The Second Cure

by Margaret Morgan

  ‘Then what?’ asked Juliette.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Charlie, having finished reading the abstract. ‘Jesus,’ she said again.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Shadrack. He turned to Juliette. ‘These babies, when tested using brain scans, show the same synaesthesia rates as infected adults.’

  ‘They can even test for synaesthesia at that age?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s trivial. The subjects don’t need to be verbal to reveal brain function. But just think about what this means.’

  ‘Epigenetics,’ said Charlie. Her mind was whirling with the ramifications of this. If these brain changes were epigenetic, it meant that they could persist for generations into the future even if T. pestis itself were entirely wiped out.

  ‘Seriously? How can that be?’ Juliette was dubious.

  Charlie shook her head. ‘It means that the parasite not only changes genetic translation within the brain. It is affecting methylation. Its effects are heritable.’

  Shadrack was nodding. ‘And if it’s happening with synaesthetic symptoms, maybe it’s also happening with others. The recklessness, the lack of coordination.’

  ‘So,’ said Juliette, ‘even if we find the cure, the effects could go on through generations? A permanent evolutionary change in a subset of humans?’

  Both women had lost their appetites over the enormity of this. Charlie’s felafel roll was abandoned on cadmium.

  ‘Maybe so,’ she said, leafing through the paper to the methods. ‘This study is using a small sample size, of course. There just aren’t enough women who’ve been infected for long enough to look at. But if it’s right …’

  ‘If it’s right,’ said Shadrack, ‘it’s a game changer.’

  Charlie’s mobile beeped, reminding her it was time to go to her meeting with Reed, and her anxiety returned with a thud. ‘Damn, I can’t stay. Can I keep this?’ She picked up the research paper.

  ‘Sure. I’ll email you a copy too, Juliette.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Juliette checked her phone. ‘I should head off, too.’

  The women took their leave.

  ‘Talk soon,’ Shadrack said, and Charlie flashed him a smile. As they dropped their rubbish in the bin, she saw her dutiful attendants who’d been deep in conversation leap to their feet to follow them. Charlie gave them a wave and they nodded awkwardly back.

  ‘That was interesting,’ said Juliette as they returned to the labs.

  ‘Sure was. I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered a parasite conveying epigenetic change before.’

  ‘That’s not what I was talking about.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Shadrack. Sparking off each other like that.’

  She frowned. ‘We go back a long way. Lots in common. That’s all.’

  Charlie never was a good liar.

  Charlie arrived at Reed’s outer office on the dot of one, and the door, usually open, was closed. After all his reminders, she couldn’t possibly have the wrong time. Next to the door stood what looked like some sort of guard. He was wearing a dark suit, an earpiece and a gun in a holster, and regarded her impassively. The insignia on his lapel read ‘QSSA’. Charlie had no idea what that meant.

  ‘ID, please,’ he said.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. A cop with a gun in the biology department?

  ‘Are you Charlotte Zinn?’ he responded.

  ‘Yes …’ She held out her security tag, which he scrutinised, then compared the photo with her face. His eyes on her felt like an assault.

  ‘Are you going to tell me who you are? What does “QSSA” stand for?’

  ‘You can go in.’

  She did, and Reed’s executive assistant, Sofia, greeted her. ‘They won’t be long.’

  They? Reed hadn’t mentioned anyone else coming to the meeting.

  ‘What’s going on, Sofia? Who’s that guy outside?’

  Sofia shrugged helplessly, either as bewildered as Charlie felt, or unable to talk. The inner door opened and Reed appeared. He’d taken special care with his attire – he was wearing a new tie and his hair was particularly shiny.

  ‘Charlie,’ he cried, with unprecedented bonhomie. ‘Come in, come in. Thank you for dropping by. I’ve someone I’d like you to meet.’

  It took Charlie a moment to register that the man sitting on Reed’s sofa was Jack Effenberg, the new premier of Queensland. By his side stood a grey-looking character she didn’t recognise. Effenberg got to his feet and pumped her hand.

