Saving Sebastian E-Book

Hazel McHaffie

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 462

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Time is running out for four-year-old Sebastian Zair. A rare blood disorder means that a stem-cell transplant is his only hope of surviving past childhood. His mother places her trust in the Pemberton Fertility Centre and a controversial IVF procedure which will allow her to select an embryo that is the same tissue type as Sebastian - to create a saviour sibling. But what she doesn't know is that the sword of Damocles is hanging over the Pemberton. A Nigerian couple, the Opakanjos, have just given birth to twins through IVF, but only one is their biological child. Someone has made a monumental mistake. With a major enquiry under way and pro-life campaigners on the warpath, both families are faced with agonising personal choices as well as the intrusions of an unscrupulous journalist. Will they break under the strain? Will Sebastian survive? REVIEWS: There are very few novels which deal with the issues of contemporary medical ethics in the lively and intensely readable way which Hazel McHaffie's books do. ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH McHaffie's books are skillfully written to bring out the complex ethical issues we as doctors, nurses, patients, or relatives, may face in dealing with difficult issues... These books are a welcome development of what has been called the narrative turn in medical ethics. THE BRITISH MEDICAL JOURNAL

Leseprobe

HAZEL MCHAFFIE trained as a nurse and midwife, gained a PhD in Social Sciences, and was Deputy Director of Research in the Institute of Medical Ethics. She is the author of almost a hundred published articles and books, and won the British Medical Association Book of the Year Award in 2002. Right to Die, shortlisted for the Popular Medicine prize, was highly commended in the BMA 2008 Medical Book Awards. Saving Sebastian is her seventh published novel set in the world of medical ethics.Praise for Saving Sebastian

'Problems in medical ethics are not just for doctors but for everyone. Hazel McHaffie has found a way to bring them before a wide public. You are gripped from the very beginning, but as you turn the pages, you are compelled to think about the issues. It is an excellent formula.' Baroness Mary Warnock

Praise for Remember Remember

'This moving book will resonate with anyone who has 'lost' a loved one through the living death of Alzheimer's.' Sir Cliff Richard

'…McHaffie raises emotional and ethical issues: the use of electronic tagging devices; the funding for Alzheimer's medication; balancing caring for a close relative and one's own needs; and questions around the end of life… not as theoretical 'thin' cases, as are so often used in teaching in medical ethics, but within the richly characterised world of the novel.' Professor Tony Hope

'…an amazing insight into the thought process of someone with dementia… a gripping and heartfelt narrative.' Journal of Dementia Care

'Extremely moving and touching. This novel, I'm sure, will resonate deeply with family members and carers trying to cope with this most distressing condition. Recommended.' The Bookbag

Praise for Right to Die

'This heart-rending book about a young journalist who has all to live for but is dying from Motor Neurone Disease, is written with a rare understanding of the conflicts and horrors of such a death. Those who read it will understand why the law needs to be changed to allow assisted dying as an option for those whose quality of life has disintegrated…' Lord Joffe

'This is an immensely sensitive and thoughtful book. It tackles in raw and compelling detail the deterioration caused by degenerative disease, while at the same time exploring the ethical issues surrounding assisted dying. The characters are real and attractive; their pain almost tangible. This is an astonishingly authentic-feeling insight with a highly articulate and intelligent central character.' Professor Sheila McLean

By the same author:

Right to Die, Luath Press, 2008

Remember Remember, Luath Press, 2010

Saving Sebastian

HAZEL McHAFFIE

Luath PressLimited

EDINBURGHwww.luath.co.uk

First published 2012

eBook 2012

ISBN: 978-1-906817-87-9

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-24-3

The author's right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted. The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume © Hazel McHaffie 2012

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

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POSTSCRIPT

Discussion Points for Bookclubs

Acknowledgements

This has without doubt been the most taxing subject I've tackled to date. The science behind creating a saviour sibling is so complex that I was in danger of drowning when Dr Sue Pickering came to my rescue. Her knowledge is immense, her experience and wisdom reassuring. She answered all my questions with patience and clarity and I owe her a huge debt.

In spite of running a busy reproductive centre, Dr Clement Tay and his team gave me fantastic insights into life in this rarefied world. I left overawed by their skill and sensitivity and with a much better awareness of what it feels like to sit trembling in anticipation in such a very special clinic.

My long-time friend Dr Ian Laing put me in touch with these impressive people.

Rev Norman MacRae checked the dialogue where Nigerian inflexions and patterns of speech were used, and I'm grateful for his thorough attention to detail.

Thanks go to the Luath team for bringing another book to fruition, especially to my editor, Jennie Renton, for helping me to tighten the text and excise extraneous adverbial phrases with her usual incisive advice.

