‘Has anyone phoned the hospital?’ asked Jack Martin.
‘I’m just about to do that,’ said Simmons.
‘Frankly, I am very reluctant to call in the police,’ said Sutcliffe. He was speaking to Jack Martin while Simmons made the call. Gavin was examining the extent of the damage to the lab outside the immediate area of the flash fire. The electricity cable to the cell culture incubator had melted, fusing the plug and cutting off the power supply. The cultures inside were ruined. It would be back to square one again, but before that, there would have to be extensive repairs to the lab, which would take even more time. It was depressing and the conversation he was overhearing wasn’t helping.
‘I’m inclined to treat the matter as a tragic accident without apportioning blame,’ said Sutcliffe.
‘I agree,’ said Martin.
‘Perhaps you could put out a departmental circular, warning of the hazards of flammable chemicals in the lab and urging vigilance?’
‘Of course.’
Simmons put down the phone and all eyes moved to him. ‘They’re moving her to a specialist burns unit.’
‘But she’s out of danger?’ asked Sutcliffe.
Simmons looked at him as if his thoughts were a million miles away. ‘She’ll live. They’ve managed to save her sight but she’s going to need extensive surgery. A long process, they say.’
There was silence in the room while everyone came to terms with the fact that Mary Hollis was going to be scarred for life.
‘What a bloody awful thing to happen,’ said Martin.
‘It should have been me,’ said Gavin quietly.
‘Maybe we’ll all be able to think more clearly in the morning,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘Life can be terribly cruel.’
Martin and Sutcliffe left the lab without saying anything more. Simmons went into his office to start gathering his things together. Gavin followed him. ‘You do believe me, don’t you, Frank? I didn’t mix up the bottles.’
Simmons turned round. ‘I’m sure you believe it, Gavin. Right now, I just want to go home and think about what I’m going to say to Mary’s parents when they get here in the morning.’
‘The hospital called them?’
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t seen Tom around. Does he know what’s happened?
‘He told me earlier he was going to meet some relations at the airport and probably wouldn’t be back. I suppose whoever’s in first in the morning will have to tell him.’
‘I know it’s not exactly the time to talk about this... but what are we going to do about the final experiment for the paper?’ said Gavin. ‘All the cultures I set up are knackered.’
Simmons felt that he’d had all the emotional trauma he could take for one day. ‘Tomorrow, Gavin. Let’s leave it till tomorrow,’ he said, collecting his things and preparing to leave. ‘What a shit awful day.’
Gavin watched the door swing shut. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Tom Baxter what had happened, but he suspected that he might have to if Frank were to go directly to the hospital in the morning.
An hour later, as Gavin himself was preparing to leave, the lab door opened and Peter Morton-Brown came in. He looked about him slowly, taking in the damage. ‘I heard what happened to Mary.’
Gavin didn’t respond. He just looked at him as if waiting for something more.
‘You must be feeling like shit, old son.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Making a mistake like that, I mean. Could happen to any of us and you shouldn’t feel bad about it... but all the same... what a bloody nightmare.’
‘I didn’t make any mistake.’
Peter adopted an exaggerated look of puzzlement. ‘I’m sorry? That’s what everyone’s saying. If it wasn’t a mistake... then what?’
‘It was done deliberately. It was meant for me.’
Peter now put on a contrived look of shock. ‘I see... but who would do something like that?’
‘Someone determined to see that the Valdevan experiments didn’t make it into print.’
Peter affected an amused smile. ‘I’ve heard about delusions of grandeur, old son, but this takes the biscuit. Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘The guy who’s going to turn your smug, patrician nose into a mess of blood and snot if you don’t sling your hook within the next ten seconds.’
‘Ah,’ said Peter. ‘You don’t think you’ve done enough damage for one day?’
Gavin felt himself on the edge of losing control, but he managed to confine himself to making one slight movement in Peter’s direction. It was enough to send him scurrying out through the door.
‘Bastard.’
Twenty
Gavin was up at three in the morning being sick. It was the third time since coming home just after midnight, and now there was nothing left in his stomach to void. All the beer and junk food he’d consumed had been vomited, leaving only the painful spasmodic retching of an abused digestive system, which had to be endured until his body was satisfied that he had got the message. He rinsed his mouth out several times with cold water and then splashed some up into his face to combat the fuzziness. Was it worth it? He looked at himself in the mirror and defiantly concluded that it was. He’d managed to achieve a couple of hours of oblivion, an escape from the hell his life had become in the space of just twenty-four hours.
It seemed that the entire world saw him as an arrogant, insensitive nobody whose work was viewed as a threat to colleagues, to the department — even to the university — and whose carelessness had resulted in a colleague probably being disfigured for life. Even the girl he loved couldn’t stand the sight of him.
There was a knock on the bathroom door.
‘Are you all right in there, Gav?’
‘Just pissed.’
‘Then shut the fuck up, will you? Some of us have got work in the morning.’
Gavin mumbled an apology. A few minutes later he tiptoed back to his room and lay on top of the bed, looking up at the few stars he could make out in the sky through the pinkish glow of light pollution from the city. He got under the covers — as the temperature demanded he must — but stress had put sleep out of reach, making him toss and turn as he struggled to come to terms with what was happening. Worst of all was the feeling of helplessness he got when trying to fight back. It seemed that the best he could manage was an assertion that all he’d done was speak the truth. Why should that cause such problems? Why should that always cause such problems?
It wasn’t in his nature to pussyfoot around. He couldn’t pretend to Carrie that rushing off to the Lake District to be with her mother was going to do either of them any good when it clearly wasn’t. Why couldn’t she see that? Carrie was an intelligent woman; she had a mind of her own; she was studying medicine, for God’s sake. Surely she must have realised that he’d just been telling the truth? But she hadn’t wanted to hear that... she’d needed something else, something that he had failed to provide. Couldn’t provide? Love? He loved her dearly and she knew that. Comfort? Reassurance? How could he offer these when it would just be empty, meaningless nonsense. And, coming from him, that’s exactly what it would have sounded like. He screwed up his face as he recalled his pathetic attempts at reassuring Mary that everything was going to be all right when he’d held her in his arms after the fire. Now he hoped that she hadn’t heard. Telling someone that everything was going to be fine and dandy when it wasn’t was quite beyond him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t care. He did. He felt as deeply as anyone else. He just couldn’t go through the motions of uttering meaningless crap with any great conviction. Nor was he able to concede to Frank Simmons’ request that he consider the possibility of having made a mistake over the contents of the instrument beaker, when he was damned sure that he hadn’t. This, of course, brought the unthinkable alternative back into focus. Someone had made a deliberate attempt on his life.