it as a glioblastoma multiforme, a particularly virulent type of astrocytoma. It’s a high-grade tumour, which tends to grow quite quickly. It’s the most common type of primary malignant brain tumour in adults. I’m surprised the symptoms aren’t worse. You have headaches, nausea, drowsiness?’
‘Yeah, all that. Listen, Doc, I don’t need to know all the technical bollocks. Just - can you zap it?’
‘With treatment it can be made bearable.’ He breathed in slowly. ‘Mr Stone, have you anyone waiting for you downstairs?’
‘No, there’s no one. No one to call, no one to worry about.’
At last Kleinmann was looking a little happier. He wouldn’t have to trot out the usual bullshit, shepherding me and my loved ones through the emotional labyrinth that led from here to fuck knew where. He could just get down to business.
He pushed his glasses further up his nose and leant forward to take a closer look at the tumour, in case it had changed into something nice like a Teletubby in the last few minutes. I found myself doing the same, examining the scan as if I knew what the fuck I was looking at.
‘You say it’ll keep growing?’
It was hard to believe that something so insignificant was going to finish me off. I’d always imagined it would be something a bit bigger, something more like the diameter of an RPG, a rifle butt or at least a 7.62mm round, but this little fucker was no more than pea-sized. Checking out like this? It felt so …
I tried to smile. ‘I always wondered what a death warrant looked like. Does it have a use-by date?’
I turned away and went back to my chair. I didn’t need to see any more. Looking wasn’t going to change anything.
Kleinmann followed me. ‘Like I said, Mr Stone, this is where the hard work starts. Chemotherapy and radiation treatment, that’s going to help, and there is—’
‘But will that nail it?’
Kleinmann sat down opposite me. ‘No.’ He flicked his coat over his legs like a woman adjusting her skirt. ‘It could keep you going for six months, possibly longer. But without any treatment? Two months, maybe. We can’t stop the pressure on the brain increasing. Of course, if you need a second opinion—’
‘Don’t worry, Doc, no second opinions. It’s there, I’ve seen it.’
‘What about the treatment? Would you like to go ahead with the chemo and radiation? The pain is going to get worse. There could be weight loss, maybe incontinence, vomiting still to come. But I will give you some drugs to help you in the short term.’
I got up and headed for the coat hooks. ‘Thanks, I’ll take whatever Smarties you’re offering. But chemo and all that gear? I don’t think so.’
Kleinmann sprang to his feet. ‘There are far more advanced treatments available in the US - or Italy, if you want to be closer to home. I could recommend some excellent clinics …’
I bet he could. With a nice little kickback if I took him up on the offer. ‘I think I’m going to handle this my own way.’
‘Let me give you some details of support groups, counselling—’
‘I don’t need any of that.’ I shrugged on my coat, then paused. ‘Out of interest, any reason I got it? Just one of those things?’
‘You have an unusual amount of tissue scarring. You appear to have taken a great deal of blunt trauma to the cerebral cortex over a number of years. Are you a boxer, maybe?’
I shook my head.
‘When the grey matter is shaken about over a sustained period of time it can cause irreparable damage - and in extreme cases provoke conditions such as yours.’
‘Thanks for that, Doc.’ I gave Kleinmann a slap on the shoulder. ‘I hope your next appointment’s a nice boob job.’
I made for the door, not knowing quite what I felt. It wasn’t fear. Fuck it, we’ve all got to die some day. It was more frustration. I didn’t want to end on a dull note. Better to burn out than fade away, I’d always thought. Better to be a tiger for a day than a sheep for a year; to die quick standing up than live for years on my knees. All the shit I’d seen on soldiers’ T-shirts the world over actually meant something today.
‘No, no - wait, Mr Stone. You’re going to need to control the pain as the symptoms worsen.’ He disappeared for a minute or two and came back with a large bottle of shiny red pills. ‘Take two of these every six hours.’
I nodded.
‘And please, take this information.’ He waved a brown A4 folder at me, stuffed with leaflets and flyers. ‘It’s all in there - treatments, support groups, help lines. Read them, think about it.’
I took the folder and stuffed it in the nearest wastepaper basket, then headed back towards my 911 waiting faithfully in the rain.
3
16.15 hrs
The storm pounded against the triple glazing.
For about the hundredth time in the last hour, I reached for the mobile, twisting and turning it in my hand before putting it back down again.
What the fuck was I going to say to her?
Did I need to say anything?
It was only six months since I’d first held Anna in my arms. Even then I’d had the feeling I’d known her all my life. We were standing among the wreckage of an aircraft full of dead men and drug dollars I’d shot down in Russia. We’d met at an arms fair press conference in Tehran two weeks earlier. I was working undercover for Julian; she was investigating a corrupt Russian’s links with Ahmadinejad and the Iranian ayatollahs.
She said she wouldn’t have touched me with a ten-foot pole if she could have sorted it on her own. Then she gave me the kind of smile that makes your knees go funny. I’d first set eyes on her when she was giving the Russian a hard time in front of the world’s press. She was a dead ringer for the girl from Abba with blonde hair and high cheekbones. I’d fancied her big-time. I used to sit in the NAAFI as a sixteen-year-old boy soldier with my pint of Vimto and a steak and kidney pie, waiting for Top of the Pops to hit the screen. ‘Dancing Queen’ had already been number one for about five years, and I took my seat in front of the TV every week hoping her reign would be extended.
This amazing woman had helped me choose furniture for the flat, and in between writing investigative pieces and flying around saving the world she’d come and stay. Only a few days at a time, mind, but for me that was almost long-term. The only thing we’d fallen out over was her smoking. She wasn’t about to be sent onto the balcony to do it.
I headed for the kitchen sink, swallowed a couple of Kleinmann’s Smarties and stuck my mouth under the designer tap. I clicked the kettle on and told myself I had to bite the bullet.
Did I really want to do this? Did I really need to do this?
I
I twisted and turned the mobile in my hand. Why drag her down with me?
My arse rested against the stainless-steel cooker. It would always be this shiny. I had all the toys now, but I was never going to turn into Jamie Oliver.
Finally, I stabbed a finger at the keypad and dialled.
‘Jules, mate? Count me in for Saturday.’
4
