Requiem

by Clare Francis

  Each day seemed to be a burden to her, each conversation a source of profound irritation. Whatever he suggested by way of a diversion – an evening out, a weekend drive – she dismissed with now familiar contempt. And her displeasure, rarely far beneath the surface, was never more intense than when he tried to pacify her. Then, eyes glittering dangerously, she reacted with sharp-edged lunges of scorn.

  ‘I never know what’s wrong,’ he said plaintively. ‘You act like I’ve done something terrible but you never tell me what it is I’m supposed to have done. I mean, is it the job? Okay, so it’s not great, I know it’s not great – but I like it, I really do. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true.’

  ‘Oh, I believe you,’ she said, picking up a sack and stuffing leaves in aggressively. ‘Whatever else, you’ve always had the ability to adapt.’

  Was there a touch of sarcasm in her tone? Even after all these years it was never possible to be sure with Anne. Observations, even compliments, were delivered conditionally, with overlays of meaning; she was incapable of seeing the simplest thing without sighting endless complications beyond. His job – as a toxicologist at a new contract research company called Dalton Research International – was an irony in itself, as the fast-growing Dalton had aspirations to become another TroChem, and was even now hungering after a contract with Morton-Kreiger. The position was a step down in responsibility, status and salary, but it was solid employment. Anne, despite her past optimism, her remorseless encouragement, had shown only a glancing interest in this success, her enthusiasm as guarded as it was short-lived.

  She stared at him, grasping the rake to her chest with both hands. ‘I’ve lost respect for you,’ she declared suddenly. ‘Yes,’ she repeated more deliberately, ‘I have lost respect for you. I need to tell you that. You have a right to know. That that’s the way I feel about you now.’

  ‘Anne …’ He sighed. ‘We’ve been over this so often.’

  ‘Not often enough for me.’

  ‘I can’t take the world’s burdens on my shoulders. I’ve got you and Tad to look after. That’s my first responsibility – ’

  ‘We can look after ourselves, thanks. In fact’ – her face hardened – ‘I don’t know if I wouldn’t prefer it that way.’

  Their arguments normally followed such well-worn paths, such predictable channels of self-torture and mutual frustration, that this new departure took him by surprise, like a sudden blow.

  The pain must have shown in his face because she clutched a hand to her forehead with a groan of self-disgust and said quickly: ‘Forget that. I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t mean it.’ She turned back to her work, then paused again and said grudgingly: ‘You know I wouldn’t mind so much if you’d kept in contact with Burt, if you knew what the hell was happening.’

  She didn’t always take this line. Sometimes she berated him for not having stood up to the Allentown management and sued for wrongful dismissal, other times she harped on his stupidity in leaving the Aurora documents lying around, waiting to be stolen. Most usually – and this was the nub of her displeasure – she’d rebuke him for hiding the existence of the second file from her, for not telling her about it until long after it was stolen, and worst of all, for having done nothing about it, for not being prepared to get up and tell the whole world what it contained. This was the real crime, the one that could never, it seemed, be forgiven.

  ‘It’s not in Burt’s hands, I’ve told you,’ Dublensky said sharply, still catching his breath from her unexpected salvo. ‘It’s EarthForce,’ he said. ‘EarthForce are the only people who can take the thing forward.’

  ‘Well, they tried, didn’t they? They had the publicity campaign, and where did that get them?’

  ‘I don’t know, how can I know?’ He heard his voice rising; he felt a sudden heat at the back of his eyes.

  ‘You could ask them, couldn’t you? Why don’t you call them?’ she pleaded, her voice swooping low with entreaty. ‘Why not? How long would it take – five minutes? Less? Speak to Paul Erlinger. Find out. Oh, this time do it, John. For me.’

