Pulse(20)

Glucagon was a glucose-increasing hormone. Many insulin-dependent diabetics have a preloaded self-injector of the stuff readily available just in case they suffer a ‘hypo’, a sudden drop in blood sugar that, if left untreated, could rapidly lead to coma and death.

He held up the syringe in his right hand.

‘Is that really necessary?’ I asked.

‘Not if you will eat this.’ He held up a chocolate bar in his left.

I shook my head and said nothing. I just stared at him.

He stuck the needle into my arm and, after a while, I did begin to feel a little better.

Grant arrived at the hospital about half an hour later but he wasn’t alone. Stephen Butler, my psychiatrist, was with him. The two of them came into the cubicle with Jeremy Cook.

‘I have an appointment to see you later today,’ I said to Stephen with a laugh.

‘I know,’ he replied without a trace of humour. ‘Grant called me and explained the situation so I came over now.’

‘What situation?’ I said. ‘I just felt a bit dizzy, that’s all.’

Grant was staring down, saying nothing.

Stephen sat on a chair next to me and took my hand.

‘Chris,’ he said. ‘We are all very concerned about you.’

‘You don’t have to be. I’m fine.’

I sounded like a broken record – I’m fine . . . I’m fine . . . I’m fine . . .

‘You are not fine,’ Stephen said emphatically. ‘I’ve been talking to Dr Cook and also to Grant. He has told me all about your trip to Bristol on Sunday night.’

I looked across at Grant but he was still resolutely studying the blue vinyl floor.

Stephen went on. ‘He also tells me that you still won’t eat anything and that it is getting worse. You have already lost far too much weight. Starving yourself is very dangerous, Chris, and Dr Cook is very worried that you are putting your heart under undue strain. You need to eat. You have to take in more energy simply to stay alive.’

‘I have plenty of energy,’ I laughed. ‘I’m hardly fading away, am I? I’m still far too fat.’

‘You are not fat,’ Stephen said in an uncharacteristic moment of irritation. He collected himself. ‘Chris, listen to me. By not eating, you are seriously endangering your life. Your husband and your boys love you, and they don’t want to lose you. Do you understand?’

He had been more talkative in the last few minutes than he had been in all the nine months I had been going to see him.

‘Do you understand?’ he said again.

‘Yes,’ I replied, but I’m not sure I did. Surely I was not so ill that my husband and psychiatrist had to come rushing to see me in A&E. I had only felt a bit dizzy.

‘Good,’ Stephen said. ‘Because Grant, Dr Cook and I consider that it would be best if you were admitted to hospital for a while. Just long enough to get you sorted.’

Hospital? I was not sure I was hearing him right.

‘This hospital?’ I asked blankly.

‘No, Chris. Not this one. We think you should go to Wotton Lawn.’

Wotton Lawn was the acute mental-health hospital for Gloucestershire.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I don’t need to go there.’

‘We think you do.’

‘Well, I’m not going.’ I was adamant.

Stephen was very calm. ‘We consider that it is essential for your own protection. I have already spoken to Wotton Lawn and they have a bed waiting for you in their eating-disorder unit. If you won’t go voluntarily, you will be sectioned under the Mental Health Act, 1983.’

I looked again at Grant but he steadfastly refused to meet my eye.

I could feel the anger rising again, grabbing me by the throat and trying to suffocate me.

How could Grant agree to this?

He knew how I hated the prospect of being in hospital.

‘Grant!’ I shouted at him. ‘Help me.’

He finally looked up. There were tears in his eyes.

‘I am trying to help you,’ he said.

I now wished that I had jumped off Clifton Suspension Bridge.





PART 2

March





8


The arrival of March was always an exciting time in Cheltenham.

Everyone had only one thing on their mind – the annual Cheltenham Racing Festival. Four days of exhilarating action on the hallowed track at Prestbury Park, when the stars of both Irish and English steeplechasing came together to establish who were the champions.

The Grand National might be the most famous steeplechase in the world but, for horseracing folk, owning, training or riding a winner at the Cheltenham Festival would be the defining achievement of their careers, with the Gold Cup, on the final afternoon, being the really big one – at three and a quarter miles over twenty-two fences, with all the horses carrying the same weight, it was the true championship race.

Every hotel within fifty miles of the racecourse was fully booked months in advance, many by the tide of Irish punters that surged across the sea each year to gamble extensively, consume huge quantities of Guinness, and cheer home their equine idols.

‘So, Dr Rankin, you can act as a racecourse medical officer for the Festival next week?’

‘Yes,’ I said excitedly. ‘I can.’