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  Joseph Hill was a fifty-two-year-old man who was first admitted to the hospital urology unit a month ago. He had recently travelled abroad, on holiday in Europe, and had been bed-ridden for most of the ten days he was there. A private Spanish clinic had treated him for a serious urine infection. The antibiotics he had been given had seemed to help somewhat. Back in the UK, however, his symptoms returned, and two weeks ago, following blood tests, he was rushed into the City Hospital’s urology unit on the verge of what looked like kidney failure.

  Detailed scans showed extensive damage to his left kidney. But within a day, he was off the drip and walking around. Subsequent scans over the next few days had shown the kidney appearing to repair itself. George himself had been Joseph’s consultant, had followed all the correct procedures and sought Dharval’s opinion, and no explanation could be found. Despite extensive blood tests, there was no evidence of cancer, no tumours visible on the scans, and the hospital had had no option but to let him return home.

  But now Joseph Hill was back. Two days ago, he had been admitted with the same complaint, and this time the damage looked worse than before. The hospital management team were scurrying around like mad ants, praying that the patient survived and desperate to come up with answers as to why he had been released without treatment the first time. Any blot on the hospital’s record would more than likely be jumped on and magnified by the press, and in a time when patients were free to choose where they took their treatment, such a development could do untold damage to its reputation as a centre of excellence.

  It was a puzzling case that had completely vexed some of the most experienced senior urology consultants, not only him and Dharval at the City Hospital, but in the entire East Midlands area, including George’s colleague and boss, Dharval. That was what he’d been ringing about when he’d left the voicemail.

  ‘Please review Joseph Hill’s file as a matter of urgency for the meeting tomorrow morning,’ he’d said without bothering with a greeting. ‘If we can crack this one, it will be excellent for the department. There may even be a bit more budget in it for us.’

  George had smiled to himself at his boss’s choice of phrase: If we can crack this one. What he meant was, if George could crack it, then Dharval, as head of the department, would secure himself a blaze of glory and professional accolades before he retired.

  So far, the case had been ring-fenced for the eyes of the most senior consultants. Now that they had failed, they had called an annoying, impromptu meeting this morning and were turning to other measures to save face.

  It never failed to amuse George how the general public seemed to view medical professionals as being somehow God-like and untainted by the vagaries of everyday life. Yet the stark reality was that working in the hospital was just like being back at school: full of friendship cliques, and rife with one-upmanship and jealousy. Shameless cheating tactics to get ahead were par for the course, even amongst the echelons of the senior consultants.

  Yet the most important element, the patients, were often forgotten in the mad scramble up the greasy pole of advancement.

  George made a point to remind himself almost daily of the Hippocratic oath, and used it constantly as a yardstick for selecting the correct behaviour.

  That was why he’d already given hours of his own time to absorbing the information in Joseph Hill’s medical file. A solution to the problem hadn’t occurred to him yet, but there was still time.

  He got his things together and left for the hospital.

  Back home after the meeting, he sat quietly in the lounge with his eyes closed and focused on his breath.

  The meeting had been difficult. It was taking a turn that he hadn’t expected and it ignited a deep rage in him that he hadn’t yet been able to solve the mystery of Joseph Hill.

  He was a perfectionist and enjoyed the status of being regarded as a dynamic surgeon within the hospital. This case wasn’t going to plan at all.

  He forced himself to compartmentalise the problem that threatened to take over his thoughts completely. That’s how he dealt with the pressure of his job; he shut it away when he had to deal with everyday life.

  He stood up and packed away the paperwork and patient files into his briefcase again and spotted the thank-you card that had been delivered to the ward that morning.

  ‘Think you’ve got yourself an admirer,’ Sherry, the ward manager had grinned cheekily. ‘What can you expect though, going around saving lives at the park on your day off?’

  He slid his finger under the flap of the envelope now, opened it and read the neat handwriting inside.

  Hearing the front door being opened earlier than expected, he quickly tucked it under one of the files and allowed himself a small smile.

  George covered the distance between his chair and the hallway in four great strides.

  ‘Hello!’ He ruffled the top of Romy’s head as she slipped off her shoes and coat. ‘Did everything go all right at school last week, Maria?’ he addressed his housekeeper. She had various additional duties and the school run was one of them. He tried very hard to keep up with everything as Romy’s father but sometimes it felt like his job left no space for family matters at all.

  ‘Fine, sir,’ Maria answered, taking Romy’s coat to hang up.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ Romy said in her small, contained voice. ‘Maria’s gout is hurting her again. That’s why we had to come back early from the park.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ George said. Romy was incredibly fond of the woman.

  ‘It’s fine, nothing to worry about.’ The housekeeper wafted a hand. ‘I’ll start the tea, shall I?’

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks. I may be going out.’

  Maria bowed her head and disappeared into the kitchen. George was glad to have her around. She served as a mother figure to Romy and also a support to him. She was caring and, importantly, very professional. He’d been unsure when she’d initially approached him about the job but now he was confident he’d made the right choice.

