The Ice Child (35 page)

That gave her her first flush of satisfaction. Then, thinking about it, she realized how simple and brilliant it was. Taking her own cells out of her, wiping them free of the blood, putting it back. It was so clever, and it was something she could do—she who had felt so helpless and ineffective standing at Sam’s side.

Elliott had smiled at her, trying to read her thoughts. She’d leaned one elbow on his desk and put a hand over her face.

She could beat God—the implacable, unsmiling God in her head—at this game. She smiled at last and looked up. Elliott relaxed back into his chair.

“Well, hello,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“A smile,” he said. “The first I’ve seen.”

“I used to do it a lot.” She shrugged. “Used to be pretty good at it.” She got up to leave. He walked her to the door.

“Do it some more,” he told her. “You’ll need that skill again.”

She was sitting now in University College Hospital, London.

Beside her was Gina. It was the day of the first stem-cell donation. Next to them stood one of the
Courier
’s photographers.

When Jo had first asked for this favor, there hadn’t been a moment of hesitation on Gina’s part.

Could
The Courier
run an article—any article, it didn’t matter how small—on what Jo was doing? Jo had asked her, over the phone two days ago. Could it print a photograph? Could it mention Sam, or Doug, or both—could it say how important it was that Sam find a donor?

“Of course,” Gina had said.

“I hate to ask, Gina.”

“Why?” Gina had replied. “It’s news, isn’t it? I do news.”

Jo had laughed down the phone. Gina had frowned at the thinness of the sound. “Maybe they’ll remember Doug being airlifted,” Jo said.

Gina was already seeing the page. The shout line.
The most desperate rescue of all
. A picture of Jo wired up to apheresis. “Doug was a brave man, Jo,” she replied softly. “You got a family tradition to keep up.”

“Thanks,” Jo said.

“You’ll stay with us when you come,” Gina had said.

“It can only be overnight,” Jo told her. “Cath is with Sam. I have to get back.”

Gina tried not to think of the days when Jo had visited before, brought Sam, and they had sneaked off to Regent’s Park or the Dome with him, taking time off that neither of them could really afford. Gina tried not to think of the other Sam, whom she chased up and down her Victorian hallway in Holland Park, playing Power Rangers.

“Gina,” Jo had said, before she put down the phone, “do you mind me asking, do you have a cold, anything like that?”

“No,” Gina said.

“Or a tummy bug?”

“No, it’s okay. We’re fit.”

“Sorry to cross-examine you.”

“No problem. See you soon.”

Yet the phone calls hadn’t prepared Gina for Jo’s appearance when she stepped off the train. Always trim, her friend was now lighter to the point of being thin. Her jacket hung off her shoulders. Her skin was pale. Only the hug was the same: wiry defiance in every pore.

“Down to fighting weight, I see,” Gina had observed, holding her at arm’s length.

Jo had raised a clenched fist. “You’d better believe it,” she’d told her.

Twenty-eight

The phone call came through at eight-thirty the next morning.

The Courier
had been on the newsstands for less than three hours. Gina and Jo were in Gina’s office, looking out over the view of the river, watching the morning ferries, the tour boats. The Thames was lower than usual, they thought. Already the morning was heavy with heat.

Gina picked up the phone. “Features.” There was a pause. “Yes, that’s me.”

Jo glanced at her. Gina had raised an eyebrow, then sat down at her desk. “I see,” she murmured. “Yes.”

Jo watched her draw concentric circles on her memo pad, a sign of deep concentration. “Hang on a moment,” Gina said. She put her hand over the receiver. “Do you know an Anthony Hargreaves?” she asked. “From HMS
Fox?
”

Jo thought. “The principal medical officer who treated Doug,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

“Jo Harper is right here with me,” Gina said into the phone. “Would you like to speak to her?”

She smiled. Wordlessly, she handed Jo the receiver. Jo put it to her ear.

“Jo Harper.”

“Miss Harper. Anthony Hargreaves.”

“Hello,” she said. “How are you?”

There was a fractional pause. “More to the point, how are you?” he asked. “I read your piece.”

“I’m okay,” she said.

“I’m so sorry about your son.”

“Thank you.”