As ever my family were an ongoing support. Jonathan and Rosalyn read early manuscripts with enthusiasm and encouragement. David cast an eagle eye over the final text and removed typographical errors and inconsistencies. My preoccupation with the dilemmas relating to saviour siblings threatened to spoil the honeymoon phase of his retirement, but he learned to adapt to the demands of my working life, and drank many solitary cups of coffee in the garden without complaint.

I thank them all most sincerely.

PROLOGUE

THE CHILD DIDN'T STIR as his mother eased the door of the cubicle shut and tiptoed away. Outside in the hospital car park the drizzle felt cool on Yasmeen's cheeks, hiding the tears she'd been holding back all evening.

It was still light for the drive home. As she let herself into the house, her husband looked up with an anxious frown. 'How's Sebastian?' The refrain of their lives.

'The IV line blocked.' Yasmeen sighed wearily. 'Again. The transfusion didn't finish until 7. Bassy looked so…' her voice trailed away. The doctors seemed confident that her four-yearold son was on the mend again, but with each crisis he moved closer to that day when nothing would bring him back from the precipice. 'He was fretting. I couldn't come away until he was fast asleep,' was all she said.

The staff had urged her to go home and get some rest after four days and nights in the ward. But she'd been reluctant. There'd been something about the way Sebastian's eyes had kept darting towards her, his reluctance to go to sleep…

Karim broke into her anxious thoughts. 'Meena.'

The tone of his voice made her turn with fear in her heart.

'Mmm?'

He held out the letter.

'Our appointment. From The Pemberton.'

Sebastian woke drenched in sweat. 'Mummy,' he whimpered. 'Mu-u-mmy.'

The nurse took his pulse and temperature then rolled the child onto his side. She recoiled. A livid rash covered his back.

Not again. How much more could this poor kid take? If she had her way, they'd just stop all the treatment, cuddle him, let him slip away in peace.

But the parents had other ideas.

1

'VENISON! OH DEAR. I do wish I could overcome my ridiculous prejudice against killing such beautiful creatures.' Angela's comment squealed into a lull in the conversation.

Justin shot a glance at his wife. He recognised the momentary clench of her jaw, but her voice was even.

'There's a vegetable curry coming for you, Angela. Hopefully no form of life left in it. Lindy, help yourself to potatoes. Nudge Justin for more wine, Colin.'

Justin reached for the bottle, ignoring the warning from his phone. Not until everyone's glass was refilled did he slip from the room, leaving a muttered pretext hanging in the air.

'Blaydon-Green speaking.'

'It's Anton. Labour Ward. Sorry to call you at this hour.'

'No problem. What's up?'

'Candice Opakanjo. She's five centimetres dilated. Good contractions every four minutes. You said you wanted to be informed.'

'Right. Thanks. Any problems?'

'Not so far. She's had pethidine. Tracings are good. For all three.'

'OK. I'll come in, as soon as I can decently get away.' Just give me time to taste the venison.

Helen looked up with a resigned expression as he came back into the dining room. He sent her an apologetic shrug, holding up ten fingers in a semaphore she knew only too well.

He was partial to all forms of game but venison topped his list, and this particular dish was a new one. The aromatic marinade of juniper berries, peppercorns and red wine had worked its magic. Ten minutes extended to fifteen… to twenty. The least he could do when Helen had pounded, basted and seasoned to produce this perfection.

But babies care nothing for consultants' domestic commitments.

'Sorry, folks. I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you. Special delivery.'

'Sounds like the Royal Mail,' Colin laughed.

Justin stooped to drop a kiss on Helen's head, inhaling her light aura of sandalwood.

'Masterclass venison. Bless you. Save me some cheesecake?'

'That depends.'

Candice Opakanjo was breathing her way noisily through a contraction when he entered the delivery room thirty minutes later. Five pairs of eyes checked him in. He nodded in the direction of the paediatrician already in attendance, but his gaze homed in on the man at the head end of the bed. Samuel's face registered the pain of his wife's crushing grip on his hand.

Beside the bed the monitor spelled out the seismic activity of labour; good healthy tracings. These babies seemed to have read the right books.

The pain receded and Candice looked up at him. 'This is it, then. No going back.'

'The moment you've been waiting for.'

'For all these years. Thanks. Thanks for everything.'

'Our pleasure. You're the one doing all the hard work.'

He smiled at Samuel, perspiring in the heat and emotion of impending fatherhood.

'How's it going, Samuel?'

'Fine, thanks. Just be glad when it's safely over.'

'You and me both!' Candice said. 'Yeeooow. Here it comes again.'

