Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

Naturally I had to be by her side every step of the way. I like to think she’d have wanted me there anyway, but I’m not sure I would have chosen such an intimate relationship with the process of her treatment.

My journey started at her first appointment with the specialist who would accompany her every step of the way. Simon Graham was the antithesis of the stereotypical consultant. No Savile Row suits, no expensive cologne, no golf bag in the boot. That day, he wore black jeans with a pink-and-white striped shirt, no tie. On his feet, beautifully tooled black leather cowboy boots. You could always hear Simon coming from a long way off.

He didn’t look old enough to be a consultant either. He had those perennially boyish looks that leave some men apparently stranded in their twenties for decades. Men like Alan Bennett, who look like overgrown children into their sixties and seventies. Men you have to get close to before you can see the fine lines and the silvering at the temples that reveal they’re not quite what they seem. Simon had thick dark hair whose style was apparently modelled on the early Beatles, when it was still reasonably short and mildly unruly. He had serious blue eyes behind the kind of steel-rimmed glasses that science teachers wear in 1950s American films. His mouth seemed always to be on the verge of a smile. When he gave in, he revealed a single dimple in his left cheek. He was a doctor made for reality TV. I wondered if he’d been chosen to supervise Scarlett’s case when a TV documentary had still been on the cards.

Oh yes. George had indeed tried to talk Scarlett into having a camera crew do a fly-on-the-wall film of her treatment. Now, you might say I didn’t have a moral leg to stand on, given how much money I stood to make out of telling Scar lett’s story, but even I baulked at that. The difference, as I pointed out to Scarlett, was that she’d have control over what appeared in the book. Whereas she’d be entirely at the mercy of the TV company when it came to what appeared on the screen.

I was far too tactful to point out that, if she didn’t make it, what went into the book would be up to me, not her. But she was smart enough to work that out for herself if she stopped to think about it.

George tried to persuade Scarlett that doing the documentary could be another way to raise funds for TOmorrow, but she wasn’t having it. ‘I don’t want to go through this treatment wondering about what people will think of me. If I need to cry or swear or howl like a fucking werewolf, I want to be able to let rip. I’m not having some poor sod break bad news to me three different ways because the crew missed it the first time. No way. I want to be in control of what happens and how it happens. Not the director, with his mind on the ratings rather than my health.’

I really hoped they hadn’t chosen Simon because he was photogenic. I hoped they’d picked him because he was the very best in his field. It was what Scarlett deserved.

That morning, he sat us down in his minimalist consulting room and introduced himself. ‘The first thing I want to do today is to explain the diagnosis we’ve arrived at and what that means for you. None of this will be easy, and I want you to know that my team are committed to helping you make a full recovery. Anything you want from us, any time of the day or night, you can speak to one of us.’ He pushed a card across the low coffee table. ‘There’s a dedicated mobile number there. There is always one of the team on the end of that phone. And my personal direct number is there too.’

Scarlett picked it up and tucked it in her pocket without glancing at it. ‘That’s what we’re paying for, right? Five-star treatment?’

Simon’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, as if he was squinting into the sun. ‘I promise. Whatever we can do for you, we will do for you.’

He was very good. I certainly felt reassured. But I wasn’t the one in the hard place.

‘Fine,’ Scarlett said. ‘Taken as read. So what actually is wrong with me?’

‘I won’t beat about the bush, Scarlett. Our tests indicate that you’ve got invasive lobular breast cancer.’

‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’ Scarlett crossed her legs and folded her hands over the upper knee. It was as if she was folding herself tightly together, physically preventing herself from coming apart.

‘You’ve got glands in your breasts that produce milk.’ He smiled. ‘You probably remember after you had your son, when your breasts were full of milk they felt quite lumpy?’

She nodded. ‘I used to think they felt like bags of pasta salad.’

‘That’s actually a very good way to put it,’ Simon said, managing to stay on the right side of patronising. ‘This cancer forms in those glands and it makes the structure of the breast swell up in patches. It can make the skin texture seem a bit peculiar as well. What you said about pasta? Most breast cancer takes the form of lump. It’s like a meatball in among the pasta, you can feel it quite easily. But this kind of cancer, it’s like a spoonful of bolognaise sauce stirred in. The lumps are small, they’re hard to pin down. Scarlett, if you hadn’t come in here to do the breast exam feature, you might not have discovered there was a problem until it had grown much more serious.’ He leaned forward earnestly, elbows on knees, hands clasped. ‘This is an unusual cancer, particularly in someone as young as you. It only accounts for about five per cent of all breast cancers. I’ve only seen it a few times, and in all of those cases, it was much more advanced. It’s my opinion that because we’ve made this diagnosis early, you have an excellent chance of a full recovery.’

‘What does that mean? “An excellent chance of a full recovery”?’ She sounded belligerent but I knew it was because she was afraid. I hoped he was experienced enough to understand that too.

‘OK. I’ll lay out the numbers for you. Five years after diagnosis, eighty-five per cent of women with this form of cancer are still alive.’ He paused, waiting for her response.

Scarlett didn’t look particularly delighted by the news. ‘That means fifteen per cent of them are dead,’ she said.

‘True. But you’ve got what’s classified as a Stage Two cancer. That puts you somewhere in the middle of the spectrum when we’re talking about seriousness.’

‘What are you going to do to me?’

Simon reached across the table and covered her clasped hands with his. ‘We’re going to work out a course of treatment that will give you the best possible chance to see your son grow up.’

That was when we both cried, me and Scarlett.

31

The kid was driving him crazy. Patience wasn’t Pete Matthews’ strong suit and he’d run out of road with the kid within a very short time of picking him up. In the car, he’d been a pain in the ass. Singing tunelessly along with Pete’s favourite road music. Whining that he needed to go to the bathroom. Complaining he was hungry. Crying because he was thirsty. How many demands could one kid have?

He’d never been happier to get back to the row house in Corktown. He’d shut the kid in the attic bedroom with a sandwich and a bottle of water and turned the TV on to keep him amused. With luck, he’d shut the fuck up and go to sleep. Pete hated the way the kid looked at him; that mixture of adoration and fear made him feel uncomfortable.

Pete was a man who was accustomed to getting his own way. In his working life, he’d developed all sorts of subtle mechanisms to make sure the final sound mix ended up the way he thought it should. Mostly, the artists he worked with believed all the best ideas were theirs, but he knew that a significant element of the production that listeners enjoyed had come from his input, his individual mix of skill, experience and imagination. Here in Detroit, he worked a lot with experienced session men who’d been around since before the artists they were working with had been born. Those musicians knew they were in the hands of a true pro and they responded to Pete with enthusiasm. They never gave him any trouble.