Deliver Them From Evil

by Andrew Puckett

  Tom was waiting at the gate.

  ‘What about the flat?’ I gabbled at him. ‘What about tea and coffee and—’

  ‘All taken care of.’ He took my arm and, half walking, half running, led me over to the waiting car.

  He’d obviously spoken to the driver, because we shot off before the door had even slammed shut. On the back seat was a bag containing oddments of shopping.

  I looked at my watch. Two thirty-five. ‘We’ll never make it,’ I said.

  Tom shrugged. ‘We might not,’ he said. ‘But then again, we might.’

  ‘A fiver says we will,’ said the driver over his shoulder.

  ‘You get paid enough already,’ Tom told him. Then he added diplomatically, ‘All right, I’ll think about it.’

  The driver grunted, then concentrated on his driving. The engine revved and a taxi hooted as he swung across it.

  I said after a few minutes, ‘What does she want, Tom? I can’t understand why she should call on me like this.’

  ‘I don’t know, but,’ he lowered his voice, ‘whatever it is, it could make or break this operation.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel any better?’

  ‘Waterloo bridge,’ Tom said. ‘That’s halfway.’

  ‘It’s a quarter to,’ I said.

  The muddy banks of the river gleamed glutinously—I’d forgotten the Thames was tidal.

  ‘Tom, what if she knows…realises I’m a plant while we’re there?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, the flat’s wired and we won’t be far away.’

  We grumbled to a halt. Minutes passed. Tom looked over the driver’s shoulder, then at his watch.

  ‘Sorry guy, snarl up at the lights.’

  ‘OK, we’ll have to walk the rest—’

  ‘Hang about.’

  The car on our left had edged forward, he swung quickly through the gap before the next car could take its place and into a side road. Right, right again and back on to the main road. Waterloo Station. More streets.

  Tom said, ‘Pull in over—’

  ‘Tom, it’s her!’ I’d seen her come out of the flats and walk away from us.

  ‘Get down, Jo,’ Tom said. ‘Bernie, next left, then stop. Got that?’

  ‘Right, guv’ner.’

  ‘Jo, as soon as we’ve stopped, get out and walk back up that road—that way you can’t miss her.’

  ‘All right.’

  We slewed round the corner.

  ‘And don’t forget your shopping.’

  ‘And my handbag. Tom! The keys to the flat?’

  We screeched to a halt.

  ‘They’re in your bag. Now go. And good luck.’

  I stumbled on the pavement as I got out, recovered and set off up the road, shopping in one hand, handbag over my shoulder.

  Turned the corner and saw her ahead, warning a matching grey skirt and jacket.

  I suddenly realised how much better it would be if she spotted me rather than vice versa. There was a clothes shop to my right. I moved over to it, across the flow of pedestrians, across her path, and stopped in front of it…

  It hadn’t worked, I’d have to go after her…I’d never be seen dead in these clothes anyway.

  ‘Mrs Jones?’

  I turned. ‘Dr Kent? Hello, what a coincidence!’ Don’t overdo it…

  ‘Not entirely, Mrs Jones, I’ve just called at your flat to see you. In fact, I left a message on your phone earlier.’

  ‘I haven’t been in since this morning, I was just going back now. Er…’ I hesitated, ‘did you say you’d called to see me?’

  ‘I did. Would you mind very much if I came back to your flat now for a few minutes?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ I hesitated again. ‘Is it bad news?’

  ‘Not entirely.’ She looked round at the milling crowds. ‘But I’d prefer not to talk about it here.’

  ‘No. Well it’s just up here.’ We began walking. ‘I can’t believe you came up to London just to see us.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, no. I came for a conference. This afternoon’s sessions are frankly dire, so I thought I’d take this opportunity for a domiciliary visit.’

  ‘That was…very kind of you—it’s in here.’ I led the way into the block. ‘There’s no lift, I’m afraid, but it’s only on the next floor. Sorry, you know that already.’

  We began climbing.

  She said. ‘Your husband mentioned that this was only temporary accommodation?’

