Hypocrite's Isle (7 page)

‘Bloody hell,’ he murmured, seeing the colouring of his torso in the mirror. Five more minutes and he decided that he couldn’t wait any longer for the water heater to do its business. He compromised and settled for a not much hotter than lukewarm bath, although the cold air in the bathroom condensed the steam so quickly that it looked as if the water was hotter than it actually was. He kept changing his position in the tub – an old-style cast-iron job on claw feet that had survived the years to become fashionable again, although the chips in the enamel said that this was an untouched original – to ensure that as much of him was as totally immersed as possible at any one time; a strategy doomed to failure, as there always seemed to be one part of him sticking above the surface getting cold. On top of that there was a price to be paid in pain for each move he made. The best compromise proved to be lying flat on his back with the water lapping round his chin. His knees were exposed, but he kept them warm by filling and discharging the sponge on each in turn. He kept this up until the falling
temperature
of the water induced a shiver in his body.

Back in his room, his patience was tested to breaking point when it came to reapplying the strapping to his ribs. Restrictions to his arm movements ensured that he kept dropping the free end of the bandage, forcing him to start all over again.

The doorbell rang and provoked an outburst of bad language. ‘If you’re selling anything …’ he muttered as, holding one end of the ribbon and wearing nothing but his jeans, he padded across the cold vinyl floor in the hall and wrenched the front door open. Caroline stood there.

‘I heard what happened,’ she said, trying to work out what strange bondage ritual Gavin was engaged in, but finding it
difficult
to reach any conclusion in the dim glow from the hall light. ‘I thought I’d come and see how you were.’

Gavin’s anger and frustration disappeared as if by magic. ‘Thanks, that’s really nice of you. Come on in.’

‘I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time …’

‘No, I’ve just had a bath and I’ve been trying to get this damned bandage back on but I’m one hand short of the three you seem to need. I’ve been at it ten minutes already.’

‘Let me help.’

Caroline followed the direction of Gavin’s outstretched arm back to his room and took her jacket off to lay it on the bed before taking charge of the bandaging operation. ‘Maybe you should just stand still and I’ll walk round you.’

Gavin stood in the middle of the floor with his arms stretched out like a shivering
Angel of the North
.

‘Gosh, they didn’t half make a mess of you,’ said Caroline. She had just seen the damage properly for the first time as he turned to face the light. ‘You look as if you got hit by a train.’

‘Thanks.’

Caroline smiled and continued applying the strapping to his ribs – joking that it felt like some pagan custom involving dancing round a maypole.

‘Don’t go near the castle, young lady, I beg of you,’ mimicked Gavin in Hammer Horror style.

‘At least you look the part,’ said Caroline.

‘You’ll make a great doctor one day,’ said Gavin as she finished. ‘You have a confident touch.’

‘That doesn’t make you great … just confident.’

‘Making people believe you know what you’re doing is half the battle. Look, about last night …’

‘I was upset …’

‘You were right to be. I’m so sorry about your mother too. I had no idea. Do you feel like talking about it?’

Caroline sighed and shook her head in resignation. ‘She had breast cancer three years ago and finished up with radical surgery. She’s been clear ever since but now it’s come back, and this time it’s in her liver.’

Gavin tried to keep his facial expression neutral before finally saying, ‘I’m searching for something positive to say here but I don’t think it’s going to happen. We both know different.’

Caroline nodded. ‘Yep, it’s just a matter of time. God, she’s only forty-seven. It’s not fair.’

She started looking for tissues in her bag as the tears welled up, and sat down on the bed to dab angrily at her eyes as if embarrassed at the involuntary display of emotion.

‘Shit, this must be such a bummer for you,’ said Gavin. ‘I’m really sorry. How’s she taking it?’

‘Better than my dad, he’s falling to pieces. He’s seen it often enough. He knows exactly what’s going to happen to her. Mum doesn’t.’

‘She’s not a medic then?’

Caroline shook her head. ‘She was a geography teacher. That makes her Joe Public as far as cancer’s concerned. Putting up a brave fight will win the day … at least, that’s what she thought last time.’

‘Do you think she’ll jump through all the hoops again?’

Caroline looked at him.

‘Radiation, chemotherapy, surgery … general destruction of the patient in the name of medical science. I think they have the nerve to call it treatment.’

‘Where did that come from?’ asked Caroline, looking shocked.

‘My dad,’ said Gavin. ‘The Big C got him when I was fourteen. At least I think it was the Big C, but it was a close-run thing
between
that and the medics. He was a big, strong man, but he was five stone wringing wet when they’d finished with him, screaming like a baby when anyone touched him. Sorry, that’s not what you wanted to hear.’

‘You have a point,’ conceded Caroline. ‘Maybe not the one I wanted to hear but … I spoke to Dad about trying to arrange hospice care when things get really bad.’

‘Hospices do a great job,’ Gavin agreed. ‘They help folk keep their dignity right to the end. God, that’s so important. I wish more of them would understand that.’

‘Them?’

‘The medics who think they’re doing a great job when all they’re doing is prolonging agony in order to make their survival charts look better – not to mention the pharmaceutical companies with their latest wonder drugs that give you eight months to live with terminal hell, instead of six, at the cost of a small family car.’

‘Well, this is jolly,’ said Caroline.

‘Sorry.’

‘You always look on the black side …’

‘I call it reality.’

‘Let’s agree to differ,’ said Caroline.

‘Okay,’ said Gavin.

‘You never did get round to telling me what your bad day was all about.’

Gavin held up his hands and shook his head. ‘God! Please, it pales into insignificance.’

‘Let me be the judge.’

Gavin told her about the contaminated cell cultures and his embarrassment at being the cause of the problem.

‘How big a setback will that be?’

‘Practically none as it turns out.’ He told her of Mary Hollis’ efforts on his behalf.

