Dick Francis's Gamble (22 page)

“Yes, darling,” I said. “Please try and close your eyes and get some rest.”

“You try resting on this bloody thing,” she snapped, turning herself over once again to face away from me.

In the end, she settled, and in time I could tell from the sound of her breathing that she was asleep. I settled down into the chair and closed my eyes.

One of the nurses came into the room and snapped on the overhead lights.

“Time for your vitals,” she said loudly.

And so it went on through the night, with temperature, pulse and blood pressure being measured in two-hour intervals, each time accompanied by the Blackpool Illuminations. Hospitals were clearly never designed for relaxation and recovery.

No one told me to go home, so I didn't, although I had to admit it was not the best night's sleep I'd ever had.

Breakfast wasn't eaten by Claudia, or even offered, there being a large NIL BY MOUTH sign hanging on a hook by the door, so I went down to the hospital lobby at about six a.m. in search of coffee and a bun for myself while the patient had a shower.

At about eight-thirty, Dr. Tomic, the surgeon, arrived, wearing light blue scrub tunic and trousers, all set for the operating room. He brought with him some paperwork and a thick marker pen, which he used to draw a big black arrow on the left side of Claudia below her belly button.

“Don't want to take out the wrong one, now do we?” he said.

That, somehow, wasn't very encouraging.

“What, exactly, are you going to do?” I asked.

“I will make two small incisions here and here,” he said, pointing to each side of Claudia's lower abdomen. “I will then use a laparoscope to have a good look at all her bits and then I'll remove the left ovary completely,” he said. “I also plan to take a wedge biopsy of the right ovary.”

“And what is a wedge biopsy, exactly?” I asked.

“A small sample that is removed, like a tiny bite, which is then tested to see if it's clear,” he said. “Then I will sew everything up and Claudia will be back here before you know it. About two hours in total, maybe a fraction more.”

“And if the biopsy's not clear?” Claudia asked.

“If I can tell that straightaway just by looking,” the surgeon said, “then I'll have to remove that ovary as well. Otherwise, the biopsy will be sent to the lab for tests. There is a slight chance that I may also need to perform a complete hysterectomy if I find cancer cells attached to the uterus. But I think from the scans that that will be most unlikely.”

Claudia looked at me with rising panic in her eyes.

Dr. Tomic spotted it. “Claudia,” he said, “I promise you I will do as little as possible. But we have to deal with this. It won't go away on its own. I have to tell you everything that might happen because I need your consent to proceed. You will understand that I can't wake you up halfway through the operation to ask your permission to remove your womb if I need to do it in order to save your life.” He smiled at her. “But I really don't think it will come to that.”

“Can't you just remove the tumor?” I asked. “Do you have to take the whole ovary?”

“The tumor will probably have taken over most of the ovary and it is the only way of ensuring it doesn't return.”

“If the second ovary is clear, does that mean it will remain so?” I asked.

“Let's cross one bridge at a time,” he said. “We'll discuss the future after the operation.”

I took that to mean no, it probably wouldn't remain clear.

My mother's wish for grandchildren was not looking too promising.

“Right, then,” said Dr. Tomic, “I need you to sign here.” He pointed. “And here. And here.”

Claudia looked at me in despair. I pursed my lips and nodded at her. She signed the papers. What choice did we have?

“OK,” said the surgeon, taking back the forms from her. “I'll see you in the OR in about twenty minutes. Wait here, they'll come for you.”

I wanted to tell him to be careful with my girl, but I didn't. Of course he'd be careful. Wouldn't he?

 

 

I
f the previous evening had been bad, the next twenty minutes were intolerable.

Dr. Tomic had left the door open, and every time someone walked down the corridor outside we both jumped.

What was there to say? Nothing. We both just watched the clock on the wall move inexorably around from eight-fifty to nine o'clock, then ever onwards to nine-five and nine-ten.

Claudia held on to my hand as if her life depended on it.

“It'll be all right,” I said. “You heard what he said, you'll be back in here before you know it.”

“Oh, Nick,” she said miserably, “if I come out of this with only a tiny piece of an ovary left, let's use it to have kids.”

“OK,” I said. “You're on.”

“Marry me first?” she asked.

“You bet,” I said.

It was an unusual proposal, but we were in an unusual situation.

At nine-fifteen an operating room orderly arrived, wearing blue scrubs and a cloth hat.

“Please be careful with my fiancée,” I said to him as he wheeled her bed out of the room and into the corridor. “She's very precious to me.”

I went with her to the lift. However, the orderly said that he was sorry but I couldn't come any farther. I looked at Claudia's frightened face until the closing lift doors cut off our line of sight, and all too quickly she was gone.

I went back into her room and sat down on the chair.

Never before had I felt so desperate, so helpless, and alone.

In truth, it was not a great start to an engagement.

 

 

C
laudia didn't come back for nearly three hours, by which time I was almost crawling up the walls of her room with worry.

Sitting alone in that hospital room had been far worse than spending three times as long in a cell at the Paddington Green Police Station.

I spent some time going over in my mind what must be happening downstairs in the operating room, mentally carving up the clock face into segments. First I tried to imagine how long it would take for Claudia to be put to sleep, then how long to make the incision in her body, then how long to remove the ovary, and so on. I had no idea if I was right or not, or even if I was close, but it seemed to help.

My mental calculations, however, had her coming back to the room in two hours, and, when she didn't, my imagination went into overdrive, envisaging all sorts of horrors. While the clock on the wall went on ticking, as if mocking me. And still Claudia didn't return.

By the time I finally heard her being wheeled back along the corridor, I had convinced myself that the whole thing had gone horribly wrong and Claudia had died on the operating table.

