A Life for a Life

by Andrew Puckett

  A Life for a Life

  Andrew Puckett

  © Andrew Puckett 2000

  Andrew Puckett has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2000 by Constable.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  I am grateful to Dr Mary Tyne, Barry Gray and John Croxton for their professional help with this book. Also, as always, to Carol Puckett for her indispensable assistance in writing it.

  For my mother and her sister Marjorie.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  1

  May 1999

  She came in quickly, breathlessly, aware that Sean was looking at the clock on the wall.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sean. I don’t know what’s the matter with me at the moment…’

  He smiled at her – because he liked her, because her tardiness was so uncharacteristic. ‘All right, Frances.’ A thought struck him: ‘Perhaps you’d like to be control, then? As a penance.’

  She groaned. ‘Oh, if that’s what it takes…’

  A minute later, in the cubicle, she winced as he deftly thrust a needle into a vein.

  ‘When’s Fraser due back?’ he asked as blood flowed into the sample tube. ‘This week, isn’t it?’

  ‘Friday,’ she said, smiling now – to herself as much as him. ‘Midnight.’

  ‘Are you meeting him at the airport?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  He grinned at her, then took the sample back to the laboratory and gave it to one of the others to put through the analyser. She staunched the bleeding, put a plaster on the wound and went to sign reports in the office.

  She had no foreboding until Connie Flint, the department’s medical director, phoned through and asked to see her.

  Something to do with Fraser? she wondered as she walked down the corridor; her fiancé, who was a registrar in the department, didn’t exactly see eye to eye with Connie.

  ‘Sit down, Frances,’ Connie said. Then: ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you…’ She hesitated. ‘Sean brought me the count and a film from the blood he took from you and… well, it looks like leukaemia…’

  *

  Connie was still talking – at least, Frances assumed she was because her lips were still moving. She tried to concentrate.

  ‘… hope I’m wrong… need to look at some bone marrow… suggest we do that now…’

  ‘Yes, Dr Flint,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘D’you need a few minutes?’

  ‘No. No, thank you.’

  They went along to the treatment room, where a nurse was waiting. Frances slowly stripped to the waist and lay on the bed. She felt as though her doppelganger was watching her and wasn’t sure which of them was which.

  Connie drew on sterile rubber gloves. ‘You’ve heard this often enough, but I’ll say it again anyway – you shouldn’t feel anything other than the aspiration of the fluid.’

  Frances nodded, unable to speak.

  Connie filled a syringe with local anaesthetic. ‘Here we go, then.’ Her voice was calm, neutral, but as she looked down at the younger woman’s breasts, an emotion akin to hatred flashed through her brain, and as her eyes were drawn up to the calm, alabaster face with its latent beauty and frame of near black hair, she thought, Even now, you’re so bloody cool, aren’t you?

  She forced herself to relax as her fingers probed Frances’ sternum, then she injected the fluid round the point she’d found and gave it a few moments to work. Then she picked up the cannula and, without hesitating, pushed the point through the flesh until she felt it reach the bone. She took a breath and with a sudden effort, thrust it through into the marrow.

  ‘OK?’

  Frances nodded again. She’d felt no pain, only a vague, dull crunch. Connie fitted a syringe to the cannula and eased the plunger up…

  ‘Ahhh!’

  ‘Sorry, nearly done…’

  ‘Not a happy sign though,’ Frances managed between her teeth – the pull on the marrow is notably more painful in leukaemia…

  *

  Don’t let it be, please don’t let it be… They were back in Connie’s office and Frances wasn’t sure who she was addressing the words to, but felt vaguely that it must be God, which seemed strange, since she didn’t believe in Him… then Connie looked up from the microscope and her expression told her the worst.

  ‘It’s ALL,’ she said. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Frances, but there’s no point in my pretending otherwise. Of course, we’ll do a FACSCAN to make sure, but I don’t think there can be any doubt…’ I’m gabbling, she thought, because – because I don’t like her… ‘Is there anyone you’d like to phone?’

  Frances looked up, her grey eyes looking deep into Connie’s blue ones. You’re not sorry, she thought with sudden perception. You’ve handed me tantamount to a death sentence and you’re not truly sorry. How I wish you were someone else. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t bear to in front of Connie. If only John Somersby were still alive…

  ‘I’ll phone my mother in a minute,’ she said, ‘but… where do we go from here?’ As she said it, she realised the word we put her completely in Connie’s hands.

  Connie took a breath. ‘I’d like to start treatment straight away, first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Which drugs?’

  ‘Oh, it has to be Alkovin, DAP – I think you know that.’

  Frances looked steadily back at her.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Frances – let me show you something.’ She got up and pulled open a filing cabinet. ‘Fraser isn’t the only one here who can collate figures.’ She drew out a folder. ‘You know what the cure rate is for acute lymphoblastic leukaemia in adults?’

  ‘Twenty to thirty per cent?’