  George’s own mother had died when he was ten, and his father’s solution to coping with a small son and a career as a leading brain surgeon had been to send him to St Mark’s boarding school, fifty miles away from his home in Hemel Hempstead.

  It had been a childhood filled with the cruellest kinds of bullying and abuse, which he pushed to the back of his mind to this very day. It served no useful purpose to get pulled into the past like that. The important thing was that he had survived his time at St Mark’s and had found success in a career he truly loved.

  He often told the medical interns that a difficult past could be integral to building a great career. He himself tried to think of his time at school and even his wife’s death as experiences that had strengthened his capacity to be an effective surgeon. He liked to think Lucy’s death had not been in vain, that he was saving numerous lives each year by employing the emotional distancing techniques he’d learned in his personal life as well as at medical school.

  You had to detach yourself from emotional responses to often harrowing problems in order to focus on the patient’s medical issue and their subsequent diagnosis and treatment.

  Sometimes that response could seep out into his personal life, and people could construe him as possessing a cold nature without empathy. It was true that he had worked on his poker face, as all senior medics did, but it often failed to serve him outside of the hospital when he was aware he could appear cold and distanced from people.

  It was hard to strike a balance but he tried.

  Ten

  1995

  He’d been at the school for only two days when he first tangled with the gang.

  A boy called Kelvin Crawley, reputedly the cleverest boy in the class, had been instructed by the form tutor, Mr Sherwin, to take him under his wing.

  ‘Keep an eye on the new lad, Kelvin. Keep him out of trouble and most importantly, show him the ropes. Especially the best ways to keep away from the Panthers,’ he’d said meaningfully.
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  ‘What did he mean by that?’ he’d asked Kelvin when Mr Sherwin had walked away. ‘Who are the Panthers?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Kelvin said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you Scarrow Point.’

  It sounded an interesting place. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the bell tower and it’s peaceful up there. I used to go a lot when I was new and wanted to keep out of the way.’

  It had been a Wednesday that day and only ten minutes remained of the lunch break but he followed Kelvin up the steep winding stairs to the top of the bell tower. An ancient wooden door faced them at the top.

  ‘They leave a key here for the maintenance man.’ Kelvin lifted the wiry doormat to reveal a long iron key. ‘They don’t ring the bells regularly any more but they keep them in working order for the term starts and finishes.’

  The bell room was tiny and they squeezed either side of two enormous brass casings. The sides of the tower were open to the elements and gave a staggering view of the surrounding countryside and of the school, which seemed miles away now.

  He leaned over the side and looked down. Out of the corner of his eye, a mass of swaggering figures in dark clothing approached the middle section of the school field and then headed directly for the bell tower entrance.

  ‘Uh oh,’ Kelvin said, his face paling. ‘Now we’ve got trouble. Be respectful, don’t say anything silly and… if all else fails… run. You go that way’ – he indicated the very bottom of the field – ‘and I’ll go this way.’ He pointed to the school building. ‘One of us might get a good pasting but possibly not both of us. If we split quick enough.’

  He was about to point out that running to the bottom of the field with no exit probably wasn’t the best chance to escape harm but the gang was already much closer.

  ‘You were asking who the Panthers are?’ Kelvin whispered, his face drawn and pale. ‘Well, you’re about to find out.’

  The boy narrowed his eyes as the group approached and analysed its make-up.

  There were about twelve boys in total, almost all of them older than the two of them. All dressed in varying states of school uniform. The biggest, most aggressive-looking boys stood up front and one of them, a tall, rangy blonde boy with a strong jaw and mean expression, walked a step in front of them all.

  The gang was like an animal of sorts. Snorting and posturing and tapering off towards the back like a great beast flicking its tail. All its parts seemed to move in unison as if everyone knew their role, their function.

  ‘Scram, unless you want to be eating dog mess after school,’ the tall boy at the front addressed Kelvin directly. He had a monotone, educated voice.

  Without a backward glance, Kelvin took off and within seconds was a mere dot in the distance. Would he report what was happening to a teacher, or was that too much to ask? the new boy wondered.

  His bowels felt loose suddenly, his skin clammy and crawling but he stood his ground.

  ‘Who said you could come up here?’ the tall boy right at the front said. He had black skinny trousers on, a long school shirt, worn out, and his tie was in a loose knot. His blazer was worn around his middle, the arms tied in front. ‘I don’t recall you asking my permission.’

  His dull brown eyes stared relentlessly at the boy, full of hatred. But you had to at least know someone to hate them… didn’t you?

  ‘Who said you could even come on to the field?’ he repeated.

  ‘I didn’t know I needed permission,’ the new boy said evenly.

  He saw the flash of a hand before a thunderclap exploded in his ear. He staggered back, clutching the side of his head where he’d been slapped.

  ‘I expect a civil answer when I ask a perfectly reasonable question,’ the tall boy said pleasantly. ‘But I have the measure of you now, I think.’ He turned to the others. ‘Take him downstairs.’

  He felt dizzy, disorientated. His cheek felt raw, as if the skin had been sloughed from it.

