Forty-Six

There was complete bedlam in the television studio.

Most of the audience was struggling to get out, climbing over seats where aisles and rows were blocked. The lights were on again, the terrible intimidating droning had stopped, but the stage was rapidly filling with technicians. The musicians had left their places: some moving forward, others back towards the exits. Robbie England was standing six feet away from Lin, one hand tucked into his armpit. He said nothing at all, despite being surrounded.

Harry was on his knees beside Lin, who had collapsed on the stage, and lay curled on her side. She was completely white, her body limp and unresponsive.

‘What the hell happened?’ he demanded to no one in particular.

There was a further disturbance at the back of the stage.

Harry looked up to see Kieran—dishevelled, hollow-eyed, looking like hell—forcing his way through the milling technicians. Seeing Lin on the floor, he ran forward and dropped to his knees at her side, picking up her inert hand. ‘She was electrocuted? What caused it?’ He glared around him, raising his voice. ‘What happened?’

Robbie England was staring down at Lin. With some effort, he lifted his gaze and stared at the group of people gathered around him.

‘Did you see that?’ he whispered.

‘See what?’ asked the man nearest him.

England’s gaze rested on him for a moment, then he turned to Kieran. ‘She was full of electricity,’ he said. ‘I touched her. There were two people coming down the aisle … then she was live … I got an electric shock …’

Kieran stared at him. ‘I’m going to sue your whole bloody set-up,’ he snapped.

‘It wasn’t so bad,’ one of the crew said to Robbie England. ‘They managed to put the credits up. Maybe there was nothing else to see but a flicker with the lights.’ His hand rested on his ear-mike. ‘They’ve given out a voiceover—about an electrical fault. It was just the last ten seconds … no problem.’

Kieran stared at Harry. ‘I can’t feel her pulse.’

He had pressed his fingers against Lin’s wrist. There was nothing there: she felt loose, dead. He turned her onto her back, tipped her head back, and lowered his ear to her mouth.

‘Is she breathing?’ Harry asked.

Kieran did not know for sure. He thought he could feel something on his skin. He started shaking, and took a deep, gasping breath, trying to keep himself under control.

‘Come back,’ he muttered. He put his fingers on Lin’s throat.

After what seemed like an age, he felt a butterfly-wing response.

‘Get an ambulance!’ he shouted over the surrounding din. ‘Get an ambulance now!’

Lin was admitted to St Matthew’s at nine-twenty. She was rushed straight through Casualty to undergo a CAT scan. Kieran had given them Mark Werth’s telephone number, and they in turn phoned it through to the allocated surgeon, now on his way through central London traffic. Kieran and Harry waited in agonized, frozen silence in the corridor, intently watching the outside doors.

Ten minutes later, they were both amazed to see the consultant walking through the lobby at an even, unhurried pace, still speaking into his mobile phone. Under his overcoat, the man wore a dinner jacket. He paused outside the unit door to finish his call, and then turned and shook Kieran’s hand.

‘Benedict Gray,’ he said.

‘Kieran—’

‘Gallagher. I recognize you, Mr Gallagher. Your wife’s neurologist tells me she refused to have treatment.’

‘She’s got a tumour,’ Kieran said bluntly. ‘Take it out.’

The consultant smiled, then pushed open the unit door. ‘Be with you in just a moment,’ he said.

Kieran turned to Harry. ‘She’s not here,’ he said.

Harry frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s not in that room. She’s not here …’

Harry took his arm, and guided him over to the nearest seat. ‘She’ll be OK,’ he murmured.

‘I can’t feel her here,’ Kieran repeated. ‘She’s gone.’

In less than a minute, the consultant came out. He had taken off his overcoat, and motioned Kieran and Harry to follow him as he set off at a brisk pace.

‘Is she all right?’ Harry asked.

They had now reached a bank of lifts, where the consultant pressed the button for an upper floor. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘There is severe intercranial pressure.’

‘What does that mean?’ Harry asked.

‘The brain is being pressed inwards—which causes damage.’

‘Can you do anything?’ Kieran murmured.

‘Yes. We can release the pressure by taking off the top of the skull.’

Kieran blanched.

‘This refusing of treatment …’ Gray continued.

‘It’s my responsibility,’ Kieran said. ‘She’s my wife, and I don’t refuse it. Do whatever you have to.’

The consultant glanced up at the indicator above them. ‘It’s rather an interesting ethical point,’ he said. He pressed the lift button again. ‘She specifically did not want any intervention yesterday.’

‘She told me that nothing was wrong with her,’ Harry said.

Gray glanced at them both in turn, held up one hand and smiled. ‘But that was yesterday,’ he added. ‘That took no account of a worsening condition. And Mr Werth gave no undertaking not to act in the event of such significant deterioration.’

Finally the lift came. Gray stood for a second holding the doors open with his foot. He reached across and put his hand on Kieran’s arm. ‘We shall do exactly what is needed,’ he said, ‘but you realize the situation is very serious?’

‘Yes,’ Kieran replied.

‘She’s not going to die, though?’ Harry asked.

Gray stepped inside the lift. ‘When intercranial pressure gets to this stage, every part of the brain is affected.’ He paused. ‘We have minutes—just minutes.’

‘Christ,’ Kieran whispered.

‘So, we have your permission to go ahead?’

‘Yes,’ Kieran said. ‘Yes, of course. Yes …’

The lift doors closed.

Kieran walked numbly away. Harry followed him. They continued aimlessly down the corridor, until they came again into the Casualty reception area.

There was a scattered group of patients: two men sitting alone and apart; a mother with a very small child asleep in her arms. An elderly lady nursing one side of her face, with a younger woman at her side. No one looked up at Kieran and Harry. In the corner a television blared.

Kieran sat down suddenly on the nearest chair, plunging his head into his hands.

‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘God help her.’