’t mind, Frank. Pharmaceutical companies are usually keen to support any research they think might be of potential value to them. After all, today’s PhD students are their future.’

‘Fair enough – although I wouldn’t point that out to them too strongly if I were you,’ said Simmons. ‘And don’t forget to use department headed paper and give them details of your MRC scholarship, otherwise you’ll get a well-deserved flea in your ear.’

‘Okay, boss.’

‘In the meantime, and while you’re thinking about it, perhaps we should assume that Grumman Schalk will come up with the goods, in which case you could start preparing cell cultures so you can begin experiments as soon as it arrives?’

‘Make a good impression in the lab, you mean?’

‘That would be a side-effect of preparing to get a flying start when the drug arrives. Do you have a problem with that?’

‘Guess not.’

‘Good,’ said Simmons. ‘Get started.’

Simmons let out his breath in one long sigh when Gavin left the room. ‘Give me strength,’ he murmured. He was about to resume what he had been doing when another knock came at the door. Jack Martin had been waiting outside.

‘A frank exchange with Gavin?’ he asked.

Simmons nodded.

‘Any further forward?’

‘Yup. He’s no idiot. He’s still a pain in the arse … but no idiot.’

‘Well, that’s progress, I guess. Lorraine was asking if you and Jen would like to come over for dinner on Saturday?’

‘I’m sure we’d love to if we can find a babysitter. Can I get back to you?’

‘Sure.’ Martin looked at his watch. ‘Feel like a pub lunch?’

‘I certainly do. Dealing with Gavin can drive a man to drink.’

The two men walked the short distance from the medical school to the Greyfriars Bobby pub at the head of Candlemaker Row. The name of the pub commemorated the legend of a little dog, Bobby, who had resolutely refused to leave his master’s grave in nearby Greyfriars Kirkyard, and stood guard over it for fourteen years. There was a statue to the dog immediately across the road with the dog mounted on a plinth at exactly the right height for tourists to have their photograph taken with him. Two Japanese were doing just that as they arrived.

With two pints of Belhaven Best in front of them and an order for scampi in the pipeline, Martin asked, ‘So what exactly is the problem with Gavin?’

‘He takes working-class paranoia to new heights and combines it with the social skills of a turnip. He’s come up with a very good idea, but his first concern seems to be that I’m going to steal it from him.’

‘Why don’t you get him to give a seminar about it? Then
everyone
will know it’s his idea.’

‘Gavin doesn’t rate seminars. He thinks they’re a waste of time and usually given by people who like the sound of their own voice but have nothing to say.’

‘So he
is
bright.’

‘That’s another part of the problem. That’s the sort of thing that
we
might say to each other, but would never say publicly. He does, and I constantly find myself having to argue a case that I have no heart for, simply because I’m his supervisor and have to give out the company line. It’s pissing me off. He ends up saying exactly what he thinks and I’m forced into being mealy-mouthed about everything.’