  The group surged towards him and he found himself carried out of the small room on to the landing area. There, they set him on his feet and shuffled forward, en masse, until he could walk back no further, his back to the stairs.

  The group parted and the tall boy appeared, walking quickly through the bodies. He lifted his leg, leaning back for leverage. With the heel of his boot, he kicked the new boy very hard in the bottom of the back, sending him hurling backwards down the stairs.

  * * *

  He must have knocked himself out on the wall on the way down.

  When he opened his eyes, his head thumping, he was alone. Lessons must have resumed because he could hear no sounds from the field and, mercifully, all members of Panthers were gone.

  Slowly, painfully, he levered himself up to a sitting position. Systematically he checked his body. Scrapes, grazes, lumps and bumps he found. But every joint, each limb, appeared to be intact which seemed like a miracle.

  There was, however, a lump as big as an egg on the back of his head where he had obviously taken the impact on the way downstairs.

  He tried to get to his feet but his head pounded harder and he began to feel sick. So he stayed put a little while longer.

  He looked down and saw large blotches of ink on his white school shirt and smeared over his hands. Where had that come from? He didn’t use fresh ink for his schoolwork.

  Eventually he managed to get to his feet. He couldn’t face shrugging on his rucksack, filled as it was with exercise books and textbooks. Instead, he pulled out one of the long straps and dragged it behind him.

  With difficulty, he limped to the exit door.

  When he was only a few paces away, he heard feet shuffling outside and someone cough.

  He cried out and moved, as quickly as he could, behind a cupboard.

  Please God, no. Please let it not be them again.

  The raw bite of fear nipped at his throat, making breathing difficult but cancelling out the pain from his bruises and swelling from the fall.

  He stood very still and held his breath, waiting.

  He heard feet shuffling again, heavy breathing and then someone pushed hard against the door and it flew open.

  Eleven

  After delivering George’s thank-you card to the hospital, I got to the campus transport hub to find it was a ten-minute wait for the next bus back home, but fortunately, I was the only person at the bus stop.

  It must be something about hospitals: you can guarantee that if there’s someone else waiting, you’ll be forced to start a conversation. About which relative you might be visiting, or the ongoing treatment you’re having for precisely which ailment.

  The bus stop is like a truth bubble; there’s something confessional about it. I should know; I had enough of it when Joel was backwards and forwards to the Queen’s Medical Centre for treatment and short stays during the last few months of his life.

  It was heartbreaking for us all, those final weeks of his illness, when all treatment and medical efforts had been exhausted and it became clear that, this time, he would not prevail. His nemesis – chronic lymphocytic leukaemia – had finally won out. He’d battled bravely for four years, and for much of that time, his prognosis had looked positive. But the last couple of years had been increasingly tough, and the knowledge that he might not make it crept up on us like a thief in the night.

  Joel had the chance to go into a hospice, but we wanted him at home, so he could be with his beloved boys. I didn’t know he had a choice between two women to make at the time, but now, despite everything, I try to find reassurance that in the end, he chose to be with us.

  Each night, when our sons had gone to bed and Joel’s parents had gone home after visiting him, Joel and I would sit for long hours together just holding hands, talking about all our happy memories. We felt so lucky there were so many; it helped to blur the edges of the awful reality that awaited us.

  But then every so often, he would get this intense, troubled look on his face and I’d instinctively back off a little, afrai
d of what he was thinking.

  He’d say, ‘Look at me, Darcy,’ and he wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d looked deep into his eyes – not just a glance; he insisted I held his gaze. ‘If you only remember one thing, remember this. No matter what happens when I’m gone, you have to know I’ve loved you and the boys more than I’ve loved anyone in my whole life. Do you promise?’

  ‘I know that, Joel, I’ve never doubted it.’ I’d always say it, just like that, and he’d insist: ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘Yes, I promise,’ I’d whisper, and I’d cry softly into his shoulder as we held each other.

  It was a beautiful, sad thing that felt uncomfortable at first, but ultimately, over time, it brought us closer. It happened a lot, and I put it down to Joel’s mindset; I thought it was probably a completely natural thing.

  Now, it’s almost all I think about.

  Sometimes, he’d talk more philosophically about life and how his take on it had changed once he found out he was dying.

  ‘Some people say they have no regrets, but I have so many, Darcy.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I’d gently press him. ‘Share your regrets with me and they’ll dissolve into thin air, just you see.’

  He’d look so incredibly sad then. ‘I wish that were true. I wish I’d been a better man.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ I’d tell him firmly. ‘You have brought two beautiful sons into this world and you’ve given so much love to us, your family. We will never forget you, and nothing else matters, my darling. Nothing.’

  Hard to believe now, but I thought of myself as a strong woman back then. I had a handful of friends, mostly whom I’d met back when I worked at the gym. I was a person other people turned to when they needed a chat or some advice.

  I wanted to be there for Joel in every way, I didn’t get too hung up on the stuff he was saying.

  My husband was dying, looking back on his life and finding fault. I told myself that was all it was. We would all of us do that, right? Hindsight is such a perfect science, isn’t it?