Justin watched the huge ebony abdomen grow tense as she huffed and blew the next contraction through its course. The midwife's hand massaged the aching back, a curious art he'd never really understood.

'Well, these little people seem determined today's the day,' he said when Candice stopped squirming long enough to take a gulp of iced water.

'Please God,' Samuel muttered under his breath.

'Or tomorrow,' Justin amended. 'Will your hands survive to see another day, Samuel?'

'I'll never be able to play the cello again!' Samuel pulled a mournful face.

They exchanged a grin. It was a joke shared in those longago months when emotion had threatened to overwhelm this complex man. Unlike Justin, Samuel had never even held a cello, far less mastered the art of playing one.

Justin observed Candice through three more contractions, then, satisfied that all was normal, he went in search of caffeine. He'd need a crutch to survive the night. Drinking the instant Fair Trade coffee they stocked in Labour Ward he felt a pang of regret. 9.55pm. His dinner guests would be savouring a superior blend at this very minute.

He sighed. Loyalty had to be a two-way street. After sharing all the disappointments, having assisted with the conception, he'd be mad to miss the celebration.

3.20am. From his vantage point beside Candice he could see the waiting name bands. Opakanjo Twin 1 – two labels. Opakanjo Twin 2 – two labels.

'It's a… boy!'

The first band was fastened to a quivering wrist. Twin 1.

The midwife held the child up for the new parents to see the defining genitals, his body sagging against her hand as if already wearied by the burden of independent existence.

A perfect arc of urine sprayed the sheet.

'A fine lad he is too,' Justin laughed. 'Congratulations.'

The midwife laid the boy down on his mother's chest and Candice's hands closed protectively around him.

'Hello, little man. Orlando? Yes, Poppa?'

'Orlando still sounds good to me.'

'Orlando Samuel,' Candice murmured, stroking the child's head.

A fuzz of tight black curls, huge dark eyes, broad nose, pouting lips – the baby was the very image of his father.

'Orlando. Wow. Very Shakespearean. So what's the next one going to be?' the midwife asked.

'Valentino if it's a boy. Destiny if it's a girl.'

'Fabulous names. And if it had been two girls?'

'Destiny and Venus.'

'Ahh. Gorgeous.'

A hush fell over the room.

The midwife kept her hand lightly on the swollen abdomen waiting for the first tremor. Only Candice could afford the luxury of a doze.

Justin watched her closely. For a woman of thirty-eight it had been a taxing pregnancy, and an exhausting labour. Even for an ex-long distance runner. Intervention might yet be necessary.

The midwife reached across to realign the remaining name bands. Opakanjo Twin 2.

'Here we go again!'

Orlando was thrust into the hands of the paediatrician. Candice, eyes bloodshot, voice hoarse, gathered every shred of stamina for this final rally.

After the tension of a slow first delivery the second baby seemed to shoot out.

Silence.

Then, quietly, 'And it's a… girl.'

He sneaked a look at Candice. Her skin glistening with sweat, her face puffed up with the strain of the last eighteen hours, she had eyes only for her husband.

'Destiny,' she breathed. 'Destiny Grace. Orlando and Destiny. One of each.'

'Perfect.' Samuel leaned across to kiss her.

Destiny's shrill cries filled the room.

The midwife deftly wrapped the child in a warm towel and handed the bundle to her mother. 'There we go.'

Justin sensed rather than saw Candice freeze. But it was Samuel who broke the silence, his eyes searching the doctor's face.

'Do they sometimes… go darker?'

Justin could only shake his head.

As if in slow motion, Candice unwrapped the towel to look at her daughter. Destiny lay pale against the swollen black breasts, her tongue nuzzling her mother's nipple. Her snuffling ceased as she settled into the rhythm of sucking.

Candice drew the towel back over her baby, leaving no more than the dark hair visible.

Six pairs of eyes watched her in silence.

2

TWO HOURS OF FITFUL SLEEP on the narrow bed in the resident's room were all Justin was able to muster. Not nearly enough for what lay ahead.

It was a relief to find the staff room empty. He chose his position with care, slightly removed from the main body of chairs but not too distant.

Coffee mugs and crisp packets littered the table, magazines and tissues lay where they'd been tossed, the daily cleaning scourge postponed to allow them to rake over events leading up to the birth of an unexpected baby. Justin stared at the debris. Was it only yesterday he'd cared about high cholesterol and appearances? The light-shade hung at its usual crazy angle, like the sword of Damocles. He hitched the collar of the white coat away from his neck and watched his colleagues filter in.

The inspector at the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority, had been sympathetic. 'Damn bad luck, Justin.'

