Hypocrite's Isle (18 page)

‘I nearly called you at three this morning.’

‘I’m awfully glad you didn’t,’ said Caroline. ‘What did you want?’

‘I worked out why Valdevan didn’t work on cancer patients.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Caroline, pausing in mid-sip and licking the salt off her upper lip. ‘You have to be.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Bloody hell, I’m impressed. Tell me more.’

Gavin explained his discovery over a nachos starter, pausing at intervals to wrestle with strands of melted cheese that were
reluctant
to part from the bowl.

‘It seems so simple now,’ said Caroline when he’d finished. ‘But then so did DNA once Crick and Watson had worked it out. That was a brilliant piece of work, Gavin, but …’

‘But what?’

Caroline appeared uncomfortable. ‘I really mean it when I say it’s a brilliant piece of work, but the bottom line is that you have found out why Valdevan didn’t work … I mean … it still doesn’t, right?’

‘No,’ agreed Gavin. ‘But Frank’s agreed to give me three more weeks to work on that.’

‘Three weeks?’

‘To make it over the next hurdle, then maybe he’ll give me some more time. That’s how I see it.’

Caroline looked at him. ‘My God, you’re determined. I’ll give you that. You’ve come this far against all the odds and in spite of all the doubters, including me. Sometimes I wonder what I’ve got myself into.’

‘A love affair,’ smiled Gavin.

‘Is that what it is?’ teased Caroline.

‘Yep, and it’s going to be the longest, most beautiful love affair in the history of love affairs. It will go on to the end of time and our children and our children’s children will speak of it long after we are dead and walking hand in hand along the road to eternity knowing we’ll be together for ever.’

‘Oh well … if you say so.’

‘I do.’

‘Two burritos,’ said the waitress.

 

Gavin spent Tuesday going through the Grumman Schalk report again. Although no longer interested in anything they had done, or their reasons for doing it, he was looking for something that might help him decide on the concentration of the drug to use, to induce membrane damage in tumour cells but not in healthy ones. He found what he was looking for in a case report on biopsy
material
taken from a patient with lung cancer. Under his magnifying lens the photographs clearly showed that the tumour cells were
displaying
membrane blips, while the adjacent healthy tissue looked unaffected. Gavin noted the patient number and traced his finger down the column of relevant drug levels. Patient 2453F had shown a steady level of 25 micrograms per millilitre of blood. The suffix, F, told him she had been female. ‘Thank you, patient 2453F, aged 43,’ murmured Gavin. ‘RIP.’

The weekly internal seminars in the department usually attracted an audience of around thirty – about half of those eligible to attend. It was generally accepted that what was being reported would be of a ‘work in progress’ nature: ‘middles’, rather than a complete story with a beginning, a middle and an end. But the programme gave experience in public speaking to the postgraduate students who comprised the bulk of the speakers, although group leaders also participated from time to time, usually giving overviews of their group’s work. These tended to be more popular than the ‘middles’, which really only appealed to those already familiar with the
specialised
nature of the work being reported.

Today there were over sixty people packed into the small
seminar
room to hear what Gavin Donnelly had to say. His reputation had gone before him, and ensured that not all of them were there in a supportive capacity. Those who had fallen foul of his quick tongue in the past were attending in the hope of seeing him fall flat on his face.

As usual, the front row was occupied by senior members of staff with Graham Sutcliffe in the centre, legs crossed, interlaced fingers resting on his stomach, a man at ease with his position in the great scheme of things. To his immediate left sat Malcolm Maclean with two of his students, including Peter Morton-Brown. To his right, Frank Simmons and Jack Martin who, as organiser, checked behind him to see that everyone seemed settled before vacating his seat to indicate to someone at the back that the door be closed.

Frank Simmons couldn’t take his eyes off Gavin, who was
fiddling
with his notes and showing signs of nerves as he sat, waiting to be introduced. He hoped to make eye contact with him to give him some gesture of reassurance, but Gavin didn’t look up.

Martin cleared his throat and started to speak. ‘It’s a rather
unusual
occurrence for us to have a first-term postgrad student speak about his work – most postgrads spend their first term finding a place to stay’ – polite laughter – ‘but Frank Simmons tells me that Gavin has made such good progress that we should all hear about it. We are therefore delighted to have him here today to tell us what he’s been doing.’

Gavin, unused to public speaking, in fact not used to speaking very much at all, started out on a mumbled introduction which was immediately interrupted by someone at the back calling out, ‘Can you speak up, please!’

Gavin raised his voice a little, but continued to look down at the floor. ‘As I was saying, the main thrust of my research concerns the genes associated with membrane integrity …’

‘Might one ask why?’ interrupted Graham Sutcliffe, his loud, confident voice contrasting with Gavin’s nervous delivery.

Simmons felt a sense of alarm. The last thing Gavin needed was constant interruption. He noted that Sutcliffe’s lips were smiling but his eyes were as cold as ice, and suspected that it was payback time for Gavin’s refusal to participate in the postgrad teaching rota.

‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ said Gavin, making Simmons close his eyes in trepidation of what might happen next.

Luckily, Gavin seemed to realise that he was walking into the trap that Sutcliffe was laying for him, and sought to move quickly on and limit the damage. ‘I mean, there is likely to be a link
between
the genes affecting cell division and those concerned with membrane growth and integrity. It’s a fair bet the processes are co-ordinated.’

‘A fair bet …’ intoned Sutcliffe.

