After the End(38)

There is a break before her meeting, a rare twenty minutes in which she would have time only to walk to the canteen and back, with no time to buy anything in the middle. She goes instead to Nick’s office, where she gulps down tea made with the kettle he hides in a cupboard.

“They might agree,” he says.

“They won’t.”

“Then you have the backing of the trust.” Nick looks at her. “You’re not on your own with this.”

But it feels that way. Among the many foodstuffs that Habibeh has optimistically packed for Leila, there is a flat, foil-wrapped package. Leila smiles. Tahdig. The cooking of Persian rice leaves behind a crisp disc at the bottom of the pan—a delicacy Leila was reminded to share with guests when she was a child. She tears the tahdig in half and hands some to Nick.

“You need to hide your mum’s passport—this is incredible.”

“It’s pretty good.” Leila feels fortified by her mother’s love and by the reassurance from Nick. She calls Ruby as she walks back to the ward.

“I meant to ring sooner. I’m sorry I was late for your birthday meal. I’m sorry I was snappy.”

Ruby has never held a grudge. “You looked stressed—I was worried about you.”

“I’m always stressed.” Leila tries to make a joke of it.

“Not like this. What’s going on?”

Leila tells Ruby a little of what is happening, and Ruby listens silently and then says Jesus, that’s awful and I’d be in bits and I don’t know how you do it, and then Leila is standing by the entrance to PICU, and—

“I have to go.”

“I’m here if you need me, OK?”

There are so many people there to catch her if she falls. It helps, a little, to know that, but as she puts her head around the door to Room 1, and says Whenever you’re ready to Max and Pip, and as she walks a few steps ahead of them, down the long corridor to sit once again in the quiet room, she has never felt more alone.



* * *





No.” A tremor runs through Max Adams, so that he appears to be moving, even though he is sitting still. “I won’t let you do it.”

“I know this is the worst possible news for you,” Leila says. “We have reviewed Dylan’s case at length, and although we accept that proton beam therapy could reduce the tumor, we do not believe it will eradicate it completely.”

“So you’d let it grow?” Max says. “Until it kills him!”

“We would put in place a palliative care plan that managed Dylan’s condition and pain, and—”

“This is your fault.” Max turns on Pip, who has listened in silence to Leila’s summary of this morning’s meeting with the medical director. “The decision was ours. Ours. And then you changed your mind, and now—” He breaks off, scrubbing at his face with both hands.

“CAFCASS—the Children and Family Court Advisory and Support Service—will allocate an independent guardian for Dylan,” Leila says. “The guardian will appoint a barrister for him.” She looks between Max and Pip. “You will both be party to proceedings, and entitled to prepare a case.”

“We’ll have to go to court?” Pip says, looking stricken. “Against each other?”

Leila chooses her words carefully. “The hospital has applied for a court order to prevent Dylan from leaving St. Elizabeth’s and receiving any treatment other than palliative care. At any point, that application can be withdrawn—”

“So—” Max tries to speak, but Leila is insistent.

“—should consent for this plan be given by you both,” she finishes. Silence falls upon the room, as all three of them consider what this means for Dylan. For them.

“Then I will see you in court.” Max flashes a glance at his wife, and Leila wonders if Pip can see the sorrow in his eyes, or whether it is hidden by the anger in his voice. “Both of you.”



* * *





Leila’s head is pounding. She has arranged to meet Jim at eight thirty, and she thinks about canceling, but it is already eight p.m., and she cannot bring herself to be that person.

They meet at the King’s Arms.

“One lime and soda coming up.” Jim gives a theatrical bow, and disappears to the bar. Leila sees the table she sat at with Nick, the night of Ruby’s party, and feels a flush of embarrassment as she remembers how gently he sidestepped her suggestion they spend the evening together.

Jim reappears with a pint of lager and Leila’s soft drink. “So, Khalili, give me the highlights of your day. Best bit, worst bit. Shoot.”

He speaks as though he’s entertaining a crowd—energetic and played for laughs—and Leila wonders if it would become wearing, in time. If he ever turns it off. Nevertheless, she can’t help but smile. “Best bit?” she raises her glass. “A drink after work.”

“That’s the best bit? Wow, you must have had a really shit day.” He grins, but his voice softens as he reads Leila’s face. “Oh. You’ve had a really shit day, haven’t you?”

Leila nods.

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s no worse than anything else, I mean . . .” She struggles to find the right words, and fixes her gaze on his. “Patients die, right? We lose people. All the time. But”—she shrugs unconvincingly—“that’s the job.”