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Ken McClure: Hypocrite's Isle

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Ken McClure Hypocrite's Isle
  • Название:
    Hypocrite's Isle
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Polygon
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    2008
  • Город:
    Edinburgh
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    978-1-84697-087-0
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    3 / 5
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Hypocrite's Isle: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Dr. Frank Simmons works in the University of Edinburgh’s medical school. One of his PhD students, brilliant loner Gavin, announces his intention to find a cure for cancer and actually makes a major breakthrough. Oddly, no one seems to be interested, and a picture emerges of a cancer research industry caught in a desperate paradox: it can only justify its existence by not curing cancer. Disinterest soon turns to open warfare as Simmons and Gavin’s work is sabotaged. A truly compelling story, this fast-paced scientific thriller blends superb dialogue with thought-provoking ideas.

Ken McClure: другие книги автора


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‘I’m meeting Simon, my boyfriend; he’s a houseman at the hospital. He gets off at seven. This is as good a place to meet as any and it’s warm.’

‘Can I get you a drink?’

Mary shook her head. ‘He’ll be here any minute, thanks all the same. We’re going to see something at the Filmhouse. How about you? How are you going to spend your evening?’

‘Medical library.’

‘Is this to fuel the thinking process?’

‘You got it.’

‘You’ll be doing experiments next.’

‘Ouch. What was it you said about not slapping people down?’

‘Sorry, but you haven’t exactly been bursting a gut in the lab since you arrived and people have been noticing.’

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world to keep busy in a lab.’

‘So?’

‘Keeping busy is not doing research. It’s window dressing.’

‘Doing nothing isn’t doing research either.’

‘Like I said, I’ve been thinking.’

‘I won’t say you don’t get a PhD for thinking when you do, but eventually you have to do something with the fruits of your thinking...’

‘Unless you’re a philosopher.’

‘You probably still have to tell someone...’

‘As Jean-Paul Sartre once said to Simone de Beauvoir, Whatevah.’

Mary smiled. ‘You can be quite funny when you try. Oh, here comes Simon.’ She got to her feet as a slim, fair-haired man entered the bar and came towards them. Mary did the introductions before turning to leave. ‘See you tomorrow. Don’t work too late.’

‘Enjoy the film.’

‘Good,’ said Mary, looking back with a grin. ‘Very good.’


Gavin drained his glass and thought about what Mary had said as he shrugged his shoulders into his jacket and picked up his belongings. She meant well enough but what did she know about his world? She was an only child and both her parents were academics. She fitted in: she had always fitted in. She couldn’t possibly understand what it had been like for the son of a Liverpool labourer to arrive at Cambridge, knowing nothing of the ways of academia, or the customs of a society far removed from his own. Cambridge had seemed like a different planet, a strange place inhabited by exotic creatures with peculiar names and drawling accents, and often with a self-confidence he’d found mesmerising. He remembered desperately wanting to be part of it all — there was just so much he wanted to discuss and argue about and he really hadn’t had the opportunity before — but it wasn’t to be. There was a ‘them and us’ divide and he was definitely ‘them’.

He had coped with the open hostility — even confronted it on occasion, and proved that first-fifteen rugger was no match for back-street Liverpool when push came to shove — but it was the middle-class deceit he’d had most problems with. He’d been used to taking people at face value: if folks smiled at you they liked you; as simple as that. But it wasn’t. Too often the smiles and overtures of friendship had hidden another agenda. They hadn’t been laughing with him, they’d been laughing at him. In the end, he had concluded that the only way to be accepted as an equal was to prove that you were better. The Liverpool paddy had worked harder and studied longer than anyone else. He had grafted while the others had partied, punted and picnicked, and when it came to having trouble telling the genuine from the fake? His philosophy had said screw the lot of them. He didn’t need anyone.

Gavin showed his matriculation card to the woman at the desk and walked into the medical library. He’d always loved libraries and had spent a lot of his time in the local one as a child, avidly embracing the world it opened up for him. There was a special smell about them — leather and dust — that evoked memories of the past and the thrill of finding out things as a curious youngster. Tonight he was going to look for information about a cancer drug he’d seen referred to in passing in an article he’d found in the current issue of Cell. The drug had apparently failed to justify the initial optimism of its makers when it had first come on to the market some twenty years ago, but Gavin had found the reference to its mode of action interesting. He wanted to know more.

The warning that the library would close in fifteen minutes broke his concentration and made him curse under his breath. He had spent two hours in a paper chase that had led up one blind alley after another, but in the last fifteen minutes he had started to make real progress. He quickly made reference notes so that he could pull out the relevant journals next time and checked his watch before deciding that he had just enough time to photocopy one of the articles to take home with him.

Leaving all the other books and journals on the table, he took the relevant one across to the photocopier and inserted his card. ‘Shit!’ he murmured, when he saw that he only had enough credit left for two pages. The article was seven pages long.

‘Problems?’ asked a voice behind him.

Gavin turned to find a girl about his own age standing there. She was tall — almost as tall as he was at five feet ten — with ash-blonde hair, and blue eyes which suggested both intelligence and confidence as she waited for a reply.

‘Card’s run out,’ he said.

‘How many more do you need?’

‘I’ve done two: I need another five.’

‘Use mine.’

‘You mean it? That’s really good of you.’ Gavin threw his expired card into the bin beside the copier and inserted the girl’s card for the last five pages. Just as the last page rolled out, the closure of the library was announced and power to the machines was cut off. Gavin put his hand to his head and said, ‘God, I’m sorry, you didn’t get to make your copies.’

‘Not your fault. I really didn’t think I would. I’ve got quite a lot to do. It’s no big deal. I’ll pop in tomorrow.’

‘I’m Gavin.’

‘Caroline,’ said the girl, turning to walk away.

‘Maybe... I could buy you a beer?’

Caroline turned and looked thoughtful for a moment before saying, ‘Why not?’

‘Great. See you at the door.’ Gavin hurried back to the table to pack up his belongings and return the books he’d been using to their shelves.

‘Where’s good around here?’ he asked as they stepped out on to the street.

‘You must be new to the university?’

‘Two months. I’m a postgrad in molecular genetics. You?’

‘Second-year med student. There’s a pub I quite like called Doctors — just opposite the hospital in Forrest Road.’

‘Then let’s go there.’

As they spoke, Gavin noticed that Caroline seemed completely at ease, while he himself was nervous and felt the need to smile a lot. He learned that Caroline came from Keswick in the Lake District and was the daughter of a GP. ‘It runs in the family: my granddad was a GP too. I’ll probably end up doing the same.’

‘I’m from Liverpool.’

Caroline smiled. ‘I’d never have guessed...’

‘Oh, right... my accent.’

‘It’s nice,’ said Caroline. ‘You sound like the early interviews with John Lennon. My folks were big Beatles fans.’

Gavin smiled non-committally.

‘Tell me about your research.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

‘Well, cancer is really a cell division problem; it’s uncontrolled cell division of the patient’s —’

‘Yes, thank you, Gavin, I am a med student.’

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