The Relic Keeper (5 page)

Rei was troubled by her patient. The man spoke in an accent that was sometimes unfathomable and seemed to have little idea of what was happening to him. He obviously had problems with his memory on top of the medical condition that she still was not completely sure about. She’d checked the records available, which were incomplete, she noticed. She slipped off her jacket and poured a glass of tea from the dispenser. Sipping her drink she walked across the small apartment to the window and looked down on the sprawling city beneath her. It was animal: unkind and unknowing, London was the sort of place that should have disappeared years ago into nihilistic chaos. It was coiled: ready to strike; ready to kill. There really was no reason for places like this to exist today, she thought as she watched the people mill around on the street beneath her. The city streets were full of food carts, motorbikes, robbers, addicts and the millions of poor who she hoped she could in some small way help. It seemed an impossible task from this location looking out over the endless expanse of the vast conurbation. It was strange that her position, her birth, had made it possible for her to afford an apartment that was superior to anything that any comparable British citizen would live in, and this unsettled Rei, who often worried that it made her feel superior to the denizens of the city who needed people like her. She turned away from the sealed window and settled into her favourite position in the flat’s seating area. She put her black leather-bound case on the low table and took out a wad of papers.

Copying a patient’s notes was of course highly irregular, and she could be dismissed for it; if she was caught, and using hard paper copies made that far less likely than simply copying information to the personal file of her c-pac. She began reading the papers she had copied earlier. She flicked through the leaves, following the path her finger traced and reading at that speed. In less than five minutes she read the full notes that she had access to.

Rei had become vaguely aware that she had started to talk out loud to herself sometimes, although she tried to ignore it, or put it down to stress rather than isolation. She took a sip of tea and looked at the pile of paper on the table.

“So, from most of the medication that is being administered he has had suffered from a type of heart disease, which is unusual, unless he’s travelled somewhere odd where it could not be treated. However, his physical condition is poor and this would not suggest recent travel, but nor is it a side effect of any disorders that would fit the profile. So deduction, he has two problems. Firstly something like a myocardial infarction, however unlikely that is, has occurred and he is still being treated for that; probably because the initial treatment was a misdiagnosis or was incomplete. Secondly, he has suffered a major trauma, which has caused him to coma, or somehow become bedridden for a length of time, perhaps for over two months with minimal movement. This would be in addition to his general poor health and poor treatment. So to conclude, Mathew Lyal has been somewhere far from any decent medical attention and got sick there. Now he is a special case, and is being kept in isolation, although there appears no reason to suspect that anything contagious is active. So that means there is another reason. That could be….” She thought for a minute, turning ideas around in her head. “Well, it could be a politically sensitive area of the world, or he could be on active service, but he doesn’t seem to be fit enough for that. In fact everything about him seems ordinary, except that he had a heart condition that should be relatively easy to diagnose and reverse and yet it wasn’t, at least not until it became complicated. So why is Warwick so interested in him? Obviously the fact that I only have medical notes for the last month is relevant. He could be part of an experiment, but really a case like this has not existed in the last thirty years.” She gulped the last of her tea and moved back to the window, and carried on thinking as the animal that was London breathed and stalked beneath her.

Philip was late returning to the apartment. The room was small and dark and largely obscured by stacks of hard-copy, info-plates, books on history and politics and roughly scribbled notes. Philip liked to be able to see his work instantly as he produced it and found that writing was one the best ways to do this, even though it meant the laborious task of subsequently dictating it to c-pac. It had been a long day and the hangover that he had awoken with had stayed until midway through the day. He slumped into a chair and activated his c-pac. His notes from earlier appeared in front of him and he scrolled through them for the names of the two missing people from Fort Burlington. He picked a used glass from the floor, wiped it with a cloth, and poured a large measure of Jack Daniel’s into it. He gulped a mouthful then started work.

