A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE

By Robert Ennever

Doctor James Sanders, a molecular scientist, has developed a revolutionary medication which
relieves the crippling pain and disability caused by Rheumatoid Arthritis.

Foreseeing enorm

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publicious Book Publishing
• Release date: May 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9780995362192

Robert Ennever

Rob Ennever was born in Sydney, Australia in 1933. He attended North Sydney Boys' High School and graduated as a pharmacist from Sydney University in 1954. After marrying his childhood sweetheart he opened a number of successful pharmacies on the North Shore and Northern Beaches of Sydney, inaugurating Chambers of Commerce and Merchants' Associations in the process. The birth of a son and daughter during this time added to his happy life. An inveterate seeker of new challenges, at forty-nine Rob sold his pharmacies, to become a property developer and student of Mid-Eastern History and the Italian language. Then came the call of the land, when he devoted his time and energy to farming a fifteen hundred acre cattle and wheat property in the Cowra region of New South Wales, down-sizing nine years later to start Australia's first 'Goosey Gander Geese' farm, along with a Tukidale carpet-wool sheep stud, on three hundred acres in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales. In her mid-fifties Rob's wife developed a progressive degenerative neurological disorder and he became her full-time carer until finally she had to be admitted to a Nursing Home when he served as a Community Representative on the Division of General Practice. It was during this time Rob developed a love of writing. It provided him with a degree of escape from the reality of the shattering of their life together. Over this period he wrote five novels in total, including Anna's Story which speaks of his wife's tragic terminal illness and its impact on their lives. Fee-Jee, the Cannibal Islands, Sinclair's Retreat, The Chaos Vortex, Sardinia, the Brotherhood of Orso and Anna's Story were all penned in the early hours while his wife slept. In 2009 Rob remarried and continued to live on his mountain-top at Mittagong, New South Wales with his second wife Trish until 2015, when they moved into the township of Bowral. His passion for the land and large scale gardening has now been replaced with a passion for leisurely walks into the village for morning cappuccinos! He still teaches Italian, travels extensively and is involved more than ever with his writing. His latest works are 'Loveridge...and they call this Progress?', an attempt to express his concerns about some aspects of modern life, and 'Mending Michael' which deals with the ongoing traumas suffered by war veterans and the effect these can have on those who share their lives.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

2019

Newlife Hospital, Sydney.

The lighting in the ward was subdued, the heavy breathing of sleeping patients the only sound. White privacy curtains, ghost-like in the gloom, hung about each bed. The barely discernible smell of antiseptic confirmed this to be a hospital.

Beverly Brownlow sat at the Nurses’ Station and opened the book she had been reading whenever she had a chance. Brief paragraphs, snatched between feeding, toileting and bedding down her charges, did little for the story’s continuity but broke the monotony of the long night shift. As a newcomer to the hospital staff Beverly had drawn the short straw more often than she would have wished. But now, everyone settled safely, she could relax and try to pick up the thread of her Mills and Boone romance. Her eyes were heavy as she located the page and tried to focus. Soon her head slumped to her chest.

The thud of the book dropping to the floor woke her from her nap.

Gosh! I must have dozed off. She bent to retrieve it. That was when she heard the groan. I wonder who that is? She tilted her ear to one side and listened.

There it is again. I’d better check. Picking up the novel, Beverly marked her place and left it on the desk. The groans were growing louder and more frequent. She clicked on her torch, walked along the row of beds, and began to check each patient, taking care not to shine the beam onto the faces.

Mustn’t disturb them! Not unless I want to spend the rest of the night getting them settled again!

She was nearing the source of the groans when the probing torchlight revealed a middle-aged woman tearing at her throat and gasping for breath.

‘Oh? My God!’ Beverly raced to the red Emergency button, pressed it and looked for the Epipen stored in the desk drawer. Already she could hear hurried footsteps approaching along the corridor.

Should I administer the epinephrine injection immediately? Or should I wait a moment until the doctor arrives? Indecisive, she hesitated.

The door burst open. Derek Johnston, the Resident on duty, strode in, saw the Epipen in Beverly’s hand and asked, ‘Anaphylaxis? Have you used the injection?’