  ‘We’re buying a house in Mitcham.’ I smiled, wryly. ‘Much more suitable for children.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just here.’ I fumbled in my bag for the key.

  ‘Would you like me to hold your shopping?’

  ‘That’s all right, here it is.’

  For a horrible moment, I thought the key wasn’t going to fit, then it did and the door swung open. I led her into the sitting room, trying to keep the surprise from my face. The flat had been transformed—it looked and smelt fresh, there was china on the sideboard, books in the bookcase and a vase of flowers and, from the top of the TV, an ostentatious wedding photo grinned down at us—how the hell had they managed that?

  ‘Er—please sit down, Dr Kent. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be nice, but…?’ It was her turn to hesitate, ‘I’d also quite like the bathroom.’

  ‘It’s just down there. The loo’s separate.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The loo paper had run out when I was last here—had they replaced it…?

  I took the shopping into the kitchen and dumped it on the table. Where was the kettle? Small mercy she wasn’t here to see me hunt for it—ah!

  Filled it, plugged it in, found the teapot, thrust in a couple of bags. Sugar bowl, plate for biscuits. Heard her go back into the sitting room. Thank God she hadn’t come in here…jug for milk…

  The kettle boiled. I found a tray, loaded the tea things and took it through and smiled at her as I put it down. They couldn’t have overlooked the loo paper could they?

  Damage limitation.

  ‘Would you like to help yourself, Dr Kent? Just need the bathroom myself a minute.’

  Loo paper! Thank God! Wouldn’t have to make any excuses. I operated the flush, rinsed my hands and went back.

  She put down her cup and said, ‘I’d better tell you why I’m here.’

  I poured myself some tea. My hands were shaking, but that didn’t matter.

  ‘We’ve looked very carefully at your husband’s sperm, and I have to say that it presents something of a challenge.’

  ‘Oh.’ So Prof had overcooked it. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I’m not surprised that Professor Fulbourn failed with IVF—in fact, I’m rather surprised that a specialist with his reputation should have tried as many times with it as he did.’

  I closed my eyes and tightened my lips in what I hoped was a semblance of grief.

  She leant across and touched my arm. ‘Please don’t lose heart, Mrs Jones. I think that we may yet succeed.’

  ‘You do?’ I looked up.

  ‘It’s borderline, but yes.’ She paused. ‘The reason I felt that I had to see you personally was to warn you that treatment might be a traumatic process—even more so than IVF—and to ask whether you and your husband are prepared for that. Am I right in thinking that you would have accepted AID had you not heard of microinjection?’

  ‘I—I don’t know. I would have accepted it, certainly, but Tom…well, he wants a child of his own so much.’

  ‘I understand that and, as I said, I think we have a good chance of succeeding.’

  I looked up. ‘You said that it might be more traumatic than IVF?’

  ‘Yes.’ A silence. ‘You see, while there’s every chance we can successfully fertilise your eggs with your husband’s sperm, there’s no guarantee that the resulting foetus would be…normal.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There never is a guarantee as such, of course. But there is a schoo
l of thought that suggests that if a man’s sperm cannot fertilise an egg, there’s a reason for it. Nature’s way, in fact.’

  ‘But I thought you said that you’d had success with this technique?’

  ‘Indeed I did, and we have, which is why I think we can be successful in this case. But you must understand that there are risks.’

  ‘I—I do understand that.’

  ‘But does your husband?’

  ‘I think so. He told me he’d take almost any risk for the chance of his own child.’

  ‘Good. So long as you both do understand.’

  ‘Dr Kent, what exactly are the risks?’

  ‘Firstly, that we don’t succeed at all with the acute disappointment this would bring. Secondly, that you become pregnant but miscarry. Thirdly, that you have a child with a hereditary…weakness, or handicap of some kind.’

  ‘A serious handicap?’

  ‘Possibly. Which brings me to the fourth risk—that the child, or children, could be either stillborn, or die in infancy.’