  ‘Nearer thirty in a woman. Now look at this – using Alkovin on these patients, we’ve achieved a greater than ninety-five per cent remission. Now, I know the relationship isn’t absolute, but the better the remission rate, the better the cure rate.’

  She leaned forward, fixed Frances with her gaze. ‘I believe that by using Alkovin, we can raise this to forty, even fifty per cent. Are you really going to tell me that you don’t want to try that because of Fraser’s fears, because of a theoretical risk of depression?’

  Frances’ mind whirled. She wants to use me to get at Fraser… to prove him wrong about Alkovin – by curing me with it. ‘No, Dr Flint,’ she said at last.

  Connie let out a breath. ‘Good,’ she said, softly. Then: ‘If you do experience depression or any of the side-effects that Fraser thinks he’s observed, then we’ll treat them along with the others.’

  *

  Later, back at home, she was at last able to cry, in the arms of her mother.

  Rocking her, smoothing her brow and murmuring endearments, Mary Templeton thought sadly, To think I was regretting that my days of mothering were over…

  Later still, while she was helping Frances to pack, she said, ‘Are you sure about not telling Fraser, dear?’

  ‘Mum, I want to try this treatment, even if there is a slight risk, and I’m afraid that Fraser would try to stop me… I want to live, Mum.’

  *

  Fraser could never decide whether it was better to m
eet the customs officers’ gaze directly (too honest – something to hide) or avoid it altogether and walk past as though they weren’t there (too shifty – something to hide). It was ridiculous anyway, he had nothing over the legal allowance, and yet customs always made him feel conspicuous and guilty.

  They didn’t stop him. They never had, and probably never would, he supposed, until the day came when he really did have something to hide.

  He walked through and scanned the faces on the other side of the barrier… She wasn’t there – then his eyes flicked back to a face that was familiar – Mary, her mother. He waved, walked swiftly round the barrier and over to her.

  ‘Mary, is something wrong?’

  ‘Fraser, I’ve got some bad news…’

  He went still. ‘What is it, tell me.’

  ‘She’s ill, she asked me to meet you – can we find somewhere to sit down?’

  The only place nearby was an unwelcoming set of table and chairs in glass and chrome. He took her arm and propelled her over, dragging his case after him.

  ‘What is it?’ he said again as they sat.

  ‘She’s in hospital…’ She hesitated. ‘She’s got leukaemia.’

  She spoke so quietly that he thought he’d misheard and made her say it again: ‘She’s got leukaemia.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ As the words came out, he could feel their fatuousness.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she snapped. ‘What do you take me for?’

  He stared at her open-mouthed. ‘But she was fine on Sunday when we spoke on the phone.’

  ‘She’s been feeling tired a lot lately, although we had no idea she was so ill…’ She told him how the disease had been found by accident in the laboratory.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Mary. I’m just finding it hard to take in. Who’s in charge of her? Oh no, not Connie…?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mary said with a trace of defiance, ‘Dr Flint – and she couldn’t have been more helpful.’

  ‘Did she say what kind of leukaemia?’

  ‘Yes, acute something…’

  ‘Myeloid, or lymphoblastic?’

  ‘That’s it – lymphoblastic.’

  ‘Has she started treatment yet?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why she went into hospital.’

  Fraser let out a groan. ‘Did she say what the treatment was?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t remember—’

  ‘Was it Alkovin? DAP?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  He brought his fist down on the table. ‘Why did she not tell, me, Mary, phone me? I’d have come straight back.’

  Mary hesitated again, then said, ‘Because she wanted to have the treatment Dr Flint offered, she thought it was her best chance.’

  Fraser groaned again and sank his head into his hands.

  Mary said timidly, ‘She told me you didn’t approve of it, but Dr Flint convinced her it gave her the best hope. She convinced me too, Fraser.’

  He scrambled untidily to his feet. ‘I’m goin’ to see Frances now, then I’m goin’ round to Connie’s and have it out with her.’

  ‘Fraser, you can’t, it’s past midnight—’

  ‘I don’ care about—’

  ‘Fraser!’ she snapped, making him jerk. ‘Don’t be foolish. Let Frances sleep, let me take you home and you can go and see her first thing tomorrow.’ Then she said, ‘She’s my daughter, Fraser, I’m suffering too, you know.’

  ‘Aye, I know that,’ he said more calmly, putting his hand on hers. She looked back at him, aware of the Glasgow burr leaching into his speech.

  As soon as they were outside, she fumbled in her bag, brought out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. ‘Yes, I’ve started again,’ she said, daring him to object.

  They walked to the car-park and she summoned the lift.

  ‘How is she feeling?’ he asked as they waited for it.

  ‘Tired, although she was that before. Irritable, sick. She’ll feel better for seeing you.’

  He nodded. She threw the cigarette away as the lift arrived and they stepped in. ‘She’s determined to beat it and Dr Flint says the will to live can be a very important factor.’

