Faith

by Peter James

  His phone rang. He ignored it. It rang again, then a third time, urgently. He jabbed the pause button on the video control, grabbed the phone and snapped, 'I told you I don't want to be disturbed, Lucinda.'

  'It's ten to four,' his secretary said.

  'I know how to tell the fucking time. My father gave me a watch when I was seven.'

  'You have three patients waiting — Mr Sirwan has been here over an hour — and you've got the BBC coming at five.'

  'The BBC?'

  'You agreed to do an interview for Panorama on breast implants.'

  'When is Lady Reynes-Raleigh booked in?'

  'Three o'clock tomorrow.'

  'Do I have any gaps in the morning.'

  'No, none.'

  'Find me an hour.'

  'I can't. You've got a completely full —'

  He dropped the receiver back on the cradle and pressed the play button.

  On the screen, Oliver Cabot said, 'Sit down, Faith, and we'll talk through what I'm going to do.'

  Ross, his insides balled up tight like his fist, watched Faith sit down on a sofa. Oliver Cabot lit a low, fat candle on the coffee table, then sat opposite her. Faith now had her back to the camera, and the weird fish-eye distortion of the lens gave Ross the top and rear of her head, and a frontal view of Cabot's face.

  'Conventional medicine tends to target the disease itself. What I try to do is understand an individual's immune system and find ways to boost that. I use hypnosis and other trance states, combined sometimes with pharmaceuticals as well, and natural remedies. It's been well established over thousands of years that the mind can affect the body, that we all have the power within us to affect our own healing. There's a professor of immunology in the US who said very recently that the immune system is the mind. That's what I believe and that's what I want to work on with you. How do you feel about that?'

  'That makes sense,' Faith said.

  'I'd like to start by sending you to a lab I use, who will do a series of tests on your blood, which will help me understand clearly your immune system. Every human immune system is unique, and I need to establish which areas of yours we need to work on.'

  'I have some savings. How much will they cost?'

  'About a thousand pounds.'

  You fucking con-man, Ross thought. Jesus.

  'How quickly can they do them?'

  'I'll phone them now — maybe you could go over there right away? They're five minutes by cab.'

  'Please,' she said.

  Ross's phone rang again, then a second time. He hit the pause button. 'What is it, Lucinda?'

  'Mr Seiler is on the phone from the Credit Shiel bank in Zurich — he says he needs to speak to you urgently. And Mr Sirwan has another appointment — he can only wait another five minutes.'

  'Put Seiler on.'

  A moment later, Ross heard the familiar broken English of the Swiss bank manager.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Ransome. We received your fax and I just would like, please, your verbal confirmation. We are to transfer today the sterling equivalent of twenty-five thousand pounds in euros to the account of the Benina Corporation SA in Puerto Banus? This is correct?'

  'Correct.'

  'Thank you, Mr Ransome.'

  Ross hung up and stared in grim satisfaction at the frozen, flickering image of Oliver Cabot on the screen. Ronnie Milward's down-payment was on its way.

  Half now, half on completion.

  He switched off the television and told his secretary to send in Mr Sirwan.

  52

  Faith removed one wooden chip too many from the precarious tower.

  'Timberrrrrrrrr!' Alec shouted.

  She watched helplessly as, once again, all fifty-four pieces crashed down on to the kitchen table; several rolled off the edge, rat-tat-tatting on to the oak floorboards, one coming to rest inches from the nose of the sleeping Rasputin, who didn't stir.

  Alec, giggling, leaned back in his chair, pointing a finger at his mother. 'You did it! Yooouu! Silly Mummy!'

  Smiling back, fighting to stop herself crying, Faith knelt, ducking beneath the table to recover the pieces from the floor — and her composure. She knew why she kept losing: you needed a steady hand to play this game and she was shaking too much.

  The only time she had stopped shaking was last night when she'd got back from London after the tests, and had asked Sammy Harrison to come over for a drink. When Faith told her about the diagnosis and about Oliver, Sammy talked enthusiastically about a cousin who'd been diagnosed with breast cancer eight years ago and had gone to an alternative doctor, and was now clear of the disease.

