The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (6 page)

She stares at me hopefully, wishing, like I always did, for the elusive happy family.

‘Yes, of course, sweetheart, whatever you want.'

From the top of Parliament Hill I look out over the city and make a mental note to myself to light a candle in the Catholic Westminster Cathedral. They'd enjoy the joke. Because whatever else I might say about my parents, they both had a great sense of humour.

3

Bank managers, pharmacists and Goths

Everyone seems to know about my incident with the swan. I'm still asked after my health, even though the attack was over a week ago and the wound has all but healed. The swans are still on the Pond, their nest is in the far corner and all the swimmers are being extra cautious. On the noticeboard is a note reminding swimmers to beware the nesting swans.

‘Give the male a wide berth,' it concludes, ‘as he is likely to be aggressive while the cygnets are young. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.'

Next to me in the changing compound is Nial. He's an ex-boxer who hates it when springtime sunshine even hints at a promise of summer and the gay men return after a winter of hibernation.

‘I see the nancy boys are back,' he says, frowning at a new sign. It reads, ‘Costumes to be worn at all times in this part of the compound.' He glances over his shoulder at the sign leading to the ‘nude sunbathing' area and the small wall dividing what he sees as ‘us' from ‘them'.

‘Eddie was telling me you know a bit about this AIDS thing. Is that the truth?' he asks, drying himself on nothing more than a face flannel.

I nod, waiting for the next predictable question. An aeroplane roars overhead. It is followed by a flock of Canada Geese en route to the other set of ponds over by South End Green.

‘You can't be catching it by the swan bite?' he jokes, a glint in his eye, his finger to his forehead.

‘No, I think you're right there,' I reply.

A couple of Hasidic Jewish men enter the compound in black hats and coats, despite the warm weather. They greet us in English and then carry on their conversation in Hebrew.

‘I was wondering if you can get the illness if a woman gives you a blow job?' asks Nial in a subdued voice. ‘I was on one of those holidays in Thailand a few years back. With some of the lads from back home. And one night I was after getting a blow job from a young girl.'

‘Did you use a condom?' I ask.

He has one leg into his greyish, baggy underpants and nearly stumbles in his incredulity.

‘A condom for a blow job? Whatever will they think of next?'

Across the tarmac compound, under the corrugated roof covering the perimeter, the two Jewish men struggle out of their prayer vests to reveal white blubbery flesh.

‘So can you?' asks Nial, carefully rearranging his tackle inside his Y-fronts.

‘It's not very likely, unless you had cuts on your old boy or she had sores in her mouth.'

By the look on his face I'm not sure if he's horrified or reassured.

‘Maybe you should get a test, Nial, if you're worried. I can tell you where to go.'

‘Maybe I will,' he says, eyes averted. ‘Have you ever seen … I mean … been with someone when they got a result? You know, a result that they had the AIDS?'

‘To be precise, the test doesn't tell you you have AIDS. It shows if you have the HIV virus or not and that can lead to AIDS.'

‘But how do they react, when they find out?'

‘I'm not involved in that side of things. But from what I know, what I've read, people respond in lots of different ways. Much like with a bereavement. Shock, then magnanimity, then anger, then sadness. Depends on the person.'

‘I suppose so, on the person. We're all different.'

He packs away his wet swimming things and sits back down on the bench. A couple of toned and groomed young men come by from the nude sunbathing zone and head for the open door to the Ponds. I tie the lace on my swimming trunks and follow them to the springboard.

‘See you later, Nial.'

He waves and says nothing, lost in thought.

I walk to the end of the diving board, look out to the swimmers carving their way around the perimeter of the pond. This is paradise enough. For now. The gently rippling green water. The soft breeze. Over to my right a couple stop outside the fence and watch me as I prepare to dive. They marvel at these Spartan men who brave the elements. I stretch to my full height. Remember: gratitude, trust and acceptance. And, above all, live in the moment, savour the now: it's all you've got. I curve my back and plunge into the cold embrace of the glistening waters, not a care in the world, not a thought of anything other than the leaves on the breeze, the sunlight on the jetty and the warning of a swan on patrol.