  His shoulders slumped, he gave a gesture of defeat. She’d made this request before and, though he’d genuinely intended to call, he’d never managed to get as far as the phone. At first he’d told himself it was a sensible move against the possibility of bad security at EarthForce, that he was merely protecting himself against a rerun of the burglary and other hostilities, but he knew this wasn’t quite the whole story. He clung to the belief that Silveron would never get final EPA approval, that the product would come unstuck long before it got to the marketplace, that someone somewhere would denounce it; that, even on the slenderest of evidence, EarthForce would somehow persuade the EPA to demand a completely new set of toxicology trials.

  In the meantime he had managed to salvage a large chunk of his life. His message of non-cooperation with EarthForce had obviously been received loud and clear by the powers that be, because it was soon after his meeting with Paul Erlinger that he had landed this job. And now Anne was berating him for having made the best of things, for picking up the pieces of their lives.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, hovering close to the edge of his self-control, ‘I’ll call, I’ll call. But I would like to know if I’m going to be allowed some peace afterwards. Am I going to be forgiven for whatever this crime is that I’m meant to have committed?’

  She sighed impatiently. ‘There’s no crime.’

  ‘Well, you could have fooled me.’

  She eyed him. ‘If there’s a crime it’s that you don’t seem to care any more. That’s what I find hard to take.’

  ‘Don’t care! How much am I meant to care? I mean, am I meant to stand up and make these claims and get torn apart in public and go onto welfare, all to achieve absolutely nothing, and then feel good with myself because I’ve done it for some great principle?’

  Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes skyward in an expression of hopelessness, and, rake in hand, stalked off across the grass. Even her back broadcast disappointment.

  Two days later he got away from work earlier than usual and, remembering that Anne had gone to collect Tad from swimming practice, finally goaded himself into sitting in front of the phone and calling Paul Erlinger.

  In Washington the name of Alan Breck brought Erlinger panting breathlessly to the phone. He betrayed his hopes straight away. ‘Your friend – are there developments?’

  Dublensky felt a squeeze of shame. ‘No.’ As he said it, the disappointment at the far end of the line was almost palpable. ‘No, I’m sorry. Nothing. No, I was hoping you might be able to tell me about developments. How you’re progressing with the medical opinions and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, well – you know. It’s slow, like these things are always slow.’ His voice had lost its edge of excitement. ‘At the moment I’d say it was one step forward, one back. Some of the Aurora workers – four in fact – have gone and gotten themselves rediagnosed with good old-fashioned ailments, non-chemical diseases that make it a lot easier to obtain welfare and insurance payouts. Can’t blame them, but it’s lowered our data base.’

  ‘You think you still have a case?’

  ‘Not such a great case that we couldn’t do with a helluva lot more evidence.’ The comment hung in the air, awaiting suggestions.

  Dublensky was silent.

  ‘We’ve been campaigning on Capitol Hill,’ Erlinger continued, ‘spreading the word. But you can imagine. They all say, where’s the proof, let me know when you’ve got something to show me.’

  ‘And the EPA?’

  ‘Same. Took a second look at the test data, but can’t act until there’s something to go on.’

  ‘So it’s not looking good?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. It’s just the difference between catching someone with a smoking gun in his hand and having to patch a case together from circumstantial evidence. You can still get a conviction, but the jury may be out a long time.’ There was a pause. ‘You
r friend – he hasn’t regained access to that material?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be prepared to swear to what he saw?’

  Dublensky didn’t speak. He was remembering how the robbery had occurred a short time after he had sent the Aurora dossier to EarthForce, how even if it was purely coincidental and there was no security leak at Erlinger’s end, he couldn’t risk exposure again. Unemployment, once sampled, was not a desirable option.

  ‘No,’ he said at last.

  Erlinger absorbed this, then commented: ‘There’ve been more victims in Britain, you know. Daisy Field reports three new cases.’

  ‘Three? Isn’t that some sort of proof?’

  ‘Not while the British authorities are pretending there’s no problem and the cases don’t get reported to Daisy until it’s too late to run tests.’

  ‘Can’t she get publicity?’

