Cry of the Needle

by Radford, Roger

  Andre

  Hi, my name is Edward. My Mom is Dinah and I am writing on how it feels to have a family member (Mom) with arachnoiditis.

  It hurts me a great deal to see my Mom live in such pain and discomfort. She has such a great soul and could do such great things for this world. I even check to see if she is still alive when she is sleeping or resting because my greatest fear is that she will take her own life to escape the pain. I know she wants to live, but a person can only take so much.

  I love my Mom so much it scares me to know everything that this illness causes to the body. It scares me to this day that I am going to lose my Mom some day and I fear of how I will continue in this world without her. I even pray that I may take the illness from my Mom and transfer it to me so she can live.

  I also want to say thanks to you all in this group that my Mom has such a network of fine people that she can talk to and learn from. She still has so much to offer. God bless you all.

  Ted

  Hello All,

  I have just been diagnosed with a kidney disease that is directly linked to the drug Triamerol’s main ingredient, ethylene glycol. IT’S POISONOUS AND CAN KILL!

  Does anyone else have pain in their throats, chest, stomach, severe constipation, loss of appetite, head pressure and pains in the neck, inside of the elbows and, of course, in the back, hips, legs, feet and groin? Is there any goddamn place left free of this curse?

  My wife, God bless her, is staying with me so far, but my illness has taken a toll of her too. Our relationship seems to be slowly falling apart.

  SOMEONE OUT THERE HELP ME!

  Wilbur

  I’ve had it. I can’t take it anymore. I won’t get any more pump refills, any more meds, or anything. Time’s up! Game’s over! I now understand why people go ballistic. Now it’s my turn. I’m taking matters into my own hands. What with doctors who don’t care about their patients, and being in the amount of pain I’m in all the time, it’s time to become judge, jury and executioner. Thanks, group, for all you have done, and don’t be jealous, because where I’m going there isn’t any pain. Thanks, for the last time.

  Paul in Denver

  Dear, dear Paul

  I think I know where you are. It is the most terrifying place anyone can endure. We feel alone and helpless. No one understands. The pain won’t stop and it’s impossible to think about going on. Why even try? No one could live like this. The doctors don’t really care. They have nothing to offer. No one knows this pain that fills your body, mind and spirit. No one feels the anger we feel at everyone and everything. No one knows what it’s like to lose control of your pain-wracked body. No one except those of us with this terrible disease. But dear, dear Paul, don’t turn the anger on yourself. Yes, scream it out. Scream and scream, because it is the fear and emotional pain that makes you feel so angry. We’ve almost all been where you’ve been. Some probably did give in to it. I didn’t. I’m still here, although I admit I wanted to die. I stood there with a razor blade at my wrist and a lot of pills in the cabinet. But then I thought that with my bad luck, it wouldn’t work out and I would just end up in worse shape. I can’t change your mind, Paul. That is something for you to consider. But you are not alone in your agony. You have friends here, people who know the pain you are in. Please don’t give up.

  Magda in London

  There were many more emails listed, but the Irishman was arrested by the name of Magda. He knew that it had to be her. She was desperately trying to save the life of a man named Paul who lived on the other side of the Atlantic, a man who wrote that it was time to become judge, jury and executioner. Well, he, Kieran Kelly, was also prepared to become all three, but definitely not in relation to his own life on this earth. A flood of emotion coursed through his body like magma. They were all hurting, just like his Teresa. If only his dear wife had shared with him her terrible thoughts, he might have been able to prevent the tragedy. He’d always looked upon Teresa as a strong woman, a woman who could shine through any adversity. Yet it seemed that weaker people, those who were not afraid to cry or voice their anguish, were those who survived. To take one’s own life was the ultimate in foolish courage, the ultimate in waste. Yet who was he to judge? He had never been in their position. He had been the harbinger of death for others and in mortal danger himself on many occasions, but suicide was as far removed from his lexicon as the stars from Mother Earth.