  Fraser bit back the retort that bubbled inside him. The lift stopped and they walked over to her car, a battered black Golf. He offered to drive and she gratefully accepted – it had been even more of a strain than she’d anticipated and she wondered for a moment whether it would have been better to have disobeyed Frances and phoned him in America.

  As they left the car-park, she lit up again. The smoke caught the back of his throat and he swallowed a cough – it was her car.

  He concentrated on driving and she studied him covertly as the sodium glare of a street lamp illuminated his face, or rather, the beard that covered most of it. He had a strong Celtic nose and deep-set brown eyes beneath a broad forehead and dark, springy hair… She knew this already, but what did she know about him, Fraser Callan, Doctor Fraser Callan?

  That he was Scottish, had a temper like quicksilver and wanted to marry her daughter, and that was about all. She liked him, but wished she knew more – a lot might depend on his strength in the months ahead.

  Once out of the airport, the calmer, analytical side of his nature reasserted itself and he asked her some more questions, which she answered as best she could.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?’ she said when they arrived at his house.

  He smiled briefly for the first time. ‘Are you offering to stay the night with me then, Mary? People might talk, you know.’

  She smiled back. Like Frances, her features seemed almost plain – until she smiled. ‘Try not to drink too much, Fraser. You’re going to need a clear head tomorrow.’

  Good advice, he thought as he watched her drive away and then pulled the door shut behind him. Good, but impractical… The house smelled slightly musty even though it had only been empty for three days.

  He caught sight of a picture of Frances on the mantelpiece, dropped his case and picked up the picture, then sank on to the sofa with his head in hands. He couldn’t lose her, mustn’t lose her… Abruptly, he got up, went into the kitchen and found a glass. He opened his case and took out the bottle of duty-free scotch.

  He had no family here, no friends he knew well enough to disturb this late, so he might as well hold a dialogue with Johnnie Walker. The screw top snapped satisfyingly as the metal seal broke and the spirit gurgled into the glass.

  Moral cowardice? Maybe, but it wasn’t every day you learned that the woman you loved was mortal sick.

  He took a long swallow and picked up the picture again… She smiled back at him, and for a moment her face seemed to move as though she was trying to tell him something…

  Why hadn’t she phoned him?

  Words he’d say when he saw her started going through his head, and then the words he’d say to Connie… To stop the treatment now would probably do more harm than good, but he’d fine well have words to say to her, by God he would – this was her doing, it was as though she was issuing a challenge to him…

  He tossed off the contents of his glass, then became aware of an urgent need to empty his bladder, and by the time he came back, the whisky fumes had already begun to blur the edges. He refilled the glass and looked at the picture again.

  If I’d never come here, if I’d stayed in Scotland, would this have happened?

  Of course it would, it’s just that he wouldn’t have known about it…

  But would it? Had his presence somehow precipitated events? Now, his mind swirled with guilt and uncertainty.

  He turned his thoughts back to when they’d first met, smiled as he drank and thought about it…

  When had it become inevitable that he would come here and press the button marked Go? He pondered this as he drank and refilled his glass, and just before he passed out he saw everything with perfect clarity – the interview and John Somersby; Terry Stroud and the lab; Connie, Ian and Leo – and Alkovin…

>   Alkovin. It was already behind a lot of misery. Had it been behind John Somersby’s murder as well…?

  2

  November 1996

  ‘Do sit down, Dr Callan,’ The man in the middle had waited while Fraser did so, then had continued, ‘I’m John Somersby, medical director here, and I’m flanked, so to speak, by my colleagues: Connie Flint,’ – a honey-haired woman with an attractive oval face nodded to him – ‘and Ian Saunders.’

  ‘Hi,’ Saunders, a balding, rather long-faced man, said.

  Somersby leaned back and smiled at Fraser. ‘So, Dr Callan… we’ve read your application and CV, we know you’d like the registrar’s post here and why – so perhaps you could tell us something about yourself.’

  He had a domed bald head, bushy eyebrows and a patrician nose, and his smile told Fraser that he hadn’t put the appalling question out of laziness, he knew exactly what he was doing and wanted to see how Fraser would handle it.

  Fraser decided to take him at his word.

  ‘Well, I grew up in Glasgow and left school at sixteen to work in the local hospital path lab. I did well enough there in my degree to be accepted at medical school…’

  He spoke, Somersby noted, with what was clearly a Glaswegian accent, but one that had been smoothed down by… time? Or more likely, Somersby suspected, by the ruthless application of emery cloth.

  He’d gained his medical degree four years later, he told them (with a distinction, he didn’t add, although they knew this from his CV), then served his apprenticeship as a house officer in Edinburgh before specialising in pathology. Over the next half-hour, they questioned him about his experience, the work he’d published and the direction he saw his career going.

  There was a slight pause, as there is when an interview is about to change gear, then Somersby looked up.

  ‘Most people who decide on a career in medicine do so from the outset, so to speak, and yet you chose to work in a path lab as a scientific officer. Having embarked on that as a career, what made you decide to change to medicine?’

  Fraser thought quickly and again decided on the truth.