Conrad & Eleanor (14 page)

Brock had selected the Square Albert, a big ugly pub in the centre of town – Con understood that it was in order to avoid anyone else from work, and allowed himself to feel flattered. They took their beers to the upper level, and sank back into an alcove. ‘Cheers.'

‘Cheers.'

An appraising stare from under Brock's sprouting eyebrows, and then a sudden grin. ‘You know what this is about.'

‘Yup.'

‘You know where I'm going?'

‘Boston?' The most interesting research Con was aware of was happening at New England Deaconess hospital there; they had made a breakthrough with an enzyme that blocked some of the immediate immune reaction. If there was any mileage in it, it would become treatment of choice because it would considerably lessen the dosages of immunosuppressants needed after transplant.

But Brock was shaking his head. ‘I'm going over to the other side. I'm staying right here and I'm going over to the other side.'

‘The other side?'

‘Taking the drug company shilling.'

‘You've lost me.'

‘Have you heard of a company called Corastra?'

‘I've seen the name – involved in transgenics?'

‘OK. Small UK company founded by a guy I was at school with, very bright man, Christopher Farrell. He trained as a surgeon and went to work in Bristol. Decided the work he was doing – the publicly funded research – had good commercial application and formed himself a company before he told anyone what he was up to. And now he's made a killing.'

‘How?'

‘Sold it on to Kneiper.'

‘It sounds a bit unethical.'

Brock shrugged. ‘You want ethics? With no funding and no monkeys and no investment in the future of research in this country, and anyone with an IQ over a hundred decamping to the States? At least Corastra is a British company. At least it's based here. Kneiper are paying the bills but he's keeping the Corastra ID.'

‘What's the work?'

‘Pigs.'

‘You don't know anything about pigs.'

‘Pig to primate transplants. With the ultimate aim of pig to human xenografts.'

‘It's mad. The hyperacute rejection across a species divide that wide is instant.'

‘They're genetically modifying the pigs. They've been breeding pigs which are transgenic. They believe they'll be able to prevent HAR.'

‘They've already bred the pigs?'

‘They've done trials. And now they're going for it.'

‘What's the programme?'

‘Transplant the pig hearts into primates, cynomolgous monkeys. Without HAR it should be possible to use a standard immunosuppressive therapy, cyclosporine, cyclophosphamide and steroids.'

‘And Kneiper picks up the profit on the immunosuppressants?'

‘I don't know if they've patented the transgenic hearts. If they have, that's where they'll make their fortunes.'

‘And pigs breed quickly.'

‘Precisely. Two to three litters a year, ten or so per litter. Enough hearts to supply the transplant wants of the world. They're envisaging a two-year research programme of testing on monkeys, moving on to clinical trials soon after that.'

‘Good grief.'

‘Yes. And they're doubling my salary. Are you interested?'

‘What do they want?'

‘It's a small team, they want another immunologist with primate experience, and when they approached me I recommended you.'

‘Where is it?'

‘We stay here, use our own lab facilities: Kneiper will pay the university, and we become Corastra research fellows. The only big change is that the animal work is farmed out – which, given the state of our monkey house, is a consummation devoutly to be wished.'

‘Farmed out to where?'

‘A group called Carrington Bio-Life, all the surgical and routine stuff is contracted out to them. They have a dedicated staff who send us reports and samples for analysis, and we tell them how to adjust dosages. It's a much more streamlined, efficient use of manpower.'

Con remembers the particular draw of the distant, professionally run animal house; the delightful and utterly unrealistic vision it conjured of contented animals in surroundings rather like a zoo, tended and monitored by kindly keepers who knew each animal individually and had no other concerns or claims upon their time than the welfare of the monkeys.

He remembers it now, less delightfully, as the attraction of not having to get his own hands dirty.

When Con discussed the idea with El she was less hostile to it than he had expected. For her, as for him, having Kneiper for his paymaster was the sticking point. ‘It's the privatisation of knowledge, isn't it? Research not to increase the sum of human knowledge, but to increase shareholders' profits.'