‘No. Not yet. I heard you coming and thought it better to wait.’

‘Good girl! First, let’s see what the problem is.’ He reached for the charts attached to the foot of the bed, studied them briefly, took out his stethoscope and listened to the patient’s heart.

‘Weak heartbeat, rapid pulse.’ He signalled to the two orderlies. ‘Get her to Emergency now! Advise the Registrar on duty we have an acute cardiac arrest!’ Then, turning to Beverly, he asked, ‘When was she admitted? Is she with anyone? He was scanning the chart. ‘It says here Maisie Shepherd was admitted suffering acute kidney and liver disfunction. It might be as well to contact her next of kin. I’m not optimistic.’

Walking alongside the bed as it was wheeled to the Emergency Department, Dr Johnston leant closer to the patient. ‘Maisie? Can you hear me? What have you been eating? Crustaceans? Mangoes? Strawberries? Peanuts? Are you on medication?’

Writhing under the sheet, eyes bulging with fright, Maisie was unable to reply.

Registrar Keith Sutcliffe was waiting as they wheeled the patient in. ‘Open your mouth. I need to check for swelling of the tongue or constriction of the throat.’ Holding her mouth open he depressed the tongue. ‘No, no sign of anaphylaxis. How was her blood pressure?’

‘We didn’t wait to check but I suspect hypotension,’ Derek Johnston explained.

‘Well, let’s not suspect anything. Please take her blood pressure now.’

Derek obliged. ‘Seventy over thirty-five. Pulse rate one hundred twenty-six.’

‘Your suspicion was correct. Extremely low pressure. Pulse rate too high. My guess is atrial fibrillation.’ The Registrar was incisive. ‘Nurse Bishop, link Maisie to the defibrillator and the electro-cardiograph. Derek, administer adrenaline by intramuscular injection and begin cardio-pulmonary resuscitation!’

He addressed Beverly. ‘Nurse Brownlow! There’s a name on the chart for this woman’s next-of-kin. Please contact him or her at once. Tell them it’s urgent!’

‘Her husband’s been waiting outside. Shall I get him?’

‘Please. But insist he keeps out of the way.’

Harry Shepherd was upset and as uncomfortable as a fish out of water when ushered into the theatre. Anxious to help, he became garrulous the moment he was asked a question. Registrar Sutcliffe cut him short.

‘We don’t need your family history, Mr Shepherd, just your wife’s. It says here on her report she’s not on any medication?’

‘No. Fit as a flea, my Maisie. Doesn’t hold with all this pill-taking!’

‘No aches and pains? Anxiety? Trouble sleeping?’ Keith Sutcliffe lowered his voice, two men sharing a confidence. ‘How about the contraceptive pill?’

‘No, Doc. She stopped that because she said it made her breasts sore. The Missus insists I use a condom.’ He gave an embarrassed titter. ‘Not that I need one very often. But I sometimes get lucky!’ Unaware nobody was interested in his sex-life, Harry continued with a topic very close to his heart. ‘She says it’s her ‘arthur-itis’ what causes her a few problems. When we’re at it, if you get what I mean. She volunteered to take part in a survey. Said it was just to please me! If you want to know what I think—’

‘Get away! For god’s sake get this idiot out of the way!’ The Registrar stood by the apparatus, ready to generate the electric current required to stimulate Maisie’s heart into rhythm.

An orderly pulled the anxious husband back from the bed. Registrar Sutcliffe pushed the button. The unconscious woman stiffened, jerked against the straps holding her down, The noise of teeth grinding prompted a nurse to insert a mouthguard.

Derek Johnston interrupted. ‘The patient isn’t responding, Sir.’

‘I’ll try again! Decrease the interval between shocks. Raise the voltage! Everyone stand clear!’

The Registrar re-activated the machine. Maisie’s body went rigid, developed muscular spasms. But the heart did not respond.

‘Shit! She’s stopped breathing! Up the voltage again! …Stand Clear!’

But Harry Shepherd did not move. White faced, disbelief causing a puzzled frown, he was frozen to the spot. ‘You’re killing her! You’re fuckin’ killing my wife!’

