The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (8 page)

The next morning is clear and bright. Walking along the esplanade I feel the sea breeze clearing the muddle in my head, the disorientation I still sometimes feel from the absence of whiskey, of cocaine. It is especially strongest first thing in the morning when the lack of a hangover sets alarm bells ringing somewhere deep in the neurological department. Once again I pass the battered frontage of the bombed hotel. It looks as if someone wanted to blast a tunnel through a rock face. A little further along the road are the sharp lines and glimmering glass of the conference centre. It is just before ten. People are already making their way into the building. And then, there she is, waiting on the concourse. I sense it is her, even from a short distance. She exudes a confidence and style missing from the other delegates as they enter through the automatic doors leading to the lobby. She sees me coming and smiles.

‘You must be Mary Foster.'

‘You guessed?'

‘I just thought it would be you.'

‘A good start.'

She is tall and slim and elegant. Somewhere in her late thirties. Her hair is long and dark and groomed. Her tailored jacket and skirted suit are immaculate, but the ruby-red lipstick smacks of sensuality.

‘You had a comfortable journey and night?' she enquires.

‘I did indeed. On both counts, thank you.'

A woman pushing a pram asks to be excused. We stand apart to let her through. Behind her follow two men, with short haircuts, each carrying identical black briefcases under their arms. They smile beatific smiles at us as they pass through the doors.

‘Jehovah's Witnesses?' I say to Mary as we walk into the foyer.

‘No, I think you'll find they're Mormons.'

I look around the reception area. No sign of anything remotely pharmaceutical. The banners above the stalls dotted around the walls quote the Bible and other words of wisdom or doom. ‘Resurrection' and ‘Judgement' feature prominently, as do short-haired, clean-shaven men in suits, and women with lots of small children. The nearest we get to science is a sign above a bookstand asking, ‘Did we get here by evolution or Creation?' I get the feeling the answer is preordained. The banner across the registration desk proclaims: ‘God's Kingdom is at hand.'

I must look slightly nonplussed, as Mary smiles reassuringly.

‘Don't worry, just follow me and all will be revealed. Here's your delegate badge.'

She carefully pins it to the lapel of my jacket. I like the intimacy, the feel of her hand against me.

‘There,' she says, straightening my jacket, ‘now you look the part.'

I like her informality, her sense of fun. Unusual for a drug company rep, but not unwelcome.

The inscription on my badge reads: ‘Anthony M. Woodford Congregation.' In large letters around its circumference it announces: ‘Divine Help is at Hand.'

‘Come on then,' she says, ‘let me buy you a coffee and we can talk.'

She seems to know where she's going as we set off up the stairs to the mezzanine floor. All around us are men in suits of blacks and greys with identical haircuts and women in bilious frocks and sensible cardigans. Children looking like mini adults stay close to their parents. I get the feeling juvenile delinquency is not a major problem of family life. Quite what is, I dread to think.

This is not where I expected to be, but I always welcome the bizarre. Experience has taught me perversity is found no further than the end of the street, or at the turn in the bend. With this thought in my mind, I follow Mary to the end of a queue leading to a self-service counter.

‘So Mary F,' I say, noting the badge she wears on her jacket, ‘are we to be knocking on the unsuspecting doors of Brighton, preaching salvation?'

‘There's a world out there that needs us. Well, you for sure. You and your wonderful syringe,' she says with a smile.

The plenary session must have just begun in the nearby auditorium. Video screens placed strategically around the cafeteria flick into life. Huddled around the monitors are mothers nursing babies and rocking prams; close by are suited stewards with clean faces and bright eyes. The man at the podium is small and bespectacled. His powerful voice seems too big for his body.

‘Our Book of Mormon provides a perfect program for life. For individuals and societies. It embraces all aspects of our modern world and offers hope for the future.'

‘That'd be nice,' I say.

‘We all need hope,' adds Mary, moving forward with the queue.

