The Fifth Room Read online

  At the bunker, we will each be given access to labs and surgical theatres that even the most prestigious hospitals in the world can only dream of. There we will do what we’ve been planning for so long—our experiments tuned to the finest detail.

  All of these details had been spelled out clearly, in dot points, on my application to self-experiment form. As was the fact that if I experimented, I would then be liable to pay five per cent of my income to the Society for evermore. This is how the Society can afford its unrivalled facilities. How it can afford to look after its own.

  I focus on the woman again now. Is she kidding me? All right? I’m better than all right. I’m ecstatic.

  ‘Um, I’m great, thanks. Fantastic. Never better,’ I say. Perhaps slightly maniacally, because she then scurries off to her seat without another word.

  I watch her go, half wondering if I’m still dreaming. But it is. It’s really happening. The self-experimentation that could make, or break, my entire medical career.

  Whatever my dad wants, it doesn’t matter.

  Because this is it. Really it.

  I’ve been chosen.

  ‘I still don’t get what the occasion is …’

  We’re sitting in the Grill at the Dorchester, ensconced in plush butterscotch leather seats, a beautiful Murano glass chandelier sparkling above our heads, chatter that isn’t ours filling the room. We’ve managed to hold out until dessert to get down to the real reason we’re here today.

  ‘No occasion,’ my dad says, taking another bite of his marmalade cheesecake. ‘Do we need an occasion?’

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice hesitant. This is all a bit strange. At home we’d be more likely to pick up some sushi or call for pizza and eat in front of the TV. It’s too weird eating out in my dad’s college town. It’s difficult to eat a burger with his students watching us or coming up to the table. I can always tell they idolise Professor Eastman and truly enjoy being taught anatomy by him, which I love seeing, but it does make it a bit hard to swallow your fries.

  He sighs and puts his fork down slowly on his plate. ‘Fine. There is something I wanted to say.’

  ‘Aha!’ I point my spoon at him, chocolatey from my soufflé. ‘I knew it.’

  Behind us, several voices pick up as someone joins a group and I turn in my seat momentarily to look at them. A few tables over, I spot someone. It’s the man in the suit. The one who’d been looking at me on the train when the woman had checked in on me.

  ‘What is it?’ my dad asks.

  ‘What?’ I turn back. ‘Oh, nothing.’ Surely it’s just a coincidence. ‘What’s so serious you have to tell me in person?’ I try to act casual and dig back into my dessert as I speak. But when he doesn’t answer me immediately, I stop what I’m doing and look up. His expression is intense as he stares at me. I forget my food then and slowly place my spoon down on my plate.

  ‘It’s just occurred to me that summer break is coming.’

  ‘Yes.’ After being asked to experiment, I’d wondered about what to tell my dad I was doing over the summer. I was considering something he’d probably believe—that I’ve been invited to a symposium in Frankfurt. I’m pretty much free to come and go as I like during breaks. He doesn’t tend to ask many questions, which makes me think I really need to get a better social life. Or even a social life.

  It’s no great surprise to me that he doesn’t ask too many questions when it comes to where I am and what I’m doing. It’s the same for lots of my friends. Even though I’m only seventeen, he’s used to me living away from home and being independent. Like many other students I know, we’ve been away from home for long periods of time from a young age. At gifted and talented camps, at symposiums and workshops and then accelerated high school programs or early entry into college or university. For most of us, as long as we keep performing, no one at home asks too many questions. But then again, as far as I’m aware, so far no one’s really had much to lie about either.

  Well, at least I didn’t until I was asked to join the Society.

  I scrutinise my father’s face as he weighs up his words. He’s always been like this. Considered. Cautious. Suddenly, I spot something in his expression and, just like that, I have my answer.

  He is a member.

  I know it for a fact without him saying a word or giving me the secret handshake (there is no secret handshake).

