The miracle pill

Arya Shetty brings you the next adventure in the story of Victor Frank, the scientist on the run

I sat listlessly in the prison cell listening to the monotonous downpour of rain. One might say I was wasting time, but what could I do without a workspace? The desk in the corner felt like a joke considering there wasn’t any stationery in sight. The lunch bell rang, but I didn’t budge. To distract myself from my rumbling stomach, I began pondering on how to improve Immunis.

What is Immunis you ask? It’s the so-called miracle pill that promised to rid the world of every illness. Why do I want to improve it? Because it had a detrimental side-effect that evaded a scientist, a fool, actually. Who is this fool of a man? Elementary, my dear reader! It is none other than me, the scientist behind bars, Victor Frank.

The next day I was escorted to a small room with large containers of leftovers. I wasn’t alone. Another convict was in the room, humming a rhyme. I followed suit, save for the humming, which was frankly quite irritating. A lone guard stood by the door. He kept sniffling now and then. Walking up to the water filter, he got a glass and popped a tablet in his mouth. “Curse this flu,” he said rubbing his forehead. I felt a sense of responsibility as Immunis was made to prevent this. If only I hadn’t botched it. Between his runny nose and my prisoner friend’s awful melody, I couldn’t think straight, so I focused on the food.

Just as I was serving myself some vegetables, the guard collapsed abruptly. The convict walked up to him. “Must be the flu. I think he had a strip of Paracetamol somewhere?” he said searching the guard. “Don’t… it’ll make it worse,” I muttered. The convict raised an eyebrow. “His eyes, they’re yellow, a symptom of hepatoxicity,” I explained. “Hippo-what now?” he asked confused. “The flu didn’t make him fall. It was probably an overdose of Paracetamol,” I told him. “We should alert the guards. Does he have keys on him?” I asked. “No, they lock from the outside,” the convict said pacing towards the door. He began fiddling with the keyhole with a hairpin. It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. The convict, apparently named Anthony, helped me carry the guard to the infirmary. Before we left, the doctor asked me to sign on behalf of the guard. Unwittingly, I had slipped the pen into my pocket.

On the way back, I heard a reporter announce on the radio: “Dr Emauel Defoe takes over research for Immunis, promises to fix Victor Frank’s mistake.”

Back in the cell, I kept thinking about the guard. No, not because I was worried about him. I was concerned about his case of overdose. What if something similar had happened with Immunis? “To rectify it, I could reduce the dosage of… but would it still be effective? Oh! I could add a small percentage of... then to neutralise the…”

I took off my shirt and started scribbling on the inside. By dusk, my shirt was full of notes and calculations to make the improved version of the ‘miracle pill’. But the public doesn’t trust Victor Frank. I wouldn’t be able to convince investors to fund production. No, it can’t be me. Someone else has to come up with this remedy, I thought.

During dinner, Anthony and I were taken to the room of leftovers again. “Psst, I need to go somewhere. Could you get me out of here?” I pleaded. Amused, Anthony let out a whistle. “Worry not my friend, I already have a vehicle ready and waiting,” he said, grinning. “But how are you going to get out?” I asked. “With this keycard I swiped during lunch,” he beamed. I was a little impressed. I told Anthony my cell number, and he came around midnight and used the keycard to swipe me out. As he’d claimed, a police van was waiting for him. “We’re making a small stop,” Anthony told the driver. “Where to?” the driver asked. “Dr Defoe’s private residence. I’ll tell you the way,” I said. “What business do you have there?” Anthony questioned. “Oh nothing. Just need to deliver a package,” I replied.

Anthony accompanied me to the residence. A window on the second floor was open. I unbuttoned my shirt and handed it to Anthony. He looked confused. “Get on my shoulders and throw the shirt through the window,” I instructed. Anthony struggled to balance on my wobbly shoulders. We must’ve made quite the ruckus because some patrolling officers sounded their whistles. “Who’s there?” they yelled. “Anthony! The shirt, throw it in,” I urged. Just as he tossed it in, Anthony lost footing, causing us to topple. Soon enough, the officers has surrounded us, our prison outfit gave us away, and there was no way to weasel out. “You are under arrest, pals,” they said, proud to have caught their prey.

Unbeknownst to them I was relieved, as if a burden had been lifted off my shoulders. We were back in our cells by dawn. The ride back was full of insults coming from Anthony, but at least he wasn’t humming. Back in my cell, laying on the hard bed. I looked outside the cell window. The sun was a bright yellow with no sign of rain.