Gallery Whispers

69

'I'm glad I have this chance to talk to both of you before you go across to the ward for your treatment. Olive,' said Derek Simmers.

'It's early days yet, and I am not one to raise expectations unrealistically.

Nevertheless, when I see a positive indicator I can't keep it to myself; that's just not in my nature.'

Neil Mcllhenney felt his wife's grip on his hand tighten suddenly, to the point of pain. Excitement rose within him, but he fought to keep it from showing on his face.

'I've had the result of the X-ray which was taken when you were in last week. It shows a small but significant shrinkage in the area of the principal tumour. After only a month of chemo, that's pretty good going. It tells me that the tumour is especially sensitive to the type of treatment which we're giving you, and encourages me to proceed with the rest of the course. The small downside is that your blood is sensitive too; that shows in the various counts, especially platelets, but there are things that we can do to manage that.

'On the basis of that I've scheduled another scan for two weeks' time. If that shows further progress,' he smiled, 'I think we can give you a week off to take that holiday we talked about at the start.'

Neil felt his hand tremble, but realised that it was being transmitted by his wife's grip. 'Thanks for telling us that, Deacey,' she said, her voice steady as always, and matter-of-fact. 'As a teacher, I've always liked Fridays: I won't forget this one in a hurry.'

The neither,' said her husband, sincerely.

The consultant smiled at her, straight into her eyes. 'Breaking news like this makes my day too,' he said. 'On you go now. They're for you waiting across the road.' He showed them to the door. As he held it open he glanced at Neil. 'There are two people waiting for me too, upstairs in my office. Colleagues of yours, in fact; I have no idea what they might want.'

Simmers waved his patients goodbye at the entrance to the clinic, then turned the corner and sprinted up the stairs.

His visitors were seated in his tiny room when he arrived there. He looked at them one by one with his physician's eye as they introduced themselves: Superintendent Pringle, middle-aged, heavily built, florid, probably drank too much, arguably in the coronary at-risk category; Detective Sergeant Steele, tall, strong-looking, around thirty, physically at his peak.

'Good morning, gentlemen,' he said moving behind his desk as he spoke. 'In what way can I help you?'

Pringle, in his turn, looked at the consultant, seeing a big, sturdy man, yet struck at once by the softness of his eyes, which seemed to betray a vulnerability in him. 'We'd like to talk to you about a patient of yours, now unfortunately deceased; Mr Anthony Murray.'

Simmers frowned. 'Ah yes, poor old Tony. I heard that he had died.

A blessing really; he was being very difficult about going to the Hospice, but that was the only place for him. In a very short time, he'd have been in great need of the sort of pain control that they're used to providing.'

'Did you expect him to die?'

The consultant stared at the policeman, wondering if he might be mad. 'Of course I did, superintendent. He had advanced, metastasised cancer which was beyond all treatment. Of course I expected him to die.'

'No, sir, I mean did you expect him to die so soon?'

'Ah, I see. To be frank I didn't. I visited him at home fairly recently — not something I do as a rule, but he was a neighbour and he was so sensitive about his bag that he simply would not leave his house — and he seemed frail, but still with us. He was away short of turning his face to the wall, as cancer victims can do on occasion.

'However, that said, someone in his condition can deteriorate very rapidly, so while I didn't expect it, when I heard he had gone, I was not overly surprised. I'll miss him though: a good, gentle man. I liked him very much.'

Stevie Steele spoke softly. 'You must miss more than a few people, sir. I don't envy you your job, although I admire you for doing it.'

Derek Simmers looked at the young detective with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. 'Thank you, sergeant,' he murmured, 'but the fact is, I'm rotten at it.'

'We've been told the opposite, sir.'

'Ah, maybe you have, maybe you have. Speaking clinically, I suppose that whoever told you that has a point. But they don't know about my failings, though. I so admire colleagues like Nolan Weston.

I admire them their detachment, in the face of the most awful personal tragedies. Christ, Nolan even operated on his first wife, poor Gay, to find that she had a ferociously malignant tumour. I know how fond he was of her, and yet he held himself together, he kept his detachment.

'I find that almost impossible sometimes, and yet that's what my job, as you put it, sergeant, is about. Inspiring and maintaining hope, even on those occasions when there is none. You are, for your patients and their nearest and dearest, a bridge across an abyss. Sometimes you see them across, to recovered health, but all too often your treatment is hopeless, and they fall in.

'It's worst of all when you know from the start what the outcome will be.' As the policemen looked at him, they saw tears mist the gentle blue eyes. 'Only this morning, I saw a patient, a couple in fact, for I regard both partners as being in my care. I gave them what was for them good news, and they thanked me with all their hearts.

'Yet I know that my patient will die, gentlemen. In all probability within a year, for the very factor which is positive at the moment will turn negative, and very soon. These are remarkable people, yet all I can do for them is help them make the most of the very limited time they have left together, knowing all the while, as I knew in Tony Murray's case, what the end will be like.

'I hate situations like these, even more that I hate those when my patients collapse into inconsolable fear. I tell you, the Oath we doctors take has a lot to answer for.'

Simmers drew a deep breath and pulled himself up in his chair, blinking to clear his eyes. 'I'm sorry for that outburst, gentlemen.

Please do me the favour of forgetting that I said any of it. All of us have safety valves of a sort — although God alone knows where Nolan Weston's must be! 'Now. Is there anymore I can tell you?'

Pringle shook his head. 'No sir, I don't think so.' He and Steele rose, and eased themselves out of the tiny office.

As they turned to leave, Steele asked, casually, 'Out of interest sir, did you know that Mr Murray had a niece in this department?'

Simmers nodded, vigorously, and smiled. 'Andrina, you mean? Yes I did know that. She's a very talented young nurse. They tell me that she's a wizard with a needle — a great gift in this place, I'll tell you.'