Kethani (13 page)

He consulted his files, lips pursed.

“Lucy was diagnosed one month ago with leukaemia...” He went on, and I heard him say that the type she was suffering from was pernicious and incurable, but it was as if I had suddenly been plucked from this reality, as if I were experiencing the events in the consulting room at a remove of miles. I seemed to have possession of my body only by remote control.

“Incurable?” I echoed.

“I’m sorry. Of course, if your daughter were implanted...”

I stared at him. “Don’t you think I know that?” I said. “Why the hell do you think my damned wife kept her condition quiet?”

He looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“Is there nothing you can do? I mean, surely under the Hippocratic oath...?”

He was shaking his head. “Unfortunately I’ve been in this situation before, Mr. Chester. It requires the consent of
both
legal guardians to allow the implantation process to be undertaken in the case of minors. I’m quite powerless to intervene, as much as I sympathise with your predicament.”

I worked to calm myself, regulate my breathing. “How long might Lucy...?” I began.

He said, “As things stand, perhaps one month. You see, since the advent of the Kéthani, the funding once spent on research into terminal diseases has been drastically cut back.”

I listened, but heard nothing. Ten minutes later I thanked him and moved from the room in a daze.

I have no recollection whatsoever of leaving the hospital and driving away from Leeds. I recall isolated incidents: a traffic jam on the ring road, passing a nasty accident on the road to Bradley, and almost skidding from the lane myself a mile outside Hockton.

Then I was parked outside Marianne’s cottage, gripping the wheel and going over and over the words I would use in an attempt to make her agree to save our daughter’s life.

At last I left the Rover and hurried up the path. I had the curious sensation of being an actor on stage, and that, if I fluffed my lines now, the consequences would be dire.

I didn’t bother knocking, but opened the front door and moved down the hall.

Marianne was in the living room. She sat in her armchair, legs drawn up beneath her. She was hugging herself as if cold. The TV was on, the sound switched off.

“I’ve been to the hospital,” I said. “I talked with Chandler.”

She looked up, showing no surprise.

Heart thumping, I sat in the armchair opposite and stared at her. “We’ve got to talk about this,”

I said. “There’s more at stake than our principles or beliefs.”

She looked away. She was fingering her damned crucifix. “You mean, you want me to sacrifice my principles and beliefs in order to satisfy your own?”

I leaned forward, almost insensible with rage. “I mean,” I said, resisting the urge to launch myself at her, “that if we do nothing, then Lucy will be dead. Does that mean anything to you? She’ll be bloody well dead!”

“Don’t you think I don’t know that? This isn’t easy for me, you know.”

I shook my head. “I don’t see how you can have a moment’s hesitation. The simple fact is, if you don’t agree to the implantation, then Lucy will die. We won’t have any second chances. She’ll be dead.”

“And if I agree, I’ll be damning her in the eyes of God.”

I closed my eyes and worked to control my breathing. I looked at her. I could not help myself, but I was crying. “Please, Marianne, for Lucy’s sake.”

She stared at me.

I said, “Listen, let her have the implant. Then, when she’s eighteen, she can make up her own mind, have it removed if she wants.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know... I need time to think about it.”

I gave a panicky nod at the thought that she might be relenting. “Chandler said she had a month, but who knows? We need to make a decision pretty damned quickly.”

She stared at me, her face ashen. “I need time to think, Dan. You can’t pressure me into this.”

I wiped away the tears. “Lucy is all we have left, Marianne. We don’t have each other any more. Lucy is everything.”

This, so far as I recall, was the gist of the exchange. I have a feeling it went on for longer, with clichés from both sides bandied back and forth, to no definite conclusion. The last thing I did before leaving the house was to climb the stairs to Lucy’s bedroom, kneel beside the bed and watch my daughter as she slept.

I arrived home around midnight and, unable to sleep, stared at a succession of meaningless images passing before me on the TV screen.

I slept on the settee until ten o’clock the next morning, then showered and tried to eat breakfast. Between ten-thirty and midday I must have phoned Marianne a dozen times. She was either out or not answering.

