After the End(57)

I buy the papers every day. All of them. I spread them out on my hotel bed and cut out the pages fighting for my son’s life. I highlight the quotes from campaigners, celebrities, politicians who have lent their support, and put them in a folder.

“Dylan is suffering, but his father is suffering too” reads the message from a prominent bishop, printed over and over, quoted in every paper, on every news site. “I pray that he will be permitted to exercise his right as a parent, to treat Dylan’s suffering in his home country.”

When Dylan is old enough, I will give him the pile of clippings that show the whole world wanted him to live.

There are problems with the video link in the afternoon. Dr. Gregory Sanders drops out twice, freezing midframe—an openmouthed gargoyle. There is frustration from the judge, and what I’m certain is deliberate eye-rolling from the hospital’s QC, who sighs audibly and checks his watch, but eventually the system works.

Dr. Sanders performs well—it is obvious he has done this before. Perhaps a little too obvious. His confidence borders on arrogance; he has a tendency to begin talking a second before the barristers have stopped, prompting Judge Merritt to say Please listen to the question. But his evidence is sound.

“Proton beam therapy will reduce the tumor, and prolong Dylan’s life,” he concludes.

No judge in the land could rule against that.

“A good result,” Laura says. We’re walking from the court. Her heels are several inches high, yet she walks faster than me, like she’s in a hurry, even though we’re done for the day. We stop outside my hotel. It’s a budget chain, all bright colors and backpackers. Laura’s staying at the Four Seasons, billing it to me. “I’ve got some work to do on another case,” she says briskly, “but I could do a late supper if you’re at a loose end. Or”—there’s a subtle shift in her tone—“perhaps just a nightcap?”

There’s no twirl of the hair, no coquettish flutter of eyelashes, only a raised eyebrow, and a bald, no-strings offer. She looks at me, unblinking, waiting.

“I think I’ll try for an early night,” I manage. She gives a small smile at my unintended innuendo, and shrugs.

“Your call. See you in court.”

I watch her walk away, her heels pushing her body into a Marilyn walk. I think of Pip walking down the aisle of an airplane, walking to the witness box to tell a judge why she wants her son to die. I think of the way my whole body wanted to comfort her, even while my head was filled with rage at her words. I think how she’s the only person in my life I’ve always been able to talk to.

When this is over, I tell myself, we’ll be a family again.

Pip, Dylan, and me. Just like it used to be.





twenty-three





Leila


Leila stands outside the court. Soon, she will have to go inside and take her seat in the old, quiet courtroom, and they will hear the judge’s decision and know for certain what will happen to almost-three-year-old Dylan Adams.

They are all out here. Max Adams, and his legal team; Pip, with her barrister. Together, yet separate, clustered in low voices and nods on opposite sides of the court gates. Leila should join the hospital team—she is, after all, on their side—but she does not want to talk about the case. She has found it hard to hear today’s evidence. She has found herself swayed by the conviction of Max’s doctors, and by the evidence of Professor Greenwood and his impressively equipped establishment. She stands by her recommendation, she knows they are doing the right thing by Dylan, and yet she cannot help but wonder what if . . .

So she stands in the middle of the two groups, by the heavy bollards that separate the pavement from the road. She wishes Nick were here, and then, to punish herself, she pictures Nick with his family, with his grown-up children, and the wife Leila knows is a research scientist.

Max Adams is smoking. He took a cigarette offered by one of his lawyers, and now he is closing his eyes and drawing in the nicotine like it’s oxygen. Leila has never seen him smoke before. She wonders what it has done to him, the last few months. If he’s lost weight, if he sleeps, if he has nightmares, like she does.

They have been here for four days. Every day the newspapers have led with the story of Dylan Adams and his fight for life, his warring parents, the doctors arguing their case. Every day the photographers have followed Leila and Pip and Max and the legal teams from car to court, and from court to car. And every morning, Leila has seen the previous day’s photos captioned in the tabloids.

Battling to hide his emotion, Max Adams arrives for the second day of the case.

Mum Philippa wore a fitted trouser suit and left her hair loose for the hearing.

Dr. Leila Khalili is Iranian.

They have listened to the written evidence of seventeen doctors, they have picked over every argument presented by every legal team, and still Leila has no idea what Justice Merritt will decide.

She is about to go back inside when she sees a familiar figure, hurrying along the pavement. She squints—surely not?—but her eyes are not deceiving her. Leila walks toward the figure.

“Surprise!” Habibeh is grinning broadly. She is wearing her good coat, and the head scarf Leila knows she reserves for special occasions. It is purple and green, with gold thread running through it. Her arm is tucked into Wilma’s.

“Don’t worry, love, we’re not here to bother you. Your mother wanted to see the sights, and we thought we’d pop by to give you a bit of moral support.”