The Pemberton Centre for Reproductive Medicine prided itself on its transparency and its open dealing with the governing authority. Not like some fertility units where the HFEA were the enemy, where nobody ever made a mistake, nothing ever went wrong. They were the ones the HFEA worried about. Working with material a fraction of the size of a pinhead there was always the potential for error. If Justin had declared no breaches of procedure they'd be closing his centre down right now, suspending treatment, dragging away computers, tearing through records. But they knew they could trust him. The Pemberton had reported its quota of accidents, human and mechanical. Nothing to be gained by adding to the distress of all the couples they were currently treating.

Only this time it wasn't a question of the temperature of one of the freezers rising overnight, ruining its contents, or the wrong embryos being thawed out, or a precious dish dropped. No, this amounted to the actual birth of the wrong baby. She existed. She was in a cot beside the woman who gave birth to her. She had a name. A brother.

'Carry on as usual, Justin. We'll do our best to make this investigation as low key as possible. Factor us in for about a week. I'll need to rearrange my appointments and get one of my colleagues to come up with me. And for the technical questions, Jarman – Professor Alan Jarman. Know him? Heads up the London Lucifer Centre. Sound man.'

Now Justin faced his colleagues at the sharp end of all this scrutiny.

'Here's the scenario. We have one black mum; we have one black dad. Most of you will know the Opakanjos. They've been coming to us for years. Their last IVF cycle was successful and last night they had twins at 37 weeks. One black male babe, one mixed-race female babe. The HFEA have been informed. Scott, as senior embryologist, will be liaising for us. He'll be speaking to all of you to see where we went wrong. Anything so far, Scott?'

Dr Scott Martindale, in pristine lab scrubs and white clogs, lowered his head to the papers on his lap. Six foot four in his socks, not an inch of spare flesh on his bones, he was looking positively gaunt today, hair scraped back as if he'd just stepped out of the shower, his face a study in angles, deep vertical gouges elongating the sharp nose and long chin. Curiously though, Justin observed, his rimless spectacles were filthy.

He'd always been something of an enigma, Scott – 'Great Scott' to the team – low on people-skills, high on ambition. A driven man as far as his own research was concerned, passionate even, but quickly bored by routine. He'd be so frustrated by the slog of an inquiry.

'I've extracted the relevant dates and figures,' he said in his soft Highland accent.

More riffling through the file.

As everyone waited for him to continue, Justin found himself mesmerised by those spidery fingers. He wanted to send sympathetic vibes to his colleagues but no one was looking in his direction. They were ranged in two camps. At one end, the lab staff. Centre stage the two embryologists: Scott, crouched like a suspicious schoolboy, his file shielded from sneaking glances; Nina, perched on a stool behind him, one foot flicking up and down, the insole of her clog thumping against her heel with each beat. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. Her ankle beneath the scrub trousers was still brown from her holiday on a South African game reserve. Elephants and wildebeest had seemed an unlikely choice for someone so shy and domesticated.

A supporting cast of their laboratory colleagues ranged alongside: Emma, Zubin and Raisa. But… no Jack. Curious.

Still puzzling, Justin scanned the other end, the clinical team. The nurses, Amy, Elka, Glenys, Rita, Surata, Claire, Astrid and Marelda. The doctors slightly behind them, one step removed from the emotion. Leonie and Zhen meeting his gaze without flinching, too junior to take any real responsibility here. The senior medics, Campbell, Gavriella and Kristen, lounging in their chairs, inscrutable, almost nonchalant.

Justin knew better. This catastrophe had implications for them all, individually and collectively; for the very viability of the whole outfit.

'The paperwork looks straightforward,' Scott said finally.

'Clear track right through?' Justin asked.

'Seems to be.'

'How many others on the day of harvesting?'

'Seven. That's Readington, Lander, Carling, Dixon, Abernethy, Garnock and… Habgood.'

'Remind me, how many non-white Caucasians?' Justin said.

'The mother in the Landers case. She's Asian.'

'And Mr Garnock has some Indian blood, doesn't he?' Gavriella chipped in.

There was a murmur of assent from the nurses.

'None of them Afro-Caribbean though?' Justin clarified.

'No.'

'Any irregularities with anybody?'

'Not that I can see.'

The door inched open and the longest-serving lab technician, Jack Fitzpatrick, let his apology precede him. Justin waited for him to sit down before continuing.

'Right. How many successful fertilisations on that date?'

'Six.'

'Hmmm. High. So that's seven batches of eggs, seven sperm samples.'

Scott grunted assent, running a fingernail down his list.

'Two days later we've got six batches of embryos.'

'That's correct.'

'And on the day of the Opakanjo replacement, how many did we transfer?'

'Of the original seven? Four others besides the Opakanjos.'

'Who were they?'

