Part 2 (1/2)

He leant back in his chair. 'You should be thanking me. No wheat, no dairy, no toxins - Vietnamese is probably the healthiest food you've eaten in your life.'

'But don't you get bored eating that Ho Chi Minh s.h.i.+t all the time?'

He smiled. 'When I do I'll go somewhere else. You still coming on Sat.u.r.day?'

'I'll call you.'

Ten minutes later he headed for the lift and I made it to the toilet just in time to bulk up another gutful of coffee-flavoured bile.

2

Wednesday, 10 March

11.34 hrs

The wind gusted down Harley Street, throwing pellets of rain against the window. The nurse had disappeared fifteen minutes earlier, after announcing that Dr Kleinmann was just checking a few things. She'd done her best to look encouraging, but it wasn't working.

A dark blue Bentley coupe pulled up across the road. I'd spent a great morning test-driving a green one a couple of months ago, but decided it was just too wide for my parking s.p.a.ce. An overweight driver leapt out with a multi-coloured golfing brolly and held it over a couple of equally large Arab women as he ushered them into the clinic opposite.

The row of gracious old houses where grand families had once played charades by the fire and drunk to the health of Queen Victoria now hosted hundreds of offices and treatment rooms, turning over cash-paying patients seven days a week.

I was waiting in one of the drabber ones: the consultation fees hadn't stretched to a can or two of Dulux in the last couple of decades, and they hadn't been chucked in the direction of the central heating either.

Apitted bra.s.s chandelier hung from a sepia moulding above my head, casting enough light over the carpet and furniture to make it painfully obvious that they could have done with a bit of a steam clean. Shabby or chic, it didn't seem to make much difference to the bill. Whatever you were there for, you came out a few hundred quid lighter. A clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes, and the pounds.

f.u.c.k it, I wasn't exactly spoilt for options. The NHS needed all sorts of details that I'd got out of the habit of providing, and BUPA weren't much better. The Firm had never provided health insurance for people in my line of work, and without a bank account I was willing to divulge, I couldn't set up my own. My credit history was non-existent. I'd slipped out of the frame years ago, when I'd left the army; I hadn't paid tax since I'd picked up my discharge payslip. So I had to come to places like this, pay cash, and get on with it. I wasn't complaining. The less anyone knew about Nick Stone, the better.

'Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Stone.' The accent was East Coast, but it would have been equally at home in LA or Jerusalem. Dr Max Kleinmann carried a large brown folder with my name splattered all over it, but he didn't look happy to see me.

His expression was as grim as the weather and made sterner still by his black-framed gla.s.ses. Was he suffering under the usual burdens of marriage, mortgages and school fees, or was he just p.i.s.sed off not to be on Rodeo Drive?

His dark, tightly curled hair was thinning on top, and a patch of stubble sprouted from above his Adam's apple where he'd failed to zap it with his razor. The combo made him look a bit ridiculous, and that cheered me up for some reason. Perhaps it would help me take what he was about to say to me less seriously.

'I just wanted to be sure I was seeing what I was seeing ...' He came and sat opposite me, on my side of his desk. 'I wish I had better news for you.'

I turned back towards the window.

'You OK, Mr Stone? You still with me?'

Of course I was. I just didn't know what to say. I came out with the first thing that hit what was left of my mind. 'That's me f.u.c.ked, is it?'

He didn't even blink. 'This is where the hard work starts. Let me show you ...'

I followed him over to a light box on the wall. He hit a switch and it flickered into life. He slid the scan under the retaining clips.

He pointed to the tiny shadow on the right side of my brain. 'This lesion, I'm afraid, is the problem. We know it as a glioblastoma multiforme, a particularly virulent type of astrocytoma. It's a high-grade tumour, which tends to grow quite quickly. It's the most common type of primary malignant brain tumour in adults. I'm surprised the symptoms aren't worse. You have headaches, nausea, drowsiness?'

'Yeah, all that. Listen, Doc, I don't need to know all the technical b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Just - can you zap it?'

'With treatment it can be made bearable.' He breathed in slowly. 'Mr Stone, have you anyone waiting for you downstairs?'

'No, there's no one. No one to call, no one to worry about.'

At last Kleinmann was looking a little happier. He wouldn't have to trot out the usual bulls.h.i.+t, shepherding me and my loved ones through the emotional labyrinth that led from here to f.u.c.k knew where. He could just get down to business.

He pushed his gla.s.ses further up his nose and leant forward to take a closer look at the tumour, in case it had changed into something nice like a Teletubby in the last few minutes. I found myself doing the same, examining the scan as if I knew what the f.u.c.k I was looking at.

'You say it'll keep growing?'

It was hard to believe that something so insignificant was going to finish me off. I'd always imagined it would be something a bit bigger, something more like the diameter of an RPG, a rifle b.u.t.t or at least a 7.62mm round, but this little f.u.c.ker was no more than pea-sized. Checking out like this? It felt so ... pedestrian pedestrian ... ...

I tried to smile. 'I always wondered what a death warrant looked like. Does it have a use-by date?'

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?'