‘We live in a time of wars on many continents,' continues the speaker. ‘Yet so many are uncertain, unsure. But, as on all issues, our book is clear and unequivocal. War is justified in defence against our enemies. We can only resort to the necessary violence of war to preserve lives. We must never act as the aggressor.'

We shuffle forward, the smell of fresh coffee growing ever stronger.

‘But, as in all things, be it war or ministry, we turn to the Holy Word of God for direction. Please open your Bibles to the book of St Luke, chapter six, starting at verse thirty-seven.'

There is a ruffling of pages throughout the cafeteria. The queue moves with more urgency, the brethren anxious not to miss the pearls better to equip them for Christ's second coming.

‘“Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive and ye shall be forgiven: give and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over.”'

There is a hold-up at the cash register; the queue grinds to a halt. The preacher's words stay in my mind. “Give and it shall be given.” In spite of the disasters and chaos of my private life – the addictions, the broken relationships, the teenage daughter who cries herself to sleep and still wets her knickers at school – I have a purpose, a value. To give. My work. My quest to stop the spread of disease. I have strived for this breakthrough, achieved it against the expectations of peers and detractors. And how much of it is for self-aggrandisement and acclaim? To feel a sense of worth? To be applauded? Some, there is no doubt. But it is also to help the last to be helped. The children in hospitals in the forgotten countries whose parents are asked to select from a tray of blood-encrusted syringes: Russian roulette in Asia and Africa.

‘You're deep in thought,' says Mary. ‘Cappuccino or espresso?'

‘Oh, latte please. Decaffeinated, no sugar.'

For someone who has funnelled up cocaine and downed whiskey as though there was an imminent worldwide shortage, I have always been careful about my coffee and sugar intake.

We take a seat in the corner of the room. It is time to focus on the matter in hand and clear up a few issues.

‘Okay, Dr Foster, maybe you could explain a few things for me. To start with, why here?' I look around at the banners with their messianic proclamations and the acolytes riveted to the video screens.

‘There is nothing to be concerned about,' she says. ‘I wanted us to meet somewhere where we could speak openly and privately. Somewhere where we wouldn't be disturbed.'

‘I hadn't given it much thought, but for some reason I imagined this would be some kind of a medical convention or pharmaceutical meeting.'

‘Not quite, as you can see. But it's a place where we can have a frank discussion.'

Looking around at all the studious faces transfixed by the speaker, I'd have to agree it's unlikely we'll be interrupted.

‘Let me get to the point,' continues Mary, the tone of her voice changing. ‘I want to make you an offer you are most unlikely to refuse.'

She pauses, making sure she has my full attention. She does.

‘You have developed a brilliant product. A syringe that can only be used once. Our research team briefed me and I am cognisant of its implications. If we can persuade the big international donors to take it up it will have massive impacts on disease control and immunisation programs.'

‘Very good.' I'm impressed. ‘But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We have some prototypes, but we need to see if we can produce it first. If we can source the right materials for mass production.'

‘In any event,' she says, ‘it all comes down to you and the revolutionary one-use syringe. A syringe that locks once its contents are emptied. No passing on of dirty syringes, no infection through injection. Sounds like an ad. We could use that. Anyway, you need to find a sponsor to take your syringe idea around the world. As you say, to find the best raw materials. To select the right partners. I represent that kind of backing. We will put up all the expenses. The hotels, the air flights, per diems to meet all your needs. We can, and will, make all the right contacts for you. Government ministers, heads of big pharmaceutical corporations, lab directors. As I said before, we have a special budget to promote your type of work. It's good for our image, as I'm sure you're aware.'

‘I'm not that aware, to be honest,' I say. ‘Until you called me I'd not come across your company before. I know your parent company, Doreale. My department has received research funds from them before. In fact, most of the equipment in my lab came out of that grant.'

I fail to mention the grant also part-funded my cocaine habit for most of that particular year.

A baby cries loudly in the background. Mary F places a classy-looking briefcase on the table, clicks it open and produces a glossy brochure that she hands to me.

