Hypocrite's Isle (25 page)

Gavin told Simmons about Caroline’s suggestion.

‘Good idea. I don’t see anything wrong in principle,’ said
Simmons
. ‘Although we’ll probably have to pay for the polymyxin and to have the blood tests done. I think we should probably bring in the University Medical Centre on this. We’ll need them to
administer
the drug, and they’ll probably want disclaimers signed, but if the dose is to be a quarter of what patients have been given before, I don’t foresee any great difficulty. I’ll ask them if you like.’

‘Thanks, Frank. I’ll start asking around for volunteers.’

Frank Simmons took a call from John Chalmers at Unived at ten on Friday morning.

‘I’m afraid there’s been a slight hitch. Old College have deferred a decision.’

‘What on earth for?’ asked Simmons, his tone betraying the frustration he was welling up inside him.

‘They need clarification.’

‘Of what?’

‘Whether Valdevan is going to be available should the university fund a successful application for intellectual property rights.’

‘There’s no need to worry on that score. Over the past few days we’ve managed to establish that Jack Martin was quite correct in his suspicion that Valdevan is out of patent. Anyone can make it.’

‘Anyone with the facilities of a large pharmaceutical company, that is,’ said Chalmers.

‘Anyone who has an interest in treating cancer,’ snapped
Simmons
. ‘How long is this delay going to go on?’

‘I’ll pass on what you’ve said about the drug and get back to you when I hear something.’

Simmons put the phone down and rested his elbows on his desk while he massaged his temples. ‘Bugger … bugger, bugger.’

He was about to go through to the lab to tell Gavin when the phone rang again. It was a Dr Colin Mears at the University Medical Centre. ‘It’s about this small drug trial you’ve asked us to administer.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘No problem, but you do know that it’s no longer usual to give polymyxin by injection? Side-effects and all that.’

‘We know, but we’re using a quarter of the recommended dose.’

‘Won’t that defeat the purpose?’ asked Mears.

‘We don’t intend using it to fight bacterial infection.’

‘Fair enough …’ said Mears, with the air of a man who had thought about asking more but had decided not to. ‘There are still certain people we will have to exclude – anyone with a history of kidney problems and anyone prone to allergies. These were the groups shown in the past to suffer the worst side-effects.’

‘We’ll screen the volunteers,’ said Simmons.

‘Then we can start whenever you like,’ said Mears.

 

Simmons passed on the bad news to Gavin about the delay to the patent application and asked how the search for volunteers was coming along.

‘We’ve got twelve,’ said Gavin. ‘Six medical students from my girlfriend’s class including Caroline herself. Mary, Tom, Trish from tissue culture, Jack Martin and yourself.’

Simmons told him what Mears had said about exclusions.

‘I’ll check.’

‘I suggest we make a start on Monday morning. That should give us the data by the end of the week, and we should know about both the TV programme and when they’re going to submit the patent application by then.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Gavin.

‘Could be a big week.’

 

On Sunday, Gavin and Caroline took the bus down to Leith, once an independent and busy port, but now swallowed up to become Edinburgh-by-the-sea where the docks and shipyards of the past had given way to the flats and bistros of modern times. They had lunch in a waterside bar before starting a slow walk back to the city on the walkway which traced the course of the Water of Leith up through the heart of the city and out to the west. Both were excited at the prospects of the week ahead, and what the future might bring once Gavin’s discovery was put to the test.

‘I can’t believe it’s only a few months since I thought you were a complete bullshitter,’ said Caroline.

‘Thanks for that.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Caroline, squeezing his arm. ‘If
someone
suggests they’re going to cure cancer, the last thing in the world you’d expect them to do is … cure cancer. God, this is so exciting.’

‘Still a way to go,’ said Gavin.

‘That doesn’t sound like you. What made you say that?’

‘I’ve seen the early opposition. It can only get worse.’

‘But Frank’s on your side …’

‘He’s been brilliant. I couldn’t have asked for more support, but maybe even he doesn’t realise what he’s up against.’

‘And you do?’ challenged Caroline.

‘I was the one who spoke to Ehrman,’ said Gavin.

‘And?’

Gavin sighed. ‘That guy was as nice as ninepence when we met in Edinburgh, but when he got back to me after supposedly
discussing
my results with his colleagues, he was as cold as ice. I got the impression he would have signed my death warrant without batting an eye.’