  I let out a sigh. ‘Put like that, it does sound risky, to say the least. But I know that Tom will want to try.’ I looked up again. ‘What are our chances of having a normal child?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ She studied me carefully, as though looking for something. ‘I’ve had to spell out the risks for you, Mrs Jones, but now I’m going to stick my neck out, and tell you that I think there’s a very good chance. Greater than fifty per cent, although we may have to try more than once.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time now. You and your husband think about it and we’ll discuss the practicalities of treatment if you decide to keep the appointment on Wednesday.’

  ‘Oh, we will, there’s no doubt about that.’ I stood up myself and walked to the door with her. ‘Dr Kent, it’s been very good of you to go to all this trouble.’

  ‘This is a special case, and I have every hope of a happy outcome.’

  ‘I—thank you. I’ll see you down.’

  ‘Please don’t trouble, Mrs Jones, I can find my own way out.’

  I watched till she was out of sight, then went back inside and fumbled for my cigarettes. I was shaking so much I couldn’t get one out.

  I‘d managed to get a cigarette alight by the time the front door opened and Tom came in.

  ‘Jo, you were brilliant.’ He sat down beside me. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No,’ I said weakly. ‘I’d kill for a coffee, but I’m too shattered to make it myself.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ He vanished into the kitchen and returned a couple of minutes later holding two mugs. I thanked him, then said. ‘You were listening, then?’

  ‘I told you we had the place wired. We’ve got it all on tape.’

  ‘Tom, I was terrified.’

  ‘Yes, and in all the right places, too.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I know.’ He put an arm round me, squeezed briefly. ‘You were still brilliant.’

  ‘You don’t think she’ll suspect anything?’

  ‘I don’t see how she can. Letting her stop you in the street was a master stroke.’

  ‘You saw that?’

  He nodded. ‘From a safe distance. No, I don’t think you put a foot wrong.’

  ‘You know what scared me most of all? When she asked for the bathroom—I wasn’t sure whether there was any loo paper, and nobody would have a home without loo paper, would they?’

  ‘We wouldn’t have overlooked that.’

  ‘I know. It’s just the way I was.’ I drank some coffee. ‘You said you’ve got it on tape. Where were you?’

  He grinned. ‘In one of the downstairs flats. We’ll take it back to Marcus in a minute.’

  ‘But what if she’s still around? She’ll see us.’

  He shook his head. ‘She isn’t. She disappeared into the nearest tube station.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘I followed her—at a safe distance. I’ll tell you something,’ he continued. ‘Although Marcus was right to get you down here; having listened to her, I’m not convinced that her main purpose was to check our story.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  But before he could answer, there was a knock on the door and he went to open it.

  ‘Hello, Phil. Finished downstairs?’

  ‘Yup. Just come to collect the bug.’

  I stood up as they came in.

  ‘Jo, this is Phil, our telecommunications expert.’

  Phil was tall, gangly and about thirty.

  ‘Hi.’ He grinned at me, then went over to the wedding photo, took something from behind it, and put it carefully into the bag he was carrying.

  ‘How did you manage that?’ I asked Tom, pointing at the picture.

  ‘Computer imaging.’

  Phil was looking down at the biscuits on the table. ‘They goin’ beggin?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ I said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘We haven’t really got time,’ Tom said.

  ‘It won’t take a moment. Besides, we’ve got to clear all this up.’

  He shrugged and smiled. ‘All right.’

  We washed and tidied up, then Phil drove us back in his departmental van.

  *

  ‘No, it’s not particularly professional behaviour,’ Professor Fulbourn was saying, ‘but I wouldn’t have said that it was unethical in any way.’

  It was a little over an hour later and we were in his office at St Michael’s. He’d been so interested when Marcus told him about Dr Kent’s visit and the tape that he had asked if he could hear it for himself.

  ‘Nor slanderous?’ Marcus asked with a perfectly straight face.

  Prof grinned. ‘Not even that. She’s perfectly entitled to express her surprise at my methods. Eccentric, certainly, perhaps even obsessive—that’s how I’d describe her on the basis of this.’

