Hypocrite's Isle (31 page)

Outside in the lab, Gavin sat back down at Mary’s desk, waiting until the men in suits had finished so that he could gather together some stuff to take home with him. If he was going to take time off, he’d need his notebooks and some relevant journals. He wondered briefly what else he should take, before deciding to move the
Valdevan
and polymyxin, in case anything ‘unfortunate’ happened to them. Ever since the episode with the acid contamination he had been hiding them in a plastic box with the contents labelled as something else in the big communal fridge out in the corridor. He’d be happier now with the box in the fridge at the flat. If anything happened to the Valdevan, the company certainly wouldn’t give him any more. There would be no more experiments and possibly no published paper if the results had to depend on a single series of experiments.

Gavin fetched the box from the corridor fridge and removed the two bottles containing the drugs which he relocated in a small, thick-walled polystyrene container before adding ice to it and
sealing
it with tape. He packed it away in his rucksack.

The Works Department men had finished their work and were stuffing their clipboards back in their briefcases. Gavin watched as they filed out with a series of nods and smiles in his direction, of the type afforded to unknown people of unknown status.

Simmons came out of his office and said, ‘I’m off to the hospital.’

Gavin, who was very much aware of the barrier that had come down between Frank and himself, said, ‘Tell Mary … to hang in there.’ He knew it sounded lame. He would send flowers on his way home.

Simmons nodded. ‘Has Tom come back yet?’

Gavin said not.

‘Maybe you could make sure he’s all right before you go?’

‘Sure, Frank.’

Simmons left and Gavin took a slow walk round the lab, tracing his hand over the charred surface of his bench. He had been so busy fending off the suggestion that it had all been his fault that he hadn’t had time to consider exactly how an unknown third party could have done this. It wouldn’t have been easy. If he had filled the beaker with ethanol – as he was sure he had on that morning – and then left the lab in response to Carrie’s phone call, someone must have switched the ethanol for ether in the time between his leaving and Mary arriving. Frank had already gone off to the library and Tom had been about to leave for the airport … Gavin’s throat tightened as he realised that Tom Baxter had been the only person in the lab at the critical time – and he, of course, would have had no idea that Mary was about to sit down at his bench and work there …

As if on cue, the lab door opened and Tom Baxter came in,
looking
deathly pale. He was holding a white envelope which he placed on Mary’s desk, before looking at Gavin through dark, empty eyes. Gavin read in them all he needed to know.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he said hoarsely, now understanding why Tom was so upset over what had happened. ‘You must have heard on the news last night that someone had been injured in a fire at the university but no name was mentioned. You thought it was me until Frank told you this morning.’

The blank stare did not change.

‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’

A look of utter disdain appeared on Tom’s face. ‘Have you any idea how much I loathe you?’

The look on Gavin’s face said not.

‘I have to work my butt off just to keep my head above water in this place, while everything comes so natural to you, Mr bloody know-it-all. If I forget something you’ll know it. Any time I screw up, you’ll be there to point it out. You do bugger all for weeks on end and then you make one suggestion and suddenly you’re Frank’s ace researcher. I get my one lucky break: Grumman Schalk are
prepared
to give me a job, a good job, much better than anything I was going to be getting on the poxy postdoc circuit for second-rate researchers like me – yes, you see, I do know my limitations. After that, I’d probably end up teaching biology in some bloody
comprehensive
to a bunch of teenage fuckwits who didn’t want to know.’

Gavin was mesmerised by the change that had come over Tom Baxter. The body of the gangly, dishevelled student seemed to have been taken over by a spirit of malevolence and bitterness. Even his voice seemed different. The nervous pauses and unnecessary
clearing
of the throat were no longer in evidence.

‘Then you have your big idea and fuck things up. Grumman are going to pull the plug on everything, including the job offers, because you won’t stop fucking around with Valdevan – but what does that matter to the great Gavin Donnelly? He knows best. He always knows fucking best.’

