Slurring her words, Caitlin said, ‘I’m like – I’m – I’m like…’
Lynn steered her back into her room. Caitlin half sank, half fell backwards on her bed. Lynn sat down beside her and put an arm around her. ‘What is it, my darling? Tell me?’
Caitlin’s eyes rolled again.
Lynn thought, for one terrible moment, that she was dying.
‘If you’ve given her anything, Luke, I’ll kill you. I swear it. I’ll tear your fucking eyeballs out!’
‘I haven’t, I promise. Nothing. Nothing. I don’t do drugs. I wouldn’t, wouldn’t give her nothing.’
She put her nose to her daughter’s mouth to see if she could smell alcohol, but there was only a warm, faintly sour odour. ‘What’s the matter, darling?’
‘I just feel giddy. I’ve got the roundabouts. Where am I?’
‘You’re home, darling. You’re OK. You’re at home.’
Caitlin stared blankly around the room, without any recognition at all, as if she was in a totally unfamiliar place. Lynn followed her eyes as she stared at the dartboard with the purple boa hanging from it, then at the photograph of the rock star hunk, whose name Lynn had momentarily forgotten, as if she was looking at them for the first time.
‘I – I don’t know where I am,’ she said.
Lynn stood up, gripped by a terrible panic. ‘Luke, stay here with her for a moment.’ Then she ran downstairs, grabbed her handbag and went into the kitchen. She pulled her address book out of her bag, then dialled the mobile phone number of the Royal South London transplant coordinator.
To her relief, Shirley Linsell answered on the third ring. Lynn told her Caitlin’s symptoms.
‘It sounds like encephalopathy,’ she said. ‘Let me speak to a consultant and either I or he will get straight back to you.’
‘She’s in a really bad way,’ Lynn said. ‘Encephalopathy? How do you spell that?’
The coordinator spelled it out. Then, promising to get back to her within minutes, hung up.
Lynn ran back up the stairs, holding the cordless phone. ‘Luke, can you look up “encephalopathy” on the Net?’ She spelled it out for him.
Luke sat down at Caitlin’s dressing table, opened her laptop and began clicking on the keypad.
Five minutes later, Shirley Linsell rang back. ‘You need to get Caitlin to move her bowels. Would you like to bring her back up here?’
‘Have you found a liver for her?’
There was a hesitation that Lynn did not like.
‘No, but I think it would be a good idea for her to come in.’
‘For how long?’
‘Until we’ve stabilized her.’
‘When will you have a liver?’
‘Well, as I said this morning, I cannot answer that. You could treat her at home for this.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Give her an enema. Usually with this condition, evacuating the bowel will regularize her.’
‘What kind of enema? Where do I get one?’
‘Any chemist.’
‘Terrific,’ Lynn said.
‘Why don’t you try that? Give it a few hours, then see how she is and call me. There is someone here all the time and she can come in at any hour.’
‘Yes,’ Lynn said. ‘Fine, I’ll do that.’
She hung up.
Caitlin was lying back on her bed, eyes opening and closing.
‘I think I’ve found what you’re looking for!’ Luke announced.
Lynn peered over his shoulder. His hair smelled unwashed.
Reading aloud off the webpage he said, ‘Encephalopathy is a neuropsychiatric syndrome which occurs in advanced liver disease. Symptoms are anything from slight confusion and drowsiness to change in personality and outright coma.’
‘How fucking great is that?’ Lynn said. Then she turned to Caitlin, whose eyes were now closed. Afraid, suddenly, that she might be slipping into a coma, she shook her. ‘Darling? Keep awake, darling.’
Caitlin opened her eyes. ‘You know what?’ she slurred. ‘Liver disease rocks.’
‘Rocks?’ Lynn said, astounded.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Luke retorted.
‘Why does it rock?’ Lynn stared quizzically at Luke, as if somehow she was going to find the answer in his inane face.
‘This transplant waiting list, yeah?’
‘What about it?’
‘There’s a way around it.’
‘What way?’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve been looking on the Net. You can buy a liver.’
‘Buy a liver?’
‘Yeah, it’s whack.’
‘Whack? I’m not sure I’m on your planet. How do you mean,
‘Through a broker.’
‘A what?’
‘An organ broker.’
Lynn stared at him, thinking for a moment this was his idea of humour. But he looked deadly earnest. It was the first time she had ever seen him remotely animated.
‘What do you mean by an organ broker?’
‘Someone who will get you whatever organ you want. On the Net. They’re selling anything you could want for a transplant. Hearts, lungs, corneas, skin, ear parts, kidneys – and livers.’
Lynn stared at him in silence for some moments. ‘You are serious? You can buy a liver on the Internet?’
‘There’s a whole bunch of sites,’ Luke went on. ‘And – this’ll interest you – I found a forum about waiting lists for organs. It says the waiting list for liver transplants in some countries is even worse than in the UK. Something like 90 per cent of people on the list in the USA will die before they get a new liver. Sort of puts our 20 per cent into the shade.’
Unless one of that 20 per cent happens to be your daughter, Lynn thought, staring hard at Luke. One of the three people a day in the UK who die waiting for a transplant.
She was sick with worry and all twisted up inside with rage. Thinking. Thinking about Shirley Linsell. Her change from warmth to coldness. Caitlin was just another patient to her. In a year or two’s time, she probably wouldn’t even remember her name – she would just be a statistic.
Lynn was not going to take that chance.
‘I’m going to the chemist. When I get back, I’d like you to show me about these organ brokers,’ she said.
On the way, she stopped at a newsagent’s, went inside and scanned the
Something dark stirred inside her. Leaving the paper on the rack, not wanting Caitlin to see it, she bought a packet of ten Silk Cut cigarettes, then went back out to her car and smoked one, thinking again, hard, her hands shaking.
55
Some years ago, when he was a detective sergeant, Roy Grace had attended a break-in at a small wine merchant’s premises up on Queens Park Road, close to the racecourse and the hideous edifice of Brighton and Hove General Hospital.
The proprietor, Henry Butler, a drily engaging, shaven-headed and impeccably spoken young man, appeared more upset at the quality of the wines the thieves had taken than at the break-in itself. While the SOCOs went about their business, dusting and spraying for fingerprints, Butler bemoaned the fact that these particular specimens of Brighton’s broad church of villainy had no taste at all.
The Philistines had taken several cases of his cheapest plonk, leaving all the fine wines, which in his view would have been far better drinking, untouched. Grace had liked him instantly, and whenever he needed a bottle for a special occasion, he had always returned to this shop.
At four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, taking a quick, late lunch break, he pulled up the unmarked Ford Focus on double yellow lines outside the small, unassuming shop front of the Butler’s Wine Cellar and dashed inside. Henry Butler was in there now, head still shaved, sporting a gold earring and a goatee beard, dressed in dungarees and a collarless shirt, as if he had just been out picking grapes.
The door pinged shut behind him and Roy instantly breathed in the familiar, sour, vinous smell of the place, mixed with the sweeter scent of freshly sawn timber from the wooden cases.
‘Good afternoon, Detective Superintendent Grace!’ Butler said, putting down a copy of
‘I wish.’ Grace smiled. ‘How’s business?’
Butler gave a shrug at the empty shop. ‘Well, with your arrival, I would say the day just got better. So what can I tempt you with?’
‘I need a rather special bottle of champagne, Henry,’ he said. ‘What’s the most expensive bottle you have?’