'Carling, Abernethy, Habgood and Readington.'

'Ahhh. The Readingtons delivered several weeks ago, didn't they?' A bad memory that one.

'Aye. Male infant. Prem. Lived five days,' Scott read. A statement. Nothing to indicate the pain behind that outcome.

'And Marcus Habgood was white.'

'Definitely,' Scott confirmed.

'And the Dixons?' This time it was a genuine question; Justin couldn't remember hearing about them.

Scott's finger tracked along the columns. 'Lost theirs at eighteen weeks.'

'How many embryos do they have left?'

'Two.'

'Still frozen?'

'I think. Aye. There it is.'

'Which leaves?' Justin asked.

'Carling and Abernethy. The Abernethys had a girl last week. In Special Care. Traumatic delivery. Severe birth apnoea.'

'But white presumably?'

'Yes,' Dr Kristen Blackwell said, her voice heavy with emotion. 'She was white.'

Justin remembered Kristen's distress. How she'd wept with frustration and pain at the waste of a hard-earned life thrown away. A healthy term-baby damaged beyond repair during a protracted delivery because of the mother's insistence that everything be 'natural'. He'd told her, 'You can't afford to take it so personally, not in this game.' But sometimes you just did, and anyway, better a tear or two than Scott's robotic detachment when it came to the tragedy of infertility.

'So, only one pregnancy left from that batch.'

'The Carlings,' Scott said brusquely. Emotion always unnerved him.

'Twins, as I recall?'

'That's right,' Scott confirmed. 'Due any day.'

'Plus we have frozen embryos from how many of the original seven?'

Scott scrutinised his figures. 'Five.'

'Including the Opakanjos?'

'No. We only got two good embryos from them. Put them both back.'

'And no black or brown infants born to white parents?'

'Not so far.'

'Which means,' Justin scanned his team, 'we hold our breath till the Carling twins arrive.'

Holding breath was the least of it. The scenario was unravelling in all their eyes: the meticulous checking of every movement. Their own internal search; then the heavy brigade from the HFEA bulldozing all over their territory. Deciding whom to recall, who required an apology, whose certainty to erode, whose trust to destroy. Playing shipwreck with real lives.

No one wanted to be the hand that precipitated this landslide.

Justin was gentle. 'Scott will be talking to you individually. Mistakes happen. If you can shed any light, don't hesitate to come forward. The sooner we can clear this up, the sooner we can return to normal.'

Watching them file out in silence, he wondered if any of them had realised the implications for him as Clinical Director. No, their own futures filled the whole screen right now. He sighed. Only eleven days ago these very same people were celebrating.

It had been a tough year: the constant struggle to justify the service to NHS managers; too many couples waiting to be treated; too few embryologists; dwindling numbers of sperm donors; pressure to take on more and more private patients. The unexpected surge in their fertility rates had been a boost to morale. The team took the credit to their united selves, thumbing their noses at the tight-fisted finance department. Even Scott, normally too preoccupied with his own projects to engage in the clinic's real life battles, even he deigned to join them at the local hostelry.

They raised a toast to the good news travelling.

Eleven days ago nobody conceived of this word travelling.

3

IT WAS COOL inside the Posybowl. Everything was wide open – the shop, the florists' van, the back door. And empty.

Natalie inhaled the scent of freesias and stephanotis, eucalyptus and lilies, merging with a hint of damp moss. This florist was good. Beautiful colour combinations, unusual shapes, clever use of pampas and variegated leaves. She swithered between two arrangements. Stargazer lilies or Casablancas?

'Hey, Earth to Ruthie! Hello-o!' The delivery-man's words carried easily. Natalie could see his green overalls leaning on the doorpost of the back room.

The disembodied female voice was barely audible. 'Look, Arthur, I'm already miles behind schedule. If I'm to get home this side of midnight I really must get on.'

'OK, OK. Can't a body be friendly round here? A bloke has to take a break sometimes. It's all right for you safely in here, but it's chaos outside, what with temporary traffic lights in the High Street, and the bypass gridlocked. Eight miles an hour, that's what we was doing this morning. Eight bloody miles an hour.'

Natalie heard the sigh above the creak of a foot moving another rung up the stepladder. 'I'll be down in a minute.'

'But don't you reckon it's odd? About those kiddies,' he persisted. 'One black and one brown.'

Ruth's voice came more clearly, 'How come?'

'Don't ask me. I only deliver the flowers, not the babies.'

'Well, I've met the grandmother and she's coal black. She was in here earlier in the week. Proud as punch she was. And the dad's been in a couple of times. He's black too.'

'So's the young Mrs Opakanjo. So I guess that makes them all black, barring the one kiddie.'

