Филип Керр - The Second Angel

‘We’re an organization acting under federal law,’ she explained. ‘We’re empowered to check places like this to see if there has been any involvement of iron in the process by which oxidative damage is produced in DNA in human cells that are undergoing oxidative stress. As might be expected in a hyperbaric hotel. You see, through their reactions with this trace metal, elevated levels of activated oxygen species can cause alterations to human DNA. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?’

‘What trace metal is that?’ frowned the attendant. ‘I thought oxygen was a nonmetallic element.’

Ronica sighed loudly. ‘Iron, of course. Cells must maintain iron, even though it can’t be used for metabolic processes. Look, you do work here, don’t you? I mean, you’re not a guest or a patient or whatever you call your customers?’

‘Sure, I work here. I’m the night shift hyperbaric attendant.’

‘In which case you’ll have the superoxide levels of your guests at hand. If we could just check those out, we’ll be on our way.’

‘Superoxide levels?’ The attendant grinned awkwardly.

‘Kind of a place is this?’ muttered Rimmer, getting the idea.

‘When cells are diseased or injured, the normal metabolism of oxygen goes wrong, leading to the increased production of superoxide,’ Ronica explained patiently. It was amazing what she found she knew when she put her Connex-stimulated mind on to the case. She must have read all this somewhere, sometime. ‘For example,’ she added, ‘white blood cells intentionally produce superoxide in order to kill microorganisms. These same white cells are activated by trauma and inflammation.’ She smiled thinly and continued slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. ‘So nearly all diseases involve the production of increased amounts of free radicals.’

‘Free radicals, right?’

‘Yeah,’ growled Rimmer. ‘Listen and you might learn something.’

‘You’re obliged to keep patient records of superoxide levels as a matter of federal law.’ Ronica was making it up now. She had no idea what kind of laws affected hyperbaric hotels, but she thought that there ought to be some, which is as good a legislative philosophy as any.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ grumbled Rimmer. ‘He doesn’t have the first idea what you’re talking about. I say we go back to the office, issue a closure notice, and then it’s someone else’s problem.’

‘Closure notice?’ The attendant sounded alarmed. ‘Wait a second. You guys can close this place?’

‘We just issue the order,’ said Ronica. ‘It’s nothing personal, you understand. But failure to monitor superoxide levels properly is a serious matter.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s out of our hands.’

‘Couldn’t we find some way around this? Some of our guests have been here a while. They’re sick people. I’m not sure they’d survive being transferred somewhere else.’

Rimmer looked doubtfully at Ronica, and seeing her apparently thinking about the matter, he turned away in a show of disgust.

‘No way,’ he snarled.

‘Please?’

‘Well,’ said Ronica. ‘I guess we could do the superoxide tests ourselves. Of course, to do that we’d need to take mitochondrial samples from your longest guest and, as a control, your most recent guest.’

‘Hey, no problem,’ said the attendant. ‘That’s easy. Don’t even have to look it up. Last guest came in only an hour or so ago. Name of Dallas. He’s in 1218. And the longest resident? That’s Ingrams, in 1105. Been here so long he’s practically part of the furniture. You could take a sample from him and he probably wouldn’t even know it. Guy’s practically a corpse. He’s been in a Three Moon crisis for must be a couple of years now.’

‘Where’s the harm?’ Ronica asked Rimmer.

‘I dunno,’ he sighed. ‘It’s a fudge and you know it. There ought to be twenty tests, not just two.’

‘We both know two’s quite sufficient if you can accurately identify the two chronological parameters. As it happens we can.’

‘All right,’ said Rimmer. ‘But if anyone finds out, this is your responsibility, okay? I’m done sticking my neck out for people.’

‘Relax, will you? What can go wrong?’ She looked back at the attendant and smiled. ‘Okay. Why don’t you show us the way?’

‘All right,’ he grinned, and collected an electronic pass key off his desktop. ‘Now you’re talking.’

At this point, a word of explanation is required. How is it, you may ask, that the author of this book, who regrets the necessity to speak of himself, knows these things? How, for instance, is the author able to describe what someone thought, and, perhaps, why they thought it? But to be quite frank, I can’t imagine why you don’t ask this question more often in connection with a book. And I find it surprising that more authors do not attempt to clear up the small matter of narrative device somewhere during the course of their written endeavors.

Of course, narration is not a science, but an art. Even so, you would still think that some critic had attempted to formulate a few principles about it, or even to create a terminology that might be equal to the task of describing the point of view. In this respect, there is an embarrassing inadequacy of classification, and I am obliged to explain myself and my narrative position in terms that might seem enigmatic, since ‘first person’ and ‘omniscient’ hardly seem to come up to the mark.

Let us say then that this story is told by a narrator who is dramatized in his own right, although it is arguable that even the most retiring of narrators has been dramatized as soon as the personal pronoun has been called into play. Say also that by producing some measurable effect on the course of events (and in time all will be revealed concerning my own role in this story), I can justly claim to be more than a mere observer — I am that particular kind of narrator who is also an agent. Naturally, you will have judged me to be a narrator who is the self-conscious kind, who is aware of himself as a writer, to which I would like to add that I may be relied upon to tell you all you need to know, and more, until the time comes when you know absolutely everything, as I do.

This leads me, neatly, to the question of how the narrator is privileged to know what could not be learned by strictly natural means — what we authors usually call, because we like to play at being God, omniscience. Obviously the most important privilege is the inside view — the characters and their thought processes to which I referred a little earlier. Perhaps it’s a little difficult for you to understand it now, but the fact is, I have the best inside view any author has ever enjoyed. What is more, the means of its learning has indeed been strictly natural. Science has provided me with unlimited omniscience. But what kind of science? I hear you ask. Why the science of hematology, of course. The state or fact of knowing what I do, as much as I do — everything that ever was, is, and shall be — comes from blood. This is the infinite knowledge, the fountain of youth, and the secret of life. Through the communion of the blood of man, everything shall be known and understood. And if I give you notice of this betimes, it is, to paraphrase Antoine Furetière, [75] Antoine Furetière (1619–1688), French poet and novelist. ‘because I design not to surprise you, as some malicious Authors are wont to do, who aim at nothing else.’ I wish you to be prepared to understand. For ahead lies great understanding and great effort of understanding. You must lift yourself up, by your own bootstraps, so to speak.

There, I hope that’s made things just a little clearer.