‘Don’t you think, Professor?’

‘I wonder if Copernicus ever thought it “a fair bet” that the earth went round the sun,’ said Sutcliffe. The comment attracted a ripple of sycophantic laughter.

‘Is it the science or the linguistics you’re objecting to,
Professor
?’ asked Gavin, albeit in more controlled tones this time, but he noticed Frank Simmons close his eyes again as if in silent prayer.

‘I haven’t heard any science yet,’ said Sutcliffe coldly.

Simmons prayed that Gavin was not about to suggest that he might if only he shut his mouth and listened.

‘Then I’d best begin,’ said Gavin. He started reading from
prepared
text. ‘My project concerns the genes which affect membrane architecture. At the outset, my supervisor, Dr Frank Simmons, thought it might be a good idea to mutate one of these, the S16 gene, in order to establish whether or not the gene was essential. If not, we thought we might be able to detect useful differences in cell wall structure in the absence of the gene which might prove useful in an immunological sense. Luckily however, I noticed a paper in a recent edition of
Cell
which made passing reference to the likely mode of action of an old cancer drug named Valdevan. This in turn suggested to me an alternative approach to the project which would obviate the need for employing mutation.’

‘That’s the cancer drug which never worked?’ interrupted Peter Morton-Brown, sounding both smug and loud.

‘Sneaky little …’ murmured Mary Hollis to Tom Baxter, who was sitting beside her three rows from the back. She knew that Morton-Brown had never heard of Valdevan before she told him about it that morning, when he’d stopped to ask her in the corridor what Gavin would be talking about.

‘It was the proposed mode of action of the drug that was
interesting
, Peter, not its therapeutic history,’ said Gavin. ‘Can I take it you’re familiar with the latest thinking about that?’

Morton-Brown had to admit not, his lip twitching
uncomfortably
between a scowl and a smile. ‘Not entirely…’

‘
Not entirely
,’ scoffed Mary, in a whisper.

Gavin, his prepared script now abandoned and his earlier
discomfort
fading, was gaining confidence with each passing minute. He explained the action of the drug and how he had applied it to his work. His enthusiasm for his subject and the facts and figures he had amassed to support his experimental work were making things clear to all, even if his Liverpool accent had become more pronounced than ever with his accelerating delivery.

There were no more interruptions and he concluded with, ‘So you see, Valdevan did not fail for any of the reasons Grumman Schalk imagined – although it should be said that, at the time, they didn’t, of course, have the knowledge we now have. They took the only course of action open to them.’

‘How very charitable of you, Gavin,’ said Sutcliffe, attracting an irritated look from Frank Simmons. ‘You’ll pardon me for
saying
so, but we’ve known for twenty years that Valdevan didn’t work … and now you have worked out why … a personal triumph no doubt, but for the life of me, I fail to see … the point?’

Once again, and much to Frank Simmons’ relief, Gavin didn’t rise to the bait. He simply said, ‘Well, from our point of view,
Professor
, establishing exactly why Valdevan failed has demonstrated to us that the S16 gene is not essential. This gives us a possible
approach
to the problem of distinguishing tumour cells from healthy cells.’

‘But surely that’s just where you started out from?’ exclaimed Peter Morton-Brown, adopting an exaggeratedly puzzled
expression
and glancing at Sutcliffe as if to align himself as an ally. ‘Just thinking about the possibility of using S16 mutants for the study?’

‘Apart from the one year we’ve saved by not having to carry out mutagenesis, Peter,’ said Gavin, delivering a torpedo with a Liverpudlian accent.

A suppressed titter of laughter ran round the room and
Morton-Brown
’s cheeks coloured.

Jack Martin got quickly to his feet to thank Gavin for ‘an
extremely
interesting talk’, and brought the seminar to a close.

Mary Hollis and Tom Baxter came to the front to reassure Gavin that it had gone well, and he was grateful for friendly faces after what had gone before. ‘Let’s go get some lunch,’ suggested Mary.

‘As long as it involves beer,’ said Gavin.

Simmons watched them depart and was joined by Jack Martin as the room emptied. ‘I feel like I’ve been watching someone walk through a minefield for the past hour,’ said Simmons. ‘Just waiting for the explosion to happen.’

‘He did well, but Graham really was a bastard to him,’ said Martin. ‘Gavin’ll have to watch himself. Graham Sutcliffe could damage his future career if he puts his mind to it. Mind you, your reservations about his block grant proposal the other day didn’t
endear
you to our leader either.’

‘He shouldn’t take that out on the students,’ said Simmons.

‘With Gavin, I think it’s personal. He’s a bit different from the norm …’

‘I noticed Morton-Brown picking up brownie points. That bloke’s turning brown-nosing into an art form,’ said Simmons.

‘He only succeeded in making a fool of himself. All in all I think your lad did well, and the science was first class. You’re entitled to feel pleased.’

‘Let’s not go as far as pleased. Relieved is just fine. Gavin can be a real loose cannon.’

‘He’s getting better,’ said Martin.

‘It’s his girlfriend: she’s a good influence.’

 

January in Edinburgh was, as always, a cold, dark and almost
constantly
wet month, which ensured that smiles were hard to find on city streets and people developed an involuntary stoop as they
habitually
bowed their heads in an attempt to avoid biting winds and icy rain. The prospect of a similar February to come did little to lift spirits but much to support those who cited a lack of sunshine for their general low energy levels and absence of
joie de vivre.