‘We don’t need a fucking chemistry lesson,’ Harry said with impotent rage as he struggled to try to free his arms. He wanted desperately to protect his family and he could do nothing at this moment.
The American nodded his head slowly. ‘Oh, I think you do, Mr Kipling. You see, I’ve already given your lad a very large dose of insulin, way more than he needs. To counterbalance it, he will need to eat and keep eating something with very high sugar content. Doughnuts are perfect for that. But here’s the deal, Mr Kipling, before I give Tom one of these lifesavers, I need something from you.’
Harry saw the look of despair Tom gave him. An instant later, the American laid down the pen and picked up the phone. He entered a code, Freya’s, Harry presumed, tapped a yellow app that Harry instantly recognized, and held the top of the phone close to the circular Libre patch on Tom’s arm. The phone emitted a brief warble sound. Then the American walked over to Freya and held it up in front of her eyes. ‘See the reading?’
He then showed it to Harry.
It read 5, in black letters on a green band. Above the number were the words, GLUCOSE NORMAL. Beside them was a black arrow, pointing downwards. That was ominous, Harry knew. When Tom had first been diagnosed as a Type-1 diabetic, he had made it his business to learn everything he could about the disease. And one key thing he knew was that the safe range of blood-sugar level was, on the UK calibration system, between 4 and 9. A reading of 5 was fine, but at the low end. And the arrow pointing down indicated Tom’s sugar level was dropping.
‘I see the reading. What’s your point, whoever the hell you are?’
‘My point, Mr Kipling, is that twenty minutes before you arrived home, your son’s reading was ten. It’s come down pretty damn fast, wouldn’t you say? Do the math.’
Harry didn’t need to. How much insulin had this bastard given Tom? He felt a chill spiral deep through him. He stared at the American belligerently. ‘Why are you doing this? You need something? What the hell do you need? What do you want?’ He tried to stand up and was immediately pushed back down.
Kilgore jabbed the insulin pen at the Fragonard copy on the wall. ‘I think you know exactly what I want, Mr Kipling.’
‘That?’ Harry said. ‘You want that? Be my guest, fucking take it! It’s yours! Just leave me and my family alone, please.’ He was close to crying in desperation, fearful for his son. He looked at Freya, feeling utterly useless. His heart felt it was trying to twist out of his chest.
‘Here’s the problem, Mr Kipling,’ Kilgore said, quietly and calmly. ‘You need to understand it’s not that painting there that we want, but thank you kindly for the offer and we may well take that too, to avoid confusion. What we’ve come for is the original. My boss made you a very generous offer for it some while back and you snubbed him. I’m afraid my boss doesn’t like being snubbed.’
‘Fifty thousand pounds, right?’ Harry said, now realizing what this was about. He glanced desperately again at Freya and then Tom. Freya was trying to say something but all she could do with her masked mouth was make a murmuring sound. ‘Fine, I’ll take it,’ Harry said. ‘Do we have a deal?’
‘My boss doesn’t negotiate, and he doesn’t like rejection. I’m afraid we’ve gone way beyond that, Mr Kipling.’
Kilgore walked back over to Tom and again checked his blood-sugar level on Freya’s phone. He showed it to Harry.
It was now reading 4, the background had changed to yellow, the wording read, GLUCOSE LEVEL GOING LOW. The arrow was still pointing downwards.
Harry realized what he was saying. He’d been here less than five minutes. If the American was telling the truth, in just twenty-five minutes Tom’s level had dropped from 10 to 5. At that rate—
Before Harry could reply, the American showed the reading to Freya, who gurgled a sound of desperation.
Then Kilgore laid the phone down on the coffee table and opened his arms expansively. ‘There is of course a very simple solution to this problem. All you need to do is hand me the original Fragonard Summer and we’ll be done and out of here. Could I be any clearer?’
Harry glanced at Freya again, who was nodding vigorously. Yes, yes, yes, do it! her eyes were saying.
He then looked at Tom. His beautiful son who was already clearly not himself. Distant. Beads of perspiration on his forehead. He seemed to be shimmying with tiny tremors every few moments. He had to do something, fast. To hell with the painting, it had cost him just twenty quid. Its value in a sale could change their lives but that did not matter any longer and it wasn’t going to happen – nothing mattered but his family. They’d been fine before they’d ever bought the damned painting, happy enough. To hell with it. ‘You can have the damned painting,’ he said.
Ignoring him, the American picked up a caramel doughnut and held it out to Tom, but not quite close enough for him to take a bite from it. As if taunting him. Tom was looking increasingly pallid. ‘Wouldn’t you like to eat this right now, boy?’ he asked, his voice all warm and friendly.
Harry hated this man; if his hands were free he would tear his face off. Instead all he could do was watch, a helpless onlooker.
Tom, turning pale and shaking profusely now, nodded pleadingly.
‘Let’s check those sugars again, shall we?’ Kilgore asked, all patronizing now and putting the doughnut back down. He picked up the phone again, worked the app, held it to Tom’s arm, then showed the display to Freya and Harry.
3. The wording on the yellow band continued to read, GLUCOSE LEVEL GOING LOW. The arrow was still pointing down.
He squatted, then leaned across the coffee table until his masked face was just inches from Tom’s. Tom, clammy with perspiration now and starting to look disoriented, barely reacted. Then Kilgore picked up the same doughnut and held it out to him once more. ‘I think you’d better have a bite, you said earlier you like caramel, would you like a bite?’
Tom was looking at him, bewildered, as if struggling to focus. His neck muscles seemed to be barely supporting his head. After a moment he gave a lolling nod.
Kilgore pushed the doughnut closer to Tom’s mouth and he craned forward, chomping off a big piece which he chewed fiercely and desperately. As he did so, Kilgore put the rest of it back in the tray, once more out of the teenager’s reach, and turned to Harry. ‘That bite will buy him a few extra minutes, Mr Kipling. But you saw how fast his sugar level’s dropping.’
‘How much insulin have you bloody given him?’
‘Sufficient,’ he replied.
‘Sufficient? What the hell does that mean?’
‘Sufficient to get what I need from you, if you want to save his life.’
Harry heard a gurgle from Freya.
‘And sufficient to kill him if I don’t.’
‘I’ve told you, you can have the damned painting – what kind of sick game are you playing with our son’s life?’ Harry yelled.
‘I’m not playing any game, Mr Kipling. I’m telling it to you plain and simple. Your wife has told me you keep an emergency glucagon injector kit in your fridge. That will restore your son’s sugar levels, so long as you don’t leave it too late.’
There was another terrified gurgle from Freya. Harry gave her a desperate look. She was pleading to him with her eyes.
The American took a further reading of the patch on Tom’s arm with Freya’s phone. Another warble. He held it up to Freya and then to Harry.
2.5.
Tom, still chewing, had perspiration gouting down his face and his eyes seemed to be losing focus.
Harry knew that a prolonged glucose level below 2 would damage the central nervous system irreparably if allowed to continue for too long, and any sustained level below 1 would likely be fatal in a short time.