‘This is our business plan and portfolio. It's no surprise you haven't come across us yet,' she says, closing and locking the case. ‘We're a newish company. Doreale needed to expand and diversify, so Taneffe was set up to take care of special, shall we say, innovative projects. Our parent company has offices worldwide. Taneffe was set up in Switzerland, six months ago. The UK next. We intend rapid expansion and soon we'll have branches on most continents. In the meantime, we have our parent company's resources and outlets at our disposal. So, as I say, we want to provide funds for good works, for the promotion of worthwhile initiatives. Like your own. Like the disposable one-use syringe. But,' she pauses for emphasis, ‘I should let you know what we expect of you.'

She holds my glance. In that moment I review my feelings for her. Suspicion, yes. Interest, definitely. Lust, intermittent. She attracts me, this woman with the pot of gold.

‘So tell me. No free lunches?'

‘It is all very simple. As I have told you, we will provide you with the itinerary and all the resources to satisfy your goals. In return you will pick up and deliver certain packages for us that are part of one of our multi-government-backed research and development programs.'

This snaps me back from my thoughts. The tone of her voice, her look, seems to be asking more than courtesy visits to foreign drug companies and sponsorship banners at symposia.

‘Packages?'

‘Yes, packages. We will provide all the transportation and contacts. You will ensure the packages are safely moved from A to B.'

Any desire is fast fading. What is to be moved from points A to B? I am totally thrown.

‘Let me get this clear … Who are you? What packages? I'm a respected scientist, not some kind of errand boy.'

‘I can see it's all a bit confusing for you,' says Mary, nonchalantly, running her fingers through her hair. She puts a cigarette to her mouth, then obviously thinks better of it. She places it back in the silver cigarette case she carries in her handbag.

‘Tell me what this is all about,' I demand. ‘I want the details. I insist on knowing.'

She looks at me as if carefully weighing up the situation, assessing the risks.

‘You ask me for particulars. As a man of intellect, you will know much of life is both simple and complex. It just depends on how you wish to view it at any given time. Let me put it simplistically, in a way that might help you move to the right decision, for us all.'

She pauses for effect. She looks around. On the screen is a re-enactment of Nebuchadnezzar's decline into insanity. The actor is on his hands and knees eating grass. Everyone, save us, is transfixed by the drama.

‘Seeds. A super strain of opium seeds we want shipping from South-East Asia to South America. You need know little more than that. It will all fit very simply and conveniently into your schedule. There will be plenty of assistance along the way. The logistics are not totally finalised, but you will be carefully briefed when the time is right.'

I check my immediate short-term memory to be sure I am hearing what I think I am hearing. My brain reports I am.

‘What on earth makes you think I will get involved in anything like this?' I say lowering my voice, though shouting seems more appropriate, more natural.

‘Well, first and foremost, as a joint mission so to speak, to promote your syringe.'

I get to my feet, indignant, outraged. ‘Do not for one moment think I will compromise …'

‘We have your sister, Caitlin,' she says quietly. ‘Caitlin is in our care and keeping.'

I am shocked into silence.

‘We are holding her under careful supervision, you might say. As with any multi-national corporation, we have many parties investing in our work. Doreale engages in more than just pharmaceutical research and development. We are involved in some complex and innovative developmental work, which has, how can I put it, broad governmental support. We employ a wide range of collaborators and consultants. Caitlin, as you may or may not know, was working with one of our Irish partners on … let's say one of our more adventurous and unorthodox projects. It took place here in this town, quite recently. You could say that Caitlin freelanced for us.'

She takes something from her briefcase, sliding it across the table towards me. It is the front page of
The Times,
with the banner headline, ‘Government Conference Hotel Bombed.'

I stare in horror at the headline, trying to understand. I knew of Caitlin's political leanings and her obsession with the Irish, but surely she would never get mixed up at this level. Mary seems to sense my doubt, so she continues to describe what happened. How Caitlin had fulfilled her current contract, but then wanted early retirement, something that was ‘not available to a person with her knowledge and insights.' Consequently, she was now being held under ‘what you may wish to describe as house arrest.'