‘Someone get him out of here! I’ll give it another go.’

This time the convulsions were even more severe. Maisie’s face contorted, her back arched so it appeared the spine would break.

Keith Sutcliffe turned to Derek Johnston. ‘What’s the electrocardiogram showing? Should I give it another go?’

The grim Resident shook his head. ‘Waste of time. The ECG’s bloody flat-lining.’ He held a piece of polished steel against the patient’s nose and mouth. It showed no condensation so he felt for a pulse. There was none. Defeated, he looked around the room. ‘We’ve lost her,’ he announced bitterly. His voice rose as his frustration mounted. ‘We’ve bloody lost her!’

Harry Shepherd had halted at the doorway, resisting the orderly’s efforts to remove him from the theatre. Now he wrenched himself free of the man’s grasp and burst back into the room.

Cradling his wife’s head in his arms, he rocked it back and forth, all the while keening with grief. ‘What have they done to you, Luv? What have the fucking bastards done?’

Registrar Sutcliffe drew an orderly aside and whispered. ‘See if the Grief Counsellor’s got a minute. Tell him we have a devastated husband here who needs help.’

But, soft as his words were, Harry overheard. ‘Will talking to me bring my Maisie back? If not, you’re wasting your sweet talk and my time.’ The sobs he had held back were now unleashed and he wept, unabashed.

One by one the medical staff vacated the room, and Harry was left to kneel by his dead wife and keep vigil over her body.

………………..

CHAPTER 1

2020

Sydney.

James Sanders was angry. Not a blatant, all-consuming anger; not an explosive, destructive anger. Rather a smouldering rage which fed on itself over time; a contained fury which would neither consider any attempt at reconciliation, nor brook any appeasement.

Betrayed by the world’s injustices, thwarted by the lack of a target and unable to wreak vengeance, this anger transformed into hate, and this hate sought a focus.

‘I’m going for a breath of fresh air,’ he announced. ‘I need to let off steam or I’ll—’

‘I’m just about to serve dinner. Don’t go now!’ Yvonne called. Despite a difficult day at the office, his wife had gone to trouble preparing the meal.

Bugger dinner! The first mouthful would make me spew! His jaw jutted in belligerent defiance. He refused to answer, stalked to the vestibule and stumbled against their much-prized hat-stand. It wobbled, then crashed to the floor.

James lost it. Frustrated, he lashed out, stamping on the expensive antique, relishing the sound of the splintering timber.

‘What was that?’ Where are you off to?’ Yvonne’s voice was shrill. ‘Dinner will get cold.’ She shook her head in annoyance. What’s got into him? He’s in a frightful mood. Covering his plate with a sheet of foil she gave a resigned sigh. Why bother trying to keep it warm. Who knows when he’ll be back?

Fuck the dinner, Fuck the politicians! Fuck every goddamn thing in this corrupt cesspit of a world! I’m out of here. James surveyed the wreckage and experienced a momentary gratification.

The front door slammed behind him as he stormed out.

………………..

CHAPTER 2

2000

The Science Faculty, Sydney University.

The newly graduated young man sat waiting in an outer office, his B.Sc.Hons. Degree protected in a manila folder. He had been there over two hours and nerves were getting to him.

I was so anxious not to be late I arrived an hour early for my interview!

‘James Sanders?’ The official peered over his spectacles and scanned the room. ‘James Sanders?’ he repeated in a reed-thin voice.

‘Here!’ James sprang to his feet, startling the speaker.

‘If you would kindly follow me?’ The venerable gentleman led the way to a door and, opening it, announced, ‘Mr. Sanders, Dean. He’s here about a position in the Faculty.’

There was a chair at the large desk, opposite the Dean. James, unsure as to the correct procedure, went to sit, hesitated, and stood to attention.

The Dean looked him up and down. Shuffled some papers on his desk, failed to find what he was seeking, and enquired of his clerk, ‘And what position, exactly, is that, Jackson?’

The clerk’s face reddened. ‘I… er…. I’m afraid I’m not sure, Dean.’

