Death

He nodded.

'Death?' she repeated, determined to make him say it.

'Death,' he said.

'OK. You haven't said anything about my old injury.'

He looked bewildered, then relieved. He was being offered an escape route from her short future into her slightly longer past.

He said, 'Well, I thought about it, of course, in terms of the whole range of symptoms you described. Indeed, I had a chat with a colleague of mine who specializes in neuropsychology and has produced a couple of highly regarded papers on various categories of psychiatric disorder which can occur as a long-term result of brain injury. Not that I was thinking of you in terms of serious psychiatric disorder, of course, but merely exploring the possibility that some of your physical symptoms might be explicable in terms of some minor affective disorder

He was getting away from her again behind those defences of verbiage and syntax which must have done such sterling service for him over the years.

Rye said, 'So what did he say, your colleague? Just the gist will do.'

'Of course, yes. Though you realize this is not at all relevant to your current condition.'

The tumour that has been giving me headaches and made me have a fit and is eventually going to kill me, you mean? Yes, I realize that, and I understand that once you knew about the tumour you would naturally lose interest in my old head injury. But seeing as you did include it initially in your hypothesis… sorry, diagnosis… I might as well get full value for my money, mightn't I?'

'Well, there is a wide range of categories of psychiatric disorder which can occur after a brain injury such as you clearly experienced when you were fifteen. I mentioned affective disorders, which include conditions like mania and depression, plus obsessive compulsive and panic anxiety disorders. Associated with these may be arousal and motivational disorders. Psychotic disorders may also present, and there can be an associated inclination to violence and aggression, but none of this really has any relevance to your condition, Miss Pomona

'Bear with me. This is really fascinating stuff,' she said. 'I know how busy you are, but if I could just take up a little more of your time while I get myself together

It was a good tactic. He smiled and said, 'Of course.' 'These psychotic disorders, what sort of thing's involved there?'

'In general terms, hallucinatory experiences, visual and’or auditory…'

'Seeing people who aren't there and hearing their voices, you mean?'

'Yes, that sort of thing. This can be associated with delusional belief, that is an apprehension of situations and relationships which is based on a false premise which resists all centra-evidence. Thought disorders linked to problems of language function or information processing '

‘Could not being able to remember my stage lines fit in here?'

He looked at her curiously and said, 'Yes, I suppose it could.'

'How fascinating,' she said. 'Just one thing more. My tumour She found she quite liked the possessive. My flat. My books. In my opinion. My boyfriend.

My tumour.

'… is it in any way, could it be in any way, related to that old brain injury?'

He frowned as if feeling it was unfair of her to remind him she was going to die, then said, 'Actually, I don't have the faintest idea. Seems unlikely, but lots of things we now take for granted once seemed unlikely.'

She nodded as if to reassure him that this was the kind of frankness she wanted.

'But, like an accidental brain injury, is a tumour also likely to cause psychiatric disorders? Or have any effect on the way that the mind functions?'

'Well, certainly, but I really don't think you need to start worrying about that.'

'Because it is going to kill me too quickly for any behavioural changes to become significant, you mean?' she said solemnly.

He frowned again. She gave him a quick grin.

'Not all bad then!' she went on. 'But it could be having some effects on my behaviour and thought processes, right? In which case, it could be that some of these new effects might actually counterbalance or negate some of the old effects of my head injury, right?'

He shrugged helplessly. He looked almost vulnerable.

'Anything's possible,' he said, 'but honestly, I don't think there's much point in concerning ourselves with effects when what we need to do is -'

She stood up, saying, 'Thanks a lot, Mr Chakravarty. You've been really helpful.'

'deal with causes’ he concluded, determined to get back to the consulted’consulting relationship. 'Miss Pomona, about your treatment

'No time for that,' she said crisply. 'Don't worry. I'll pay your bill by return of post.'

Then, feeling that he hadn't really deserved such a parting sting, she smiled and said, 'And I'm really grateful. Take care now.'

She went out to the car park. It was curious. She'd been condemned to death and yet what she felt was the kind of euphoria you experience as you leave the dentist's!

It was five thirty. She didn't want to go home yet. She wasn't ready for Myra's sympathetic questioning and even less ready for the possibility of finding Hat sitting on her doorstep. She turned on the car radio and listened to some Country and Western for a while. Its unsophisticated emotionalism seemed just about right. At six o'clock she drove to the Centre. Most of her colleagues would be homeward bound by now and, in any case, as far as they were concerned, she'd spent the day shopping.

She made her way to the Centre theatre. Its director had been one of the Wordman's victims. No, one of my victims, she corrected herself. She didn't know if she could bring herself to confess her sins but at least she could confront them. One of the core members of the company, a young woman called Lynn Crediton, had been appointed as stand-in director and, if the current holiday production of Aladdin was anything to go by, the Council might do worse than to make the appointment permanent. . In the little theatre there was the usual bustle as they got ready for the evening performance in just over an hour. Rye spotted Lynn in the aisle, checking some lighting adjustments. She waited till she'd finished shouting her instructions, then went up to her.

They'd met a couple of times before, and Rye's association with the Wordman case underlined the encounters.

'Hi,' said Lynn. 'You an early punter, or do you fancy being the back legs of a camel?'

'Both, maybe,' said Rye. 'Look, it probably sounds daft, but I used to do a bit of acting and I wondered if I could try out a few lines?'

'You want to audition?' The woman regarded her doubtfully, then said, 'Sure, why not? Can you come along say tomorrow morning, about ten?'

'Well actually, I wondered if I could just go on stage now and do a bit? Just thirty seconds, honestly. I can see you're really busy, but it's just that I feel really up for it. No one has to stop doing anything, then I'll be out of your hair.'

Lynn shrugged.

'OK, help yourself. But I can't promise I'll be able to listen, even for thirty seconds!'

Rye smiled her thanks and stepped on to the low stage.

She stood there for a moment looking out into the theatre. They came back to her, those days before… before Serge died, this is what it had been like, standing in the light, looking into the dark.

Now here she was again.

Standing in the light, looking into the dark.

She cleared her throat, then opened her mouth with no idea what, if anything, was going to come out.

She heard herself begin to sing.

Come away, come away death, And in sad cypress let me be laid.

Fly away, fly away breath,

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

I prepare it.