  He’s a member and he knows the youth stream usually experiments over the summer break. He knows I’ve been invited. Or he’s guessed.

  My mouth opens and then I close it again. I could never come right out and ask him about the Society, of course. It’s funny, but it’s kind of like Fight Club—the first rule of the Society is that you don’t talk about the Society. Sadly, that’s where the comparison ends—I’m pretty sure Brad Pitt isn’t involved in any way. It doesn’t worry me too much that I can’t ask him though. Dad and I have always been good at not talking about lots of things.

  Like my mother.

  I’d never been sure about my dad’s membership status, but as soon as the Society invited me to join its ranks, I knew in my bones that my mother had been a member. Her specialty had been infectious diseases and, within it, she was famous for her research into malaria. She lived and breathed her work. So much so it wasn’t fairy tales I was told at bedtime, but stories of self-experimentation. Tales of yellow fever and decompression, spinal anaesthesia and hookworm. Yes, hookworm. I’d loved it. Soaked it up. Dreamed sweet dreams of achieving similar feats of medical discovery.

  Now I look across the table and see the man sitting before me as not my father, but as a fellow member of the Society. I really see him. His hair, greying with dignity. His navy blue suit that he’s already spilled something on. Wait. An established member of the Society shouldn’t be wearing that suit. I turn back into a daughter then—I should take him out to Savile Row after this and help him choose a new one while he’s in London.

  He clears his throat. ‘I’m not entirely sure how to put this, because you always do what you want anyway.’

  This is true enough. He notices my gaze distractedly turning to that spot of marmalade on his tie, then looks down and sighs, mopping it up with his napkin.

  ‘But I want you to listen to me,’ he continues. ‘Really listen to me. Because while you think we’re so very different, with age comes experience, and I have experienced things that you, my child, have not.’

  I can’t argue with this, so, for once, I don’t.

  ‘I wanted to see you today to remind you about the difference between this.’ He reaches down and touches his stomach. ‘And this.’ He touches his head. ‘I want to tell you how important it is in life to distinguish between the two when you’re making decisions. About how you will make better decisions if you can be guided by your gut—by your true self—and not attempt to make choices dependent on who you think you should be, or who you think others think you should be.’

  I nod. Okay.

  He sighs again now as he stares back at me. ‘It’s useless. I knew it would be. There are things in life that are simply learned. That can’t be taught, or told to you.’

  ‘No, I’m listening.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not hearing me, which is something else entirely.’

  ‘I …’ I begin to argue, but my dad stops me, leaning forward over the table.

  ‘Miri, it would be unwise of me to say too much for both our sakes, but I will say this: there are things I used to be involved in—that I used to believe in—that I am no longer involved in or believe in. If you proceed with your current course, there are things I cannot help you with. Matters in which I would be more of a hindrance to you than a help if you were to call upon me. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  In front of me, my dad comes into focus more clearly than he ever has before, the background noise of the restaurant fading. I see and hear only him. So, now I know the whole truth. My dad used to be part of the Society. And now he is not. He, unlike me, is a member no mo
re. But why? Because of my mother? Maybe the lab fire she’d died in in Kenya had been part of her self-experimentation with the Society.

  My eyes search his for clues. I get why he’s concerned, but the point of going to the bunker to experiment is that everything will be controlled. We’ll be in good hands.

  ‘Do you understand?’ he repeats, when I don’t answer fast enough.

  I nod quickly, my lunch now churning in my stomach.

  He leans forward a little more again, his gaze intent on mine. ‘It’s your life to live, my girl, but I’ll tell you one thing I learned the hard way. In my youth, I quite firmly believed that sometimes it was better to bend the rules of ethics in order to benefit our species. On that front, I’ve changed my mind completely.’ He sits back then. ‘And that said, we won’t talk any more about it. Now, tell me, how’s the soufflé?’