“Database 12. Search, people, history, names,” he commanded. “One: Deon Underdown; two, Nasreen Freeman.” DATES, the screen flashed back at him. He thought for a second. “From today, Wednesday the 25
^th
April 68, back to….” thirty years should easily cover everything he reckoned and selected the year. SELECT TYPE OF SEARCH, the unit asked him. “Birth certificate, press, awards, medical, police,” he demanded. If anything had been written on either of these characters over that time he should find it. The machine began its task and flashed up a series of options for the names. Philip began the painfully slow job of working through each file type. There were quicker methods, but Philip knew that nothing was as thorough as the human brain at this.

Two hours, and several glasses of JD later, he sat looking at the details he’d found. Deon appeared to be a 26-year-old and brought up in various foster and children’s homes until he was 14. There were a string of convictions up until he was 22, although nothing major: a few minor credit frauds and a couple of run-ins with the police related to fraud and theft, but nothing significant. He’d records for theft, pick pocketing, and had evidently been cautioned on several occasions for minor muggings and shoplifting offences. There were a couple of records for selling contraband hallucinogens, and a minor assault. Then he saw found something that really caught his eye: a charge for arson when he was 18. It appeared to have been dropped, but it was in keeping with the idea of causing the fire at Burlington. Deon had been arrested, but not charged, a couple of years previous for his involvement in a disturbance relating to a group of Christian communists, after which he largely disappeared from any database Philip had access to.

Nasreen Freeman was from a very different background. Brought up in an area in east central London, she was from a wealthy family and had been the perfect daughter, with records of her prowess with horse riding, tennis and commendation for a chess tournament when she was 11. Then she had moved to university at 18, but obviously left half way through her second year. From then on her records showed links various social-rights movements and links to several men with affiliations to ever-more extreme, left wing groups. Philip had been about to stop the search for the night when a list of groups and organisations that she had been personally associated with caught his attention. The group at Fort Burlington were hardly listed anywhere, except for a handful of brief notes on various people’s personal IDs and some complaints from local people about the Fort, mainly related to the clearing and burning of trash, but Nasreen had belonged to another, far more notorious organisation previously: The Islamic Foundation and Freedom League.

Philip looked at the name. It didn’t make any sense. “She’s a Muslim,” he said to himself. “Why would a member of a fanatical Islamic group turn up in a Christian commune?” The Foundation had been linked to attacks on churches and high-profile Christians over the past decade. And although Nasreen might not have been one of their most active members in the past, why on Earth would she be one of the only survivors of a massacre on a large but peaceful Christian group.

“I think I’ve got an angle,” Philip said to his c-pac and started dictating notes into the machine.

For the second time in a fortnight Rei was sitting in the cold corridor outside Warwick’s office. She tried to appear casual, but was aware that she was constantly fiddling with the chain around her wrist. Her patient was apparently doing well; when he was conscious at least. Although he was prone to using strange phrases that seemed remarkably anachronistic, and he appeared to have less idea about his condition than she did. But she did feel a strange rapport and a sense of empathy with this man. Somehow they both seemed lost in the wrong place. Sometimes he seemed younger than he looked, and he appeared to be alert but confused in a child-like way that Rei found endearing. He evidently hated the food that was served up to him, although there seemed nothing wrong with it; Rei ate the same food every day at the clinic. Her original diagnosis, that he’d been living abroad for a lengthy period, still seemed the best, if not only, explanation to all of the evidence. It was just that he seemed so…what was it? Rei searched for word, but all she could think was that he came across so
British
. That thought remained in her head as the young man on the desk outside Warwick’s office glanced up at a note that had evidently just appeared on his screen. With the air of condescension that only those in menial positions could produce he coughed to attract her attention, held her gaze a split second longer than was friendly and invited her to enter the office.

Although this time she was prepared for the contrast of the office compared to the rest of the clinic, the décor still struck her as out of keeping and an attempt to create an image. This was the office of someone who tried that little bit too hard. Warwick was sat behind his desk, and to his right was another man, slightly taller and slightly older, she guessed. He was bent over some notes on the screen to the side of the desk and looked up cheerfully as Rei entered the room. Warwick smiled with the sincerity of a lizard and started to speak.