‘Well, screw him. He’s in no position to do anything to stop you, so he’d better get used to the idea,’ said Caroline. ‘Your idea is going to work.’

‘Mmm,’ said Gavin.

‘I think you have to wear a morning suit when they give you a Nobel Prize,’ said Caroline.

‘Best get mine off to the dry-cleaners then,’ said Gavin.

 

Only one of the original volunteers had to be replaced on Monday morning. One of Caroline’s medical student classmates confessed to suffering from a range of allergies including one to penicillin. He was replaced at the last moment by his girlfriend – also a medical student – and all twelve volunteers were given their first injection of polymyxin. This was followed an hour later by the taking of a blood sample from each to assess the levels of the drug present at that time. The week continued with regular injections and blood sampling until by Wednesday there was enough data to make a preliminary judgement on how things were going. None of the
volunteers
had suffered any side-effects, and all of them had achieved blood levels of the drug above that required to destroy
Valdevan-treated
tumour cells.

‘Looks good,’ said Simmons.

‘Looks great,’ said Gavin.

 

There was a bad moment on Thursday morning when Tom Baxter appeared in the lab looking very ill, but close questioning revealed that he had been out on the town the night before, celebrating the success of one of his friends in gaining his PhD in biochemistry. His ‘illness’ had more to do with alcohol than with polymyxin.

The relief, however, was short-lived when Simmons took a call from John Chalmers. He took it in the open lab so that the others heard one side of the conversation.

‘I’m sorry; they’ve decided not to go ahead with the application.’

‘Why not?’ exclaimed Simmons, feeling the numbness of
disappointment
invade his limbs.

‘When push came to shove, Old College felt they had a duty not to waste university funds, and the risk inherent in applying for intellectual copyright over something that could not be guaranteed to be made available was deemed too great. I’m sorry.’

‘And where do people with cancer come into all this?’

‘I’m sorry?’

Simmons put down the phone.

Gavin took the news like a punch in the stomach. He turned on his heel and left the room without comment.

‘What are they playing at?’ said Mary, shaking her head. ‘Why is everyone solely concerned with money, with something like this at stake?’

‘I’ll go see if Gavin’s okay,’ said Tom.

Gavin had escaped to the Meadows. His first impulse had been to seek out a pub where he could spend the rest of the day drinking in an attempt to numb the feelings of frustration and helplessness that were threatening to overwhelm him, but thoughts of what Caroline might say acted as a deterrent. Instead he walked and walked, all the while cursing an establishment that couldn’t see further than the end of its cheque book. When he’d calmed down, he came round to wondering what to do next. If the university wouldn’t provide any support, surely there was someone else out there who would.

He came round to considering the very people who were
funding
his studies, the Medical Research Council. They should
certainly
be interested in a new treatment for cancer. In fact, this sort of thing should be more up their street than the University’s when all was said and done. He had the number of the MRC’s head office in London entered in his mobile phone, so he brought it up on the screen and called it. After saying who he was, he asked if the Council had any sort of interface between its researchers and the commercial world.

‘We certainly do,’ came the reply.

‘Brilliant,’ said Gavin, asking for details, punching in the number, and making sure there was no misunderstanding by asking about the function of the unit.

‘Its remit is to make sure that the work of the Council’s
researchers
is brought to the attention of possible developers and
manufacturers
, and to safeguard the Council’s interests,’ said the woman.

Gavin thought he heard warning bells ring in the last phrase, but he called the number and asked to speak to the person in charge.

‘That would be Dr Welsh. May I ask what it’s about?’

‘A cure for cancer.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘A possible cure for cancer.’

‘One moment, please.’

Gavin shifted his weight from foot to foot as he waited, mainly to keep warm, but nerves were also playing a part.

‘Graham Welsh; who is this, please?’

Gavin said who and what he was, and gave a brief outline of his research work on Valdevan.

‘Can I just stop you there?’ said Welsh. ‘You say you have already contacted the makers of the drug?’

‘Yes, it was the first thing we did. We thought they’d be pleased with our findings.’ Gavin grimaced at the hollow sound his words had now.

‘Telling them was a mistake,’ said Welsh. ‘Once you’ve done that it’s no longer possible to patent your idea.’