'Arthur, is this a wind-up?'

'No. Honest.'

'So how d'you know – about the babies?'

'Seen them meself. They was lying there in their wee baskets, side by side, when I rolled up with that spiky thing you do – you know, orange and blue.'

'Strelitzias.'

'That's the one. And she got me to carry it right into the house. That's how I seen those little piccaninnies. So, what d'you reckon?'

'Don't ask me. Ahhh! There they are!'

Two boxes of florists' wire dropped to the ground. The aluminium creaked as the legs descended the ladder and a head of bright honey-blonde curls appeared, framing a freckled face. Ruth picked up the boxes, dragging her tabard down with her free hand. Even from a distance Natalie could see Arthur's eyes were appreciative.

'Well, as me dear old Gran used to say, I smell a bit of hanky panky in there somewhere.'

The girl strode over to the work counter and plonked the boxes of wires down with a thump.

'You'll smell more than a bit of hanky panky if you don't get this afternoon's order into that van of yours in four minutes flat. You haven't even started moving them to the Conference Centre! I did not slave since the crack of dawn to have this lot' – the wave of her hand took in a row of purple and cream hand-ties – 'wilting in my shop. So get your butt out of here before I stick these wires somewhere the sun don't shine.'

Arthur moved away from the doorpost but made no move as yet to pick up the flowers.

'No team spirit, that's your trouble. I bring you news to brighten your little isolation cell here, and all I get is insults. You'll rue the day when I retire and there's nobody to fill you in on the gossip.'

'The way you're going it'll be the sack long before your pension.' Ruth pulled an oblong of oasis towards her and clamped it into a plastic container. 'There's gossip and there's gossip. We aren't paid to speculate about the private lives of our customers. The Opakanjos and their friends have spent a fortune in here and I don't intend to pry into what's no concern of mine.'

'Spoilsport,' grumbled Arthur, but he stooped to pick up the first of the arrangements.

Natalie lingered just out of sight until Arthur had driven off and Ruth had returned to creating a foil of green foliage. She moved to the shop front selecting chrysanthemums, roses, gerberas, so absorbed in her task that she was startled when Natalie stepped forward.

'Oh, I'm so sorry. I do hope you haven't been waiting long.'

'Not at all! I've been trying to decide between these bouquets. You're really very good.'

'Thank you.'

On an impulse Natalie rejected both the lilies and chose instead a flamboyant crimson and white arrangement wrapped in red cellophane.

'I'm sure, being in their locality… do you know the Opakanjo family? They've just had twins?'

'Yes, indeed. I've done several lots of flowers for them.'

'And has anyone chosen this particular bouquet?'

'Not that I can remember.'

'Then I'll take it. It's perfect.'

When she reappeared ten minutes later Ruth looked up from a sea of yellow and bronze and tipped her head enquiringly.

'Something wrong?'

'Oh no! It's… well, I've done the silliest thing. I don't seem to have brought the Opakanjos' address with me. Must be in my other bag. Would you mind terribly?'

Ruth put down her secateurs and wiped her hands on her tabard.

The order book was dog-eared and stained. Her fingers were still damp. Natalie held her breath.

'Ahhh. Here we are! Opakanjo. 47 Hill Drive.'

'Thank you so much.'Natalie walked briskly away from the shop. In a quiet culde-sac she took out her mobile phone and dialled her boss.

'Evening News. Sandra Lifton speaking.'

'Sandra, hi. It's me, Natalie.'

'How're things?'

'Listen, I've just overheard something. Some story about mixed-race twins… No, I don't know that… Worth a little sniff around?… Yes, yes! Discretion's my middle name. OK. I'll keep you posted.'

She had the rest of the day to follow her nose.

4

JACK OPENED ONE EYE. Only 6.30. Another thirty minutes before the alarm would drag him out of slumber. He drifted gently.

'You awake?' Patsy's whisper reached into the privacy of his dream.

'Half.'

'Can I ask you something? Hypothetically speaking.'

'Bit early in the morning for hypotheticals, isn't it?'

'Shut up. And you can stop that, Jack Fitzpatrick, right now! I'm serious.'

'Oh, so am I. So. Am. I.'

'I'll get up and that'll be that,' she warned, flouncing across to her own side of the bed.

'OK. I'm listening.'

'You know about genes and fertilisation and everything, right?'

'Well, basically, yeah – not all the really technical stuff though.'

'So, can a black woman have a nearly white kid?'

'If the dad's white she could.'

'But if the dad's black too?'

Jack took his time, dissecting each word before he let it escape. Patsy had a habit of quoting him ages after the original conversation.

