After the End(55)

“Mr. Singh.” Laura King frowns, as though she is confused. “How many children has the NHS sent abroad for proton beam therapy?”

“In the last ten years, somewhere in the region of three hundred. That’s nationwide, of course. At St. Elizabeth’s, we’ve referred eighty-seven cases.”

“And how many of those patients were treated successfully?”

“Around ninety percent experienced a significant improvement following therapy.” There is a shift in the room as Laura King sits down, turning to whisper something in Max’s ear. Robin is on his feet instantly.

“Do you send every cancer patient for proton beam therapy, Mr. Singh?”

“No.” The consultant appears mildly irritated by the question. “We send those patients for whom that particular therapy is considered likely to have the desired result. If we sent all cancer patients, the success rate would be significantly lower.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Khalili is shaking slightly as she walks to the witness box, and she places both hands firmly on the wooden rail in front of her. When it is Laura King’s turn to question her, her jaw tightens a little.

“In the minutes from your meeting dated tenth February—my lord, there should be a copy in your bundle—you are recorded as attesting that proton beam therapy for Dylan Adams would not be ‘an appropriate use of funds.’ Is that correct?”

“I did say that, yes.”

I glance at Max, and see his eyes darken.

“But if I may clarify . . .” Dr. Khalili looks at the judge, who nods. “This isn’t a budget issue. I don’t think Dylan Adams should have proton beam therapy, full stop.”

The judge leans forward. “Could you explain why, Dr. Khalili? You don’t feel proton beam therapy will work in this case?”

“That depends what you mean by ‘work.’ Proton beam therapy won’t cure Dylan’s cancer, but it might buy him some time.”

Laura King cuts in, softening the interruption with a deferential nod. “Which is precisely what my client is asking for, my lord. Time with his son—however long that may be.”

Prompted by the judge, Dr. Khalili continues as though the other woman hasn’t spoken. “Extending Dylan’s life isn’t the only issue, and in my view it isn’t the most important one.” She takes a breath. “Dylan’s brain damage is irreparable. If he lives, he will not walk or talk. He will not be able to communicate his needs, or even his feelings. Those are basic human functions, and my opinion—both as a doctor and as a fellow human being—is that there is little life without those functions.”

I want to catch Dr. Khalili’s eye, I want to show her how grateful I am for her making our case so passionately. But she steadfastly refuses to look at me—to look at anyone—and as the judge thanks her, and she makes her way past me, and back to her seat, I see that she is shaking again.

And now I’m trembling too.

Because it is my turn.





twenty-two





Max


Pip’s wearing a white shirt with thin yellow stripes. It’s tucked into a fitted navy skirt and as she walks to the witness box I have a sudden image of her at work, walking down the aisle of the airplane. I think about the first time I saw her, about those impossibly long eyelashes; I think about that evening, a few hours later, in a busy bar. I want to marry that woman, I thought, before she’d even made the connection between the guy she’d served on the plane and this idiot, smiling gormlessly at her across the bar. I knew. You just do.

The zipper on the back of her skirt is twisted to one side, the waistband looser than it would have been a year ago. I think about how, in another life, I’d walk over and straighten it, without either of us even remarking on it, because that’s what you do when you’ve been together for as long as we have. There’s an ache inside me like homesickness, only it isn’t home I miss, it’s Pip. It’s us.

I checked out of my hotel near the hospital and into a cheaper one a few blocks away from here. Pip’s traveling from home each day—I heard her talking to her barrister as they arrived—but I need the focus of being close to court. Last night I read through the papers, calling Laura a dozen times with something else I just thought of.

“It’s all under control,” she said in the end. “Get some sleep.”

I couldn’t sleep, and by the looks of Pip, she couldn’t either. Her makeup is immaculate, her hair neatly swept back, but there are dark shadows beneath her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks.

When Dylan was around eighteen months old, he went through a phase of hitting other children when they had something he wanted. That truck you’re holding? Wham! Your cookie? Wham!

“Naughty Dylan,” I told him one time. Pip shook her head.

“You’re supposed to separate the child from the act.” The way she said it told me she’d gotten it from some parenting site. “Otherwise you’re reinforcing negative self-image.” She bent down real low so she could make eye contact with Dylan. “Dylan, I love you very much but I don’t like what you did just now. I don’t want to see you hitting anyone again, OK?”

Dylan smacked his hand against her face.

“Ow!”