  ‘Not enough.’

  Erlinger, sensing an opening, pressed home. ‘There’s only one way to cut the whole thing short, Alan.’

  For a moment neither of them spoke.

  ‘If you should ever see your way to getting us that information …’ Erlinger let the idea hang in the air.

  ‘I know,’ Dublensky said tightly, battling with his thoughts. ‘I know. I wish … I mean, I would if …’ He pulled back, frightened of what he might hear himself say. He felt as if he was teetering on the rim of a volcano in a strong wind, his balance threatened by each gust of words. Finally he said: ‘I’ll see what I can do. Maybe there’s something I can do.’

  ‘You will?’ Erlinger couldn’t hide his excitement.

  ‘Please, please. I’m not making promises. I’m not in any position – ’

  ‘No, no. Of course. I understand, I understand,’ Erlinger said hastily. ‘But any time you want to call, I’m here. Okay?’

  Dublensky rang off, any relief he might have felt at having finally executed his chore more than outweighed by the realization of what he’d said. Why had he made even that vaguest of promises? But he already knew the answer: it was the thought of the people in Britain, the new cases. That reality couldn’t be escaped, and the knowledge reduced him to a new state of wretchedness.

  In the last minutes before Anne’s return, he forced himself towards some sort of a decision.

  He would call Erlinger again in two weeks’ time and, if there was no sign of a ban in Britain, he would commit a serious amount of time to rethinking his position. The decision, which he knew wasn’t much of a decision at all, gave him a tangible sense of achievement.

  The door sounded. Tad’s call echoed through the house. Dublensky’s heart lifted and, wrapping his mind in thoughts of family and home, he rose to greet him.

  Chapter 25

  DAISY AWOKE TO a feeling of anxiety. She lay still, trying to make sense of this, placing herself in time and space. Early, very early, and dark; a homely back room in Mrs Biddows’ bed-and-breakfast establishment in Elm Avenue, Chelmsford; the sound of a passing car in an adjacent road. She tried closing her eyes again, but the unease lingered on, cold as a draught. She remembered that she had an early meeting today. It was this, perhaps, which had made her wake. Or the thousand things on her mind. But unease? Fear? That was more difficult to tie down.

  She got up and, going to the window, pulled the curtain aside. The row of semi-detached houses in the next road stood out sharply against the sulphurous rays of the street lighting, and the intervening gardens were dark as ink.

  She went out onto the landing and listened, though she wasn’t sure what for. Dressing, she went downstairs and left a note for Mrs Biddows to say she wouldn’t be in for breakfast.

  Usually the journey to the laboratory took three minutes, five on the rare occasions when she travelled as late as eight thirty, the height of the Chelmsford rush-hour. Now, in the pre-dawn, it took less than three.

  She parked next to the chainlink perimeter fence that surrounded the laboratory and unfastened the padlock on the gates. She stepped through and stood for a moment, listening again. The estate consisted of a single loop road which gave access to twelve or more warehouses and light-industrial workshops. Most of the companies employed security firms – or so their warning notices proclaimed – but she had never seen guards or cruising vans, not even when she left at midnight, which was often.

  Closing the gate behind her, she crossed the apron to the main door of the building. Above the door, illuminated by an exterior light, was the sign: Octek Ltd. The name had come from an off-the-shelf name dealer, the sort that registers and stocks company names for customers who want to set something up in a hurry. The name didn’t say very much about anything, which was one of the reasons she had chosen it.

  She unlocked the single mortise lock. The door was in need of two more heavy locks, top and bottom, but in all the rush she hadn’t got round to arranging it. She had, however, ordered key-operated locks for all the windows and heat-sensitive floodlights for the perimeter which were due to be fitted in the next week or so. Ideally of course, the place should be manned by a rota of security guards, but people cost a great deal, as she had spent most of the last two months finding out.