  ‘Jack Effenberg. Great to meet you, Dr Zinn. This –’ (nodding at the grey man) ‘– is Dr Eric Falsworth, my scientific advisor.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Charlie, at a complete loss.

  ‘Thanks for the loan of your office, Gordon,’ said Effenberg to Reed with an unmistakable finality. It was the second time in a week Charlie had seen him dismissed, but this time Reed wasn’t capitulating lightly.

  ‘Perhaps I should stay, as Head of Department …’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Professor Reed,’ Falsworth said smoothly. ‘It’s a sensitive matter. Official.’

  Charlie almost wanted him to stay, so strange was this meeting. His mouth worked, trying to find a reason to remain. He left, and the premier offered Charlie a seat.

  ‘I apologise for this roundabout way of approaching you, Dr Zinn – may I call you Charlie?’

  Charlie nodded, mute.

  ‘It is a real honour to meet you, Charlie. You have quite the reputation, you know.’

  She had heard Jack Effenberg described as charismatic, but she had never understood it. On the television he came across as a man wearing a layer of beneficence over a steely will that on occasion flashed from his eyes. But now she realised there was something about the way he looked at you, as though there were no other person in the world who mattered. She could imagine wanting that to continue.

  ‘As a rule, I don’t go in for this cloak and dagger stuff. But the thing is, Charlie,’ he continued, ‘these are dark times and enemies are everywhere. Face-to-face is safest.’

  She didn’t know if he was well informed or paranoid, so decided to nod again.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, ‘that we have a shared goal. Ridding this world of Toxoplasmosis pestis.’

  That startled Charlie on two counts: that he knew the actual biological name, and that he had an interest in it. ‘Yes,’ she said, and launched into her routine media speech: ‘My colleagues and I are keen to find a cure or a vaccine, and we hope that we’ll be able to do so in time to stop mass extinctions of cat species –’

  ‘Bugger the cats,’ said Effenberg. ‘It’s God I’m worried about.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Charlie. She was thrown. Falsworth was staring at her, steadily, as though she was a specimen.

  ‘My people are talking to me about this Cat Plague and what it’s doing to people. I am a man of God, Charlie. I don’t want God’s word silenced by some worm burrowing its way into people’s brains. I want it stopped.’

  Charlie took a moment. ‘Ah. That research about religious belief is in its very early stages, and I wouldn’t conclude at this point that there is even a correlation. Maybe the person you need to talk to is my colleague, Shadrack –’

  ‘–Shadrack Zinn: yes, yes. We know all about your ex-husband. I’m interested in your research and that’s why I’ve flown in to see you.’

  The offer he put to her made Shadrack’s look miserly. Effenberg not only offered her research funding, but more funding than the department’s entire annual budget. She’d be able to stay on campus – no need to relocate − and work with the team of her choice exclusively on finding a cure. To compensate the university for losing her as a course convenor and lecturer, he was proposing to endow a Chair of Parasitology, setting up within the university a world-class Centre of Excellence. The implication that the Chair would be hers for life was clear. Charlie was speechless, but her silence was filled by Effenberg’s hard sell.

  ‘This work of yours is crucial, Charlie. Crucial for the cat
s, crucial for the environment, crucial for society. We can work together: I feel that. I feel it deeply. With my resources and your brilliance … Well, to be frank,’ he allowed, ‘I can make your career for you.’

  He looked at her expectantly and now she had to fill the silence. Falsworth’s stare was disturbing. This didn’t feel right. ‘How much independence would I have?’ Charlie couldn’t pretend to herself this wasn’t tempting, but abided by the old adage: when things seemed too good to be true, there was a reason.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t interfere in the science. I wouldn’t know how!’ He grinned boyishly at Falsworth, who smiled thinly in reply. ‘But given our goals are the same, what interference could you possibly fear?’

  When Effenberg and Falsworth left it was by the side door, having obtained from Charlie an assurance she would give them her answer in the next week. The Premier had wanted her response immediately, but that wasn’t going to happen. She sat alone in Reed’s empty office, her mind tripping over the possibilities. Money, security, facilities to do amazing research. And being beholden to a politician, a politician whose values she didn’t share. She hadn’t mentioned the paper Shadrack had shown her. Effenberg’s Dr Falsworth would tell him about that soon enough.

