The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (21 page)

Priss is using me to the fullest. I can't help but be excited by the potential of my work being used by activists and advocates. And, to be honest, all the press attention is flattering. Maybe Warren's words were prophetic. Perhaps it's as much about HIV and injecting drug use as it is about immunisation and vaccinations. I decide to go with the flow and try not to work it all out. As Priss keeps saying, my job is to provide the science and the voice of reason. His job is to fight the politicians and moralists and to push for action.

Most nights we link up with outreach workers and drug user groups to map out a strategy over cigarettes, beer and pool. Plans are made to field-test the syringe once it is mass produced, despite the fact that such activity is still illegal and infringes State and Federal Paraphernalia Laws. Anyone found with a syringe runs the risk of arrest on the grounds of intention to use drugs. Syringes are analysed for traces of drugs and used in evidence.

Now on Forty-Seventh Street, Chicago, I am feted as a hero. The population of the neighbourhood is almost entirely African-American. The street is littered, pillar to post, corner after corner, with drug users. Some are sick, others seem apprehensive. One or two jump around in states of agitation or excitement. As I walk along the road with Priss an old man calls out, ‘Hi, Billy, how goes it?' He is painfully thin, leaning against a lamppost. He wears baggy knee-length shorts and a crumpled Chicago Bulls T-shirt. On his head: a bowler hat; on his feet: a pair of laceless boating shoes. His thin bare legs reveal numerous injection scars, purple against his black skin.

‘I'm good, Popeye,' says Billy Priss. ‘This here is Dr Anthony Malloy. He's come over from Europe to help us kick some sense into the rednecks at City Hall.'

Popeye looks me over. One eye meets mine, the other points skyward.

‘So you must be the one in the news. Can't turn on the radio without hearing that strange accent. We've all heard about you and what's going on over the pond. Tell me is it true there's a cure for AIDS? I've heard the governments of the world are keeping it a secret until all the junkies, fags and hookers die out.'

‘No,' I say, ‘there's no cure. Not likely for a long time. If at all. So what we have to do is change behaviour. That's what Billy and his teams are working on.'

‘And your syringe invention.' interrupts Popeye. ‘But that'll be no good to us if the State refuses us our rights. If the Health Department plays God with our lives.'

‘Come to our meeting, Popeye,' says Priss. ‘It's in the outreach office right now.'

Popeye sucks his teeth and spits on the ground.

‘Meetings. What's the good in meetings? Tired, stoned junkies arguing over methadone scripts. You two take care,' he says, waving. ‘And send my regards to that Queen of yours. The one in Buckingham Palace.'

He ambles off down the road, clearly on a mission of his own.

The meeting is held in a shopfront. The door is open, but there is no sign on the dilapidated building, which is squashed between a laundromat and a diner run by a Chinese couple. We get a cup of coffee ‘to go' from the diner and then head inside.

Everyone knows Priss. The reception is a twenty-four-hour drop-in where people can get in off the street, drink coffee, read a paper, speak to a worker about their problems. They sit around, talking or not talking, mainly looking tired and despondent. I am ushered to a larger room at the back, where meetings are held. There are no windows and the air is acrid with smoke. The four or five rows of seats are a bit more than half full. I am directed to sit next to a grey-haired man behind a table at the front of the room.

‘Howdy there,' he says, offering me his hand. ‘My name's Bruce and I'm president of the drug user's coalition. I'm mighty proud to meet with you and thank you for coming.'

We shake hands. He tells me he got hooked on heroin as a kid in care and lived thirty years as a hustler on the street. He looks at his watch and says it is time to start.

Bruce stands to bring the meeting to attention. I listen to him introduce me: ‘A true friend of the downtrodden, a pioneer, a man of science and conscience.' I think of Warren, of Popeye out on the street waiting for a cure, of Caitlin in a dark cellar, of Lottie playing her flute. All have meaning for me. I feel a sense of responsibility for them all. And every word Bruce says reminds me of the seeds I carry in my luggage and the complexities and vagaries of my life. I try to push the thoughts aside. But they weigh me down, and, when I come to speak, the familiar sensation of being on autopilot returns. But autopilot is better than nothing. I describe my syringe and its potential in battling disease. And in my mind, as I speak, I focus on my contribution, my motives, my belief in the work I am doing.

