‘That’s really good news,’ I finally respond. Truth is, I want to get out of here to get to Sugar’s.
Janice Baker levels her perceptive, professional gaze on me. ‘Are you OK? You look tired, washed out.’ She clucks her tongue with irritation. ‘You were meant to use this time to recharge, refresh and rest.’
Rest? I clamp my lips together to stop the manic laughter that’s fighting to get out. I haven’t had a lick of rest since I last left this office.
She considers me closely. ‘I hope I’m not losing you, Eva.’
‘No,’ shoots out. Well, I think I mean no. I tell my manager straight, ‘I’m at a bit of a crossroads where . . .’
Where what? Desperately, trying to pin down the right words, my eyes roam over the framed photos on the wall that celebrate Janice’s life in the medical profession. My gaze slams into one of the pictures. Am I seeing things? Have I become so obsessed trying to find the truth that certain words are stalking me? I don’t even remember getting to my feet.
‘Eva?’ Janice’s voice sounds like it’s underwater.
A photo draws me forward. It’s a much younger Janice wearing an old-style doctor’s white coat shaking the hand of a much older man. On her coat, stitched in red letters, is the name Pretty Lanes.
I tap the glass of the picture frame. ‘Are you part of this?’ I say, in disbelief.
‘Part of what?’ Her question is innocent enough, but her face is a completely different story. Her usual robust colour is gone and her features appear frozen.
This can’t be true. No! No! No! The word keeps banging around inside the crumbling walls of my mind. Janice? My medical mentor? I stagger, only stopping when my back hits the wall.
‘Eva?’
She’s standing in front of me, her face wreathed with concern. Her colourless lips move, but nothing comes out. In that moment I see what she’s taken every care to conceal behind her efficient manager’s mask and foundation make-up; the permanent line of tension that delicately shapes her brow, the deep groove beneath eyes that rarely sleep.
Using my palms against the wall I slide away from her. ‘What exactly is Pretty Lanes?’
I know she wants me to sit down, but I won’t do it. There’s no time for manners and civilised conversation here.
Janice sits down anyway. She runs her palms over her skirt. ‘They were a medical research company specialising in testing new drugs. They deliberately chose Pretty Lanes as their name because it made them sound like a slice of the countryside and as far away from the clinical operations of the pharma world as possible.’
Medicine is my profession, and the arrival of a revolutionary new drug is always welcome. That’s one of the reasons I work in the asthma clinic because the drug we use has changed lives. I suspect the tale Janice will tell is going to shatter my belief in the system I am a part of.
‘And you worked for them in the old medical block?’ She nods. ‘When?’
‘Do you know how hard it was for females to get a foothold in certain fields of the medical profession back then?’ A rush of anger coats every word. ‘I needed experience, but the old boys’ network was at work.’ The anger disappears. ‘Then Pretty Lanes came along.’
I allow her to speak. ‘They were willing to take a chance on me when others had slammed the door in my face. I snatched the opportunity with both hands.’ Her gaze flicks up, sparky and bright. ‘You may not understand, but those were exciting times. We were trailblazers, discovering new ways to tackle disease, to prolong human life.’
‘Was Pretty Lanes part of the hospital?’
Janice shakes her head. ‘They leased the top floor of the hospital block. The only people at the hospital who would have known about Pretty Lanes were the directors. Even senior managers weren’t privy to its existence. The staff of the psychiatric hospital were told to not interfere with what was going on upstairs.’
‘How were these drugs tested?’
Her eyes fall to her desk. ‘There was animal testing back then, which you know I’ve abhorred for many years.’
‘Did Pretty Lanes also test drugs on people?’
There’s a pause before, ‘There were a few drugs where the long-term impact could only be measured on humans, so a volunteer programme was put in place.’
‘How did you find these volunteers?’
‘Mainly universities, colleges – Pretty Lanes advertised in places where you’d find young people who could do with the extra cash.’