Sacrifice

'Elspeth couldn't have children,' said Duncan. A shadow crossed his face. 'Richard could,' he added, looking at Kenn.

'Richard is my father,' said Kenn.

I found I had nothing to say.

'Richard and Elspeth tried for several years to have a family,' explained Kenn. 'During that time, when I guess their relationship was under some strain, Richard had an affair with a house officer at the hospital. She had her baby in the maternity unit on Tronal and put me up for adoption by the Giffords. Three years later, Elspeth finally admitted defeat and agreed to adopt too. Duncan was four months old and, I'm led to believe, a very appealing infant.'

'You two are brothers?' I asked, looking from one to the other.

Gifford shrugged. 'Well, not biologically, but yes, I've always felt we're family.'

Duncan's face darkened.

'Why didn't they adopt you?' I asked Kenn.

'Elspeth doesn't know about me. I didn't know who my genetic father was myself till I was sixteen. I wasn't surprised though.'

No, I bet he hadn't been. I couldn't imagine why I hadn't thought of it before. I'd seen the strong likeness between Richard and Kenn, the antipathy between Duncan and Kenn, the cool formality that was Duncan's relationship with his parents, but I hadn't put all the pieces together. Kenn, the doctor, the blood son, the spiritual son; Duncan, the poor foundling, taken in to keep Elspeth happy. Poor Duncan. Poor Kenn, come to think of it. What a mess.

An hour later, I was still at home. I'd found I really couldn't cope with a night in a strange hotel. WPC Jane, at Helen's insistence, was sleeping in one of our spare rooms. Duncan was firmly consigned to another. It wasn't that I didn't believe everything he'd told me. Actually, I did; I wanted to talk to Helen about it, get it all checked out, but the more I thought about it the more convinced I became that the lies were over, that I finally had most of the answers.

I took a long shower, shampooed my hair twice and then cleaned my teeth. It felt good to be back in a bathroom. In spite of my nap in the Dundee police cell I could feel my eyelids drooping. Then I caught sight of Duncan's toilet bag on the bathroom shelf and was suddenly wide awake again. No, I didn't have all the answers yet, after all.

I walked across the corridor and pushed open the door of the spare room. Duncan was lying on the bed, headphones on, face downcast. He pulled them off, brightening at the sight of me, until he saw the look on my face. I held up the packet I'd extracted from his washbag.

'Anything you want to say?'

He took off his headphones, stood up. 'How about I'm sorry?'

I shook my head. 'Not nearly good enough.' I stepped into the room, wondering how much damage I could inflict on him before either a) he overpowered me or b) we were interrupted by Constable Jane. 'Do you have any idea what it's been like for me this past year?'

Duncan, to his credit, could no longer look me in the eye.

'I have to see, talk to, touch pregnant women every working day of my life. I have to listen to them moaning about nausea, tiredness, backache, groin-strain until I have to sit on my hands to stop myself from slapping them, from yelling at them to stop moaning, you silly bitch, be grateful for what you have. I have to touch every newborn baby, feel its solid little body between my hands, and each time I'm torn between wanting to run away with it or hurl it out of the goddamned window. Each time I hand one over to its mother, I feel like my heart has been ripped in two. I want to collapse on the delivery-room floor and sob, why, why, why isn't it me? Why is it that every other bloody woman in the world can do this and I can't?'

By the time I finished I was yelling and I thought I could hear movement along the corridor. Duncan still couldn't look at me but what I saw on his face looked like fear. I think I surprised, even alarmed, myself. Months of misery, of bewilderment at being unable to conceive, crystallized for me that evening and, for the first time, I put everything into words. Duncan had turned away from me and was leaning on the ledge of the window. I followed him round the bed and forced myself to lower my voice. It no longer sounded like my voice, though; it sounded evil.

'Except I can, can't I? I can have babies. All this pain has been totally unnecessary. You didn't need to saw through the mast, Duncan, you've been killing me for over a year.'

I threw the packet at him. It seemed ridiculously inadequate and I looked round the room for a bigger missile. Fortunately for both of us there was nothing to hand. The bedside lamp was pretty sturdy but when I realized I'd have to unplug it first the urge left me.

I walked to the door. Then turned back.

'That shit isn't even licensed in the UK. Who got them for you? Daddy or Big Brother? You know what? I don't give a toss any more. And by the way, I know you're planning to leave me and thank bloody Christ for that.'

I walked out, slamming the door behind me, and caught sight of Jane at the top of the stairs. I went back into my room and closed the door.

Well, sleep didn't seem like a possibility any more. I wondered how I was going to get through the rest of the night. I discovered I was hungry but, as Kenn had learned earlier, the cupboards were bare. The bedroom door opened.

'I don't want to hear it,' I said, realizing I'd feel pretty daft if I turned round and found Constable Jane in the doorway.

'There's a reason my birth mother put me up for adoption,' said Duncan.

'You're confusing me with someone who gives a damn,' I replied, still not turning round.

'She had multiple sclerosis,' continued Duncan. 'She was already ill when she had me. She knew she would deteriorate quickly'

I said nothing but my posture must have betrayed that I was listening.

'I know I carry the gene,' said Duncan. 'There's a good chance I'll get ill myself, although I'm already older than she was when she died. There's a fifty per cent risk I'll pass the gene on to any children.'

I turned. The skin around Duncan's eyes had turned red and blotchy. His eyes were shining. I'd never seen him cry before. How little we really know the people around us. He risked coming further into the room.

'I know I should have told you. I'm really sorry I didn't.'

'Why? Why didn't you tell me? When did you find out?'

'I've known since I was a child. I have no excuse. Except that when I met you you showed no interest in having a family. When you weren't working you were riding, risking your neck on cross- country courses every weekend. You were going to be a consultant by the time you were thirty-five and win the Badminton Horse Trials. I couldn't see how children could fit into that lifestyle.'

What he was saying was true, but he was describing the person I'd been eight years ago.

'I changed. The lifestyle changed.'

'I know that. But when was I supposed to tell you? When we were engaged?'

'Yes,' I interrupted. 'That would have been appropriate.'

'I was terrified you'd change your mind. And you never said, "By the way, Dunc, I want six kids in the first six years."'

'We talked about this. Ad nauseam. You said you wanted kids too.'

'I do. They just can't be mine.'

'I should have known this. I came off the Pill. I had all those tests. We shagged ourselves silly. And all that time-'

'I knew that if we moved up here we could adopt. A newborn. Maybe more than one.'

'Those tests. Your sperm tests. They were all normal. How did you do it?'

'Oh Christ, is it really important?'

'Yes, it's important. How?'

'It was just a matter of timing. Desogestrel wears off pretty quickly if you stop taking it. When I knew I had a sperm count, I just avoided going near you when you were ovulating.'

He moved closer, sat down on the bed next to me.

'Women can love adopted babies. The maternal bond doesn't rely upon a blood link. Neither does the paternal one.'

'Oh, because you and your folks are just so close.'

He shook his head. 'Not a good example. I know a lot of adoptees. They're adored, precious children. They bring huge happiness.'