But she wasn't dead, she was just cold and shivering uncontrollably.

I was so pleased to see her but she was not a happy bunny, not at all. She was sore from the surgery and feeling nauseated from the anesthetic. And she couldn't stop the shivering.

“It's quite normal,” said a nurse curtly when I asked about it. “She'll be fine soon.”

“Can she please have another blanket?” I asked.

Reluctantly, she agreed. And, in time, the shivering did abate, and Claudia relaxed and eventually went to sleep.

 

 

D
r. Tomic came to see us at about two o'clock while Claudia was still sleeping.

“I have some good news and not quite such good news,” he said to me quietly. “First, the good news is that I removed only one ovary and the other one looked perfectly fine, although I took a piece for a biopsy and it's currently being assessed in the path lab.”

“And the not-so-good news?” I asked.

“The tumor was not quite fully contained in the ovary, as we had thought, and it had erupted on the surface. It's often difficult to tell precisely from the scans.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean?” I said.

“It means there is every likelihood that there will be some ovarian cancer cells present in the fluid within the abdominal cavity. We will know for sure when the lab tests are complete.”

“And?” I said.

“In order to be sure we've killed off the cancer completely, I think a course or two of chemo will probably be needed.”

“Chemotherapy?” I said.

“I'm afraid so,” he replied. “Just to be sure.”

“Does that mean I'll lose my hair?” Claudia asked. Her eyes were closed, and I hadn't realized she'd been awake and listening.

“It might,” he said, “although the drugs are much better than they used to be.” I took that to mean yes, she would lose her hair. “But even so, it will grow back.”

Claudia's long, flowing jet-black hair was her pride and joy.

“Does the chemo start straightaway?” I asked.

“Within a few weeks,” he said. “We'll give Claudia time to recover from the surgery first.”

“Will it affect the other ovary?” I asked. “I read on the Internet that some cancer drugs made women infertile.”

“The drugs used are very powerful,” he said. “They work by attacking cells that divide rapidly, like cancer cells, but they do tend to affect everything in the body to some degree. Am I to assume that preserving fertility is a priority?”

“Yes,” said Claudia unequivocally, still not opening her eyes.

“Then we will just have to be very careful,” he said. “Won't we?”

 

 

A
t three-thirty in the afternoon I left Claudia resting in the hospital while I went home to change and have a shower, taking a Northern Line Tube train from Warren Street to Finchley Central.

“I won't be long,” I told her. “About an hour and a half. Is there anything I can get you?”

“A new body,” she said miserably.

“I love the one you have,” I said, and she forced a smile.

The doctor had told us that she would have to stay in the hospital for another night but she should be able to go home the following day, or on Thursday at the latest.

The sun was shining as the Tube train rose from the dark tunnels into the daylight just before East Finchley Station. It was always a welcome sign. It meant I was nearly home.

As I walked down Lichfield Grove I could see that there was a man standing outside my house with his finger on the doorbell. I was about to call out to him when he turned his head slightly as if looking over his shoulder.

In spite of telling the police that I hadn't seen Herb's killer, I knew him instantly. And here he was, standing outside my front door in Finchley. And I didn't think he was visiting to inquire after my health.

My heartbeat jumped instantly to stratospheric proportions, and I stifled the shout that was already rising in my throat. I started to turn away from him but not before our eyes had made contact and I had glimpsed the long black shape in his right hand: his trusty gun, complete with silencer.

Bugger, I thought.

I turned and ran as fast as I could back up Lichfield Grove towards Regent's Park Road.

Lichfield Grove may have been used as a busy shortcut during the rush hour, but it was sleepy and deserted at four o'clock in the afternoon, with not even any schoolchildren on their way home.

Safety, I thought, would be where there were lots of people. Surely he wouldn't kill me with witnesses. But he had killed Herb with over sixty thousand of them.

I chanced a glance back, having to turn my upper body due to the restricted movement in my neck. It was a mistake.

The gunman was still behind me, only about thirty yards away, running hard and lifting his right arm to aim.

I heard a bullet whizz past me on my left.

I ran harder, and also I started shouting.

“Help! Help!” I shouted as loudly as my heaving lungs would allow. “Call the police!”

No one shouted back, and I needed the air for my aching leg muscles. Oh, to be as fit as I once was as a jockey.

I thought I heard another bullet fly past me and zing off the pavement ahead as a ricochet, but I wasn't stopping to check.

I made it unharmed to Regent's Park Road and went left around the corner. Without breaking stride, I went straight into Mr. Patel's newsagent's shop, pushed past the startled owner and crouched down under his counter, gasping for air.

“Mr. Patel,” I said, “I am being chased. Please call the police.”

I didn't know why, perhaps it was because of his Indian subcontinent cultural background, but he didn't become angry or question why I had invaded his space. He simply stood quietly and looked down at me, as if in slight surprise at the strange behavior of the English.

“Mr. Patel,” I said again with urgency, still breathing hard, “I am being chased by a very dangerous man. Please do not look down at me or he will know that I am here. Please call the police.”

“What man?” he said, still looking down at me.

“The man outside the window,” I said. Mr. Patel looked up.

Suddenly, I remembered that I had my mobile in my pocket. As I dialed 999 for emergency I heard the shop door being opened, the little bell ringing once.

I held my breath. I could feel my heart going thump, thump in my chest.

“Emergency, which service?” said a voice from my phone.

I stuffed the phone into my armpit, hoping that the newcomer into the shop hadn't heard it.

“Yes?” said Mr. Patel. “Can I help you, sir?”

The newcomer made no reply, and I went on holding my breath, my chest feeling like it was going to burst.