Gavin tensed himself as Tom started to come towards him. He sensed that Tom’s anger had reached the critical level where action had to take over to provide some sort of release. He tried
anticipating
what he might do and noticed, with a frisson of horror, the scalpel lying on the island bench. It had a blade so sharp that it could open up his face before he realised anything had happened, and it was just about to be within Tom’s reach.

Gavin’s heart missed a beat when Tom paused next to it but, to his enormous relief, Tom didn’t appear to see it. He didn’t seem to see anything, and Gavin realised that he was lost in the nightmare of what he’d done.

‘Mary … poor Mary,’ Tom murmured. ‘She just had to do you a good turn and … Christ, what have I done?’ He put his hands to his face and his shoulders started to heave.

Gavin kept perfectly still, feeling that Tom was so unstable that anything could happen. He clearly couldn’t come to terms with being the cause of Mary’s disfigurement, so it was still
possible
that he might turn his anger and guilt on him in an effort to block out the pain. Any move he made, even a wrong word – and right now, they’d all be wrong – might trigger a sudden explosion of violence.

Tom brought his hands down slowly from his face and looked at Gavin, who felt himself tense again. He expected to see eyes filled with hatred, but that wasn’t what was there. He saw nothing but emptiness: deep, dark, despairing emptiness. He sensed the danger had passed.

‘And now I have to make it right …’ murmured Tom as he turned away and made for the door. Gavin let out his breath and felt his shoulders relax. He considered going after him but dismissed the idea, recognising that he was the last person on earth that Tom would want near him. He assumed that his assertion about ‘making it right’ meant confession, giving himself up to the police, but he decided to call security anyway. ‘Try to stop him leaving the
building
, will you? He’s not well.’

‘Do we call the police or an ambulance?’

‘The police.’

Gavin slumped down into a chair, feeling the adrenalin drain from him. He started to take comfort from the silence in the lab, but only until somewhere out in the corridor a woman started screaming. It went on and on.

Gavin rushed out, as did others from the neighbouring labs, exchanging questioning looks as they followed the source of the sound. It was coming from behind the doors leading to the stairs. There they found a slight, blonde girl – one of the junior
technicians
from the Drummond lab – screaming hysterically as she pointed down into the stairwell. ‘He just … went over …’ she stammered as two of her colleagues wrapped their arms round her.

Gavin looked over the banister to see the body of Tom
Baxter
spread-eagled on the stone floor far below. Even at this height he could see that his skull had shattered. This was what Tom had meant by ‘making it right’.

‘What on earth’s going on?’ asked Jack Martin, appearing at the railings by Gavin’s shoulder.

‘Tom Baxter,’ said Gavin.

Martin looked at him quizzically.

‘He put the ether in the beaker. It was meant for me.’

‘Baxter? Jesus Christ, what was he thinking about?’

‘He thought my work was going to stop him getting his dream job with Grumman Schalk. He seemed to think the company was going to withdraw the postdoc job offers as well as the grant.’ Gavin looked directly at Martin, making it a question.

‘There has been some talk along those lines,’ conceded Martin.

‘First they threaten the university with withdrawal of funds if work on Valdevan doesn’t stop, then they tell the postgrad students that their jobs are going down the tubes as well. Nice people.’

‘Where’s Frank?’ asked Martin, clearly not wanting to be drawn.

‘He went to meet Mary’s parents at the hospital.’

‘Shit. Now he has this to come back to.’

Both men looked down again at Tom Baxter’s body, which had now been covered by a white plastic sheet. The police had arrived.

Gavin couldn’t bear to be in the lab any longer. He knew that the police would want to speak to him, but at that precise moment, he didn’t want to speak to them, or anyone else for that matter. His world had collapsed and he needed to be away from the epicentre of the disaster. He collected his rucksack and left the building by the back stairs, where he paused for a moment, undecided as to which direction to take until he remembered the package in his rucksack. He would have to go back to the flat and put the drugs in the fridge before he did anything else.

