Andy McNab: Zero hour

I turned away and went back to my chair. I didn't need to see any more. Looking wasn't going to change anything.

Kleinmann followed me. 'Like I said, Mr Stone, this is where the hard work starts. Chemotherapy and radiation treatment, that's going to help, and there is-'

'But will that nail it?'

Kleinmann sat down opposite me. 'No.' He flicked his coat over his legs like a woman adjusting her skirt. 'It could keep you going for six months, possibly longer. But without any treatment? Two months, maybe. We can't stop the pressure on the brain increasing. Of course, if you need a second opinion-'

'Don't worry, Doc, no second opinions. It's there, I've seen it.'

'What about the treatment? Would you like to go ahead with the chemo and radiation? The pain is going to get worse. There could be weight loss, maybe incontinence, vomiting still to come. But I will give you some drugs to help you in the short term.'

I got up and headed for the coat hooks. 'Thanks, I'll take whatever Smarties you're offering. But chemo and all that gear? I don't think so.'

Kleinmann sprang to his feet. 'There are far more advanced treatments available in the US – or Italy, if you want to be closer to home. I could recommend some excellent clinics…'

I bet he could. With a nice little kickback if I took him up on the offer. 'I think I'm going to handle this my own way.'

'Let me give you some details of support groups, counselling-'

'I don't need any of that.' I shrugged on my coat, then paused. 'Out of interest, any reason I got it? Just one of those things?'

'You have an unusual amount of tissue scarring. You appear to have taken a great deal of blunt trauma to the cerebral cortex over a number of years. Are you a boxer, maybe?'

I shook my head.

'When the grey matter is shaken about over a sustained period of time it can cause irreparable damage – and in extreme cases provoke conditions such as yours.'

'Thanks for that, Doc.' I gave Kleinmann a slap on the shoulder. 'I hope your next appointment's a nice boob job.'

I made for the door, not knowing quite what I felt. It wasn't fear. Fuck it, we've all got to die some day. It was more frustration. I didn't want to end on a dull note. Better to burn out than fade away, I'd always thought. Better to be a tiger for a day than a sheep for a year; to die quick standing up than live for years on my knees. All the shit I'd seen on soldiers' T-shirts the world over actually meant something today.

'No, no – wait, Mr Stone. You're going to need to control the pain as the symptoms worsen.' He disappeared for a minute or two and came back with a large bottle of shiny red pills. 'Take two of these every six hours.'

I nodded.

'And please, take this information.' He waved a brown A4 folder at me, stuffed with leaflets and flyers. 'It's all in there – treatments, support groups, help lines. Read them, think about it.'

I took the folder and stuffed it in the nearest wastepaper basket, then headed back towards my 911 waiting faithfully in the rain.

16.15 hrs The storm pounded against the triple glazing.

For about the hundredth time in the last hour, I reached for the mobile, twisting and turning it in my hand before putting it back down again.

What the fuck was I going to say to her?

Did I need to say anything?

It was only six months since I'd first held Anna in my arms. Even then I'd had the feeling I'd known her all my life. We were standing among the wreckage of an aircraft full of dead men and drug dollars I'd shot down in Russia. We'd met at an arms fair press conference in Tehran two weeks earlier. I was working undercover for Julian; she was investigating a corrupt Russian's links with Ahmadinejad and the Iranian ayatollahs.

She said she wouldn't have touched me with a ten-foot pole if she could have sorted it on her own. Then she gave me the kind of smile that makes your knees go funny. I'd first set eyes on her when she was giving the Russian a hard time in front of the world's press. She was a dead ringer for the girl from Abba with blonde hair and high cheekbones. I'd fancied her big-time. I used to sit in the NAAFI as a sixteen-year-old boy soldier with my pint of Vimto and a steak and kidney pie, waiting for Top of the Pops to hit the screen. 'Dancing Queen' had already been number one for about five years, and I took my seat in front of the TV every week hoping her reign would be extended.

This amazing woman had helped me choose furniture for the flat, and in between writing investigative pieces and flying around saving the world she'd come and stay. Only a few days at a time, mind, but for me that was almost long-term. The only thing we'd fallen out over was her smoking. She wasn't about to be sent onto the balcony to do it.

I headed for the kitchen sink, swallowed a couple of Kleinmann's Smarties and stuck my mouth under the designer tap. I clicked the kettle on and told myself I had to bite the bullet.

Did I really want to do this? Did I really need to do this?

I had to. I didn't want her standing in the wreckage with me again. She deserved so much better.

I twisted and turned the mobile in my hand. Why drag her down with me?

My arse rested against the stainless-steel cooker. It would always be this shiny. I had all the toys now, but I was never going to turn into Jamie Oliver.

Finally, I stabbed a finger at the keypad and dialled.

'Jules, mate? Count me in for Saturday.'

Saturday, 13 March 14.00 hrs Chelsea were at home to West Ham. Kick-off wasn't for another hour, but I still had to park so far from the ground I might as well have walked all the way from Docklands. I still preferred it to taking the tube, especially the way I was feeling.

I passed the Vietnamese restaurant on the corner by Fulham Broadway where Jules came to be deprived of wheat and dairy practically every night. Fuck that. I went into the station and came out again with two big frothy coffees.

I walked the last couple of hundred metres up the Fulham Road and flashed Julian's spare season ticket at the turnstiles. The concourse was buzzing with blue-shirted fans clutching plastic pint glasses of lager, and overseas visitors taking pictures of each other eating expensive hot-dog baguettes. I made my way through them to the Block A steps. The stadium gradually came into view as I climbed. It was huge and, apart from a few bored-looking stewards in fluorescent orange jackets, virtually empty.

Julian was in his usual seat in row twelve, studying the programme with the kind of concentration he'd normally save for a PhD thesis.

'Oi, mate…'

He turned round, all smiles. I made my way along the row and handed him his coffee.

'Nightmare parking, as usual. If you were a true friend you'd support a team closer to my home.'

'I don't know why you don't use the tube.'

'No way, mate. After a lifetime of being poor, it's the 911 everywhere for me, including the corner shop. You posh lads think it's good to cycle and take public transport, and I'm glad. There aren't enough spaces as it is.'

Jules shook his head and smiled. It was the same banter every time, but he didn't care. On the phone, he sounded like he'd shared a school desk with David Cameron. In the flesh, his closely cropped hair, clean shave, sharp suit and glowing ebony skin made him look like he should have been out there with Drogba on the pitch, not watching from the stands.

Posh lad or not, I enjoyed his company. I certainly wasn't here for the football. The last time I'd gone to a game more than twice in the same year, I was a twelve-year-old bunking over the fences at Millwall. I didn't really like it even then – I just went for a laugh, a pie and a can of Fanta. But it was no picnic at Millwall: it always ended with a brawl.