  With his blood turning to ice, the Irishman switched off the computer and removed a file from his desk. He withdrew three items: a six by eight photograph of Dr Martin Townsend and two newspaper cuttings that he had circled in red. The first showed a picture of the Secretary of State for Health, and the second displayed a thumbnail portrait of Professor Jonathan Tring. Alongside it was a story outlining his company’s position on Triamerol. He then collated the printed emails, stacked everything together and returned them to the file. All was now in place for the next stage.

  Kelly looked at his watch. It would soon be time to go to work. He was still grinding out intensely boring shifts as a security guard. Besides providing a source of income, it gave him the organisational flexibility that he needed. Nothing, however, could be achieved without the help of his friends. All would depend on their reaction to his plea. That was why he was flying to Belfast that Sunday morning. The meet was all arranged. The two of them would be there; men who, in the time of The Troubles, would have been prepared to lay down their lives for him. But peace was a funny thing. It turned men soft. Once the cycle of violence was broken, priorities changed. Some had returned to mundane jobs like his own, others had completely turned their lives around to become pillars of society. Still more lapsed into dissolute and undisciplined ways. He knew of cases where men, robbed of the armed struggle that had become their raison d’être, had slipped into the unforgiving world of alcoholism and vagrancy.

  The Irishman had been out of touch with his erstwhile compatriots for almost a year. He knew they had understood his need for anonymity, but he also knew that the burden he was about to place on them would stretch their friendship with him to the limit. While one of them was a bachelor and a loner who had no strong family ties, the other was happily married and a father of four. How would they feel now about jeopardising their futures, and possibly their lives, in order to help him exact revenge? If necessary, he’d be prepared to go it alone, although he knew the logistics of his plan would make failure almost inevitable. He knew that to make this thing work, he needed them as never before.

  Kelly walked pensively over to the mantelpiece above the gas-fire grate in the lounge. He picked up a newly-taken photograph of his children and kissed it. It pained him that he’d be able to spare them only a few hours during his visit, but he would make sure this would be quality time. Once his mission was complete, they would be a family again. That, or he would be dead.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jonathan Tring was feeling more than a little apprehensive. The last couple of weeks had been refreshingly free of the contrivances of his chairman. But now the Proctors were returning from their sojourn in one of the world’s more exotic locales. The professor, peering out of his office window at the November mist enshrouding the executive parking bays, caught a glimpse of their Rolls as it swung past the imposing granite obelisk that bore the half-metre high chromium letters proclaiming Parados Pharmaceuticals. As if in defiance of yet another grey English morning, the lettering seemed to project an eerie luminescence.

  The chauffeur, tall and lean, moved swiftly to open the offside rear door. A leg, slender and shapely, announced the first to alight. The driver, no doubt used to the etiquette demanded of him by his master, offered the company’s First Lady his hand and then stood stiffly to one side as Jack Proctor joined his wife. It was the first time Tring had seen her in the flesh. The portrait of her in Proctor’s office did her scant justice. She was achingly beautiful. He blinked at the incongruous sight before him: a statuesque blonde, all of six-feet in her heels, linking arms with a man wh
o was a foot shorter and a foot wider. Tring, suddenly reminded of Spencer’s cautionary words, moved out of their line of sight. To be caught staring at the Odd Couple might be tempting fate. The scientist chided himself for being unduly paranoid.

  An hour later, Tring was flicking through the pages of the latest edition of The Pharmaceutical Journal when his intercom buzzed. It was Jack Proctor.

  ‘Jonathan,’ the chairman growled, ‘come into my office, will you.’

  ‘Right away, JP,’ the scientist responded. Proctor had told him that he preferred to be called by his initials. ‘It lets people know who’s boss,’ the old man had said, ‘but it’s also a term of endearment. My people love me.’ Tring had not sought to disabuse him.

  The scientist took the lift to his chairman’s office. He had been there only once when the Triamerol affair had been top of the agenda. There had been no personal assistant to negotiate, for Proctor believed he should remain instantly accessible to all his minions, most of whom were too scared to come anywhere near him. He liked to draw them to him and then swat them away like blowflies, although he was far from being a Mephistophelean character.