‘Then the world isn’t all bad?’

‘Mary’s okay. She gives me a bit of a hard time but … she’s okay.’

‘Coming from you, that almost amounts to beatification!’

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Gavin. ‘I could send out for some Chinese? Indian? Pizza? I don’t think I want to play the Elephant Man in a restaurant.’

‘No, I have to go. I’ve got an exam tomorrow and I’ve done so little over the past few days. I just thought I’d come by and see how you were.’

‘I’m really glad you did. Does this mean I can see you again?’

‘If you want to, but with things the way they are at home I’m not going to be much company for the foreseeable future …’

Gavin moved towards her and started to raise his arms, then stopped in frustration. ‘God, I’d cuddle you if I could, but I bloody can’t!’

Caroline smiled. ‘That’s probably God punishing you for your
realism
.’

‘Don’t bring him into it. When can I see you?’

‘I’ll go home this weekend and see what I can do to help. How about Monday when I get back?’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll call you when I get in.’

 

Back at the university, Frank Simmons was hurrying along to the common room for a 6 p.m. meeting of academic staff. He’d been considering coming up with some excuse to give it a miss because he felt sure that Gavin’s refusal to play a part in the undergraduate teaching programme was going to feature, but he had a John Wayne moment and accepted that a man had to do what a man had to do. As it was, he was last to arrive and had to apologise, easing himself down on the nearest available seat. Head of Department Professor Graham Sutcliffe noted his arrival with a nod and said, ‘I was just saying, Frank, we seem to have a rebellion on our hands and it’s all down to your student, Gavin Donnelly.’

Simmons adopted an air of surprised innocence as he enquired, ‘What’s all this about?’

‘Postgraduate teaching involvement. I understand Donnelly flatly refuses to participate.’

‘Really? Well, I suppose it is voluntary, Graham …’

Sutcliffe, a large, portly man with a patrician air about him, shot him a black look. ‘I think you’re missing the point, Frank. The system only works when
all
the postgrad students participate. It’s valuable teaching experience for them and does them no harm at all to have it on their CVs. But if one drops out it encourages others to do the same and before we know where we are …’

‘We’ll be doing it ourselves like we’re paid to do,’ said Simmons.

‘I hope you’re not suggesting that postgrad teaching
involvement
is in any way a case of us avoiding our responsibilities?’ said Sutcliffe, positively bristling with indignation.

‘I’m sure we all have the interests of the postgrads at heart, Graham,’ soothed Simmons. ‘But if one of them doesn’t want to take part then I really think we have to accept that.’

Sutcliffe took a deep breath. ‘It strikes me that the Department of Human Cell Science has to “accept” quite a lot from this young man,’ he said. ‘I understand he was involved in some drunken brawl the other night? Not exactly the sort of thing to burnish our image bright up at Old College, eh?’

‘Gavin was attacked as he walked home,’ said Simmons. ‘There was no element of a brawl about it.’

Sutcliffe pursed his lips in distaste. ‘Nevertheless. Moving on, I have to tell you that BBC Television has expressed an interest in visiting the department and interviewing members of our staff for a programme they’re planning to do on cancer research. I’d be grateful if you would let Liz know by next Monday if you would be interested in taking part. I have already agreed to give an overview of our work and I understand Gerald Montague will also be
appearing
, as will distinguished colleagues from Cambridge and Mill Hill and representatives from the pharmaceutical industry. The object is to inform the public about the current state of knowledge and progress being made with regard to cancer and its treatment.’

Simmons looked at Jack Martin and exchanged a meaningful glance before quickly looking away.

‘Next.’ Sutcliffe paused to peer over his glasses at his notes. ‘Ah, yes, Malcolm Maclean’s postgrad student, Peter Morton-Brown, has suggested instigating a new weekly journal club and has
volunteered
to set it up and get it running. The idea is that each of the postgrad students will take it in turn to choose a paper from a
current
journal and present its findings to the others before discussing it in open forum. Personally, I think this is an excellent initiative from Peter and deserves our full support.’

There were no dissenting voices.

‘Finally, as you know, the university has a number of artworks which it circulates among the departments. We have first choice of one from the three you will find in Liz’s office for the next few days. Liz has kindly prepared a comments sheet for you if she’s not there when you pop in. Now, lastly, I think Jack wants to say a few words.’

Jack Martin got to his feet and made a plea for volunteers to speak at the weekly internal seminar slots for the Spring term. ‘Otherwise I’ll be sending around a couple of heavies from the rugby club.’

The meeting ended in laughter after Martin managed to fill the first four Mondays with a great deal of good-humoured cajoling. As the staff filed out, he came across to Simmons, who had been one of the four volunteers, and said, ‘Well, are you up for TV stardom, Frank?’

‘I think I’ll pass on that,’ said Simmons. ‘I haven’t made any significant progress lately – certainly none that warrants the nation’s attention.’

‘As if that ever stopped anyone,’ smiled Martin. ‘The smell of the greasepaint, the prospect of renewed research grants …’

‘Come on,’ said Simmons. ‘Let’s take a look at these paintings.’

The two men walked along the corridor to Liz Manning’s office and Martin popped his head round the door. ‘Are we too late, Liz?’ he asked, seeing that she was putting on her coat and her handbag was sitting on the desk.

‘No, come in, feast your eyes and make your choice,’ said Liz, who was Graham Sutcliffe’s secretary.

Simmons and Martin looked at the three paintings propped up against the wall. ‘Tough choice,’ said Simmons.

‘Modern art is always … challenging,’ said Martin, stroking his chin.

‘Or maybe it’s someone having a laugh,’ muttered Simmons. ‘This one looks like a cat’s litter tray.’

‘I think that’s Graham’s favourite,’ whispered Liz.