'If they aren't black through and through, she could,' he said. 'Maybe if they both have a white relative in a previous generation, something like that. I don't know about the colour genes – if one of them's recessive or not.'

He dropped his head to kiss the bump in her collar-bone where it hadn't set quite straight when she'd fallen out of a tree, a snotty little kid competing for the respect of her much older cousins. She didn't jerk away so he moved up to her neck. This time she swotted him to the side and he subsided onto his own pillow.

'They look totally black. I mean straight-out-of-Africa-black. Both of them,' she said.

He froze. 'Hey! What's this all about? Thought you said it was hypothetical.'

'Well, one of our doctors, he's got this couple on his list and they're black Africans and… Listen, this is in confidence, right?'

'Right. Cross your heart and hope to die.' He traced a cross over her heart so swiftly she had no chance to react.

'These patients in our surgery, they've just had twins, only one's black and one's kind of light brown. I mean, how can that happen?'

He whistled, he hoped convincingly. 'No kidding?'

'No kidding. So?'

'Mother been fooling around maybe?' he said, praying for forgiveness. 'I read somewhere some woman conceived twice at the same time – by two different men. Playing away as well as at home. She had twins. Nobody would've known except they were both the spitting image of their dads.'

'Straight up?'

'Scout's honour.'

Patsy was silent for a long time. He half-lifted his head to look at her but she was lost in thought.

'I don't think this mum's like that. I mean, they've been doing the whole IVF thing for yonks.'

'So?'

'Well, if you go to all that trouble.'

'Doesn't mean she's Mother Theresa. Maybe she got fed up waiting. Maybe she's fine herself. Fertile, I mean. Maybe it's him that's got the problem. Say she secretly has a fling with somebody else. A white bloke. Only she gets pregnant by him same time the IVF works.'

She turned slowly. Jack stared into the flecked hazel irises.

'That possible?'

'I don't know.' His eyes slid down to her parted lips, her long neck, the thin blue veins threading down to her breasts. 'I'm only a jobbing lab technician, not a PhD in genetics! I guess it's possible.'

She was silent so long that Jack began to suspect she had dozed off again. He sneaked a sideways glance. No, she was very much awake. When she spoke it was as if she were trying words on for size.

'Do you – people like you, I mean – the technicians and everything – do you get to handle the eggs and things and the embryos?'

'Well, nobody actually handles them.'

'Tsccch!' Her elbow was sharp in his ribs. 'You know what I mean. Carrying them on dishes or in syringes or whatever you do?'

'Sometimes. Why?'

'So – could they get muddled up?'

'The technicians?'

'No, idiot. The eggs.'

'I guess it's possible,' Jack said. 'But this stuff is regulated like you wouldn't believe. Everything gets checked and doublechecked, everything's charted and labelled and signed for. I can't see a mistake happening.'

'So you'd think it was the mother having a bit on the side?'

'More likely than a lab error, I'd say.' Suddenly Jack knew an urge to adopt Catholicism. The need for absolution was visceral.

'You wouldn't imagine something like that happening, would you? I mean getting caught out like that. So obvious.'

'It'd teach you not to fool around ever again, I guess.'

'I feel sorry for the dad. Imagine what he thinks whenever he looks at that kiddie. Or when anybody else sees it.'

'You're wasting your talents. You should be writing detective stories, instead of being a doctors' receptionist,' he said lightly, inching closer. 'Patsy Graham, the novelist. Sounds nifty, don't you think?'

'Now you are kidding!'

'You're skinny enough to fit onto the jacket flap anyway.'

'For the last time, Jack, I am not skinny!'

'You should hear what my old ma says.'

'Huhhh!' disposed of that threat.

He closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

After a while he said casually, 'What does the doc in your surgery think?'

'About me becoming an author? No idea. I haven't asked him.'

'Touché,' he grinned at her. 'About that coffee kid?'

'How should I know?'

'Doesn't he write things in the notes?'

'Course. But we don't see it. We have our code of practice too, y'know. It's not only your infertility place that has rules and regulations.'

'Uuueww! Who rattled your cage?' Jack propped himself up on one elbow and watched her brow furrow in annoyance.

'Nobody. And don't be such a moron. I wish I'd never mentioned it.'

'You premenstrual or something?'

'Trust you!' and with that she threw back the duvet, grabbed her clothes and stomped off to the bathroom.

Jack watched her pert exit and then lay back down again slowly, warning flags flapping across his field of vision. Ominous ones.

He was still pondering her questions when he arrived at The Pemberton Centre. All the team were in today, both clinical and lab staff. By nine o'clock the waiting room was seething. The staff exchanged banter as they passed each other. 'It's a madhouse out there.' 'Battery farming comes to mind.' 'Remind me why I turned my back on accountancy.'

