Ken McClure: Hypocrite's Isle

‘I’ve never been a big fan of teamwork,’ said Gavin.

‘Gosh...’ said Caroline slowly. ‘It seems a lot to take on by yourself...’

‘I’m going to give it my best shot,’ said Gavin, with a smile that wasn’t returned.

‘Good for you. Well, it’s getting late... I’d better be going.’

Gavin suddenly realised that things had gone pear-shaped, but wasn’t quite sure why. He tried damage limitation. ‘Look, maybe I could see you again?’

‘I’m sure we’ll bump into each other in the library.’

Gavin took the knock-back. ‘Sure.’

Caroline turned to face him when they’d left the pub. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

‘Thanks for the photocopies. I’m going that way,’ said Gavin, indicating north.

Caroline indicated south. ‘Good night.’

Gavin made his way along George IV Bridge to the junction with the High Street. He was angry with himself for having blown it with Caroline and opted to walk home, even though the temperature had fallen below freezing and the pavements were icy. Physical effort and discomfort could bring distraction and this was what he sought. A two-mile, sub-zero walk was going to clear his head for some late-night study of the article he had copied.

The lights of Princes Street were spread out beneath him as he started to snake his way down the Mound — the broad, winding thoroughfare that joined the Old Town of Edinburgh, with its narrow, cobbled streets and towering tenements, to the grandeur of the Georgian New Town that lay to the north — a steep incline that had been constructed from earth excavated from the land in front of the Castle Rock. He had come to like this view a lot in the short time he’d been living here: the castle, majestic, illuminated, perched high up to his left on its rock, and the classically-columned art galleries nestling down below to his right. Tonight it all looked particularly beautiful because of the frost, which sparkled on the pavements and coated the black iron railings. There was even a full moon. Walt Disney couldn’t have done it better.

‘Hi, Gav,’ said a man in his late twenties when Gavin got in. Tim Anderson, the oldest of the four flatmates and the lease agreement holder, worked for Scottish Widows, a large insurance company. He was nursing a mug of coffee and watching late-night sport on TV — highlights of football matches played earlier. ‘Cathy was asking if you’re going home for Christmas. I think she wants to invite her boyfriend to stay if you are.’

‘I haven’t made my mind up, but I’ll definitely be here for New Year. I hear the fireworks are worth seeing.’

‘They are. They’re bloody brilliant. You’re out late tonight. Get lucky?’

‘Library,’ said Gavin.

‘Jesus, I thought students spent all their time drinking beer and getting laid.’

‘Not in the library. How did Liverpool get on?’

‘Won three-nil.’

‘Happiness is...’ said Gavin, kicking off his shoes.

‘You know, I can remember when Hibs were in a European competition. I was in short trousers like, but I can remember.’

‘Maybe the good times will come back.’

Tim shook his head. ‘No, I saw them on Saturday.’

‘Well, I’ve got some reading to do,’ said Gavin, picking up his shoes and rucksack. ‘Are the other two in?’

Tim nodded.

‘I’ll put the snib on the door. G’night.’

Gavin’s room was at the back of the building. It was consequently quieter than the ones at the front but was much smaller — he had been the last to join the flat. There was barely room for a single bed, a small bedside table, one chair and a chest of drawers. There was a single, tall window looking out on the backs of other tenements and their communal drying greens, which were enclosed by buildings on all sides and segregated by rows of rusting iron railings. He looked down before closing his curtains and saw the green eyes of a cat on the prowl in the darkness. He turned on his electric fire and suffered the smell of burning dust as its single 750-watt element attempted to heat a room with a twelve-foot-high ceiling.

He pressed the button on the base of the table lamp and turned out the room light, immediately feeling at home when he saw the circular island of light in the darkness — the learning pool. He’d slid a lot of books into the learning pool over the years, and it was something he could create wherever he was in the world. He brought out the photocopy from his rucksack and pushed it under the light to begin reading.

Valdevan had been launched by the large international pharmaceutical company, Grumman Schalk, in 1979, amidst a blaze of publicity. The company’s research laboratories had trumpeted their success in finally coming up with a product which targeted tumour cells in preference to the patient’s healthy cells, killing the cancer cells in dramatic fashion in lab experiments. The drug had shown no significant toxic side-effects during volunteer trials, and licences had been granted for its use across the world. It seemed too good to be true, and so it had proved. The impressive success the drug had achieved in the laboratory had not translated into in vivo situations, and patients on Valdevan had fared no better than those being given other drugs. After a year of what amounted to dismal failure, the drug had been withdrawn from the market. Gavin scribbled down details of the lab methods used. The photographs of cell cultures had not come out well on the photocopy, but he thought he could see what he was looking for: a slight difference in the membrane of tumour cells undergoing treatment with Valdevan, when compared to those growing without the drug. He was, however, conscious of the danger of seeing what he wanted to see. After reading the paper in Cell , he had predicted in his own mind that there might be such a difference. He examined both illustrations again, turning them this way and that under the glow of the table lamp. Once again he felt that he could see a difference — a periodic pinching of the cell membrane in the presence of the drug — but the smudging on the photocopy definitely wasn’t helping. He would have to go back and take another look at the originals. He would drop into the library first thing in the morning.

He switched off the fire, cleared the table and got ready for bed, tiptoeing to the bathroom across the cold vinyl of the hall in order not to wake the others. When he came back, he turned out the light, opened the curtains so that he could see the sky, and slipped between the sheets. They were icy cold. A frosty moon looked back at him.

Gavin saw Caroline come into the library as he was returning the last of his books to the shelves. She didn’t notice him standing off to her right as she walked purposefully towards the photocopier on the other side of the room, her arms full of journals. He hesitated for a moment and then walked slowly over to join her. ‘Hello again,’ he said awkwardly.

Caroline gave him a look of cool appraisal before saying, ‘Hello, cured cancer yet or has there been a setback along the way?’

Gavin looked down at his feet, adopting the look of embarrassed contrition that had served him well in the past where girls were concerned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I must have come across as a right prat last night. Maybe you could give me another chance? I’d really like to see you again.’

‘Gavin, we bumped into each other in the library last night. Let’s not make Brief Encounter out of it. You’re two months into a PhD and I’m two years into a medical degree: we don’t have time to even think about other things.’

‘I thought maybe an occasional beer...?’

Caroline softened her expression and shook her head. ‘You’re a strange mixture, mister: insufferable arrogance and... something else. All right, hangdog charm wins the day. An occasional drink — as long as we both understand that that’s all there is to it?’