At one o’clock, the phone rang, startling me. Shaking, I lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Daniel?”

“Marianne?”

A silence, then, “Daniel. I have a form you need to sign.”

“My God, you mean—?”

“I’ll be in all afternoon,” she said, and replaced the receiver.

I drove to Hockton, crying all the way. I pulled up before the cottage and dried my eyes, at once grateful for the decision Marianne had come to, and yet resentful that she had made me so pathetically indebted to her.

I hurried up the path, knocked and entered. Marianne was in her usual armchair. A slip of paper sat on the coffee table before her. I sat down and read through the release form. She had already appended her signature on the dotted line at the foot of the page. Fumbling, I pulled a pen from my pocket and signed my name below hers.

I looked up. Marianne was watching me. “You won’t regret this, Marianne,” I said.

“I’ve made an appointment for the implant. I’m taking her in at one tomorrow.”

I nodded. “I’ll drop by to see her after work, okay?”

“Whatever...”

I made my way upstairs. Lucy was sitting up in bed. Intoxicated, I hugged her to me, smothering her in kisses. I stayed an hour, talking, reading to her, laughing...

When I made my way downstairs, Marianne was still in her armchair in the lounge. The room was in darkness.

I said goodbye before I left, but she did not respond.

It was six by the time I arrived home, and I dropped into the Fleece for a celebratory meal and a pint or three.

Khalid was there, along with Richard and Ben, and three pints turned to six as I told them the news; that, first, Lucy was going to be implanted, and second, that she was suffering from a terminal illness. My friends were a little unsure how to respond, then took my line and decided to celebrate.

It was well past one when I staggered home, and I had a raging headache all the next day at work. Fortunately, with Richard back from the Bahamas, the workload was not intense, and I was finished by four.

I returned home, showered and changed, and then made my way over the moors’ to Hockton.

The cottage door was locked, and I thought at first that perhaps they had not returned. Then it struck me that, perhaps, Marianne had gone back on her word, decided not to take Lucy to the hospital...

The door opened.

“How is she?” I asked, pushing past Marianne and making my way upstairs.

Marianne followed me into Lucy’s room. She was lying flat out, staring at the ceiling. She looked exhausted.

She beamed when she saw me. “Daddy, look. Look what I’ve got!”

Her small fingers traced the implant at her temple. I looked up; Marianne pushed herself away from the door and went downstairs.

I pulled Lucy to me—she seemed no more than a bundle of skin and bone—and could not stop myself from crying. “I love you,” I whispered.

“Love you, too,” Lucy replied, then said, “Now that I have the implant, Daddy, will God love me as well?”

I lay her down, gently, and smiled. “I’m sure he will, poppet,” I said.

Later, as she slept, I stroked her hair and listened to the words of the rhyme in my head:
Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go...

I made my way downstairs. Marianne was in the kitchen, washing dishes.

I leaned against the jamb.

“You’ve made the right decision, Marianne.” I said.

She turned and stared at me. “You don’t know how difficult it was, Daniel,” she said, without meeting my eyes, and turned back to the dishes.

I said goodbye, left the cottage and drove home.

Lucy went downhill rapidly after that.

The next time she stayed with me, she spent most of the entire three days in bed, listless and apathetic, and too drugged up even to talk much or play games. I told her that she was ill but that in time she would recover, and she gave a brave smile and squeezed my fingers.

During the course of the last two weeks, Marianne and I took time off work and nursed Lucy at home, looking after her for alternating periods of three days.

At one point, Lucy lowered the book she was reading and stared at me from the sofa. “If I die,” she said, “will the aliens take me away and make me better again?”

I nodded. “If that happens, you mustn’t be frightened, okay? The Kéthani will take good care of you, and in six months you’ll come back home to Mum and me.”

She smiled to herself. “I wonder what the aliens look like?”

Two days before Lucy died, she was admitted to Bradley General, and I was with her until the end.

She was unconscious, and dosed with painkillers. She had lost a lot of weight and looked pitifully thin beneath the crisp hospital sheets.