‘Yes,' he agreed. ‘But it's hard to know which way to turn. Brock's right, we're not going to get any more government funding for monkey transplants. In the absence of public funding, the choices are pretty stark.'

‘They'll make their profits out of knowledge and expertise like yours and Brock's that only exists because of years of public funding.'

‘Yup. Like hospital consultants with their private patients.'

‘True.'

‘The thing about the level of funding they're prepared to put in is that things will move quickly. There should be a breakthrough within a couple of years. And if that happens – if we can move to clinical trials – then whoever's making the profits, it is lives saved, at the end of the day. It's lives saved more quickly than they would have been without Kneiper.'

‘If it becomes standard practice, they can't actually keep a grip on the world supply of transgenic hearts, can they?'

‘I don't see how they could. They'll rake it in to begin with, but someone else'll soon catch up, make some slight modification, slither around the patent laws – it'll enter the public domain, won't it. Like generic drugs. You'll be able to get a Boots own-brand pig heart, one tenth the price of a Kneiper one.'

El laughed. ‘Kneiper will be keeping the lid on it as long as they can. Bet you have to sign some sort of loyalty oath.'

He hadn't thought of that, of course. Loyalty to Big Pharma. It was one thing to be paid by them to move swiftly on groundbreaking research. It was another to be their creature, his silence bought with their silver, his tongue shackled by chains of their clinking coins. He hadn't thought seriously of what yielding up his freedom of speech might mean.

Which reminds him of his last visit to a monkey house. His last visit: the day he first met Maddy.

The day he meets her – nearly a year ago, only a year – is ever-present in his memory. The day when the nightmare breaks through and confirms itself as real. He finally visits the Carrington Bio-Life animal facility, where his research animals are housed. They have all been outsourced from the university animal house, which is where they were always kept in the early days of his research. Now other people – technicians, vets – dose them and operate and make notes on them; all he has to do is make sense of their reports. It is a two-hour drive, but it is something he has known he must do for a very long time. To be honest, since he started working for Corastra. But there has always been a good reason for putting it off. Now, longevity has apparently improved, and he has to check at what point they are sacrificing moribund animals, to ensure that this really is good news.

He knows it is not, the minute he is let into the building. There is no good news here. The smell is enough to tell him that; the smell of sickness and old faeces and urine, strong enough almost to block out the stink of oranges. The security guard who checks him in takes him as far as the glass-panelled office, where a youth sits with his feet on the desk, stabbing at his mobile. Con gives his name and lab address and the youth ticks a list and carries on stabbing.

Con goes into the changing room to remove his shoes and put on the biohazard suit, then heads to the primate section. Monkeys awaiting surgery scream and chatter from their perches. He lets himself through the final door into the sterile room, and finds the three surviving monkeys from his own tests. The new hearts have been grafted onto their necks, a quicker and simpler way of testing rejection, and all three look poorly. F20 is huddled in the corner of her cage, eyes closed, breathing rapid and light; the bigger of the two males, M17, is reeling against the bars, retching up small amounts of pale yellow fluid. The other has his eyes open but is lying on the floor of his cage and makes no move as Conrad approaches. Con glances at F20's notes. She has been quiet and huddled for two days. He can see immediately that all three of them are suffering from too-high dosages of immunosuppressants. But there is no way out of this. Their bodies won't accept the hearts unless their immune systems are utterly suppressed, and the suppression of their immune systems causes vomiting and renal failure. But there have been so many adjustments to the drug regime over the last year – he had hoped to have a couple of longer-term survivors out of this batch; he had hoped they might regain at least some quality of life for a short while. He reaches for M17's notes. There is nothing written against today's date; for yesterday, ‘Quiet but alert.' How long has he been vomiting? He moves over to M20's notes. They are in the same hand, up to and including today: ‘Quiet, unsteady.' So have they just forgotten to make a note for M17? Or have these been filled in yesterday for today's date as well? His sudden conviction that this is what has happened fuses with his earlier concern about the death rate in surgery.

