I hurried from the room and down the stairs. I paused before the living room door, but didn’t trust myself to confront Marianne just yet. I left the cottage and drove home through the snowstorm.
For the next half hour I ransacked the house for the photocopy of Lucy’s birth certificate and my passport, for identification purposes. Then I set off again, heading towards Leeds.
It was almost three before I pulled into the bleak car park in the shadow of the tower-block buildings. At reception I explained the situation and requested to see someone in charge. The head registrar examined my documents and spoke in hushed tones to someone in a black suit.
Thirty minutes later I was shown into the waiting room of a Mr. Chandler, and told by his secretary that he would try to fit me in within the hour.
At four-thirty the secretary called my name and, heart thumping, I stepped into the consulting room.
Mr. Chandler was a thin-faced, grey-haired man in his late fifties. The bulge of an implant showed at his left temple.
He was examining a computer flat-screen on his desk, and looked up when I entered. We shook hands.
“Mr. Chester,” he said. “According to my secretary, you haven’t been informed of your daughter’s condition?”
“I’m separated from my wife. We’re not exactly on speaking terms.”
“This is highly irregular,” he muttered to himself.
I resisted the urge to tell him that Marianne was a highly irregular woman. “Can’ you tell me what’s wrong with my daughter, Mr. Chandler?”
He consulted his files, lips pursed.
“Lucy was diagnosed one month ago with leukaemia…” He went on, and I heard him say that the type she was suffering from was pernicious and incurable, but it was as if I had suddenly been plucked from this reality, as if I were experiencing the events in the consulting room at a remove of miles. I seemed to have possession of my body only by remote control.
“Incurable?” I echoed.
“I’m sorry. Of course, if your daughter were implanted…”
I stared at him. “Don’t you think I know that?” I said. “Why the hell do you think my damned wife kept her condition quiet?”
He looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“Is there nothing you can do? I mean, surely under the Hippocratic oath…?”
He was shaking his head. “Unfortunately I’ve been in this situation before, Mr. Chester. It requires the consent of both legal guardians to allow the implantation process to be undertaken in the case of minors. I’m quite powerless to intervene, as much as I sympathise with your predicament.”
I worked to calm myself, regulate my breathing. “How long might Lucy…?” I began.
He said, “As things stand, perhaps one month. You see, since the advent of the Kéthani, the funding once spent on research into terminal diseases has been drastically cut back.”
I listened, but heard nothing. Ten minutes later I thanked him and moved from the room in a daze.
I have no recollection whatsoever of leaving the hospital and driving away from Leeds. I recall isolated incidents: a traffic jam on the ring road, passing a nasty accident on the road to Bradley, and almost skidding from the lane myself a mile outside Hockton.
Then I was parked outside Marianne’s cottage, gripping the wheel and going over and over the words I would use in an attempt to make her agree to save our daughter’s life.
At last I left the Rover and hurried up the path. I had the curious sensation of being an actor on stage, and that, if I fluffed my lines now, the consequences would be dire.
I didn’t bother knocking, but opened the front door and moved down the hall.
Marianne was in the living room. She sat in her armchair, legs drawn up beneath her. She was hugging herself as if cold. The TV was on, the sound switched off.
“I’ve been to the hospital,” I said. “I talked with Chandler.”
She looked up, showing no surprise.
Heart thumping, I sat in the armchair opposite and stared at her. “We’ve got to talk about this,”
I said. “There’s more at stake than our principles or beliefs.”
She looked away. She was fingering her damned crucifix. “You mean, you want me to sacrifice my principles and beliefs in order to satisfy your own?”
I leaned forward, almost insensible with rage. “I mean,” I said, resisting the urge to launch myself at her, “that if we do nothing, then Lucy will be dead. Does that mean anything to you? She’ll be bloody well dead!”
“Don’t you think I don’t know that? This isn’t easy for me, you know.”
I shook my head. “I don’t see how you can have a moment’s hesitation. The simple fact is, if you don’t agree to the implantation, then Lucy will die. We won’t have any second chances. She’ll be dead.”
“And if I agree, I’ll be damning her in the eyes of God.”
I closed my eyes and worked to control my breathing. I looked at her. I could not help myself, but I was crying. “Please, Marianne, for Lucy’s sake.”
She stared at me.
I said, “Listen, let her have the implant. Then, when she’s eighteen, she can make up her own mind, have it removed if she wants.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know… I need time to think about it.”
I gave a panicky nod at the thought that she might be relenting. “Chandler said she had a month, but who knows? We need to make a decision pretty damned quickly.”
She stared at me, her face ashen. “I need time to think, Dan. You can’t pressure me into this.”
I wiped away the tears. “Lucy is all we have left, Marianne. We don’t have each other any more. Lucy is everything.”
This, so far as I recall, was the gist of the exchange. I have a feeling it went on for longer, with clichés from both sides bandied back and forth, to no definite conclusion. The last thing I did before leaving the house was to climb the stairs to Lucy’s bedroom, kneel beside the bed and watch my daughter as she slept.
I arrived home around midnight and, unable to sleep, stared at a succession of meaningless images passing before me on the TV screen.
I slept on the settee until ten o’clock the next morning, then showered and tried to eat breakfast. Between ten-thirty and midday I must have phoned Marianne a dozen times. She was either out or not answering.
At one o’clock, the phone rang, startling me. Shaking, I lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Daniel?”
“Marianne?”
A silence, then, “Daniel. I have a form you need to sign.”
“My God, you mean—?”
“I’ll be in all afternoon,” she said, and replaced the receiver.
I drove to Hockton, crying all the way. I pulled up before the cottage and dried my eyes, at once grateful for the decision Marianne had come to, and yet resentful that she had made me so pathetically indebted to her.
I hurried up the path, knocked and entered. Marianne was in her usual armchair. A slip of paper sat on the coffee table before her. I sat down and read through the release form. She had already appended her signature on the dotted line at the foot of the page. Fumbling, I pulled a pen from my pocket and signed my name below hers.
I looked up. Marianne was watching me. “You won’t regret this, Marianne,” I said.
“I’ve made an appointment for the implant. I’m taking her in at one tomorrow.”
I nodded. “I’ll drop by to see her after work, okay?”
“Whatever…”
I made my way upstairs. Lucy was sitting up in bed. Intoxicated, I hugged her to me, smothering her in kisses. I stayed an hour, talking, reading to her, laughing…
When I made my way downstairs, Marianne was still in her armchair in the lounge. The room was in darkness.