“I just wanted to say …” He paused. “It’s none of my business, I’m probably telling you what you already know. But you said in your article about donors. Bone-marrow donors. How Sam needed one.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well … you have talked to the James Norberry Trust?”

“James Norberry?” she repeated.

“The James Norberry Bone Marrow Trust. It’s there in London. They keep a register of people who’ve offered to donate.”

“No,” she said. “Should I?”

“Doug and John went on their register,” he said.

The room seemed to flex in and out of focus for a second. Jo sat down on the nearest chair. “They what?”

“Didn’t you know?” he asked. “When they were on the ship, we had just had a whole ship screening. The Trust had come to the ship when we were in Portsmouth. It was a recruitment drive for donors. One of the men on the ship—”

“The little girl,” Jo breathed. “There was a picture of a little girl on your notice board.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Chrissie Wainwright. She was nine years old. She was our warrant officer’s niece. She had leukemia.”

“I remember,” Jo murmured. But she dared not ask if the little girl had survived. She was afraid of what the answer might be.

“Well, both Doug and his son took a blood test,” he told her. “We managed to get the bloods out with the next flight. They went to the Trust.”

“He never told me,” Jo said.

“He would have got a card,” Hargreaves continued. “A donor ID card.”

Jo tried to cast her mind back to the time after Doug’s death. His solicitor handling the will, the fuss that was made, the difficulties with Alicia. She had sorted through a lot of correspondence then, but she couldn’t remember if there had been such a card or not.

“He had a medical card with his medical number on it,” she murmured. “His National Insurance card, I think.…”

“This is a cream card like a small folder,” Hargreaves said. “Anyway, if you can’t find it, the Trust would have the records.”

“I’ll get in touch with them,” Jo said.

There was a pause. “Well,” Hargreaves responded, “I don’t think they would tell you the names of their donors, but I just thought, for your own peace of mind, John would be on their list already.”

“But no one knows where he is,” Jo said. “I said in the article—”

“Yes,” Hargreaves said, “but John might be in touch with the Trust. He might have told them where he is now. I just wanted to say that to you. You might not know where John is, but the Trust might. They might have contacted him already, be talking to him.”

“And they would know,” Jo said. “They would know now if John is a match.”

“Probably,” Hargreaves said.

“Oh, God,” Jo breathed.

When she had thanked him and said her good-byes, she put the phone down and stared at Gina.

“Is it good news?” Gina asked. “What did he say? What is it about John?”

Jo remained where she was. Her hand strayed to her mouth.

“What?” Gina said. “What?”

“Have you got a phone directory?” Jo asked, after a second or two.

“Of course,” Gina said. She promptly fished it out of her desk drawer. “Who do you want to find?”

“The James Norberry Trust.”

Gina flicked through the pages. “Here it is,” she said. “SW-One.”

“What’s the address?” Jo asked.

“Tarrangore Street.”

Jo nodded. “I’ve got to go and see them,” she said. She reached for her handbag from the floor.

Gina sprang up from her desk and came around to her. “Whoa,” she said, “hold on. You can’t go across London. Not now.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve got to be at University College at three.”

“So?” Jo said. “I’ve got hours.”

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Gina said. “It was only four days ago when you told me you were feeling like shit because of the GCSF, remember? I saw you take those aspirin this morning.”

“I’m fine,” Jo said.

“What are you going there for?” Gina said. “What is it, a bone marrow register? Those people don’t talk to the public.”

“I’m not the public,” Jo said. “I’m a patient’s mother. I’m a relation to one of their donors. I want to know where John is. Hargreaves says they could know.”

“If they know, then it’s between John and them,” Gina pointed out. “They’re not going to tell you what one of their donors has said to them.”

“Yes, they will,” Jo said.

“Jo, they won’t. Think about it.”

“They’ll tell me,” Jo said defiantly. “They have to.”

“Jo …”

“Don’t you see?” Jo said. “If they’re talking to him, and he refuses to cooperate, what then?”

Gina frowned. “I don’t know. I guess they can’t force him.”

“Exactly,” Jo said. “If they’ve found him, and he says no, what can they do? Nothing. But
I
can do something.”

“What?” Gina said.

