Ken McClure: Pandora's Helix

“She’d have to have had a Saturday job stripping blue asbestos out of factories single-handed to warrant it,” said MacSween.

“Our present government would probably call that, ‘work experience’,” smiled Neef.

“Sod them too,” said MacSween.

“I’ve an awful feeling that before too long I might be adding the gentlemen of the press to your list,” said Neef, looking at his watch.”

“Problems?”

“The Torrance case. A reporter’s coming to see me.”

“Oh yes, ‘Little Tracy’, I read about that. You’re on a hiding to nothing, laddie.”

“Tell me about it,” said Neef wryly. “I’d better go.”

Neef’s secretary, Ann Miles, came into his room as soon as he returned. She was looking anxious. “Ms Eve Sayers is here from The Evening Citizen,” she said. “I don’t think she’s too pleased about being kept waiting. She kept reminding me that her appointment was for three o’clock.”

The clock on the wall of Neef’s office said eight minutes past. He shrugged and said, “Let’s keep it quiet or someone will come up with a charter about it...”

Ann Miles smiled conspiratorially and said, “Shall I show her in?”

Neef nodded.

A confident young woman in her late twenties, slim, good figure and wearing smart but casual clothes came into the office. She looked about her as if the occupant of the office was of less interest than the decor. As Neef’s room was a plain, standard issue, NHS consulting room with little in the way of furnishings save for a desk and two filing cabinets, this gambit was doomed to failure. Neef assumed this was her way of showing her displeasure at being kept waiting. He waited until he had her attention before smiling and saying, “I’m Michael Neef. What can I do for you, Ms Sayers?” He indicated that she sit down in a chair in front of his desk.

The reporter sat down and swung her shoulder bag round to rest it on her knees while she extracted a small tape recorder; she placed it on the desk in front of her.

“Whatever happened to shorthand?” smiled Neef.

“Does it bother you?”

Neef shook his head.

“Tell me why you and your colleagues are not doing all you can to help little Tracy Torrance, Doctor Neef. My readers would like to know.” The voice was cool, confident, even intimidating.

Neef eyed the good-looking woman in front of him for fully five seconds before saying, “Tracy Torrance has an incurable condition. My colleagues and I have done all we can for her. To suggest otherwise, as her mother did recently through the columns of your paper, is really quite irresponsible.”

“Isn’t it true that money was a consideration in your decision not to offer little Tracy further treatment?” snapped the journalist.

“No,” replied Neef bluntly.

“My information is that there is a further treatment for Tracy’s condition but you decided against it because it cost too much. What’s your response to that, Doctor?”

Neef swallowed his anger and steeled himself to keep calm. He watched as Eve Sayers fiddled with the recording level control on her tape machine. “I would say that was a gross distortion of the facts.”

“Are you denying the existence of the treatment I’m referring to?” demanded the reporter, looking down at her level indicator again.

“I know exactly which treatment you are referring to. It is not appropriate in Tracy Torrance’s case.”

“Not appropriate?” repeated Eve Sayers challengingly.

“Not appropriate, as in, won’t have any effect.”

“How can you be sure, Doctor?”

Neef shrugged and opened his palms in a gesture of concession. “No one can be absolutely sure of anything in a case like this. None of us have a crystal ball to look into. I had to make a decision based on professional expertise and experience and that told me after much consideration that the treatment you refer to would not benefit this particular patient.”

“But if you admit you can’t be absolutely sure, surely it’s worth giving it a try. What have you got to lose?” asked Eve Sayers. “What has Tracy got to lose?”

“The treatment is very expensive. It would be a waste of resources. Other patients would suffer because of it.”

“So money does come into it?” said the reporter, making another adjustment to her recorder.

Neef was finding the constant fiddling with the tape machine annoying. It was as if the woman wasn’t talking to him at all. She was trotting out questions like a speak-your-weight machine while her mind was on something else. This time he did not reply until she looked up and he felt he had her attention.

“Doesn’t it?” she repeated.

“In that sense, of course it does,” Neef replied. “My unit, like every other, has finite resources. We have to work within our means.”

The reporter’s face took on a look of triumph. She said, “So little Tracy will not get the treatment that could save her life because you have to work within your means. Isn’t that what you are saying, Doctor?”

“No,” replied Neef coldly, “Tracy Torrance will not get the treatment you refer to because I don’t think it would do her any good.”

“Ah yes,” replied the journalist. “Inappropriate.”

“Precisely,” said Neef, fixing Eve Sayers with a cold stare.

“Well, I think it only fair to tell you, Doctor that my paper has decided to finance private treatment for Tracy. We will be running the story in tomorrow’s edition.”

Neef shook his head slightly and shrugged. “You people have no idea of the damage you do, have you?”

“What damage? It seems quite straightforward to me, Doctor. Tracy can’t get the treatment she needs on the NHS so my paper will give it to her privately.”

“Come with me,” said Neef, suddenly getting up out of his chair. He came round the other side of his desk and took the reporters hand, almost dragging her out of the door.

“Where are you taking me?” gasped the woman.

“You’ll see.”

Neef led the reporter up one flight of stairs and opened the door of a ward marked, ONCOLOGY ONE. There were some surgical gowns hanging up on pegs behind the door. He handed one to her and told her to put it on.

The reporter did as she was told and followed Neef through the ward.

“There are sixteen kids here at the moment,” said Neef. “All of them have tumours of one sort or another. How many others would you and your paper like to treat while you’re at it?”

“Now, wait a minute,” stammered Eve Sayers. Little Tracy is a...”

“Special case?” interrupted Neef. “No she isn’t. There are lots of children here in the same position. So come on, how many?”

The reporter held up her hands as if warding off Neef’s attack. “We are a newspaper. It’s not our job to provide treatment that should be provided as a matter of course in our view. We can only afford to highlight the occasional case in the public interest. We couldn’t possibly afford to...”

“You mean money comes into it?” interrupted Neef, feigning outrage. “You mean, your resources are finite, Ms Sayers? You have to work within your means? Good Lord, what an admission and when children’s lives are at stake.”

“All right, you’ve made your point,” said Eve Sayers quietly.

“I haven’t finished,” said Neef. “Take a good look.”

Eve Sayers looked at the children in the ward through the glass walls of the cubicles. They looked so vulnerable, like refugees from some distant war. Many had no hair, a side effect of drugs and radiotherapy. The posters of Disney characters on the walls and the toys lying around served only to accentuate their isolation from normal childhood.

“Come and meet Neil,” said Neef. He led the way to a small side room where a little boy of about four years old was playing with a toy fire engine. He had his back to them when they entered. “Hi Tiger!” said Neef softly and the boy turned round. Eve Sayers took in breath sharply when she saw the huge, disfiguring tumour on the left side of his face. It extended from above the cheek bone to the jaw line and pulled his mouth out of alignment. “Hello,” she smiled, regaining her composure. “What have you got there?”