Mo Hayder - Pig Island

'For God's sake, Joe. Talk to me!'

The headlights went on. The engine came to life. He took the handbrake off, twisted the steering-wheel and pulled away. The tyres sent up a massive whoosh of water from the gutters, soaking my trousers, making me take a shocked step backwards. He got to the top of the street and the brake-lights came on, turning all the raindrops around them to rubies, then he was gone — swallowed into the dark storm, leaving me standing barefoot in the pouring rain with the wretched shopping trolley moving up and down the pavement opposite, thinking, What? What just happened? What just happened?

For those first few minutes after he'd gone I really didn't know what to do. It was like I was in a dream. I stood there soaking, thinking he was going to come back and say, 'Ha ha — got you.' When he didn't I limped back into the house, streaming with water. I stood at the foot of the stairs and stared up at Angeline's door, thinking, No, no. This isn't happening. She's deformed. She's ugly. So ugly.

I got my phone out and dialled Oakesy's mobile, my fingers numb. It was impossible to believe. Oakesy and Angeline… And it was me who'd had the idea of her staying with us in the first place. 'Answer it. Come on. Answer it.'

But the phone rang and rang. My head thumped as if it was going to split right open. The call went to answerphone.

'No! You bastard. NO!'

I called again and this time it clicked straight through to his messages. He'd switched it off. Didn't want to speak to me. I called him again — and when it went on to answerphone I immediately hung up and called again, jabbing my thumb furiously at the phone, three, four times, crying now, and when I still couldn't get through I went into the kitchen, shakily got his bottle of Jack Daniel's out of the cupboard, poured two inches into a cloudy glass, then filled it up with some flat cola from an opened can in the fridge. I drank it down straight, shaking like a leaf, dripping water everywhere, tears running down my face. Then I poured another and sat at the table, the phone held at arm's length, jabbing his number in over and over again. When I'd dialled twenty times and his phone was still switched off I hurled my phone into the wastepaper bin and went to the window. I stood there for a long time, holding my face, my nails digging into the skin. That's when I remembered something you said to me once.

You're an achiever, Alex.

Do you remember those words?

You are clever, Alex, whatever you think, and you've got the ability to achieve whatever you set out to do.

I paused, standing there at the window, looking at the shopping trolley, and at that very moment something inside me went cold and hard. I actually felt it freeze into place, solid, just like that. I stopped crying. I wiped my eyes. I was very calm. And angry. Very angry. I turned away from the window and looked up at the door at the top of the stairs. Then I limped over to the bin and hooked out the phone. I dialled Guy Picot's number. I'm an achiever. I am not weak. I do what I set out to do.

Guy Picot pretended he didn't recognize my voice. When I explained who I was he was a little cool. To put it mildly. 'Yes, Alex. I was going to give you a call today — to let Angeline know I've sent her a referral letter.'

'And you're sending one to Christophe?' I kept my sentences short because I was shaking and I didn't want him to know I'd been crying. 'He'll contact me directly. We're very old friends and colleagues.'

'It's more orthodox for the doctor to liaise directly with the patient. Angeline didn't say she wanted an intermediary.'

'Look, really, this is the smoothest way. Mr Radnor knows I've been involved in this from the start. He'll deal with Angeline through me from now on.'

There was a moment's hesitation, then he said, 'The referral letter doesn't have Mr Radnor's name on it.'

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. I went to the bottom of the stairs and looked up to make sure her door was closed, then I went and stood at the window. Outside the rain tipped down on the dead playing-fields, streamed down the sides of the Ballantine's factory. 'I beg your pardon,' I said, in a much quieter voice. 'If you're not referring her to Christophe, then where are you referring her? You're meant to refer her to Christophe.'

'It was a very difficult decision. I had to decide between referring her to an oncologist or a paediatric surgeon. I still may be proved wrong, but I've decided on the latter. I'm passing her on to Great Ormond Street.'

'Great Ormond Street? This isn't something for a paediatrician.'

'Angeline's condition is not in Mr Radnor's field.'

'Of course it is.'

'No. Really it isn't.'

'Why ever not?'

He sighed. 'When we were talking in my office your husband mentioned something that stuck with me.'

'My husband's got nothing to do with this.'

'Angeline's mother lived near a chemical dump, that's what he said. Herbicides. Dioxins. Richard Spitz's team will explain it to you,' he said. 'They've seen the MRI scans, and they're showing great interest. They really want to-'

'Richard Spitz?' I stopped him. 'Did you say Richard Spitz? The Richard Spitz?'

'Yes. The Richard Spitz.'

'My God,' I said distantly, staring out at the trees bent almost double in the wind. Everything was becoming clear. I had a friend who'd once worked for Richard Spitz and I knew exactly what Guy was saying. 'My God. Now I get it.'

'Now you get what?'

'That's why there's bone. That's why she's still alive. That's why.'

Guy Picot was right: Christophe has no background in what's wrong with Angeline. Her 'tail' wasn't a tumour at all. And nothing to do with spina bifida either. Which means everything I've done for her has been a complete waste of my time. Absolutely everything.

The landing was dark when I came out of the third bedroom — no electric lights. There was a little weak daylight coming from the bathroom where the door stood open and the sound of a bath running. I knew who was in there. I wasn't stupid. I knew who was running the bath. So why didn't I just go back to my work? Oh, no. That would be too easy for Joe Oakes.

I took a silent step forward and stopped in the doorway. She was in there, hazy in the steam, a towel wrapped round her, bending over the bath to swirl the water. It took her a moment or two to sense me standing at the door, and when she did she stiffened. She didn't look up. She went very still, her hands motionless in the water. A slow, hot colour crept across her bare shoulders, up the back of her long neck into her cropped hair. It seemed like for ever before she straightened, her back very stiff and strong, and turned to me.

We stood for a long time totally silent, neither of us knowing what to say. I could see in her eyes how totally full of questions she was. Her triangular little chin was down almost on to her collarbone and she was shaking violently. But she didn't take her eyes off me. She took a deep breath and put her shoulders back. It was like she was pulling all her courage up inside her, into a tight rod. She turned slightly, not breaking eye-contact, dropped her hand and in one movement lifted the towel up high — as high as her waist so I could see everything: her naked legs, the naked place the growth jutted out from at the bottom of her spine.

'Shit.' I took a step back. I steadied myself on the banisters behind me. 'Shit-' I dropped my head and stared at the floor, the blood pounding in my face. Tried to gather the right words. 'Listen…' I went, but my voice came out slushy and flat — like I was drunk. 'Listen. I'm sorry — I'm sorry. You've got me wrong. I love my wife. I really love my wife. …'