“I can go and see him, wherever he is. I can persuade him. I can apologize for calling him a killer, for a start.”

“You didn’t mean it,” Gina said.

Jo eyed her sadly. “That’s the whole point,” she said. “I did mean it. I meant it from the bottom of my heart. I believed it. But I don’t believe it now. I thought that he would come back to Catherine, and when he did, I was going to tell him that I was sorry. But he never came back.”

“And you think, if he knew about Sam, he wouldn’t come back?” Gina said. “Sure he would. He’d have to be inhuman not to come back. He’ll come.”

“He doesn’t have to be inhuman not to come,” Jo said. “He just has to be messed up and guilty and lonely and afraid. And if he is, maybe I helped him to be that way.”

Gina held her arm gently. “Why don’t you wait?” she said. “Elliott will tell you soon enough if a donor’s been found.”

Jo pulled away from her. “I can’t wait, Gina,” she said. “If there’s a fraction of a chance that I could alter something, speed this up, I have to do it.”

“But he might not even be a match!”

Jo was already halfway out the door. “I just have to do it,” Jo repeated. “That’s all.”

The James Norberry Trust was nearly invisible.

Jo got out of the taxi to find herself in a busy street. There was public housing on one side, in a great gray block; a news dealer, liquor store, hardware store, a row of terraced houses. Traffic lights on a busy junction. A pub on the corner. A betting shop. A florist. She could have been in any street in any town, and the Trust was nowhere to be seen.

She walked down the row of shops, looking for the numbers. Twenty-three … 34. She stopped, and looked down at the address she had scribbled on the scrap of paper. The Trust was numbers 26–30. But where was it? She had missed it somehow. She retraced her steps, and found it at last, a single doorway sandwiched between a video store and a launderette. She pressed the keypad on the wall.

“James Norberry,” said a voice.

“My name is Harper,” Jo replied. “I need to talk to someone about a donor.”

There was a pause before the door unlocked.

She made her way up a flight of stairs. At the top the way ahead surprised her: it was much bigger than it looked from the outside, with a pair of glass doors leading to a reception desk. There was another lock on the door: the receptionist looked up, then pressed the door release. Jo walked in.

“Mrs. Harper.”

“Miss,” Jo said. “Look, I need to speak to someone.”

The girl behind the desk smiled. “I recognize you from the paper,” she said.

“Is there anyone I can talk to?”

The girl nodded. “I’ve buzzed Mrs. Lord,” she said. “Here she is now.”

Jo turned to see a woman who had come from another office off the reception landing. Small, slight, and dark, she held out her hand to Jo.

“Hello. I’m Christine Lord.”

“Jo Harper.”

Christine Lord glanced at the receptionist. “Sarah,” she said, “we’re in the interview room. Could you bring us some coffee?”

Impatient, Jo followed the woman. The interview room turned out to be tiny, airless, gray, and crowded out with boxes.

“I’m sorry,” Christine said. “We have nowhere to put deliveries but here. Space is at such a premium.”

“I appreciate you seeing me,” Jo said. “I want to talk to you about a donor on your books.”

“Okay,” Christine said.

“His name is John Marshall. He and his father, Douglas Marshall, came onto the register about three years ago.”

“I see,” Christine said.

Jo looked hard at her. “They’re here? On the list?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Jo tried to take a breath. “They gave blood on a ship called HMS
Fox.
”

“We saw people from the ship, yes,” Christine said.

“And you got John and Doug’s blood.”

“I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

Jo took a deep breath. “Douglas Marshall died,” she said. “He moved house, and then, two months later, he died in a road accident. So maybe you’ve tried writing to him to update your records, and can’t find him? Well—”

“I know that Douglas Marshall died,” Christine Lord said. “I remember reading about it at the time.”

Jo nodded. “Well, after his death, his son John moved,” she said. “He moved out of his flat. Sixteen-A Wilding Crescent, Cambridge.”

There was no reply.

“Do you know where he is?” Jo said.

“If matches come up in response to searches, then we write to the last known address,” Christine said.

“Have you written to John Marshall at that address?” Jo said. “Okay … you can’t tell me. All right.” She tried a different approach. “If you do, there won’t be a reply. Did he give you another address? Has he contacted you with some other address?”