‘My career has focused on vaccination and immunisation. I know my invention will have far-reaching benefits in these areas of public health. Yet, there is something affecting us all. In some parts of the world there's not a single family untouched by AIDS. For every one person infected with HIV there's a host of others affected by HIV. These are friends and family, colleagues and health workers. But we have the mechanics to stop the spread of this disease. We have condoms to make sex safe and we have needles to make drug use safe. We must find ways of distributing these needles and syringes to stop any more infection. To stop any more unnecessary deaths.'

I sit back down, exhausted, my emotions shot through.

The audience is passive. These are men off the streets with concerns more immediate than AIDS. Where to sleep, how to avoid the police or the wrath of the unpaid drug dealer. Bruce breaks the silence.

‘Does anyone have a question for the Doctor?' he asks, surveying the audience.

One young man in the second row, green hair standing a foot on end like a field of static electricity, shouts out loud, ‘When're they going to find a cure for this AIDS thing?'

‘Yeah, when?' pipes up another voice from somewhere towards the back of the room. A general hubbub of conversation ensues. This is the question on most lips. I think of Popeye outside on the street and all the others waiting for an answer.

‘This is a difficult and important question,' I begin, trying to find the words to make myself understood without sounding patronising. ‘HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, is a retrovirus. That means it can mutate and change forms. Like influenza or whooping cough. So any potential vaccine is only likely to be effective for one strain. Virologists have already identified different strains. Scientists are working to develop new antiretroviral medicines to help infected people stay alive. But we must stop more people becoming infected.'

‘So what can we do?' interrupts a man in the front row. He is still youthful, clearly early on in his drug career.

‘What we have to do is work on shifting entrenched patterns of behaviour,' I answer, getting into my stride, feeling connected with the people in the room. I remember one of Richard's reviews and continue. ‘I'll give you a couple of examples that a colleague has written about. In Vietnam they inject something called black-water opium. It's a poor man's drug, the residue from opium production. Anyway, the dealer boils up this opium in a pot. He uses his needle and syringe to share out the drug amongst his clients and then he injects himself.'

‘Hey, man,' shouts a voice from over by the door, ‘that's what happens with heroin here in Chicago.'

There are nods of agreement around the room.

‘Well, one thing I've learned,' I say, ‘is there's nothing much new under the sun. What I've heard about in Hanoi is much the same as in London. And, like you say, in Chicago. So the risk of spreading HIV by sharing contaminated equipment is universal. And it's not just the needles and syringes, but the containers, the water, the filters. The whole shooting match. These are the habits we need to change. Make people aware of the risks and give them the technology to stay safe.'

I want to tell them what Richard has heard from Russia. The way blood is mixed with heroin in the syringe to make for a smoother hit. The way HIV and hepatitis is flowing from vein to vein. But then I catch sight of Popeye, appearing from nowhere, hand raised to speak. Bruce sees him and then looks at me.

‘We have a comment from the audience,' I say, urging Popeye to speak up.

‘I've been at the back, listening. No one has ever cared about us,' says Popeye. ‘There's a few here, like Billy Priss. As for the rest of them, the sooner we all go away and die the better as far as they're concerned.'

Faces turn in his direction. Clearly, he demands attention and respect.

‘We're filthy junkies. Disposable. Scum to be swept from the streets. But people like you, with your suits and odd accents, show up our politicians. They have to see the US is not the only country in the world. Things happen different in other places. I'm infected with this virus and I'm scared. I'm real scared.'

His good eye shows the terror of hearing his own words. His empathy and experience captures the audience.

‘I want to thank you for your work, Doctor. I've been to jail plenty times. For thieving, for dealing, for loitering, for drugging. So if the next time I go to jail it's for handing out syringes, then what the hell. It'll make for a good story inside. It's good for us to get the chance to help ourselves. And I know there are plenty more in this city who will say the same.'