  After Alec had gone to bed they'd demolished a bottle of Chablis and for an hour, maybe even more, the buzz of the alcohol had sent her confidence soaring into orbit. Then, after Sammy had gone home, the burned-out remnants of that confidence crashed back to earth.

  At three in the morning she had lain in their massive four-poster bed, wide awake, in the claustrophobic grip of fear, fighting a terrible longing to phone her mother and tell her. The thought even crossed her mind that her mother already knew, that Ross had given her the news and said, 'Don't tell Faith, she won't be able to cope.' And, of course, her mother would go along with Ross. She always did.

  Instead, Faith had gone down to Ross's study, and looked up Lendt's disease on the web. There were forty sites. Among them she found a help group for Lendt's disease sufferers. It contained detailed information about the Moliou-Orelan trials, but she learned nothing new.

  Another site went into the identification of the disease by the virologist, Dr Mogens Lendt, and contained pictures that looked much like the ones Oliver had shown her on his laptop. But the site was more concerned with the career of Lendt and the papers he had published. On another site there was a list of viral diseases that had been identified in the past decade, with the common link, pollution, blamed as a prime culprit.

  The culprit didn't concern her. She looked for only one thing as she worked her way through the sites. A cure. Progress towards a cure. Hope for the victims.

  She had found none.

  'Can we do it once more, Mummy?'

  It was the fifth time they'd played the game already, and she was tiring of it. It was seven o'clock. She didn't know what she wanted to do. Tomorrow's World was on television at seven thirty. It always fascinated her. She used to watch it with her father and she often wondered if he had secretly hoped that one day on the show he would see a cure for his disease. After that there was a cookery programme on Sky, and, at nine, her favourite, ER.

  But she wasn't sure she could concentrate on television tonight.

  Oliver Cabot is going to make me better.

  I have to believe that.

  And if he doesn't?

  She looked at Alec. What would happen to you? You'd be in Ross's hands.

  'Can we, Mummy? Once more?'

  'Bed!' she said.

  'Ohhhh. Please, Mummy?' That look on his face always got to her. Relenting, she said, 'Once more, and then bed — OK?'

  'Yeeeaaahhhhhhh!'

  Alec began to scoop the pieces back into the box, setting up the next game. While he was absorbed, she shielded her eyes with her hands, and tried, silently, to pray. Last night she had tried to say the Lord's Prayer and got the words muddled three times. For years during her childhood, she had prayed every night for her father, and every day he got a little worse. Some time, long before he had died, she had told God she was very disappointed in him, and if he ever wanted her to pray again, he'd better give her a sign by doing something good for her father.

  But last night, during her lowest ebb, she had begun to pray again.

  Rasputin ran out into the hall, barking excitedly. For a moment she thought Alec had startled him, but the barking persisted. 'What is it, boy?' she called.

  The sound of a key turning in the lock, the door opening, a man's voice. 'Hey, boy! Rasputin! Hey, hey, hey!'

  Ross?

  She'd been trying to get hol
d of him all day, but what the hell was he doing at home? It was Wednesday. He was meant to be staying in London until Friday.

  He came through the kitchen door to a squeal of excitement from Alec, who launched himself at him. 'Daddy! Daddeee!'

  Ross scooped him up, held him in the air, and the sight angered Faith. Ten days ago Ross had struck him savagely, now he was hugging him, and Alec seemed to have forgotten all about it.

  'Hey, big guy! I didn't see you all weekend! Missed you. You've grown! Haven't seen you for nine days and you've grown an inch! You're not a big guy any more, you're a huge guy!' He set the child back down on the ground. His face darkened. 'Shouldn't you be in bed? It's after seven.' He shot an accusatory glance at Faith, who remained seated at the table.

  'I wasn't expecting you.' Instantly she regretted the words.

  'I see. This is what happens during the week when I'm not here. You let all discipline go out of the window.'

  'Why didn't you return any of my calls, Ross?'