‘I am Spartacus,' I say as I emerge to the kiss of the sun and the hoot of the moorhens.

Mr Morse, the bank manager, reclines in his soft leather chair and checks his diary. He is of advanced middle age, immaculately dressed, and there is not a paperclip out of place on his large desk. He traces his finger along the calendar at the top of the page and calculates there are thirty-nine days to go before his retirement. Forty-eight years in the same branch, he thinks to himself with satisfaction. Boy and man, messenger, teller, clerk and manager. There is not a single job he has not done. Not one task he has not mastered, no seat he has not occupied. He surveys the room and is content. Framed certificates of his accomplishments hang in a neat row on one wall, photographs of his favourite aeroplanes on another. He straightens his tie and tugs at his cufflinks. Then he picks up his phone and speaks to his secretary in the outer office.

‘Hilda, tell Dr Malloy I am ready for him now. You can send him in.'

‘You can go in now,' says the starchy woman, without turning from her typewriter.

I stand up and knock at the heavy-wooded door.

‘Come in,' says the voice from beyond. I clear my throat and enter the room.

Behind a large highly polished desk is a little man with a bald head that shines as brightly as the tabletop. When he stands up he is smaller than I imagine a bank manager to be. When he reaches over to shake my hand I notice he wears gold-plated cufflinks in the shape of aeroplanes.

‘Dr Malloy,' he says, with a smile I might distrust, ‘my name is Geoffrey Morse. I manage this bank.' He smiles again, obviously never tiring of hearing himself make that statement. ‘I don't think we have met before. Maybe there was no need to up until now.'

‘No,' I say, for his obsequiousness is something I would have remembered, ‘I've always dealt with Mr Opal.'

‘Ah, one of my deputies. A good man. I'm grooming him for greater things,' replies the bank manager with a conspiratorial wink.

When Geoffrey Morse first got wind of Dr Anthony Malloy's financial mess he made a point of taking on the case himself. Along with flying, he gets a special thrill and pleasure from humiliating the educated. He might have been the sort of child who tortured small animals. Instead, he tortured numbers. While other boys were outside playing sports, he stayed indoors, forcing confessions from equations, striking out numbers and strangling formulae. His one regret in life is his lack of a higher education, and the people he feels most inferior to are those in possession of one. Therefore (or the triangle of three dots, as he prefers), to balance the equation in his head he needs to divide something into them, to take something away. Like this man now sitting in front of him. A tall slim man with strong features and greyish, unkempt hair. He has intelligent eyes and a soft mouth. There is a small scar at his temple and his skin is of that Celtic hue that fares badly in the sun. His voice has a hint of an accent, but the bank manager cannot quite locate it.

‘So, Dr Malloy,' he says, as an opening gambit, ‘it seems you are not managing your finances as well as we might hope of a man of your standing, of your education.'

I look at this smug little man and wonder what makes him tick. I feel like a naughty schoolboy hauled before the headmaster.

‘I want to find a way to resolve this,' I say, refusing to rise to the bait.

‘Excellent,' says the bank manager, twirling his cufflink, sending the plane into a spin and nosedive. ‘I am a simple man,' he continues, shuffling the papers in front of him. ‘I had to leave school at an early age to support my ailing mother. But my mathematics is good.'

He studies the rows of figures in front of him.

‘You have accumulated loans and an overdraft amounting to more than fifty-thousand pounds. Once this was drawn to my attention I felt it expedient to meet with you, and as you say, find a solution. As I am sure you understand, I cannot let the bank suffer such potential losses.'

The picture of the World War II bomber looms over his pompous head. I wish it would roar its engines and shed its load where he sits. I am not going to tell him about the twelvethousand pounds I had to find for the Friary Centre, and I am certainly not going to mention the way my cocaine bill escalated over the months prior to that.

‘I've had many expenses recently, largely to do with my estranged wife and daughter. As well as managing a property in Melbourne.'

