for the excavation. How was your day?’
‘Pretty dull by comparison,’ said Cassie. ‘Not a single case of Black Death.’
SEVEN
John Motram smiled as he got out of the taxi and started to walk up the short, semicircular drive through well-tended gardens to the entrance of St Raphael’s. The hospital was in the heart of London but seemed so peaceful that anyone might have been forgiven for thinking it was a country house. Reception too was a far cry from the noise and bustle of NHS facilities where imminent meltdown seemed to be a common theme. But then, there were no accident and emergency facilities in private hospitals, he reminded himself, no drunks, no knife wounds, no road traffic cases, no drug addicts, no bawling relatives, in fact nothing to interfere with the calm, ordered application of top-class medicine.
‘Dr Motram, we’ve been expecting you,’ said the receptionist, with a smile that would have put British Airways cabin crew to shame. It even seemed genuine. ‘Kate will show you to the seminar room.’
As if by magic, another young woman, well coiffured and wearing the same pristine white uniform as the receptionist, materialised and smiled. ‘Welcome to St Raphael’s, doctor. If you’ll just follow me.’
Motram was led along a corridor smelling of fresh flowers and furniture polish and shown into a bright, well- equipped seminar room where a number of people were waiting — four men and two women. Their dress suggested well-heeled professionals. When greetings had been exchanged, Motram asked, ‘So who’s the ringmaster?’
The others smiled and a tall man with a Mediterranean tan and a light grey suit to accentuate it, said, ‘I think we all thought you were when you came in.’
‘Does anyone know why we’re here?’ Motram asked.
‘Not yet,’ replied one of the women. ‘I’m Sheila Barnes, by the way: I’m a radiologist.’
This was the cue for the rest to introduce themselves.
‘Mark Limond, haematologist.’
‘Susie Bruce, nursing director.’
‘George Simpson, immunologist.’
‘Jonathan Porter-Brown, transplant surgeon,’ said the man with the tan.
‘Tom Little, biochemist.’
Motram completed the introductions. ‘John Motram, cell biologist.’
‘John Motram the surface receptor man?’ Little asked.
‘I suppose,’ said Motram modestly. ‘That’s my specialty.’
‘I read your paper last month in the Journal of Cell Biology. Brilliant!’
The conversation was interrupted by the door opening and another well-dressed man entered, using his elbow on the door handle. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a pile of papers that seemed destined for independent flight under his other arm. ‘So sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Bloody traffic. I’m Laurence Samson, by the way. Have you all met?… Good, but I’m sure you must all be wondering why you’re here.’ The comment received nothing other than blank looks in return. His audience were not for responding to the obvious: they were not TV quiz show material.
Samson accepted the fact graciously and moved on. ‘You are all recipients of support from the Hotspur Foundation. As such, you have agreed to contribute your expertise when called upon. Ladies and gentlemen, the call has come; that’s why you’re here. We need your participation in the treatment of a patient… a VIP patient… whom we will refer to and continue to refer to with stultifying unoriginality as Patient X. Some of you may discover his true identity during the course of his treatment, others will not, and that is the way it should stay. His identity must never reach the public domain. Absolute confidentiality is a must. Is that understood from the outset?’
Everyone nodded.
‘While I am perfectly sure that all of you will be as good as your word, I am duty bound to point out that the confidentiality clause you signed when accepting your Hotspur Foundation grant made it clear that any breach would result in your being made to refund the entire sum, and would also render you liable to a breach-of-contract action which, I assure you, would be pursued… with vigour.’
Motram, who hadn’t read the small print in the grant papers, noticed that the looks passing between a few of the others suggested he wasn’t alone in this oversight.
‘Patient X has a severe form of leukaemia. He also has unlimited financial resources, which may provide some of you with a clue to which part of the world he comes from…’
Polite laughter.
‘He wants the best and he can afford it. But, as we all know, disease is not impressed by money. After trying everything else for Patient X, we have now arrived at the last chance saloon, a bone marrow transplant. This hospital has all the facilities necessary and we think we have identified a suitable donor. Without stepping on anyone’s toes, we would like you to oversee every aspect of the procedure. According to your individual expertise, some of you will only be required for a short time, others for longer. Those who will be here for longer will be accommodated in the excellent patients’ relatives’ quarters they have here in the hospital until their job is done. Rather like members of a jury, you will be required not to discuss Patient X or any aspect of his treatment “out of hours”, so to speak. As the physician in ultimate charge of Patient X, I’d now like to discuss with each of you in turn what will be required of you on an individual basis, starting with…’ Samson referred to his notes, finding the right page at the third attempt, ‘Dr John Motram.’ He looked up and Motram responded with a half-hearted raise of the hand. It had been a long time since he’d held up his hand in class and he felt slightly silly.
‘Kate will show the rest of you to one of the private rooms, where you’ll find tea and coffee and some excellent chocolate biscuits.’
Samson seemed more relaxed when the others had left. He smiled at Motram and said, ‘I think you’ll be the chap getting off most lightly from all of this. The donor will be here shortly.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We need you to set up the comprehensive range of tests we have detailed for you on this sheet.’ He handed the A4 paper to Motram. ‘In short, we would like you to confirm that our putative donor is indeed a perfect match for Patient X… compatible in every way.’ He saw a questioning look appear on Motram’s face and added, ‘We are not looking for a donor who ticks some of the boxes and might be all right with high immuno-suppression for the rest of the patient’s life. We need a perfect match — blood type, tissue type, sub-markers, the lot. We think we’ve identified such a donor: we need you to confirm this. We will supply you with the lab report we already have on Patient X; you can collect your own samples from the donor in order to make the comparison.’ He handed Motram his card. ‘Let us know your findings as soon as you’re sure.’
After a tour of the hospital and its facilities, during which Motram decided that this was what all hospitals would be like if the world were perfect, he met the donor in a consulting room where, instead of a desk between them, there was a coffee table with a cafetiere containing the best coffee he’d tasted in ages sitting on it.
The young man facing him, dressed in jeans and a denim jacket, appeared fit and healthy. He was clean- shaven and had fair, close-cropped hair which was fashionably slightly longer on the top than at the sides. He smiled but appeared slightly nervous when he got up to shake hands. After some small talk about traffic and the weather, Motram told him what samples he would like to take and why. ‘Nothing to it really. Anything you’d like to ask?’
‘Sir Laurence told me this would be an absolutely straightforward procedure. Is that right?’
‘Absolutely right,’ said Motram. ‘Walk in the park.’
The young man smiled at the expression but didn’t seem entirely convinced. ‘I had an older cousin, see, who donated a kidney to his brother…’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ Motram interrupted. ‘Organ transplant is a major undertaking, a completely different kettle of fish. You’ll just be donating some of your bone marrow. It’ll be replaced in no time at all. No scars, no after-effects, no nothing: it’s very like donating blood really.’
‘Thanks, doc,’ said the young man, visible relaxing. ‘That’s more or less what Sir Laurence said, but it sounded better coming from you.’
‘Good. Let’s go through to the lab and I’ll see about getting these samples from you.’
