‘You will get through it,’ Dan said quietly. ‘Trust me. Nothing lasts for ever.’
She remembered Dan’s struggle in finding the truth of his past against his unreliable memories, how the revelations had been life-changing – devastating – and how he’d rebuilt his life into what it was today.
He looked at her steadily. ‘You need to know something.’
‘I do?’ She tried not to look as though she was panicking.
‘Tomas Featherstone. He says Chris Malone is someone called Helen Flowers.’
Lucy could feel her eyes widen. ‘No way.’
‘Yes, way.’
‘But they don’t look alike. I mean like at all.’
Lucy fetched her phone. Showed him photographs of the two women.
Dan frowned. ‘I’d take them to your police forensic artists. She might have had plastic surgery.’
‘If she has, she’d have had a total body makeover. Is that possible?’ She squinted at Malone’s angles, and then at Flowers’s soft outlines. ‘But I’ll ask, no probs.’
To her relief, he didn’t talk about the case any more, which meant she didn’t have to tell him she’d been to the SFO. She wasn’t strong enough to withstand any kind of questioning. They spent the rest of the day reading the newspapers, snacking, not talking much but when they did, it wasn’t about anything in particular.
‘I know her.’ Dan pointed at a photograph of a strikingly attractive woman on the front page of the Sunday Times.
‘Don’t tell Jenny,’ Lucy snickered. ‘She’s gorgeous.’
‘She was a flight attendant on my flight back from Miami.’
‘Really?’ Lucy scanned the article beneath the headline One Flight Can Change Your Life.
‘God, aerotoxicity makes you blind? It’s enough to put you off flying for ever.’
‘You can always buy a mask.’ He held up the colour supplement, opening it to a full-page advertisement claiming wearing the BreatheZero mask would protect from aerotoxic fumes.
‘Ooooh, how attractive. Do you think it might double as a tiara for my wedding day?’
Dan brightened. Turned to the Style magazine. ‘Talking of which, I saw something about weddings here… Ah, here it is… “They were setting off fireworks and the bride’s dress caught fire”.’
‘I won’t be wearing a dress,’ she said stonily.
‘Well, that’s okay then.’ He grinned.
On Monday, when she awoke to a clear bright day with enough warmth in the sun to make you think summer was around the corner, she went for a long walk. Walking had always helped clear her head and for a while, she seriously considered backing out of the case – and let her father keep doing whatever it was he did – but she was in too deep, the questions burning too furiously, so she rang Reg at the pub. After they’d spoken, she knew exactly what she had to do.
41
Isla sat with dread in her heart as she listened to the neurological surgeon. Mr Nurmsoo. She’d been worried that he wasn’t a doctor, but apparently doctors in the UK had some strange tradition that male surgeons were always addressed as Mr to distinguish them from physicians. It was, she’d been told, a kind of badge of honour but she’d merely found it confusing.
‘Isla, we’ve had the results back.’
Mr Nurmsoo’s voice was grave.
Please God, please please please. I don’t want to be blind for ever.
Isla held on to Emily’s hand a little tighter. Her friend had been fantastic, staying with her every day for each test, every doctor appointment. She owed her big time but she couldn’t think about that. Not yet. She had to get out of here first.
‘We have good news, and bad news.’
She was waiting for him to ask which she’d like to hear first, just the good news thanks, but instead he said, ‘The bad news is that you have a brain tumour, the good news is that the biopsy shows it isn’t cancerous.’
She tried to swallow but she had no saliva and her throat made a little click.
Emily squeezed her hand. Gave it a little shake.
‘The fact you have a tumour explains your headaches, your occasional blurred vision and balance issues. The MRI showed damage to your occipital lobe, hence your loss of vision. I would like to operate on Wednesday to remove the tumour…’
He went on to explain he’d be performing a craniotomy, and that the tumour was close to areas of her brain that controlled important functions. Therefore she’d be awoken part way through to allow him to ask her to perform various tasks, like reciting her address or answering a simple mathematical question, during the operation.
‘This will enable me to avoid damage to those areas,’ he told her. ‘The operation will take four to six hours, but could be longer…’
She wouldn’t feel any pain, apparently, just a kind of pulling sensation. He was hoping to remove all of the tumour but if this wasn’t possible, he’d remove what he could. A small area of her head would be shaved and an incision made into her scalp and a small part of her skull – the ‘bone flap’ – would be removed.
‘All in all, it should be a straightforward procedure,’ he told her. ‘After a few days, we’ll give you a brain scan to see how much, if any, of the tumour remains, and discuss if you need steroids to reduce any swelling.’
He ran through the aftercare she’d receive, the side-effects.
‘Will I be able to see again?’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘I think it’s extremely doubtful that we’ll be able to restore total vision. The best we can hope for is that you regain partial vision. The worst outcome will be no change.’
After he’d left, Isla cried. Emily cried too. Isla wondered at the quantity of tears a body could produce. Tears of anger, of self-pity. Of grief, weeping for the woman she used to be; carefree, happy.
‘At least we know it’s not aerotoxicity,’ Emily