The Dean addressed James, his exasperation obvious. ‘Perhaps you can help me, Mr…,’ he glanced at the note on his desk, ‘…Sanders. Why are you here?’

‘It was suggested that, as I lean towards scientific studies, university research might be a suitable job.…’ His voice tailed off. Awkward, unsure, he extracted the Honours Certificate from its folder and proffered it to his interrogator.

The Dean looked up from his cluttered desk. His eyes met James’. ‘Sit down, young man. For God’s sake sit yourself down! You’re not a damn sentry on guard duty at Buckingham Palace!’ His tone softened. ‘Tell me, who on earth sold you on the idea you could find a position at the University?’

‘My tutor last year. He said I had good brain and an aptitude for research. He said….’ James squirmed slightly with embarrassment and stayed ramrod-straight upright.

‘Yes? What did he say?’

‘He said the University, and especially the Science Faculty, could use some intelligent recruits!’

There was silence in the office. James waited for the reprimand he was sure would eventuate.

Instead, the Dean leaned back in his chair, chuckled ruefully and adopted a surprising confidentiality. ‘And you believe you fall into that category?’

Not waiting for a reply, he continued. ‘Well your informant was partially right.’ If one can have degrees of ‘rightness’, that is! He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his pedantry. ‘We could certainly use more hands on deck, but someone needs to tell that to the Government. Not that such a comment wouldn’t fall on deaf ears. We’re over budget even as we speak. We spend more time on how to reduce staff than on finding a cure for cancer! Cost-cutting is our number one priority.’

James had remained standing, but his shoulders drooped as the head of the faculty painted a gloomy picture. Noting the applicant’s dejection, Dean Jacobson added more sympathetically, ‘Not that that’s your concern. Eh, Mr. Sanders? No, not your concern!’

James, deciding his agreement was expected, was about to reply when the head’s fist thumped loudly on the desk for emphasis. ‘Well it damn well should be! Because it will become your concern, one day in the future. And not too far in the future either! When cities are choking from avoidable pollution; when folk are dying from diseases more research could have prevented!’ That’s when all our stupid extravagances and shameful neglects will have to be paid for! That’s when the time will come for all our chickens to come home to roost!’

His indignant dissatisfaction with the status quo suddenly dissipated, like air from a punctured balloon.

‘Nothing I can do about it, is there! A waste of breath talking to bureaucrats, they have no vision of where our country is heading; they take no heed of the disaster approaching. Damned economists, they can only see as far as the nearest calculator.’

The Dean paused, abashed by his un-characteristic display of frustration. His eyes, tired and defeated, roamed the room and fixed on the overhead light. He seemed lost in reverie.

James stood patiently, unsure whether the interview was at an end or not.

Jackson gave a discreet cough. The intervention caused the Dean to return from his pleasant contemplation of impending retirement. Noting the young applicant was still before him, an applicant dejected by his pessimistic assurance that there would be no possibility of employment at the University in the foreseeable future, the Dean took pity on him. He ceased visualizing the fresh green tinge of newly sown emerging pastures and said in a more sympathetic voice, ‘I’m sorry if we’ve been a disappointment to you. The only advice I can give you is to acquire higher qualifications. Perhaps a Master’s Degree in one of the more specialized fields such as Genetic Modification, Molecular Technology, Cellular Biology and so forth. This is where medicine is heading. These are the areas where demand for competent scientists will be the greatest.’

Turning to the clerk he terminated the meeting. ‘Kindly show Mr. Sanders out, thank you Jackson.’ Then, relieved the unpleasantness was over, he added benevolently, ‘And good luck, young man!’

………………..

CHAPTER 3

2005

Five years had passed.

Years in which James, now twenty-nine, had grown more despondent as even those organizations which had granted him an interview confirmed the harsh reality. Science graduates were not in high demand. He either lacked the necessary qualifications or was too over-skilled for a position.

Disenchanted with a succession of part-time stints behind a bar, existing on tips from patrons sorry for the woebegone young man serving their beers, or after- hours spent swabbing restaurant floors to rid them of spilled drinks and food which didn’t quite make it into drunken mouths, James had been forced to re-think his life.