  FOUR WEEKS UNTIL EXPERIMENTATION

  I think of my father’s words as I cross the floor of the café in Vienna. That lunch had made me nervous, and I’d spent a lot of time in the lead up to my flight trying to work out why he’d said what he’d said. I’d also tried to remember more from the past. Tried to figure out when he’d been a member of the Society. When he’d left.

  I’d come up with very little.

  ‘You must be Miri.’ A man stands at the table I’ve been directed to and offers me his hand. He’s young and American and a bit dishevelled, with a creased shirt. ‘I’m Marcus, your supervisor.’ Maybe I look confused for a second, because he continues. ‘Did you expect someone older? A suit maybe? We’re not like that. Not at all. We’re all quite informal. Except when it comes to our work.’

  I smile, my face taut, trying not to show how overwhelmed I’m feeling. ‘It’s great to meet you, Marcus,’ I say. I turn to the waiter, who has pulled my chair out for me, my coat and carry-on having been taken at the door. ‘Thanks,’ I tell him. As I sit down, I can’t help but stare at the other two people already sitting at the table.

  ‘This is Lauren and Andrew.’ Marcus introduces me.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  They nod back at me, sizing me up, almost like I could be dangerous—as if this is some kind of fight-to-the-death reality TV show and I might whip out a dagger and take them out of the running immediately. I’d overheard them talking to Marcus on my approach and now I try to guess where they’re from. Andrew is tall and handsome in his linen shirt and white T-shirt. He’s Chinese. Lauren is Slavic—Czech? Romanian? Hungarian? I’m not sure. Her large brown eyes don’t miss a thing and they don’t stop moving for a moment, taking in every aspect of the room. She might be small, but she’s the one to watch. I can already tell.

  Wherever they’re from and whichever country they’re studying in, something is telling me that ‘Lauren’ and ‘Andrew’ have opted not to disclose their real names, because they seem to wear them uncomfortably. There’d been a short questionnaire that I’d had to fill in online that asked me if I wanted to use my real first name. I’d thought about it for a few hours and decided not to change. I’m not ashamed of what I’m doing and my research isn’t even that out there, or controversial. I can’t see why anyone would want to track me down. And if they did, they’d be thrown out of the Society, wouldn’t they?

  Like I should already be.

  ‘I was just telling Lauren and Andrew that the cakes here are magnificent. Especially the Sachertorte,’ Marcus says to me.

  ‘Oh,’ I reply. That’s me. One of the great conversationalists of our time.

  At that moment, someone in the café drops a fork onto their plate and I jump, swivelling to inspect my surroundings. I’d been so intent on getting to the table that I haven’t really taken in the café until now. It’s full of marble pillars polished to a high sheen leading to sweeping arches above. Warm lights hang down, glowing yellow and creating a cosy atmosphere. Tourists peruse the glass cabinets, oohing, ahhing and pointing to the cakes on offer. When I finally turn back to the table, I attempt a tight smile at both Lauren and Andrew, but they don’t smile back at me—the competition. I wonder how old they are and what their experiment is. How dangerous it might be. And, of course, who will win the prize of $500,000 for the best research.

  I really don’t know.

  But one thing I do know for sure—we’re all here for the same reason. For the same reason everyone joins the Society when they’re asked. In the quest for knowledge. To be able to go beyond the ethical boundaries of modern medicine. Because that is the problem in this day and age. It’s slow and difficult to research now. The ethics committees and the red tape of our modern risk-averse society see to this. There are no more Marie and Pierre Curies, Ralph Steinmans, or Barry Marshalls—all self-experimenters and Nobel Prize winners—all the people my mother told me about before she kissed me goodnight as a child. There are no stories like that any more. How can there be when it now takes new drugs twice as long to reach the market compared to decades ago? This is why the Society was formed: to enable us to self-experiment in quiet and to provide the virtually unlimited funds for us to do so. To further medicine faster.

