I had been immediately attracted to Marianne’s physicality, and found her world view—during our many discussions in the weeks that followed our first date—intriguing, if absurd.
She thought the Kéthani evil, the implantation process an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, and looked forward to the day when she would die and join the virtuous in heaven.
She was appalled by my blithe acceptance of what I took to be our alien saviours.
We were married a year after our first meeting.
I was in love, whatever I thought that meant at the time. I loved her so much that I wanted to save her. It was only a matter of time, I thought, before she came to see that my acceptance of the Kéthani was sane and sensible.
She probably thought the reverse: given time, her arguments would bring about my religious salvation.
We had never spoken about what we might do if we had children. She was a successful accountant for a firm in Leeds, and told me that she did not want children. She claimed that Lucy was a mistake, but I’d often wondered since whether she had intended conceiving a child, and whether she had consciously planned what followed.
During the course of her pregnancy, I refrained from raising the subject of implants, but a couple of days after Lucy was born I presented the implantation request form to Marianne for her signature.
She would not sign, and of course, because both our signatures were required, Lucy could not undergo the simple operation to ensure her continual life.
We remained together for another year, and it was without doubt the worst year of my life. We argued; I accused my wife of terrible crimes in the name of her mythical god, while she called me an evil blasphemer. Our positions could not be reconciled. My love for Lucy grew in direct proportion to my hatred of Marianne. We separated at the end of the year, though Marianne, citing her religious principles, would not grant me a divorce.
I saw Lucy for two or three days a week over the course of the next five years, and the love of my daughter sustained me, and at the same time drove me to the edge of sanity, plagued continually by fear and paranoia.
That night, in the early hours, Lucy crept into my bed and snuggled up against me, and I dozed, utterly content.
We slept in late the following morning, had lunch, then went for a long walk. At five we set off for Hockton, Lucy quiet in the back seat.
I led her from the Range Rover to the front door, where I knelt and stroked a tress of hair from her face. I kissed her. “See you next week, poppet. Love you.”
She hugged me and, as always, I had to restrain myself from weeping.
She hurried into the house and I left without exchanging a word with Marianne.
I threw myself into my work for the next five days. We were busy; Richard Lincoln was away on holiday, and I took over his workload. I averaged half a dozen collections a day, ranging across the length and breadth of West Yorkshire.
Tuesday night arrived, and not a day too soon. I was due to pick up Lucy in the morning and keep her for the duration of my three-day break. I celebrated with a few pints among congenial company at the Fleece. The regulars were present; Khalid and Zara, Ben and Elisabeth, Jeff Morrow and Richard, the latter just back from the Bahamas with a tan to prove it.
It was midnight by the time I made my way home, and there was a message from Marianne on the answerphone. Would I ring her immediately about tomorrow?
Six pints to the good, I had no qualms about ringing her when she might be in bed.
In the event, she answered the call with disconcerting alacrity. “Yes?”
“Dan here,” I said. “I got the message.”
“It’s about Lucy. I wouldn’t bother coming tomorrow. She came down with something. She’ll be in bed for a couple of days.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, fear gripping me by the throat.
“It’s nothing serious. The doctor came, said something about a virus.”
“I’ll come anyway,” I said. “I want to see her.”
“Don’t bother,” Marianne said. “I really don’t want to have you over here if it isn’t absolutely necessary.”
“I couldn’t give a damn about what you want!” I said. “I want to see Lucy. I’m coming over.”
But she had slammed down the receiver, leaving me talking to myself.
I considered phoning back, but didn’t. It would only show her how angry I was. I’d go over in the morning anyway, whether she liked it or not.
A blizzard began just as I set off, and the road over the moors to Hockton was treacherous. It took me almost an hour to reach the village, and it was after eleven by the time I pulled up outside Marianne’s cottage.
I fully expected her not to answer the door, but to my surprise she pulled it open after the first knock. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”
I stepped past her. “Where’s Lucy?”
She indicated the stairs with a plastic beaker full of juice. I climbed to Lucy’s room, Marianne following.
“Daddy!” Lucy called out when I entered. She was sitting up in bed, a colouring book on her lap. She looked thin and pale.
I sat on the bed and took her hand. Marianne passed her the beaker of juice. I looked up at her. “What did the doctor say?”
She shrugged. She was hugging herself, and looked pinched and sour, resentful of my presence. “He just said it was just a virus that’s going round. Nothing to worry about.”
“What about medication?”
“He suggested Calpol if her temperature rose.”
She retreated to the door, watching me. I turned to Lucy and squeezed her hand. “How are you feeling, poppet?”
Her head against the pillow, she smiled bravely. “Bit sick,” she said.
I looked up. Marianne was still watching me. “If you’d give us a few minutes alone…”
Reluctantly she withdrew, closing the door behind her.
I winked at Lucy. “You’ll be better in no time,” I said.
“Will I have to have more tests, Daddy?”
“I don’t know. What did the doctor say when he came?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t come here. Mummy took me to the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
She nodded. “A doctor needled me and took some blood.”
A hollow sensation opened up in my stomach. I smiled inanely. “What did the doctor say, Lucy? Can you remember what the doctor told Mummy?”
She pulled a face in concentration. “They said something about my blood. It wasn’t good enough. I think they said they might have to take it all out and put some new blood in. Then another doctor said something about my bones. I might need an operation on my bones.”
My vision swam. My heart hammered.
“Was this at the hospital in Bradley?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “Mummy took me to Leeds.”
“Can you remember which hospital?”
She made her concentrating face. “It was a hospital for army people,” she said.
I blinked. “What?”
“I think the sign said it was a general hospital.”
“Leeds General,” I said. “Was that it?”
She nodded. I squeezed her hand. My first impulse was to go downstairs and confront Marianne, find out just what the hell was going on.
Lucy had something wrong with her blood, and might need an operation on her bones… A bone marrow transplant, for Chrissake?
I tried not to jump to the obvious conclusion.
I remained with Lucy a further thirty minutes, read her a book and then chatted about nothing in particular for a while, all the time my mind racing.
By noon, I had decided what to do. I leaned forward and kissed her. “I’ve got to go now, Lucy. I’ll pop in and see you tomorrow, okay?”