He looks around, his pinned eye glaring at individuals, urging support from the disparate group dotting the room, half hidden beneath a blue-grey haze of cigarette smoke. Their jumbled thoughts of parole, methadone, AIDS, dealing, the police, are dispersed by Popeye's urgent pleas.

‘Listen, listen, you people. This man has travelled across the world because he cares. He cares about us. Wants to help us fight this disease. He's showing us respect.'

One man begins to clap, followed by another and another until most are on their feet, whistling and applauding. Priss and Bruce join in the applause, smiling at each other, knowing there is a fight to be won and they are on their way.

I'm not sure if the acclamation is for me, for Popeye, or for all of us. But it makes me feel good and worthwhile. I am part of something valued and valuable. And for this moment, it is more than enough.

‘Tea.'

‘What do you mean tea?'

‘Tea looks just like whiskey. If you put cold tea in the bottle she'll never notice the difference.'

Trixie and Lottie are lying on the bed drinking the whiskey they have taken from the kitchen cupboard.

Lottie grimaces; Trixie laughs.

‘Just keep trying, you'll get used to it,' says Trixie.

There's an old movie playing on the small television on the shelf by the window. Humphrey Bogart, unshaven and dirty, a sailor cap on his head, a grubby scarf around his neck, is shouting at Katharine Hepburn. His eyes are wild, his voice is harsh.

‘I can't do it,' says Trixie.

‘You can, you can, you can,' implores Lottie.

‘I've never. Not in front of people. You're the only one to see them.'

‘Trust me,' says Lottie, grasping her friend by the hand. ‘I told you, it will be for me. We will be so good together.'

‘But it's you in the final, not me. I've never been part of it.'

‘You can be. I checked. It's up to me how I interpret the music. Your poems and my playing, they're meant to be heard together.'

They look at each other. There is trust in their eyes. There is confidence in each other. There is something of love.

‘For me,' pleads Lottie, with a gentle smile on her face. ‘For you and for me. For both of us. We'll make it work. We'll work at it to make it work. Okay?'

After a slight pause a broad grin appears on Trixie's face and she grabs Lottie's hands.

‘Okay. It'll be me and you.'

‘We'll tour the world together,' says Lottie. ‘We'll be unique. Like minstrels. Travelling minstrels. I'll play my flute and you'll recite your poetry.'

‘And where will we go?'

‘The Albert Hall. La Scala,' says Lottie with a flourish and a mock Italian accent.

‘And Carnegie Hall,' adds Trixie, as she takes a swig from the whiskey bottle.

‘The poet and the flautist. Trixiebella and Lottiebella,' shrieks Lottie.

‘A double act,' says Trixie. ‘Me and you. You're the only one, Lottie. You know that, don't you?'

‘I know.'

‘The only one I've ever shown them to. Ever. No one else.'

‘And they are beautiful. You are beautiful,' says Lottie, reaching her hand out to her dearest friend, her only real friend.

The two girls hold each other close. On the TV, Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart are lying exhausted in their boat, just yards away from cutting through the thick jungle to freedom. Lottie gets up and turns the television off. She picks up her flute.

Tell me your poem about the owl and I'll accompany you.'

Trixie puts the whiskey bottle down on the floor and sits herself up against the headboard of the bed. She starts to recite her poem. Lottie purses her lips and begins playing a melodic, haunting tune.

‘And you will sweat fear from your dank belvedere, when creator unclaws created …'

Outside in the garden, a black cat, sitting on the lawn, hears the sweet sounds from the lighted room above. It drops the dead mouse it holds in its mouth, silently leaps onto the garden fence and stealthily makes its way to the window ledge of the bedroom. Through the open window the words and music drift like soap bubbles on the night air. The cat sits transfixed, beguiled by the sounds and vibrations. It doesn't move, not even when a dog barks from the house next door. Finally the music stops. The cat takes a short jump from the ledge onto the fence and then, like a nocturnal tight-rope walker, disappears back into the shadows of the garden.