  'It's after seven. Why's he still up?'

  Faith glanced at Alec. She hated more than anything else for him to see them arguing, but she was determined to hold her ground. Calmly but firmly she said, 'We're going to have one more game and then bedtime. You start, Alec'

  'He's going to bed, now!' Ross, a storm brewing in his face, looked around, searching for something to be angry about, and didn't have to search far. 'Why are there dirty dishes on the sideboard? Are they from lunch, Faith? Do you live like a slut when you're not expecting me home? You let my son go to bed when he pleases and leave a mess everywhere?'

  Ignoring Ross, she said to Alec, 'We're playing one more game. You go first, darling.' Then continuing in the same calm grown-up-talking-to-a-child voice she glanced at Ross and said, 'Why don't you relax in your study and I'll bring you a whisky?'

  She began to set up the pieces of the game, and could see Ross out of the corner of her eye, wavering. 'I left three messages for you with Lucinda,' she said. 'One yesterday and two today. I also left two messages for Jules Ritterman. I'd very much like to know why you haven't told me the truth about what is wrong with me.' She glanced at Alec, who seemed to be concentrating on the game. Even so, he said, 'What is wrong with you, Mummy?' She looked up at Ross. 'Would you like to tell him?'

  'I have to send a couple of urgent e-mails.' Ross, the storm gathering in his face, turned and walked out.

  Forty minutes later, Faith switched off Alec's light and closed his door. Then she went downstairs, into Ross's study, and closed that door behind her also. Ross, sitting at his computer, continued to stare at the screen as he tapped a command.

  'Why didn't you tell me I'm dying?' she said. 'Why did you tell me a load of rubbish about antibiotics and lie to me about the capsules you gave me?'

  He picked up a container on his desk and held it up for her to see. There was no anger in his voice now, just hurt. 'You're not taking them, Faith. These were in your handbag and I have just counted them. You didn't take the ones you should have taken at lunch and dinner yesterday, or any today.'

  'What gives you any right to go looking in my handbag?'

  'What do you think gives you the right not to take these pills?'

  'I have every right in the damned world not to take them.'

  'You're wrong. You're my wife and Alec's mother and you have a duty to both of us — especially to him. You have an obligation to remain alive, Faith. You can't bring a child into the world then just dump him.'

  'Why did you lie to me?'

  He stood up abruptly, hands at his side, fists clenched. 'You bitch. In twelve years I've never been unfaithful to you, you whore. Never.' He took a stride towards her and she stepped back, certain she was going to be struck.

  But instead his face crumpled into tears. 'I love you, Faith. I can't bear the thought of losing you, I can't bear the thought that you might be going to die. I just wanted to do the best thing for you, that's why I didn't tell you. Can you understand that?'

  He put his arms round her, pressing his wet face against her cheek. 'I want you to take those pills because they're the best chance you have. I don't want you being conned —' He checked himself. She mustn't know about Hugh Caven, he mustn't give the game away. 'I don't want you being confident you can just beat this by doing nothing.' Then he checked himself again. 'How do you know? Did Jules Ritterman tell you?'

  She felt him clinging harder to her, and in spite of all her anger and hatred towards him, she felt pity for him. He was such a damaged man: so badly damaged from childhood that he could barely talk about it. Damaged by his ambitions, damaged by his own wiring circuitry that failed to control his emotions and temper.

  His mother had died when he was young, and his bullying father from a heart attack when Ross was in his early twenties.

  'I went and got a second opinion,' she said, gently.

  Nuzzling even closer to her, he said, 'Faith, oh, my darling, Faith. We may have had some ups and downs lately, but do I love you. We're going to beat this damned thing. I've got everyone I know who can help with something like this on the case. I'm getting you the best medical help in the world.'

  'How come you're home?' she asked.

  'I blew out an interview with the BBC because I wanted to be with you. I'm here for you. I'll do anything in the world for you, my darling.'

  Anything, she thought, except the one thing I really want.