  Tring knocked quietly on the solid oak door.

  ‘Enter,’ came the gruff response.

  ‘Good morning, JP,’ said Tring as warmly as he could. The chairman’s head remained buried in some papers. ‘Did you enjoy your trip?’

  ‘I didn’t go half way round the world to enjoy myself, son,’ Proctor replied testily. ‘Take a seat.’

  Tring, making sure to keep his eyes averted from the portrait of Mrs Proctor, felt instinctively that he was about to learn more about Jack Proctor’s attitude towards business.

  ‘How have you been settling in, lad?’

  ‘Fine.’ His reply was firm, although a quick scratch of the nape of his neck betrayed his apprehension.

  ‘You did a fine job on the Triamerol thing. Paper tigers, the press.’

  ‘Thank you, JP.’

  Proctor burst into a guffaw. ‘Paper tigers, get it?’

  ‘Of course, JP.’

  The laugh that creased Proctor’s ill-favoured features disappeared in a flash. There were more serious matters at hand. ‘You’ve now had plenty of time to see the setup here. Impressive, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you go over the work Locke was doing before he died?’

  ‘If you mean the work on a male contraceptive, yes, I did. It was pretty thorough.’

  Proctor grunted. ‘Locke was good man. But in the end he couldn’t stand the heat, so he got out of the kitchen the easy way. I can’t abide weakness.’

  Tring was just about to comment when he thought better of it.

  The pug-face grimaced. ‘Anyway, he let us all down. He was on the verge of a breakthrough that would have brought us millions, maybe billions. And then he bottled it.’ The gashes that were his eyes narrowed even further. ‘You won’t bottle it, will you Jonathan?’

  ‘Er, no, JP,’ replied Tring apprehensively. ‘Although it would be nice to know the parameters you’re setting me.’

  ‘I’ll set you some parameters, son,’ said Proctor, the bleached teeth bursting forth from his holiday tan like white mischief. ‘The female Pill is soon going to be as dead as a doornail, and I want a new male contraceptive to replace it within a year.’

  Tring was fully aware that since the warning by the Committee on Safety of Medicines that third-generation contraceptive pills actually doubled the risk of blood clots, more and more women were opting out of taking any oral contraception whatsoever. However, besides developmental constraints, there was another major factor that prevented the evolution of a male oral contraceptive. ‘But men don’t like taking pills, JP,’ the scientist said boldly.

  ‘Who said anything about pills?’ Proctor countered. ‘So far we and our competitors have been concentrating on pills, injections or implants. I want you to develop a hormone that can be delivered by patches.’

  Tring’s eyebrows arched. The idea of patch delivery was not new. It was just that most scientists regarded it as being in cloud cuckoo land.

  Hundreds of men in ten countries had already volunteered to test the male pill, and the results so far had been positive. But there were drawbacks. The Pill worked by giving men an extra dose of testosterone, which sent a message to the pituitary gland suggesting that too much was being produced. This confusion culminated in the blocking of hormones needed to stimulate the testes into sperm production. Weekly injections of testosterone would then be needed to stop the loss of other male characteristics, such as facial hair. Everyone was trying to find a male pill that did not involve weekly injections. Patches were way down the line.

  Proctor disregarded the scepticism in the professor’s eyes.

  ‘Look, Jonathan, there’s nothing a man hates more than fiddling around with a condom. A lot of men refuse to wear them. Now women are refusing to expose themselves to the side effects of the Pill. It’s up to us, the pharmaceutical industry, to come up with a solution. And you know that in our business, the early bird catches the worm.’

  ‘But, JP, I’m not sure we’re six months away from cracking the formula, let alone getting it approved for market. And, anyway, we’re not geared up for patch technology.’

  ‘I don’t need excuses, Jonathan,’ said Proctor, his face screwing itself into a rictus. ‘The bottom line is that we’re number one in hormone technology and our main products look like flying out of the window. I shouldn’t have to tell you that unless we come up with something new, this glorious edifice you see around you will begin to crumble. You should never forget that there are thousands of people out there who rely on the likes of you and me to keep them secure and happy. We can’t let them down, and I’ll tell you something more, I would do anything to keep this company successful, d’yer hear. Anything.’