He looks at me unsympathetically, his wedding finger sporting a well-worn gold band.

‘I have also been using some of my own money to further my scientific work,' I say, meaning the daily gram of cocaine habit I had decided I needed to keep up with the pace.

‘The bank's money, Dr Malloy,' he chastises, checking with his eyebrows that I get the point. ‘You have been using the bank's money. We are not the Medicine Research Council,' he adds smugly, getting it wrong, but trying to show his knowledge of the academic world.

‘So what solution do you suggest?' I ask.

‘Now we have had our little chat, I suggest you once again meet with Mr Opal, my deputy, sometime next week and see what he can come up with.'

‘Can't next week,' I say, playing for time. ‘I'm travelling with work.'

‘Where?'

‘Oh, the Far East,' I reply unconvincingly, gesturing to some place many miles distant from the bank.

He frowns. Work once sent him to Headquarters in Swindon for human resources training. He picks up his phone.

‘Hilda, Dr Malloy needs to make an appointment with Mr Opal. He'll be with you in a second. Find him a slot.'

He puts his hand over the phone and continues speaking directly to me.

‘That's all for now. Deal with my secretary outside. I have another appointment waiting.'

The bank manager swivels in his perfectly oiled chair and thinks to himself if he had his way all academics would work for a year as a bank clerk, be treated like dirt, and if they dared to speak their mind the only trip they would receive would be to the dole queue.

I hang my swimming things and wet towel over the radiator in the hallway. In the kitchen I am greeted by the flashing light of the answering machine. Three messages. I take an apple from the fruit bowl and bite into it as the tape rewinds. After a short pause, and some breathing and sighing, comes Lottie's voice.

‘Hi, Dad. I want to talk to you about my recital. The first competition is next week. Speak to you soon, bye.'

The second is a message from my counsellor from the Friary reminding me of the reunion of alumni.

‘That should be a hoot,' I murmur.

The third is a voice I do not recognize. It's that of a well-spoken woman who introduces herself as the regional representative manager of Taneffe, an international pharmaceutical company.

‘We understand the impact of the one-use syringe will be enormous in vaccination programs and in controlling infectious diseases,' the message says, ‘and my company would be very interested in discussing the potential for facilitating its development and marketing.'

I am wondering how this woman got hold of my home phone number, when the tape continues. ‘I met your sister at a gathering last week and she told us all about your work. I hope you don't mind my calling you at home, but your sister gave me the number and we felt it might be good to keep the discussions informal at this juncture. You can call me anytime on 032 62523. My name is Dr Foster, Dr Mary Foster. Take care and bye for now.'

And then the tape clicks dead.

‘Dr Mary Foster,' I repeat, replaying the message and noting the name and number in my pocket diary. I like the sound of her voice. It's the type of voice I would like to sleep with.

This could be manna from heaven. My work in developing the one-use syringe is well known in the academic world. I have presented conference papers on several continents. For much of my career I've been racing against others to develop the ultimate, indestructible, single-use syringe. Many have tried and failed. Sometimes the lock has been unreliable, the spring in the syringe too strong. Or else what scientists believed could not be taken apart has been dismantled and reassembled. Warren, my guinea pig, a long-time heroin injector and consummate expert, took great pleasure in handing me back my last prototype in several bits. Yet the aim has been the same: to produce a needle and syringe that can only be used once. What an impact! A clean syringe for every immunisation jab in Africa and Asia. Polio, tetanus, diphtheria, whooping cough. And no chance of it being reused, eliminating the danger of passing all manner of infections from one patient to another. Stemming the flow of new infection, of any infection, will mean savings in treatment costs running into billions of dollars. I just need sponsorship to get the invention off the drawing board and into production. And, a little voice in the back of my mind fantasises about the Nobel Prize and its big cash bonus to get that bank manager off my back. But even in my growing excitement, I can't help thinking that few people outside the lab in the medical school know how advanced things have got. Why is my sister Caitlin telling strangers and handing out my home phone number to them?