As he crossed the road, he saw a number 27 bus coming up
Lauriston
Place and sprinted to the stop in Forrest Road where he got on board, fumbling in successive jacket pockets for his travel pass, to the annoyance of the driver, who sucked his teeth and tapped his fingers on the wheel.

Back at the flat, Gavin removed the ice from the polystyrene box, resealed it carefully with tape and put it in the fridge. He was out again within five minutes and, after a short walk, standing in the Abbotsford in Rose Street, where he had two packets of crisps and a pint of lager for lunch. It was still early: the bar was quiet. Another half hour and it would be buzzing with the atmosphere Gavin liked so much, but not today.

‘Day off?’ asked the barman, wiping the bar top.

‘You could say,’ replied Gavin, putting an end to conversation. Normally, he welcomed talk with strangers, often finding it, as most people did, easier than with people he knew, but today he needed to be somewhere where he could think clearly and without distraction. A pub wasn’t going to fit the bill. He drained his glass and left, still not sure about where he was going.

He joined Princes Street at its east end and started walking west past a row of buses, waiting line astern like a string of sausages as they took it in turn to move in to their appointed stops. The one at their head had ‘North Berwick’ on its destination board. On impulse, Gavin got on. He’d never been there, but he knew that it was beside the sea and about twenty miles or so east of the city. The plan was to find a beach and start walking. On a cold day in February this should afford him the solitude he needed.

There was an icy wind coming from the east so he decided to walk in the opposite direction, so that he would have it behind him. The tide was out, so he was able to walk on firm wet sand instead of the strength-sapping soft stuff at the head of the beach, something which also meant that he wasn’t forced to adhere strictly to the line of the shore and could cut across small bays and inlets at will, making straight lines out of curves.

His attention was drawn to a big rock situated about a hundred metres out from the shoreline. It was over two metres high, but had barnacles all over it, suggesting that it was routinely covered at high tide. Feeling drawn to it, Gavin went over, doing his best to avoid the puddles and rivulets left by the receding water, which
threatened
to swamp his trainers. He rested his hands on the surface, very conscious of the weight of its years.

‘Well, big rock,’ he murmured. ‘What are you saying? I’d
appreciate
your input. You were here a long time before I was born, and you’ll be here a long time after I die. What’s it all about, eh? Why do we do what we do?’

Gavin found a smooth section to rest his cheek against while he looked idly at the water, which was lapping the sand with a
sluggishness
that suggested extreme cold.

‘Nothing to say, huh? Maybe you don’t know either.’

As he turned away, Gavin looked back and said, ‘You’re quite right: saying nothing is probably the best policy. That way, you don’t upset anybody …’

Gavin had been walking for just under an hour when he came across a log that had been washed ashore and sat down on it for a few minutes to give his legs a rest. Almost immediately, he felt himself grow colder as the wind caught his right side, making him pull up the collar of his denim jacket and fold his arms, although this had little effect. It was less than five minutes before he decided that he had to start moving again, but as he stood up, his mobile rang. He could see on the screen it was Carrie. It had rung four times before he summoned up the courage to answer.

‘Hello.’

‘Gavin? Can you talk?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’s that sound in the background? Where are you?’

‘It’s the wind. I’m on the beach.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere near North Berwick.’

‘What’s going on, Gavin?’

‘Where do I begin? There was a fire at the lab – Mary was burned: she’ll probably be scarred for life. Tom Baxter has committed suicide because he caused the fire. He meant it for me. Apart from that …’

‘Stop it, Gavin! Talk sense.’

Gavin took a moment to pull himself together. The enormity of all that had happened had given him a strange feeling of
detachment
which, even in his upset state, he recognised as an escape mechanism from the hell of reality. ‘Tom thought my research was going to screw up his job prospects with Grumman Schalk, so he set me up to have an accident in the lab.’

‘An accident?’

‘A flash fire involving ether, only Mary Hollis got it instead. She was doing me a good turn – setting up some cultures for me. She was badly burned: she’s in intensive care. When he realised what he’d done, Tom couldn’t handle it. He threw himself down the stairwell. End of story.’