He straightens up quickly and goes through to the room labelled Technicians' Office. It is empty. Why is the place so deserted? He rifles through the filing cabinets until he finds ‘Monkeys, surgical'. He takes out a handful of folders; the first one he glances through electrifies him.
Piglet heart found to be unsuitably large at 10.75 oz. Subject died on the table.
How could they have a 10.75 oz heart? The heart sizes are specified, nothing over 6 oz. The piglet itself must have looked large, and they must have known as soon as they opened it up – did they have no piglets in reserve? And why should the monkey die? Could they not repair the neck surgery?

For an enraged moment he simply tots up the costs: £3,000 for the monkey, then the drug regime it has been on, the cost of the transgenic piglet, the man hours of planning and preparation…

He thumbs quickly through the other notes. They lack detail. One states simply, ‘Technical error', and another, ‘Failed to recover from anaesthetic.'

Con makes himself put the files back carefully. He is trembling with rage. As he heads back out of the primate house he forces himself to look, to not allow his eyes to close. There are numerous comatose animals, who should have been sacrificed days ago. Cages have not been cleaned out, old vomit and excreta and spilt food litter the floors. He reminds himself that monkey houses are always bad, but this is intolerable. When he has changed he strides back to the office. ‘What time do they do the rounds?'

The lad glances up at him and shrugs.

‘What time do they come round to check the animals?'

‘Afternoon? Yeah, sometime in the afternoon, I think.'

‘I need to talk to them. What time will they be here?'

The lad scrabbles through a few papers on his desk but does not seem to find anything. ‘Around 2-ish?' he offers.

‘Have you been round yourself this morning? Some of them need water.'

‘Cleaners see to that first thing.'

‘Well, what's your job?'

‘Keeping an eye on things,' he mutters, restoring his attention to his phone.

Conrad realises there is no point, though he'd like to slap the lout off his chair. There's no point, it's not his fault, they're probably paying him all of £5 an hour. ‘I'm coming back at 2,' he says. ‘Please make a note.' He stands over the youth while he scrawls Conrad's name in the slot beside 2pm. Con can see now that all the other time slots are empty.

When he gets out he goes to the car but can't face getting in. He tells the guy on the gate he'll be back, and slips through as soon as the gap is wide enough.

‘Two miles into town, mate!' the man calls out, and Con raises his hand in acknowledgement. Two miles is what he needs, walking fast, breathing clean air, eyes staring blankly through leafless March hedges to newly ploughed fields beyond. He can't think who he can safely talk to about this. Brock was the one: but Brock died last year of a heart attack. And after his death, Saul decamped to the States. Con is the only Corastra fellow left in the department. Maybe he can sort it out on his own? Maybe if he tells someone at Corastra? He thinks of the loyalty clause, of the hunger for results, of the increasing sense of futility. Maybe they would pull the plug on the whole thing. Maybe that would be a good idea. More likely, he thinks, they would tell him to keep it quiet. And if they told him they had dealt with it, would he believe them? Isn't it perfectly likely they already know? They are spending an awful lot of money – presumably Carrington Bio-Life come cheap.

By the time he arrives at streets with houses and gardens he is able to focus on his surroundings again, and when the smell of coffee wafts at him from an open café door, he turns in and orders a drink. He sits by the window, cradling his mug between his hands.

‘May I join you?' A woman's voice. He's so startled he slops coffee across the table. She apologises, slipping into the other seat, and mops up the spill with paper napkins. There are several tables empty but she is already sitting opposite him, smiling timidly. ‘Sorry,' she says. ‘It's so nice to sit by the window. Do you live here?'

Con feels he is staring wildly. What is this? Why can't she leave him in peace? But she is inoffensive enough; mouse-brown hair, pale and serious and devoid of make-up. She looks like a librarian. She looks like someone he might already know. ‘No,' he says.