Ken McClure - Donor

That was why it was so surprising that there had been no mention of the Chapman girl. A transplant was a much bigger deal than the relatively minor jaw surgery they had just been celebrating. He’d ask Ingrid about it after the weekend. In the meantime, he was going to drive over to Bearsden to return Sheila Barnes’s journal.

He was almost halfway there when he started to have doubts. Was there any point in returning the journal to the house, when it seemed certain that neither Sheila nor her husband would ever return there? On the other hand, he would feel guilty about hanging on to it. It was far more than just a diary of events; it said so much about the woman herself. He decided that he’d return it to Sheila in person. He’d take it down to Helensburgh at the weekend and tell her how useful it had been.

As he headed back to town, he found himself thinking about Lisa Fairfax. He really should have told her about Sheila Barnes — who she was and what she’d claimed. But he was so used to telling people nothing more than they needed to know that he’d kept quiet. But the knowledge that someone else had made the same allegation as she had about Medic Ecosse would have been a comfort, and if anyone deserved to feel better Lisa did. She didn’t have much of a life with no job and being at the constant beck and call of a deranged mother. On impulse, he drove over to her flat and pushed the entryphone button.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Steven Dunbar. Can I come up?’

‘I suppose so,’ answered Lisa a little uncertainly.

The door lock was released and Dunbar climbed quickly to the third floor.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ said Lisa, ushering him inside.

Dunbar looked to right and left as he entered the hall.

‘She’s asleep,’ said Lisa.

‘I was passing,’ he lied. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you the other day that I think I should have. Something about Sheila Barnes.’

‘Sheila Barnes?’ repeated Lisa. ‘She’s the nursing sister you asked me about. You wondered if I knew her.’

‘That’s right. She left well before you started at Medic Ecosse, but what I didn’t tell you was that she had a very similar experience to yours. She said much the same thing about a patient who died in the transplant unit in her time.’

Lisa looked at him as if trying to decide whether or not she should be annoyed at not having heard this before. ‘You mean I wasn’t the only one?’

‘No, you weren’t,’ confessed Dunbar. ‘That’s really why I was sent up here to Scotland. There were two of you who maintained that patients had been given the wrong organ in transplant operations.’

‘Did they treat her like an idiot too?’

‘No one took her seriously either,’ agreed Dunbar. ‘Unfortunately, both she and her husband are suffering from cancer. She’s dying. I went to see her in the hospice she’s in, down in Helensburgh.’ He explained about the journal. ‘She wanted me to see the entries she made at the time of the incident.’

‘Did you learn much?’

‘They were very detailed. In the end I was struck by how similar her version of events was to yours.’

‘So you might even believe us?’

‘I’m finding it difficult not to.’

‘Good. Did you say Sheila’s husband had cancer too?’

‘He’s in the same hospice.’

‘How strange, and what rotten luck. I hope they’re able to comfort each other.’

Dunbar silently acknowledged a nice thought.

Lisa got up and turned down the heat on the electric fire. ‘Don’t you ever miss being a practising doctor?’ she asked.

‘Not a bit. I didn’t really like it, I had no feel for it, I gave it up. Simple as that.’

She smiled. ‘What a remarkably honest thing to do. I’ve known lots of doctors who have no feel for it but giving it up is the last thing on their minds. They’ll be hanging in there till it’s carriage-clock time with a vote of thanks from the poor sods who managed to survive their ministrations.’

‘It’s hard to escape once you’ve started,’ said Dunbar.

‘Maybe,’ agreed Lisa. ‘Would you like a drink?’

He nodded. ‘I would. It’s been a long day.’

Lisa poured them both gin and tonic, handed one to Dunbar, then sat down again.

‘Why did you really come here?’ she asked with sudden directness.

The question took him aback. ‘To tell you about Sheila Barnes. I thought you had a right to know.’

‘But I don’t have a right,’ said Lisa. ‘You were under no obligation at all to tell me, so why did you?’

‘I thought you should know anyway,’ said Dunbar. It sounded weak, even to him.

‘Was it pity? Pity for my situation?’

‘I…’

‘I don’t like people visiting me out of pity. I don’t need it.’

‘It had absolutely nothing to do with pity, I promise,’ he said quietly. ‘I simply enjoyed your company last time and since I know no one else up here, I looked for an excuse to come back.’

‘That’s better,’ she said after a slight pause to consider.

‘Lisa!’ came a cry from the bedroom. ‘Where’s my breakfast? I want my breakfast!’

‘Coming, Mum,’ replied Lisa without taking her eyes off Dunbar.

Dunbar automatically looked at his watch. It was 10 p.m. He got up and said, ‘It’s time I was going anyway. Would it be all right if I popped back again? Sometime soon?

She looked at him doubtfully for a few moments before saying, ‘Providing you don’t bring pity with you.’

‘I’ll bring gin,’ said Dunbar.

Dunbar watched Newsnight on the television in his room, then switched it off. The silence was broken by the sound of rain on the window, at first a gentle, irregular patter but then quickly becoming a harsh rattle that made him go over to the window to look out briefly before closing the blinds. He decided on an early night.

As he lay in bed, he looked back on the evening. He was glad to have re-established contact with Lisa. He liked her a lot, not least because of her obvious care and concern for other people. Like Sheila Barnes she was a born nurse. It wasn’t something you could instil in people through qualification and training. It had to be there at the start. He had particularly liked her hope that Sheila and her husband could give comfort to each other in their dying days.

It was an aspect of the situation he himself hadn’t considered, although there was something about it that had been niggling away at him. Lisa was right; it was strange that both Sheila and her husband had contracted cancer at the same time; the matron at The Beeches had also remarked on it. Neither of the Barneses had ever smoked, yet both had developed a particularly virulent form of lung cancer at almost exactly the same time. It was as if they had been simultaneously exposed to some sort of trigger mechanism, although in the leafy suburb of Bearsden that possibility seemed remote. The area did not exactly abound with chemical factories pumping out toxic fumes. They didn’t live next door to a nuclear power station, and he couldn’t imagine the rafters of Bearsden bungalows dripping with blue asbestos.

On the other hand… He remembered the nosey neighbour, Proudfoot, and the problem with Cyril Barnes’s camera… only there wasn’t a problem with Cyril’s camera. The repair company had reported nothing wrong with it, despite the fact that films kept coming out ruined as if they had been exposed to light… or maybe something else. Dunbar sat up in bed, now fully alert. Light wasn’t the only thing that could ruin photographic film. Exposure to radiation would damage it in exactly the same way… and prolonged exposure to radiation would almost certainly cause cancer in a human being… or two human beings if they were exposed to it together.