  Opening the door, the alarm shrilled a warning until she punched the code into the key pad. Turning on some more lights, she locked the door behind her. Ahead was a passage, with three offices and a washroom off it, and at the end, the laboratory area, entered by two sets of double doors.

  Until three months ago the building had been occupied by a health supplement supplier, churning out vitamin and mineral capsules on a number of short assembly lines. The benches and fittings had not met Peasedale and Floyd’s specifications however, and everything had been ripped out and replaced by gleaming smooth-edged work surfaces topped by shelving and interspersed with power points, piped water, stainless-steel sink units and specialized refrigerators. She knew the specification of almost every item, and she certainly knew its cost.

  In the light from the passage the rows of polished metal fittings glinted darkly, and there was a tang of newness in the air. The place, though quiet, looked businesslike and productive. She knew she should feel some sort of triumph in having got so far in such a short time, but the elation, such as it was, was overshadowed by the worry which had become a permanent feature of her existence. The project had taken on a life of its own, monstrous and unpredictable, like an ungrateful child over whom one has lost control. The only thing that she could absolutely rely on, day after day, was that the money would continue to flood out.

  She went along to her office, which lay to the left of the main entrance. She worked on some costings and estimates – figures which looked no better than they had the night before – until seven thirty when, hearing a car, she looked out and saw Peasedale’s raincoated figure emerge from a taxi. He glided in on his long legs, soundless as a bird, and settled into the visitor’s chair. He peered myopically at his watch. ‘Mustn’t miss the eight thirty.’

  She spread her hands expectantly. ‘Well – how did it go?’ He had spent the previous evening at Floyd’s house, hammering things out.

  He considered his answer, canting his head to one side to reveal his long bony neck. ‘We reviewed the protocols, and the time allocations …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think we’ve broken the back of it.’

  A door slammed and Floyd entered, a small stocky figure radiating vitality and goodwill. He had recently joined them as chief scientist. Peasedale had suggested him for the job because, though Floyd wasn’t the most highly qualified toxicologist around, Peasedale believed quite rightly that he was the only person likely to take the job. Most scientific staff were on fixed-term contracts and unable to change jobs at such short notice. Also, as Peasedale pointed out, most toxicologists didn’t want their CVs sullied by involvement in renegade research projects. Such considerations didn’t seem to bother Floyd. Irish-born, outgoing to the point of extroversion, he lived for work, horse racing and conversation, though not
necessarily in that order.

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘We hadn’t really started,’ Peasedale commented. ‘I was just saying that we’d sorted the figures.’

  There was a pause. The two of them exchanged glances and Daisy was reminded of a double act, except that no one was feeding the lines.

  It was Peasedale who finally said: ‘There’s a problem.’

  She’d rather thought there might be.

  ‘The problem is that we can’t finish in the time,’ said Floyd. ‘It’s the enzyme assays. Oh, they’re going fine,’ he added, waving a confident hand in the direction of the laboratories, ‘but we’re only scratching the surface. We had a think about it and we decided that, to get a good picture, we should be covering another twenty or so of the major enzymes. But the way things are at the moment it’d mean another two months on the schedule.’

  ‘Maybe more,’ said Peasedale.

  ‘We can’t extend the schedule,’ Daisy said firmly. ‘And certainly not by two months.’

  ‘No, no,’ Floyd murmured supportively.

  ‘Isn’t there a way round it?’ she asked.

  Peasedale made a pained face. ‘Another two technicians.’

  ‘Ouch,’ she said.

  ‘Push us over budget, will it?’

  ‘That sort of thing.’ She pressed the tips of her forefingers hard against two points over the bridge of her nose. It was a trick based on acupuncture that was meant to relieve stress, but either it didn’t work or she always tried it too late. ‘These enzymes, we have to have them, do we?’

  The two men, tall and short, bony and chubby, serious and sunny, like a couple of comedians paired up for their dissimilarities, nodded in unison.

  She sighed: ‘I’ll see what I can work out. If you’re absolutely certain.’