“Miss Ishinomori, please allow me to introduce….”

“Dr Amar Malik,” Rei finished his sentence for him. “I am absolutely delighted to meet you, sir. I have read several of your papers on artificial DNA reproduction and screening. I am deeply honoured.”

“Not so honoured that you have read
all
of my papers. I am disappointed,” said Malik, nodding his head slightly and then grinning to ensure that his joke was not taken as a serious rebuke of Rei’s study. Rei blushed slightly and wished she had read all his papers too.

“I had heard that you were working in Walden Centre, but I certainly never imagined that I should be able to meet such a distinguished member of the profession. There are so many subjects that I would like to discuss with you.”

Warwick interjected simply by talking above his other two guests. “I’m sure you two could rattle on all day, but I, unfortunately, have work to do. Miss Ishinomori I’m sure that by now you are wondering about the background to the Lyal case on which you’ve been working.”

“Well, I have been thinking about it and….” Warwick held up a hand and stopped her mid-sentence again, and Rei decided that she would wait to be invited before she said anything at all to him.

“Dr Malik has been working on, and monitoring, Mr Lyal’s case. He was the original consultant for the patient, but more importantly, Mr Lyal’s whole reason for being at this clinic, in fact the whole procedure that enabled him to be alive at all, is largely down to Dr Malik’s vision.

“Well, I have had some help in certain departments….”

“Yes well, you may discuss that in your own time should you wish. Although I hope that you both remember how busy you are. But as I was saying, Mr Lyal’s very existence is linked to the work of Dr Malik.”

“Oh, I thought Mathew, I mean Mr Lyal, had a heart problem, and Dr Malik’s specialism is surely in….”

“You are quite correct, Miss Ishinomori,” Warwick interrupted, causing Rei to wince slightly, chastising herself for speaking out of turn. “However,” Warwick continued unabashed, “his coronary condition is only part of the whole picture. What I have to tell you about your patient will soon be common knowledge, if all goes according to plan, anyway. Now, what I shall tell you is, perhaps, somewhat incredible, but true and, basically straightforward at the same time.

“Mr Lyal suffered from angina, I take it that you have heard of this condition?”

Rei waited slightly too long before realising that she was expected to speak at this point. “Well, yes, of course. Although I thought there had been very few cases of it outside of South America and Africa for decades.”

“Quite right. Well Mr Lyal was one of those cases. He had heart problems as a child that weren’t detected early enough, and through his adult life has suffered from a series of coronary complications. The most severe of these led to a small myocardial infarction when he was 27, unfortunately this was not properly treated at the time. He continued to have heart problems for several years until about six months after his 38
^th
birthday. At this point the heart was so weakened that even a relatively small problem could have catastrophic implications, and when this happened Mr Lyal suffered a major arrest. The medical facilities available were unable to successfully treat him and his life was not at that point saved.”

Rei listened intently, but the facts still did not seem capable of producing the patient she’d been treating, unless he’d been clinically dead for far longer than was normal to resuscitate a victim. Then again, he showed no signs of the brain damage usually involved where people had not been treated immediately after death. And this still didn’t explain Malik’s involvement. She thought all of this and more, but kept her mouth closed and awaited a further explanation. Warwick appeared impressed that no questions came yet.

“Mr Lyal was declared dead, but treated immediately, which has allowed us here at the Walden Centre to treat the original heart condition with a manufactured heart…’

“Well,” said Malik, “part of a heart to be precise, in fact what we did here was…”

“That really isn’t of any consequence at the moment,” Warwick barked above the quiet doctor, who once again became taciturn. “The important thing here is the length of time between death and resuscitation. Dr Malik’s work, along with the funding of this clinic has allowed us to produce some radical new methods in this field. What we have achieved will allow a whole paradigmatic shift in medicine. Let me get straight to the point. Mr Lyal died in 1999. He has been preserved for nearly 70 years and has now been brought back to life!”

Rei sat in silence. She became aware that her mouth was open and then that a comment was expected. All she could manage was a brief: “I beg your pardon.”