  Reed entered from the outer office and Sofia hovered behind him. ‘So?’ he asked. ‘That went well, I trust?’

  ‘It was certainly interesting.’

  ‘Are you and he going to come to any … arrangement?’

  ‘How much do you know about this, Gordon?’

  ‘Enough to know that there is money available for the university. A lot of money.’

  ‘Yes, it is a lot of money. Perhaps we should talk when I’ve thought it over a little?’

  ‘If there is anything I can do to help …?’ He was clearly itching to get details, but his pride stopped him exposing any ignorance of the offer. That suited Charlie just fine.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Reed moved closer and she smelt tuna sandwich on his breath. ‘I wouldn’t think this over ‘a little’, Charlotte. I’d think it over a great deal and very carefully. These are fragile times in university life, especially for anyone on a fixed-term contract. And I shouldn’t need to remind you that your research belongs to the university. You don’t get to take your data with you.’ His message couldn’t have been clearer.

  As she left, she checked her phone, which she’d had on silent. There were four missed calls from Richard and a text: ‘My mother’s had an accident. Call me when you get this.’

  Teen Pregnancy Soars in Holland

  Pregnancy and abortion rates among Dutch teenagers are now at their highest since records began. Four years ago, the Netherlands’ teenage pregnancy rate, of three per thousand, was the lowest in the EU, but this has now increased to forty-eight per thousand, an increase of fifteen hundred per cent. While the teen pregnancy rate has grown across the EU, the per capita increase in the Netherlands has been highest, bringing the country in line with the continental average.

  Jan de Munnik, Minister for Health, Welfare and Sport, lays the blame squarely on the high level of Toxoplasmosis pestis infection in the Netherlands. ‘Ours was the first country where pestis took hold, and we quite simply have more teenagers infected. It’s leading them to increasingly sexualised behaviour and, unfortunately, more risk-taking in sex.’

  ‘In the past,’ he said, ‘comprehensive sex education for children and ready availability of contraception ensured that our teenagers approached sexual activity with maturity and healthy caution, which resulted in low levels of pregnancy and abortion. We must redouble our efforts.’

  – De Dagelijkse Post

  21.

  They’d kept Winnie in overnight for observation. She regretted having confessed to the nurse that she’d lost consciousness (ever so briefly!) because it made everyone fuss and carry on about concussion.

  But they also wanted to know about other things. Had she had any unusual sensory experiences lately, odd colours in her vision, or strange tastes or smells? Was she clumsier than normal? Taking uncharacteristic risks? Had she had a pet cat?

  She knew what they were asking. She consented to the blood test.

  Inevitably, Tricia had turned up an hour after the ambulance. She was reacting to the whole business in a way that was, in Winnie’s mind, overly dramatic. ‘I’m her friend,’ Tricia was saying outside the curtained cubicle, wheedling entry. She isn’t, you know! Winnie thought and felt immediately guilty.

  Alarmingly, Tricia offered her her spare room to recuperate. Winnie was on the edge of telling her that she’d rather destroy her other leg than stay with her, when they were interrupted by the arrival of Richard and Charlie. Charlie, of course, took charge, and kindly but firmly made it clear that if Winnie needed help, she and Richard would be the ones to give it. Thank God for Charlie. And thank God she didn’t have to go back to her empty house.

  The next morning, Winnie awaited the doctor’s return, along with his verdict on her health and the timing of her hospital discharge. She had her clothes all ready to replace the horrible gown with the ribbons on the back and Richard would be picking her up in her car as soon as they let her go. Her mood wasn’t helped by a poor night’s sleep. On the other side of the curtain dividing the two-bed ward was a woman whose paroxysms of snoring reminded her of her husband’s. Hector, though, she could prod, and he’d roll onto his side and fall silent. Even if she could get out of bed with her ankle in its new cast, she guessed that angrily prodding other patients was not encouraged here.