  Tring had little doubt that Jack Proctor meant every word he said.

  Abe Klein withdrew a nine-iron and carefully positioned himself for a shot that would take him to within easy putting distance of the sixth on the gently undulating course at Abridge. It was a crisp Sunday morning and they were alone, apart from a couple of figures he could make out at the eighteenth tee. Abridge was predominantly a Jewish club, and Jews did not like cold weather. That was why back home they left the borscht belt in New York to spend their twilight years in Miami.

  The American smiled confidently at his playing partner. They had been the closest of friends since he’d been a Yank at Oxford. They had shared the same dreams, the same adventures and, sometimes, the same women. Life had been a ball then, as now. They were scholars and gentlemen, the sort that university and industry prided themselves on.

  Klein had had a premonition that one day he would be in the forefront of pharmaceutical technology, and now that dream had come true. KleinKinloss was a small player in a big market, but one product, and one product alone, was sending the company’s shares through the roof. Folitac, his brainchild and the object of seven years of intensive, energy-sapping research had answered a need for millions of women worldwide. Indeed, it had become a fad. Women everywhere were donning their Folitac patches for a regular daily dose of folic acid and other supplements. It was both a safe and a sure way to prevent the devastating neural tube defects that affected about two thousand pregnancies a year in the UK, and God knew how many throughout the rest of the world. People seemed to prefer patches to pills. The boy wonder from Brooklyn had arrived.

  The concept of a ‘bandage’ to deliver drugs through the skin for systemic rather than local activity had been around for years, but the expected rush of hundreds of drugs being delivered in this manner had never materialised. The initial euphoria had given way to the realization that the theoretical ideal of a controlled delivery method was not necessarily appropriate for all drugs. KleinKinloss had been quick to see the potential in a new delivery system, but the trick had been to develop a method by which folic acid could be released through the skin. The tric
k, once accomplished, was now making a fortune for Abe Klein and his cohort, Kevin Kinloss, an opportunist Scottish businessman who had guessed correctly that the talented American was his passport to riches.

  Klein, dapper and bespectacled, scratched a shining pate that had shed its locks suddenly in his early twenties. Fellow students at Oxford, in honour of Ernest Bilko, called him ‘the Sarge’. Gripping his club tightly, he shuffled twice before unleashing a swing that struck the ball with perfect aplomb.

  ‘Not bad, Abe,’ said his playing partner, peering towards the green to ascertain the lie. Jonathan Tring was nothing if not truly appreciative of his closest friend’s copious talents.

  ‘So how goes it, buddy?’ Klein asked, as they walked towards the hole. ‘I hear that your new boss is a bit of a monster.’

  Tring grimaced and rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, he does take a bit of getting used to, although it’s strange, most of his people would walk through fire for him.’

  ‘Maybe that’s just vested interest, Jonathan.’

  Tring shrugged. ‘Could be. Anyway, he is a bit of a slave driver.’

  ‘And if he drives you meshuggah, you can always rely on the Sarge.’

  Tring knew what his friend was getting at. Klein had always insisted that he would love to have his friend on his team. Hitherto, Tring had resisted, believing that a professional relationship might spoil a personal one. ‘I’ll bear it in mind, Abe.’ It was his stock answer to any unsolicited approach.

  ‘We’re really going places, Jonathan,’ Klein enthused. ‘Folitac is a winner, and there are rumours one of your biggest products may be withdrawn.’ The American knew just how far he could go. There was no question of discussing the chemistry of rival products or marketing plans. They only ever talked about what was common knowledge.

  Tring knew his friend was referring to Triamerol. He shortened his stride and then turned to face his fellow scientist. ‘Look, Abe, I’ve been set a challenge and I aim to give it a try. Anyway, you’ve got a good man in Derek Sutton. He’s been with you since the early days.’