“Mathew Lyal has been dead for nearly 70 years,” Malik said in a matter-of-fact manner that seemed more appropriate for talking about the weather than discussing a medical breakthrough. Perhaps you have heard of a process known in the twentieth century as cryopreservation? Some called it cryonic suspension”

“I’ve heard the phrase, but surely it is a myth.”

“Oh it existed,” said Warwick, smiling. “Amongst the rich and famous it seemed to offer the nearest chance to immortality possible. People used it from the 1950s to the beginning of this century in the belief that they could be resuscitated in the future. Somewhat vain, I feel, but it was a real enough belief. Do you know what the process consisted of?” Rei shook her head, still trying to take in the details of this conversation.

Malik took over the explanation: “You see in the twentieth century the process of storing living tissue – semen, cells, basic simple structure of that sort – was relatively common, both for people and animals. From that various medical centres started experimenting with cryonic storage of more complex matter; from simple organisms to organs. After that it was only a matter of time before larger creatures were used and then human cadavers. But they had one continual problem.”

“They could freeze the bodies but not thaw them,” Warwick finished.

“Yes,” continued Malik, defiantly. “But there were also inherent problems within the whole storage of the bodies before thawing could be even considered.”

“Yes, I suppose that there must have been a problem with the concentration of electrolytes at the time,” suggested Rei, feeling the need to show that she had an understanding of the conversation.

“Exactly,” carried on Malik, regaining control of the discussion. “The denaturation of lipoproteins, due to their sensitivity to extremes caused what was considered irreparable damage to the cell membranes. That was coupled with the problems caused by ice crystals forming in the cells. Faster freezing agents helped relieve this, but it was always at the thawing process that problems occurred. Adding a glycerol compound helped reduce the problems of crystals merging during the thawing, and then the discovery of dimethyl sulfoxide used in conjunction with other compounds allowed the process to achieve a level of acceptability. But even then, while mammalian tissue could be frozen and thawed, the possibility of resuscitating an entire creature was still not possible.”

“But then the Walden Centre became involved,” Warwick declared triumphantly. “Through the use of nano-mechanics we were able to produce a method of tissue renovation from within the body. Thousands of minuscule machines have been inserted into the thawing bodies that we’ve worked on in order to repair the crystal damage as it starts to form. Once that had been achieved it only remained necessary to combine this technology with that we already use to keep complex tissue matter live, and the processes of long-term resuscitation that we pioneered for organ replacements in the 50s. Today,” he continued in a hushed reverence, “the Walden Centre alone holds the secret to bringing people from the last century back to life.”

Rei sat quietly, her hands crossed on her lap. She looked from grinning consultant to grinning administrator, to check that they had both finished speaking. Eventually she spoke:

“Does Mathew know about this?”

“Of course. He agreed to the treatment in the first place in 1999.”

“Yes, I realise that. But does he know now that he has been clinically dead for decades?”

“Well, I’d have expected him to start to think along those lines now that he’s evidently quite lucid,” answered Malik.

“But he has not actually been told.”

“We thought that someone who has a bond with the patient would be the best person to discuss this with him,” carried on Warwick.

“Yes that would seem reasonable,” answered Rei, before the realisation of who they had in mind dawned on her. “You would like me to talk to him?”

“Indeed Miss Ishinomori, we feel that your bond with Mr Lyal…Mathew, would make you the perfect candidate. The sooner the better, I think,” Warwick concluded, pre-empting her next question. “Any questions you’d like to ask?”

“Well yes. Thousands actually. What would you be expecting…”

“Yes, Malik will deal with these sorts of things later. Now, we are preparing a press release at the moment, so that should be out by the end of the week. I’d like Mr Lyal prepared before it. We are hoping that he can make an appearance himself soon. Keep me loaded with information on how it goes.”

With that Warwick rose and extended a chubby hand to Rei. She shook it and left the office. The door slid silently shut behind her. She stood dazed by the window.
What on Earth just happened to me?
she thought, and hurried off down the long corridor from Warwick’s room.