  Why was she so impatient with everyone lately?

  But she knew. Beneath the surface she knew. It was the unfairness of what she was about to be told by the doctor, of what the blood test would reveal. She’d suspected it for a while, and she was just so angry. It was stealing from her more than just her beloved Mr Darcy. It was stealing everything and it was shattering her heart.

  When Dr Singh arrived, fifty minutes later than promised, he sat down beside her bed, reading the notes he’d brought as though he’d never seen them before.

  ‘Ruptured Achilles tendon,’ he said, reminding himself.

  ‘Yes, I took a fall, apparently.’ He didn’t pick up on her dryness of tone.

  He told her the cast would have to remain on her ankle for six weeks. Surgery wasn’t advised because of her age, but with physiotherapy, which the hospital would arrange, her recovery should be complete. He also questioned her about her concussion symptoms and she assured him that she no longer felt any dizziness, headache or aversion to light, and that the only nausea she’d experienced was when looking at the alleged yoghurt they’d served her for breakfast. His questions were irksome, and the buzzing fog in her head was returning. Just cut to the chase.

  ‘Now, we also did a test for Toxoplasmosis pestis,’ he began.

  ‘I’m positive. I have it, right?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The symptoms you described last night seem relatively mild, which is good news.’ Winnie hadn’t told them about God, about how she couldn’t pray to Him. Being an idiot and raiding Tricia’s garden was one thing, but her relationship with God was her own business.

  ‘Some people find the symptoms quite challenging. If yours become more severe, I would advise you to consult your GP.’

  ‘Will she be able to do anything about it? Cure it?’

  ‘No, not as yet. There are anti-depressants, of course, which can assist …’

  ‘There we are, then,’ said Winnie. ‘So can I phone my son to come and get me now? Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, no. That’s all. I’ll write up the discharge summary and a letter for your doctor for follow-up. I’m sorry, Winnie. You do have my sympathy.’ Judging by his expression, it wasn’t sympathy but pity, and she didn’t want it.

  After he’d left, Winnie became conscious of a murmuring from the bed next to her. Her neighbour was on the phone, trying to avoid being overheard.

  ‘I know! That’s what I thought!’ she
was hissing. ‘What if they didn’t wash their hands properly after touching her? They took her her breakfast before they brought me mine, and I didn’t see them use that sanitising stuff …’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ muttered Winnie, not concerned if the woman heard her. Angrily, she texted Richard, telling him they were letting her out.

  He arrived just as she was given her discharge papers and meds, and settled her into the wheelchair. As they passed the curtain to the ward’s other bed, she told him to stop. She wrenched the curtain aside and there, propped up on her cushions, was her neighbour wearing a frilly pink bed-jacket.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, bestowing on the woman her best Tricia simper. ‘Just want to tell you: you snore like a walrus. It’s disgusting. You might want to do something about that.’

  The woman gaped at her in shock.

  ‘Come on, Richard,’ Winnie told her startled son. ‘Let’s get out of here.

  Now she was ensconced at Cowan.

  Winnie hated having to depend on Richard and Charlie’s kindness, but acknowledged she had no practical choice. Her lot, for the time being, was pain, dependence and frustration.

  She would be spending much of her time there alone during the day, with Richard upstairs in his studio for hours on end, and Charlie at the university. The solitude she welcomed, as she did the opportunity to hobble about and explore the old house, the house of her childhood. Her father had built it in 1947, soon after being demobbed. His had been one of the few houses in Cowan at the time, accessed from the railway station by little more than a dirt track. Sprawling and almost gothic in its extravagant design, the ornate, weatherboard structure with its turrets and too many gables was essentially a folly, Winnie had realised once she grew up. Her father had clearly been quite an eccentric, something she’d been oblivious to, as children are. For a child growing up in the sixties, the house was a marvel, with its maze of corridors, hidey-holes, hidden doors, a cellar, and an attic full of shadows and mystery. Days were spent fossicking in the bush, collecting tadpoles from the creek, and catching cicadas and trading them with the other local kids for whom the endless bushland was an extended backyard.