  Apparently the Society has been particularly aggressive when it comes to recruiting for their youth program during the last decade. It makes sense, I suppose. They want to hook us in while we’re young and see what we’re up for—find the risk-takers who are willing to push the limits of research. They want the next Werner Forssmann.

  I look around the table now, wondering if one of us here is anything like Werner Forssmann. If we have what it takes. If we would be willing to do something as crazy as passing a tube directly into our own hearts, as he did in the 1930s. Are any of us as obsessed? As driven as he was? Because he was obsessed—obsessed with the idea of being able to deliver drugs to the heart faster and with accessing the heart without opening the chest. His superior forbade him from doing his experiment on himself and he did it anyway, cutting into his own elbow and passing a thin tube up a large vein and into his shoulder. Then he found an X-ray technician who helped him guide the tube into his own heart, physically kicking away people who tried to stop him. He could have died on the spot. But he didn’t. And heart surgery owes him an amazing debt for his efforts.

  Could I do that? Could I go as far as he did?

  The Society hopes so.

  It sounds crazy, I know. We’re minors. Or some of us are. But you don’t get invited to join the Society if you’re the kind of person who’s interested in permission slips. Something tells me Werner wasn’t into them.

  All of us sitting here at this table have most likely been watched and vetted for some time. I’d often wondered who was watching me at school. Who decided I should be asked to join. When I was invited, I was just months into the Thirty. Attached to such a prestigious college and hospital, I could have been singled out by any number of professors.

  No doubt all of us at this table have been on the Society’s radar for some time. Now here we are. We’ve made it. Our careers, care of the Society and its members, will be smooth and guaranteed. Limitless.

  Trying to still my shaking hands, I go to take a sip of the water sitting in front of me on the table. With spectacularly bad timing, another waiter is placing a piece of cake before me and the glass hits the plate and water sloshes out over the side.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Marcus tells me, leaning over to put a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s only water. Take a deep breath.’

  I do as he says, my cheeks hot. I’m not usually the type to knock things over. Of all the times and the places to look clumsy …

  The waiter has the spill mopped up in a second and it seems my cake is fine, because he places it before me with a flourish. ‘And now all is right with the world for we have cake,’ he tells me with a wink, and is gone.

  If only that were true.

  Hoping my cheeks are losing their colour, I focus in on my cake. It’s exquisite. A small rectangle of layered hazelnut cake and cream. On top, perfectly balance
d, is a thin piece of chocolate with a picture transferred upon it—it’s Klimt’s The kiss. That lovers’ embrace of intertwined bodies, their robes forever keeping the world at bay. Gold leaf has been used to decorate the artwork. It’s too beautiful to eat even if I could stomach it.

  I look across the table to see two exquisite macarons sandwiched with fresh raspberries now sitting in front of Lauren, and some sort of molten chocolate concoction in front of Andrew that looks as if it has just erupted on his plate in gooey splendour.

  Marcus has only a short black coffee before him. ‘Please, eat. We don’t have much time before we move on. And we’re not all here yet …’

  The three of us glance at each other with this, wondering who else will arrive. Of course Marcus is right. There should be six of us at this table. Five self-experimenters and our cell supervisor. I lick my dry lips and stare down at my cake again for something to do.

  ‘Eat!’ Marcus tells us. ‘Look happy! You’re in Vienna. You’ve been selected.’

  The three of us nod, but I notice not one of us touches our food. Instead, our eyes scan the doorway.

  Marcus waves to someone in the distance. ‘Ah, here he is.’

  When I see him, I almost stand, I’m so shocked.

  It can’t be.

  It can’t be, but it is. Thick blond hair swept to the right, the same black thick-framed glasses with the mahogany arms.

  I look away for a moment attempting to centre myself and fail, my whole body tensing. I have to act as if I don’t know this person. Intimately. Know everything about him. Every nook, every cranny, every crease of his brow and flicker of his eyebrow. How his eyes become a more intense green when he’s angry. Or when he kisses me.