The Phlebotomist by Ella Road explores the future of genetics. Suppose a simple blood test were able to tell us how long we will live and what disease will kill us. If the tests were compulsory and the results publicly available, a new hierarchy based on life expectancy would emerge. Citizens facing chronic illness or early death would struggle to find jobs and spouses. The scientists who administer the tests would come under pressure to falsify the results. And alpha citizens with high-grade DNA would be murdered, and their blood harvested to create fake genetic identities.
This gruesome, ingenious and all-too-believable scenario is presented through a squeaky-clean romance between two young lovebirds. Bea is a professional blood-sampler who runs a side hustle accepting bribes from ailing clients. She’s a smart, ambitious and complicated soul apparently unconcerned by the gravity of her crimes. Her lawyer boyfriend, Aaron, is a descendant of Tennyson who quotes the easy bits from ‘In Memoriam’. Frankly, he’s unbelievable. Tall, slim and handsome, with swept back hair and unblemished skin, he loves to recall his idyllic childhood spent roaming through sun-kissed valleys and picnicking on fresh salmon beside silvery lakes.
The Bea/Aaron relationship lacks jeopardy. Each is hiding a secret but neither is at risk of being exposed by the other. Instead we get an Instagram version of their five-star lives. They romp playfully on a pocket-sprung Ikea mattress. They relax over malt whisky in their minimalist riverside apartment. They enjoy rambling holidays in the wilds of western Ireland. And they engage in low-level bitching about their families as the date of their wedding looms.
The writer has such a facility with dialogue that her scenes last longer than necessary (good for TV commissions, not ideal for stage work).
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in