I’m going nowhere! The money and hours invested in getting me a Degree have all been wasted if the best I can hope for is menial work for minimal pay. Maybe the Dean was right, all that time ago, when he told me to specialize. As a Bachelor of Science with an Honours Degree, I ought to be able to enroll in a course and gain my Masters. But in which speciality?

Further enquiries revealed the admission requirements for acceptance at the University of Technology in the Molecular Biology course, with its emphasis on Molecular Modification’s role in Drug Design.

Meeting these requirements would necessitate my passing courses not included during my Science Degree, before I could proceed to my Masters. By the end of that three-year intensive Molecular Biology course I will have become proficient in the structure of the genome, the roles of RNA and DNA, DNA profiling, gene therapy and types of human genetic mutation, cellular structures, and the analysis of molecular data. It will be a formidable task.

But I’ll still be only thirty-two by the time I finish.

James decided. He applied for and received admission to the course.

*****

2008

It was early one morning, while reading the complimentary copy of the Sydney Morning Herald which accompanied the ritual cappuccino, his one indulgence for the day, that a short item caught his eye.

The Government today announced approval of a grant to set up an advisory and supervisory body to investigate the safety and efficacy of newly developed medications and treatments. While this organization will be privately operated and largely financed by the various drug companies, the Minister is adamant its findings will be impartial and not influenced by cost or commercial considerations.

So, how do I go about finding out when and where this is going to happen?

Showing surprising initiative, James phoned the newspaper and asked to speak to the journalist named on the by-line.

‘Don Freeman here. Who’s calling? What can I do for you?’

‘I’m James. James Sanders. That won’t mean anything to you. I’ve just read your piece in the Herald regarding the new testing body. It was very encouraging. I wondered how I could get in touch with whoever is engaging staff?’

‘Thanks for your call, but I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. I only heard the details of the deal a few days ago and I believe all the required positions have already been filled.’

‘Oh. So soon? Isn’t there anybody I can talk to?’

‘You could try some of the pharmaceutical companies. They were very quick off the mark. It would not be for me to suggest they were stacking the staff with ‘Yes Men’. After all, the Minister was at pains to stress ‘impartiality’.

‘You sound a bit cynical.’

‘In my game a healthy dose of cynicism comes with the job.’

‘Mr Freeman, you wouldn’t happen to have any names? Persons who might be able to head me in the right direction?’

‘Why are you so keen to speak to someone?’

‘I’ve been treading water since I first graduated. Mum and Dad helped fund me through Uni and have been supporting me ever since. But I still have a large HECS debt hanging over my head. Nobody indicated that my degree came with absolutely no guarantee of a job. I could have applied for New Start but I’ve never been looking for welfare assistance. I want to work in the field I’ve trained for.’

‘If I only had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a story like that! I tried to write an article along those lines but my editor scrapped it. Told me to Grow up, join the real world! Sometimes it’s better not to tread on government toes. Especially if you’re in the race for an extended TV licence.’

‘Thanks for your time. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

‘Hang on a moment! For Christ’s sake never let on that I gave you this information. Have you got a pencil? Jot this number down. Ben Heathcote, Commonwealth Grants Commission, 62 298 800.’ He waited for James to make a note of the number. ‘Tell him Don Freeman put you in touch. He won’t be able to do much himself but he might give you some public/private joint-venture contacts. Then it will be up to you. How good are you at selling yourself?’

‘Not very. But I’m really grateful for your informa—’

‘What information? I’ve never heard of you or spoken to you!’ Don Freeman hung up.

*****

The HelvItal Pharmaceutical Company, Sydney.

Set back from the street, the building epitomized conservative good taste. Screened on both sides by a manicured conifer hedge, its crushed granite driveway had been meticulously raked earlier that day.

The gravel scrunched underfoot as James walked gingerly towards the main entrance. It seemed sacrilegious to leave footprints, traces of his hesitant progress.

His insecurity increased on entering the marble-lined vestibule, with its tasteful leather Natuzzi sofas, splendid crystal chandeliers, and Renaissance style reception desk. Equally immaculate was the beautifully groomed middle-aged woman who unsuccessfully tried to disguise her disapproval of his scruffy jeans and ‘well-past- their-use-by date’ sneakers.