I held her hand during the first day and well into the night, falling asleep in my chair and waking at dawn with cramps and multiple aches. Marianne arrived shortly after that and sat with Lucy. I took the opportunity to grab a bite to eat.

On the evening of the second day, Lucy’s breathing became uneven. A doctor murmured to Marianne and me that she had only a matter of hours to live.

Marianne sat across the bed from me, gripping her daughter’s hand and weeping. After an hour, she could take no more.

She stood and made for the door.

“Marianne...?” I said.

“I’m sorry. This is too much. I’m going.”

“This is just the start,” I said. “She isn’t truly dying, Marianne.”

She looked at me. “I’m sorry Dan,” she said, and hurried out.

I returned to my vigil. I stared at my daughter, and thought of the time, six months away, when she would be returned to me, remade. Glorious years stretched ahead.

I thought of Marianne, and her inability to see it through to the end. I was struck, then, by an idea so terrible I was ashamed that it had occurred to me.

I told myself that I was being paranoid, that even Marianne could not do such a thing. But once the seed of doubt had been planted, it would not be eradicated.

What if I were right, I asked myself? I had to be sure. I had to know for certain.

Beside myself with panic, I fumbled with my mobile and found Khalid’s number.

The dial tone purred for an age. I swore at him to reply, and at last he did.

“Hello?”

“Khalid, thank God! Where are you?”

“Dan? I’m just leaving the hospital.”

“Khalid, I need your help.” I explained the situation, my fear. “Please, will you come over?”

There was no hesitation. “Of course. I’m on my way.” He cut the connection.

He seemed to take aeons to arrive, but only two minutes elapsed before his neat, suited figure appeared around the door. He hurried over, concern etched on his face.

“I need to be sure, Khalid. It might be okay, but I need to know.”

He nodded. “Fine. You don’t need to explain yourself, Dan. I understand.”

He moved around the bed, and I watched in silent desperation. He pulled something from his inside pocket, a device like a miniature mobile phone, and stabbed a code into the keypad.

Then he glanced at me, stepped towards Lucy, and applied the device to the implant at her temple.

He read something from the tiny screen, and shock invaded his expression. He slumped into the seat which minutes before my wife had occupied, and he said something, rapidly, in Urdu.

“Khalid?” I almost wept.

He was shaking his head. “Dan, it’s a fake.”

I nodded. I felt very cold. I pressed my hands to my cheeks and stared at him. I wanted to throw up, but I hadn’t eaten anything for half a day. Bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it with difficulty.

“Khalid,” I said. “You’ve got to help me.”

“Dan...” It was a plea to make me understand the impossibility of what I was asking him.

“How long does an implantation take?” I asked. “Thirty minutes? We have time. If you can get an implant, make the cut...” I realised, as I was speaking, that I was weeping, pleading with him through my tears.

“Dan, we need the signatures of both parents. If anyone found out...”

I recalled, then, the consent form that I had signed two weeks ago. My heart skipped at the sudden thought that there had existed a form bearing both our signatures... But for how long, before Marianne had destroyed it?

My mobile rang, and I snatched it from my pocket. “What?”

“Mr. Daniel Chester?”

“What do you want? Who is it?”

The woman gave her name. I cannot recall it now, but she was a police officer. “If you could make your way to Hockton police station...” she was saying.

I laughed at the absurdity of the situation. “Listen, I’m at Bradley Hospital with my daughter. She’s dying, and if you think for a second that I’m leaving her—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chester. We’ll be over right away.” She cut the connection. It was evidence of my agitated state that I managed to push the call from my mind.

I sat down and gripped Lucy’s hand. I looked up, across the bed at Khalid. I said, “What’s more important? Your job or Lucy’s life?”

He shook his head, staring at me. “You can’t blackmail me, Dan. Marianne doesn’t want this. I’m not saying that what she did was right, but you’ve got to understand that there are laws to obey.”

“Sod the fucking laws!” I yelled. “We’re talking about the life of my daughter, for Chrissake.”

He stared at his clasped hands, his expression set.