Louise Welsh - A Lovely Way to Burn

‘You talk about Simon as if he was uncorruptible but he was as flawed as the rest of us. I told you he always came round in the end.’ Buchanan looked up and his eyes met hers, still blue behind the protective visor. ‘This time was no exception.’

The needle pierced Stevie’s flesh and she gasped. William’s groin was pressed against her rear. Stevie felt his excitement, and bile rose warm in her throat. She swallowed and said, ‘I promise to co-operate, if you tell me what happened.’

The chemist withdrew the syringe, leaving a small valve attached to her vein. He inserted a tube into it, and then looked beyond her, at his son. ‘William, can you help Ms Flint on to the couch please?’

Stevie said, ‘I’ll do it myself.’

The chemist nodded and William let go, but Stevie had already felt a tremble in his body that might have been arousal, or something else. She sat on the camp bed. A small, clear plastic bag was resting on top of its mattress. Buchanan attached the tube in her arm to it. He said, ‘Simon always had an impulsive side. When he was young he had the energy to work as hard as he played, but he’d become careless, one might even say, lazy. No amount of brilliance can compensate for complacency. Simon was a good surgeon, but he was a shade short of brilliant.’

The blood was leaving her arm, darker than Stevie had anticipated. It was as if she could see her strength deserting her. But she could also see the perspiration behind William’s mask and knew that it was vital to keep the chemist’s attention focused on her. She asked, ‘How much blood are you going to take?’

‘An armful,’ the chemist joked. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not vampires. We won’t drain you.’

William made a small spluttering sound. He said, ‘This bloody suit is too warm.’

‘It’s necessary.’ Buchanan squatted in front of Stevie, his bedside manner at odds with the gun still pointing at her head. He said, ‘Clench and unclench your hand. It will make the blood come quicker.’

Stevie made a fist and released it, made a fist and released it; fist, star, fist, star, fist, star. Her arm ached. She said, ‘Why did you poison Simon?’

She had expected a denial, but the chemist asked, ‘Why do you care so much?’

‘Because I loved him.’ It was the first time Stevie had said it out loud, and the words surprised her.

The chemist glanced at his son.

‘There is a theory that believing yourself to be in love can subtly alter the chemical compounds of the body.’ He looked at Stevie. ‘It’s possible that your love for Simon is a factor in why you’re still alive.’

William had been staring at her face, as if trying to decide whether he would prefer to kiss Stevie or shoot her, but he glanced at his father.

‘If she fell out of love, would she lose her immunity?’

‘That would be an extreme reaction, but who knows, it might be possible.’ Alexander Buchanan’s voice was amused, as if he had long come to terms with his son being a fool. He touched the bag, warm with her blood, and looked at Stevie. ‘Are you willing to risk destroying Simon’s spell?’

Stevie nodded. William’s plastic visor was beginning to mist up. She wondered if Buchanan had noticed. Harvesting her blood had given the chemist a boost of energy. His face beamed inside his helmet, making him look like a spaceman who had managed to slip into the orbit of a planet he had feared he would never reach.

‘Simon never dated what my mother would have termed his social equals. He preferred the kind of girl who would be impressed by the fact that he was a surgeon.’

Stevie asked, ‘You didn’t find it impressive?’

William said, ‘Dad thinks a sawbones is one step up from a car mechanic.’

‘Harsh but true.’ There was a dreaminess to the chemist’s voice. He glanced at his son and Stevie wondered how he could miss the fog of moisture, the glistering skin. He said, ‘Simon was a good surgeon, but outside the operating theatre he left most of the work to John Ahumibe and me. He was willing to take a third of the credit, but was too busy having a good time to do a third of the work. Perhaps that was why our arrangement was a success. I liked being in control and he was happy to leave me to it.’

Stevie looked at the bag, almost full of her blood.

‘Shouldn’t you unhook me?’

Buchanan said, ‘In a moment.’

William coughed again. ‘Forget the bedtime story.’ Buchanan smiled at his son. ‘Aren’t you curious to discover whether the truth about Simon will have an effect on Ms Flint’s health?’

William said, ‘I don’t see what difference it makes, given what comes next.’

Stevie asked, ‘What comes next?’

Buchanan’s voice was soothing. ‘Nothing you need worry about.’ He slid the needle from Stevie’s arm and passed her a pad of cotton wool and a plaster. ‘Here, hold this over the puncture.’ The chemist lifted the bag of blood and looked at it. ‘We should offer you a cup of sweet tea and a biscuit, but this is the best I can do under the circumstances.’ He reached into the pocket of his overalls and tossed her a cereal bar. ‘Stay still until you get your strength back.’

Stevie glanced at William. His shoulders had lost their bold stretch. He was looking at the floor and she thought she could hear the sound of his breathing. Her appetite had deserted her, but Stevie unwrapped the paper, peeling it slowly, the way Joanie had taught her would hold an audience’s attention. She took a bite, chewed and swallowed.

‘Tell me what happened to Simon, and I promise to stay as still as a mouse.’

William said, ‘Mice aren’t still.’

‘As still as a stone,’ Stevie said.

William sank on to the bed beside her and took her hand in his gloved one.

‘Stone dead.’

Buchanan said, ‘Leave her alone, William.’ But his son stayed where he was. The chemist hesitated, as if considering whether to press his point, but then he looked at Stevie and said, ‘I would have refined the formula before Simon noticed anything was amiss, but we had a setback. A child died.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sick children do occasionally die, but the girl’s family took it badly. Her father confronted Simon.’

Stevie took another bite of the cereal bar. William’s hand trembled in hers. Dr Ahumibe had said the sweats could be on you for days before they hit home, or they could fell you in an hour or two. She said, ‘I’m assuming the parent was Melvin Summers.’

‘You’ve done your homework.’

‘I met him. His daughter’s death killed his wife and destroyed his life.’

‘If you met him, then you’ll know that Mr Summers is . . .’ Buchanan hesitated, as if something had just occurred to him. He raised an eyebrow and asked, ‘Is or was?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘. . . is, or was, an unstable alcoholic. I doubt very much whether Summers would have managed to muster the self-control to put together a convincing case, but somehow he ruffled Simon’s complacency enough to inspire him to re-examine the original research results.’

Stevie said, ‘So perhaps he wasn’t as lazy as you thought?’

The chemist shrugged. ‘On the contrary, Simon proved he was a lazy thinker. He went into a blue funk and threatened to down tools.’

‘Down scalpel,’ William muttered.

Buchanan threw his son an irritated glance, and Stevie realised that the chemist was building towards his punchline, the revelation that would show she had been wrong about Simon. She prompted him, ‘But . . .?’

Buchanan snorted. ‘. . . but as usual Simon didn’t consider the consequences. We had borrowed from our sponsors to set up Fibrosyop. If we called the treatment into question, not only would we have been bankrupt, but our professional reputations would have been destroyed. Worse than that, if it could be shown that we had knowingly continued, after we’d realised the treatment was compromised, we might well have faced criminal prosecution and prison.’