‘May I help you, Sir?’ Nothing in her voice hinted at her disdain. But her mask-like face and cold grey eyes left no doubt in James’ mind.

I’m not welcome here! ‘I’m here to see Mr Edward Littlejohn.’ The words stuck to his palate, such was his mouth’s dryness.

‘Would he be expecting you, …Sir?’ Her doubt was obvious. ‘You have an appointment?’

‘Yes.’

She waited, expecting him to elaborate. He didn’t. So she was forced to enquire. ‘And your name, …Sir? Perhaps which company you represent?’

That threw James. ‘I…, er…, I don’t represent any company. I’m James Sanders… Ben Heathcote arranged the meeting,’ he added as an after-thought.

The woman drew herself up until her eyes were level with James, who felt somehow diminished. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting, …Sir, I’ll let Mr Littlejohn know you’re here.’ Turning her back on him so he could barely hear what she was saying, the watch-dog was guarded as she spoke into the phone.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Littlejohn, but I have a man here who claims to have an appointment with you. He says his name is Sanders. Should I show him in?’

Her poker face changed as she listened to her boss’s reply. A look of incredulity replaced her air of superiority, but she refused to unbend.

‘Mr Littlejohn will see you now, …Doctor Sanders.’

Had James not been so nervous he might have indulged himself with a gloating retort. Instead he meekly followed her into the ‘Inner Sanctum’.

Edward Littlejohn rose from his desk and extended his hand.

*****

‘So you see, Dr Sanders, while I have heard and understood your plight, there is not much I can do to assist.’ Edward was settled comfortably in his chair. The light glistened from his slicked-back hair, while his face glowed with the ruddy complexion of one who took his good health seriously. He was a fine-looking man, and conscious of his male charisma.

‘Not to put too fine a point on it, part of the motivation for the government’s initiative is that more than fifty percent of the funding for the project is to come from our pharmaceutical industry itself. One of the conditions we have insisted on, for that contribution, is our right to control staffing appointments.

‘I will submit your application to our board, stressing your undoubted qualifications. But I would be misleading you if I allowed you to think you had the slightest chance of obtaining work with HelvItal or this new Drug Safety and Efficacy Testing Institute. Whatever made you think I could assist with a job at the Institute?’

‘I had heard it would be largely financed by the Pharmaceutical Industry. As a leader in that field your company seemed a good place to start.’

‘Oh?’ Edward’s eyebrows raised in surprise. But he did not pursue the matter. Leaning forward on his desk, Edward Littlejohn injected a degree of confidentiality into his tone. Intended to be inclusive, the effect was slightly patronizing.

‘University can teach you many things, Doctor Sanders. Text-book stuff. Theory! But at the new Institute they’ll be in the real world. They’ll have to take into consideration affordability, do cost-benefit studies. They will be accountable at all times. There will be share-holders to satisfy. Politicians on the Opposition benches will have their magnifying glasses out, seeking the Institute’s slightest slip-up and using it to castigate the Government. They will be threading their way through a minefield, sitting ducks for malicious rumours and attacks from competing interests.’

The CEO sat back and gave a surreptitious glance at his watch. It was time to terminate the interview.

‘It is for reasons such as those that we here at HelvItal attach a great deal of importance to selecting employees who share our aims and ideals. We feel more comfortable with people who endorse our philosophy.’ He half rose from the chair.

James made a last-ditch effort to support his application.

‘I can assure you, Mr Littlejohn, that I would be a loyal, diligent employee should I be fortunate enough to secure a position here. I hold a deep-rooted belief in the role of an organization such as the one you head. I mention again my Master’s Degree, and the character references I have obtained from our local member, our family general practitioner, and—’

Edward raised his hand in protest. ‘Enough! I have little doubt of your integrity, or your ability, Doctor Sanders. It is the problem of having already filled our staffing requirements which concerns me. We have your contact address. If you could also provide your email address, we shall let you know the outcome in due course.’ He got up from his desk and ushered James to the door. ‘Good-day Doctor Sanders. And thank you so much for coming to see us.’

