‘Break time, lads.’
This news was greeted with a limp cheer, the usually welcome prospect of milky tea and custard creams dampened by incessant rain which had welded thick cotton work trousers to their legs and forged rivulets along every contour of their bodies.
Pete wondered idly whether it was possible to get trench foot in a twelve-hour shift. He was only halfway through and the waterproofing on his boots had already failed. His feet were swimming in a cocktail of rainwater and sweat. He made his way to the Portakabin, jumping awkwardly over deep puddles and dodging the rutted remains of the property’s garden, which was well on its way to becoming a quagmire. On reflection, he wondered whether he preferred being baked alive to being dissolved.
But he was not going back. James, never the understanding type, had put pressure on him to return to Qatar. James had his family there with him and so he had no idea what it was like to live on a separate continent from those you loved. It was then Pete had seen red; his family came before everything, even money. And the money wasn’t even that good now. These were difficult times, world-wide, and work was drying up a little in the Gulf.
He had yet to tell Louise about it – and the inevitable impact on their finances – but they’d manage. They had to, because he could never leave her on her own for that long again, that was clear. Anyhow, short-term gigs like this one paid well enough, particularly if you were prepared to work long days and weekends, and he was fine with that. And he hated his digs, so it was a relief to be out.
His brother, Steve, had offered to put him up at his place, but he couldn’t face it. He’d also offered him work for the family firm, the one he’d learned his trade in. Their uncle’s building business, once a small family-run enterprise, was now a major force in the West Midlands, with Steve at its helm. Pete was grateful for the offer, but reluctant to take a wage from a firm he should, by rights, have been co-director of. It felt like admitting failure. Moving to Oxfordshire all those years ago so that Lou could be back near her family had cost him dearly. He had never replicated his uncle’s success, never striven to be his own boss. Now here he was, near retirement with just a suntan, what seemed like an impending divorce, and a pokey semi-detached to show for it. More fool him.
The windows of the Portakabin were rendered opaque by steam, and when he opened the door, he was greeted by a wave of damp, warm air that reeked of cigarettes, Lynx deodorant, and fart. His colleagues, a random collection of temporary itinerant labourers working for cash, were huddled next to an oil-filled radiator in the corner of the room, perched on orange plastic chairs, cradling steaming mugs of tea. He went over to the urn and made himself a cup, before pulling up a chair to join them. To his left, Marek – a recent recruit – had laid out one of the tabloid newspapers the foreman had bought on a small, upturned box in front of him. He was checking out the racing news from the day before. The men loved to gamble, sometimes en masse, on payday. Minutes later, he shut the paper with some force – the result was obviously not to his benefit – and stood up and marched over in search of more biscuits.
Not in the mood for conversation, Pete picked up the paper and began to read. It was the local rag, a publication that was at least 70 per cent advertising and what little news there was came largely, he suspected, from press releases. He flicked through the well-worn content: local primary school holds art contest; animal sanctuary seeks sponsorship; police call-out for witnesses to a hit-and-run. He took a deep breath and closed it, looking for the first time at the front page as he did so. What he saw there caused a surge of adrenaline which drove him out of his seat and back into the rain, his sodden feet forgotten.
*
‘Eliza! Thank God you picked up.’
‘Dad?’
‘We need to talk, Eliza. Do you have a minute? Can we video chat?’
‘I’m at work, Dad. Is it urgent?’
‘Yes, Eliza, it is.’ Pete heard a shuffling noise, as Eliza pushed her chair back and began to walk away from her desk.
‘OK, I’ll call you back in just a second.’
Pete turned his car ignition so that he could turn on the heater and waited, his fingers strumming a belligerent beat on his steering wheel.
The video ring tone rang out from his phone and he picked it up.
‘Eliza.’
His daughter appeared to be standing in a stair well.
‘Hi, Dad. What’s up? Is it Mum? Patience?’ Eliza had dark circles under her eyes. She looks tired, he thought.
‘No. Yes. Sort of. It’s about the trial.’
‘I told you, I’ve got to be independent. I’m not taking sides. I can’t take sides. I’ve told Mum the same thing.’ She was now leaning against the wall behind her, a look of resignation on her face.
‘I know, I know. That’s not it. It’s not about that. It’s about the trial itself. It’s in the paper.’
‘What’s in the paper?’
‘The local rag’s done some actual journalism. They’ve looked into that guy who’s running the trial, Professor Larssen, and guess what? The funding for his trial is dodgy. Big pharma, corruption – all that stuff.’
‘Hang on, Dad, back up. What does it actually say?’
Pete grabbed the paper, which had been lying on the passenger seat, and began to read while balancing the phone on his lap.
‘The Bugle can exclusively reveal that Professor Philip Larssen, a world-renowned geneticist who’s currently leading a ground-breaking gene therapy trial in Birmingham, is being investigated over alleged malpractice concerning a previous research project.
‘Sources close to the eminent scientist have told The Bugle that Prof. Larssen has questions to answer about a source of funding for a recent trial of the drug Curlinapam, which is currently being considered as a treatment for Huntingdon’s disease.’
‘Where was the funding from, Dad?’
‘Some of it came from a dodgy Russian pharmaceutical firm, apparently, but it wasn’t disclosed. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been allowed to do the trial.’
Pete put the paper back down and held the phone up in front of his face once more, so he could see Eliza’s expression. Both her eyebrows were raised.
‘What makes them dodgy?’
‘It says here that they apparently aren’t that keen on being honest about side effects.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t you understand? It means that we can’t trust this man.’ Pete had now begun to gesticulate wildly with his free hand. ‘We can’t allow him to experiment on Patience. We have to stop it!’
‘How certain are you that the story is correct? I work in PR and I know how journalists work – there may be another side to this.’
‘Eliza, this man is out to make money. All of this stuff about making people’s lives better’ – Pete accidentally knocked his phone out of his hand, but kept talking as he rifled around in the footwell in his efforts to retrieve it – ‘of helping Rett sufferers to throw away their wheelchairs and walk – it’s rubbish. He just wants the cash.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘Fine. I’ll take a picture of this and send it to you. And then, you have a think. Seriously. I know you want to be independent, but seriously, before you sign her life away, you need to read this.’
Pete located the phone under his left foot and lifted it back up triumphantly.
‘OK, Dad, I get it.’
‘So you won’t sign it?’
‘I’m not saying that. I’m going to go and see Mum first. See what she has to say about it.’
‘She’s brainwashed, pet. And not in her right state of mind. You know that as well as I do.’
Pete suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. He put the phone down on the seat next to him and put his head in his hands.
‘Dad? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘I’m sorry. About being made to take sides. I do love you, you know.’
‘I know, pet. Just keep an open mind, Eliza. It’s never too late.’