After the End(51)

Leila has read the report in the papers that came via Laura King, contesting the court order application. She has read it, and she disagrees with it. Proton beam therapy may well reduce the tumor that sits at the base of Dylan’s skull, but at what cost? Another twelve weeks of treatment—of travel, scans, radiation—in the hope that Dylan will have another few months, perhaps a few years, to live within the limitations he has been left with. Little or no control over his limbs. Little or no speech. No coordination. Epilepsy, hearing loss, cognitive impairment . . .

“Dr. Sanders.” Laura has a list of questions, her pen poised by each one. “The patient has posterior fossa syndrome as a result of his brain surgery, which I understand will affect executive functioning, speech, movement, and so on. Will proton beam therapy have a similar impact?”

“On the contrary, the side effects from proton beam are significantly less than from surgery.” The answer is too quick, too glib, and Leila knows that they are following a script; that Laura King’s questions are for Leila’s benefit, not Greg’s.

“If Dylan hadn’t had a surgical resection,” she says, sharper than she should, “he would have died.”

Max looks at her. “But that’s what you want now, isn’t it?”

Leila feels an angry lump in her throat. “No, that isn’t what I want. What any of us want. We all want what’s best for Dylan, and in my professional opinion that isn’t flying him halfway round the world and putting him through more treatment, when—”

“We’ll keep this for the courts, shall we?” Laura King steps forward, her voice clear and authoritative. The two women stare at each other, and then Leila looks away. She will save her energy—and her evidence—for when it is needed.



* * *





The protesters have been at the hospital every day for two weeks. Emmett has hired security staff, who stand by the entrance to PICU in black ties and fluorescent jackets, their badges mounted on bands round their left arms. The protesters have agreed to stay within a marked-out area between the bins and the edge of the car park. There are new faces every day, but old ones, too, and Leila wonders how these people can come here, day after day. Don’t they have jobs? Families? Lives? What makes them care so deeply about a child that isn’t theirs?

It is raining, and there are only a handful of people in the marked-off area between the bins and the car park. The hard-core demonstrators, Leila thinks, undeterred by bad weather. She walks past them, her head down and her hood pulled up, but when she hears her name called instinct makes her look round. A woman in a red beanie begins shouting—a stream of unintelligible words—and the pack join in, baying for blood.

The next day the papers carry a picture of Leila, taken by one of the photographers who loiter by the smoking shelter in the car park, waiting for something to happen. She sees the article on the newsstand on her way to work, her bicycle wobbling as she looks a second time.

Doctor Death, reads the headline. In the accompanying image, Leila’s face is set in a grim scowl, her eyes flashing at the camera.

The picture swells the crowd overnight. There are candles; music; flags strewn across the car park trees. It would be more festival than protest, were it not for the words chanted to the rhythmic beat of a small drum. Right to life, right to life. Leila skirts the car park, taking a more circuitous route to PICU this time. By midday, she has been summoned to the medical director’s office.

“Why don’t you take some time off? Just till the hearing?”

Emmett has the papers spread out in front of him.

“I can’t—we’re understaffed as it is, and—”

“We’ll manage.” Emmett is firm. “There are more protesters turning up every hour—they’ve laid on buses, for heaven’s sake. We’ve had to put security on the door after one of them set up a Facebook group called Let Them Burn.”

“They wouldn’t actually—”

“Let’s hope not,” Emmett says grimly. He softens a little. “It’s no reflection on you, Leila. Take a couple of weeks’ holiday. Let it all blow over.” Leila has no choice but to agree.



* * *





On the first day of her enforced leave, she wakes early. She hears the creak of Habibeh’s bed in the room next to hers as her mother gets out to begin her prayers. Today is Norooz, the first day of the Persian year. A day supposed to symbolize new beginnings, fresh hope. Instead, Leila wakes with a feeling of dread about what is to come.

She thinks of Pip and Max, as she so often does, and she sends a silent prayer that they will find peace once they say goodbye to their son. Because Leila is quite sure that the court will grant the hospital order, despite the expensive lawyers Max has hired, despite the support he’s garnered from the public, despite the attempts by protesters to discredit her testimony. The court will grant the order because it is the right thing to do.

She thinks.

Other images creep into Leila’s memories, pushing logic aside. Dylan, opening his eyes at the sound of his mother’s voice. His heart rate calming, as he nestles against his father’s chest. Leila sits up and clicks on the bedside light. Throws her legs out of bed and stands up. Science, not emotion, she reminds herself. Facts, not supposition. A doctor, not a parent.