As James trudged back along the driveway, he held grave doubts as to the success of his visit. He would keep seeking other employment opportunities.

………………..

CHAPTER 4

2008

HelvItal Pharmaceuticals, Sydney.

Edward Littlejohn stretched his stiff muscles and went to the window. Outside the leaden clouds had begun to drizzle. Peering through the rain he could discern James Sanders’ outline merging with the dark background of trees. He sighed.

That young man seemed so enthusiastic, but so naive. Blissfully unaware that an Honours Degree, or even a Master’s, doesn’t entitle him to automatic entry to the work-force. It was a shame to disillusion him. Who knows? He might well have proved an asset to HelvItal, but I have to draw the line on staff numbers.

Abandoning the litter of documents on his desk for the comfort of an armchair by the French doors which opened onto his private balcony, Edward surveyed the room. Its luxury pleased him. Or rather, it strokes my ego! Furnished and decorated with Italian flair, but without the usual Rococo flourishes so favoured by many tradition-bound Italians, it relied more on utilitarian modern styling.

If I’m truthful, I very much enjoy the privileges of my position. The top of the range BMW cabriolet sports car residing in the underground garage, bought by the firm for my personal use. The industry ‘conferences’ held at grand hotels around the world’s exotic venues, accompanied by my wife. Tax deductible membership of all the most desirable clubs and entrée into the higher echelons of society. The obscene salary, way above anything I could attract elsewhere. All of these benefits come at a price. They keep me on a leash, as does the low-interest mortgage on my home arranged and guaranteed by the firm. I can never afford to leave, and those shrewd bastards who run the show know it!

The rain had become heavier. He drew the velvet curtains and turned on the air conditioning, set at a snug twenty-four degrees.

I could easily put on a pullover but to hell with the expense! ‘Edward Littlejohn’ doesn’t have to foot the bill! It took me some time to get used to that new identity. I had been reluctant to change the name my parents christened me, it felt like I was denying my heritage. But Lisa’s father gave me no choice. It’s a condition for you to receive that new posting. If you wish to head our company in Australia, you must become Australian!

Edward smiled, his mind going back to another time and place. To a time when he was still called Eduardo Giannini, to a time when he was his own master, to a time when he had no debt but didn’t own anything. To a time when worries were small and hopes great.

To a place at the foot of the Dolomites where snowfalls were frequent and the spring-times a blissful escape from the tyranny of winter; to a place where in the evenings he sat with his mother, father, brother and sister around the ‘focolare’ and basked in its warmth. To a place where his grandmother and grandfather lived next door and he could visit them daily.

But times change, I had to grow up. And that involved having an education and getting a job. I was fortunate. Business interested me, figures and making money became my obsession. My father was able to convince the manager of a small local manufacturer to employ me to do his books while I attended a course in Accountancy.

Armed with a qualification and attracted by the lure of a big city, I relocated to Milan where I talked my way into HelvItal Pharmaceuticals as assistant to the Finance Director. When it became obvious that individual was nearing retirement age it was decided to send me to Switzerland to learn the ins and outs of an international pharmaceutical company, with the eventual aim of my taking over the financial reins.

HelvItal Pharmaceuticals is an Italian company based, for tax reasons, in Switzerland. Its tentacles extend around the world through a network of subsidiary companies. It was while I was serving my apprenticeship at its headquarters in Zurich that I met Lisa Martelli.

*****

1979

HelvItal Pharmaceutical’s Garden, Zurich, Switzerland.

‘I’m terribly sorry!’ Eduardo watched aghast as the coffee stain spread over the young woman’s dress. Her angry frown indicated she was not impressed.

‘Why didn’t you look where you were going in such a hurry!’

He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and went to pat down the moist splotch on her bosom.

‘Get off me!’ She pushed his hands away. ‘You’re a bumbling idiot! Are you a pervert as well?’

Eduardo’s head shook in denial. ‘At least let me get you another take-away coffee.’

‘Just go away.’ The girl turned on her heel and made for the Ladies Toilet.

‘I really am very sorry. I was late for an important meeting and in a hurry.’

Not bothering to respond, she entered the building to make running