  At the word ‘obsessive’ I glanced at Tom, but he appeared not to have noticed.

  ‘So everything she said was fair and truthful?’ Marcus said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have put quite such an emphasis on the risks myself, but by and large, yes.’ He paused. ‘My overall impression is that, for whatever reason, she very much wants you as patients.’

  ‘That’s also been my impression throughout,’ said Tom. ‘Then why did she go out of her way to emphasise the risks the way she did?’ I asked.

  ‘Trying to cover herself?’ Tom said. ‘Preparing us for some inevitable disappointment?’

  ‘You might have something there,’ Prof said thoughtfully. ‘She wants to treat you, and yet it’s as though she knows it isn’t going to go smoothly.’

  Marcus said, ‘We come back to the purely financial motive. Perhaps she intends giving you one or two cycles of expensive failure before going for donor insemination, with or without your knowledge. She did make a point of telling you that you might have to try more than once, didn’t she?’

  ‘And she did ask me whether I’d been prepared to accept donor insemination before,’ I said.

  ‘But the Murrells,’ said Tom. ‘We keep coming back to them. It was their first cycle of treatment, remember? And yet Mrs Murrell heard them say that it wasn’t going to be his baby.’

  ‘But we’ve only got Mr Murrell’s word for that,’ said Prof. ‘And if it were donor insemination, I can’t understand why they’d do a laparoscopy.’

  ‘Could it have been a GIFT procedure?’ I suggested. ‘Putting sperm and egg together in her tubes.’

  ‘They’d only use that if there had been something wrong with her tubes, which there wasn’t.’

  Tom said, ‘Professor, she referred to the semen you gave me as something of a challenge; then she went on to say she was surprised that you’d bothered with it. Was that semen capable of fertilising an egg?’

  The Professor thought before replying. ‘Not very likely with IVF, no, so her surprise was in order. Perhaps that should have occurred to me when I was preparing it, but I gave you that sample specifica
lly because it was a challenge, the kind of difficult case she’s accepted in the past.’

  ‘What I’m getting at is this—is it possible, in your view, that she’s genuinely intending to use it?’

  ‘Yes, it is possible,’ he said carefully, ‘with microinjection.’

  ‘Is it likely?’

  He took a breath. ‘To use her own expression, it’s certainly a challenge. But until I’ve got more information, I can’t really say, any more than I can say whether she’s doing anything illegal.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, I think she’s about as genuine as that sample you gave me.’

  ‘You’ve only heard her on tape. Tom,’ I said. ‘I was there. I could see her face, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that she was being sincere.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she was,’ said Tom. ‘But sincere about what?’

  Marcus turned to the Professor. ‘Did you find out whether there are any conferences being held today, Professor?’

  ‘There is one, as it happens, but not a particularly interesting one. I certainly wouldn’t have bothered coming up to London for it.’

  ‘So we still don’t know whether she came up specifically to see you, Jo, or just took the opportunity while she was here.’

  We played the tape through again and talked round it to see if any more meaning could be teased from it, then gave up and left.

  In the taxi, Marcus said. ‘Well, if nothing else, at least we know she’s going to accept you as patients now, and that could be thanks to your efforts today, Jo.’ He paused briefly, then added, ‘If you hadn’t pulled this off, I’d have thought seriously about cancelling the whole thing.’

  ‘But she did pull it off,’ Tom said.

  ‘Yes, and it puts us ahead in the game.’

  After we’d dropped Marcus off (Tom said he’d accompany me to the station) I asked him if he and Marcus really did think of it as a game.

  ‘No, that was just the rather old-fashioned way he has of putting things sometimes.’

  ‘The reason I asked is because I’ve been wondering whether we’ve got Dr Kent wrong.’

  ‘Never in a million years.’

  ‘Oh, she’s obviously breaking the rules in some way, but the rules surrounding fertility treatment are so complex…what I’m saying is that she might be doing something that’s theoretically unethical, but for the general good.’