  53

  At ten past eleven the following morning, Ross passed a cluster of parked motorcycles and entered the front door of a modern, rather uninspired-looking office building in a mews just off Wigmore Street. The small sign on the door said, WIGMORE laboratory.

  Three motorcycle couriers were hanging around, crowding the confined reception area. Ross eased past them to the desk and greeted the receptionist cheerily. The woman, in her late twenties, plain but chirpy, sat behind two small towers of Jiffy-bags bantering with a biker. Ross always wondered how the hell nothing ever got lost in here. He'd been dealing with this lab for over a decade and they were always blisteringly efficient.

  She turned to Ross. 'Good morning, it's Mr Ransome, isn't it? I'm still waiting for my free makeover.'

  'You don't need one, you look great,' Ross replied

  'Flattery will get you everywhere! Who've you come to see?'

  'Dr Gilliatt.'

  'I'll tell her you're here. Could you just sign in, please?'

  'Of course.'

  Another courier entered, holding a large package. Ross looked down at the visitors' sheet, took out his pen, then while she was distracted with signing the courier's docket he pocketed the pen without writing anything. The less of a trail he left the better.

  A phone warbled. Before answering it, the receptionist leaned across and said, 'Please go up, Mr Ransome, third floor.'

  Ross took the stairs and came out on a small landing. The door in front of him was labelled PATH/3. He went through and was warmly greeted by the lab's senior pathologist. Susan Gilliatt was a handsome woman in her mid-forties, attractive even in her white lab coat and with her blonde hair pinned back tightly. More than once Ross had felt that her looks were wasted on the bacteria, viruses and other assortments of low life forms with which she chose to spend her working days.

  He followed her into the windowless, L-shaped laboratory, past a continuous white work-top cluttered with equipment: flow-hoods, incubators, gel solutions and PWR machines for DNA analysis, powered microscopes, computer terminals, vials, jars, test-tubes, sinks, boxes of sterile wipes, protective gloves, eye shields, warning signs, danger — biohazard!, health and safety instructions, and the sour reek of chemicals that would let you know, the world over, with your eyes shut, that you were in a pathology lab.

  About ten people were at work in this room, all in white coats, a young team mostly, in their twenties and thirties. Some looked up as they passed, giving brief nods. They stopped behind a young, ponytailed man in his late twenties who was in deep concentration, releasing a
single drop from a pipette into one of a whole row of Petri dishes, with a gloved hand.

  'Niall is working on this problem now. He's been here around the clock for the past ten days.'

  The young man turned his head for a fleeting instant. Ross saw bloodshot eyes behind tiny wire-framed glasses, a Joe Stalin beard and a faced racked with exhaustion. 'Any progress?' he asked Susan Gilliatt.

  'We've identified the strain — each one of those contains it.' She nodded at about two dozen plated Petri dishes sitting near the lab technician. Each dish contained a blood culture infected with a particularly virulent strain of septicaemia that had been found in a post-operative patient in the Harley-Devonshire Hospital, who had subsequently died.

  'And it doesn't respond to any antidotes?'

  'No yet,' she said grimly. 'Let's just hope it's an isolated case.'

  'Any thoughts on how it might be transmitted?' he asked.

  She shook her head. 'Until we understand it better, no. The woman who died had been out in India only a week before she came in here. That's the most likely source of infection.'

  Ross knew that the woman, who had come in for removal of fibroids, had been admitted in otherwise seemingly good health. Two days after the operation, performed by one of the country's foremost gynaecologists, she had developed the septicaemia, and four days later she was dead. Naturally there was serious concern by the hospital that she hadn't contracted the infection there, and every effort was being made to understand the strain of the bacterium.

  Niall sealed the dish he had been working on, got up from his chair and walked away up the laboratory. As he did so, Dr Gilliatt's pager began beeping.

  She excused herself, then hurried to a wall phone a few yards away.

  Ross watched the technician, still striding away. He glanced up at the walls and ceiling for any hint of a closed-circuit camera, but could see nothing. Susan Gilliatt was on the phone.

  He seized one of the Petri dishes, checked that the lid was secure and jammed it into his trouser pocket.