But once into the routines of lab work, Jack's mind had space to roam. The rows of tubes, the pipettes, the dishes, the medium – he knew where everything was, what everything did. The repetition had a rhythm and security all of its own. Troubling thoughts began to recede. He hissed tunes between his teeth; sizzing, Patsy called it. She hated it with a passion.

When he could take a break he started on his daily dose of Sudoku. He was soon absorbed and it took time for the polished shoes standing to the right of his clogs to register. Had to be the boss, Dr Justin Blaydon-Green.

'Are you all right, Jack?' The quirked eyebrow and the glint of his glasses made Justin look slightly myopic.

After a glance up, Jack swallowed a mouthful of coffee. 'Yeah. I'm fine. Thanks.'

When Justin still didn't move Jack half-turned in his seat as if anxious to get on with relaxing. 'Something wrong, Doc?'

'I don't know. That's what I'm wondering.'

'Sorry?'

'You're not exactly your usual perky self. I was wondering if there's a problem.'

'Just thinking. I guess there's always a first time, huh? Thinking is the most unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of it just as they die of any other diseases.' It was a struggle making the smile fit his face. The smokescreen of Wilde's wit seemed oddly transparent today.

'Well, it looks like thinking isn't good for your health!'

'Fortunately, in England at any rate, thinking is not catching. For England read Scotland.' This time the smirk came more readily.

He scribbled a '3' into the top right-hand Sudoku box and tracked down to the next square without his brain engaging with his hand.

'Care to share your thinking?' Justin said.

Jack flicked the end of his biro in and out three times in quick succession before speaking.

'Well, I reckon Mr Opakanjo's feeling pretty scunnered, right this minute.'

'Ri-ight.' The hard look bored into him. 'Because?'

Jack gave up. Keeping his voice low, and watching somewhere east of Justin's face for his reaction, he blurted it out. 'People are talking. I heard it myself yesterday.'

Justin sank down onto the chair opposite.

'Well, it was always going to happen, Jack. Eventually. Although I'd hoped for a bit more time. But hey ho! Moses' mother couldn't keep him hidden either and I guess she had more reason than most to try.'

Jack's heart seemed to be fluttering too close to his larynx, seriously affecting the steadiness of his voice, but he looked straight at Justin.

'Was it us? Was it our mistake?'

'I can't think of any other explanation.' Justin was leaning forward now, looking at the neat rows of numbers, but it felt like he was crawling inside Jack's head. 'Can you?'

'The lady? She might have been playing away. If you get my drift.'

'You've seen what these treatments are like. I can't imagine any woman feeling like having an affair when she's going through harvesting and transfer. Can you?'

'Not if you say not.'

'It's technically possible, but practically unlikely.'

'OK, but…'

'But?'

Jack gulped twice. 'Well, I was reading that some animals have chimeric sperm.'

Justin stared at him in amazement.

'Were you indeed? And what do you know about chimeric sperm?'

'Well, this paper I was reading, it said some creatures – like marmosets – they can have babies with the DNA of the father's twin. Even though the twin hasn't been anywhere near the mother.'

'And you're thinking?'

'Could Mr Opakanjo have funny sperm? Chimeric.'

'To the best of my knowledge humans don't have chimeric sperm.'

'I guess not.'

Silence.

'Still thinking, Jack?'

'Still thinking.'

'Let me know if your thinking takes you somewhere I should know about.'

'Sure thing.'

For the rest of the morning Jack's mind played with the questions.

It dawned on him that he had no idea what Justin was thinking. His own speculation had been drowning out all other sound.

5

SAMUEL WAS STARING down into the matching Moses baskets. His back was towards Candice but she knew he'd sensed her presence. He didn't turn, didn't speak. She tasted the bile of irritation. She made herself search for the man she'd fallen in love with all those years ago.

She'd been bouncing on the running track, limbering up before a long distance race, well aware of her magnificent body, the power perhaps more than the beauty. Her coach had told her: 'This one's in the bag, kid,' and his confidence had given her a glow of satisfaction. All those gruelling hours of training were paying off.

She was concentrating on pseudo-starts when the unknown black man hoved into view, trailing a white-line machine. Something about the discrepancy in size and colour had made her giggle. She didn't intend any ridicule, it was nothing more than the tension she always felt before a race, but he'd heard her; his face told her that. She took a step… at that precise moment the official roared at them to take their positions on the starting blocks.

Perhaps it was her conscience weighing her down, or maybe she'd lost focus – whatever, she'd come fourth in the heat, out of the race before it became any kind of a challenge. After her coach had finished with her she slunk away to a bench out of view, and that's how the nameless white-line man, squeaking his marking machine back to base, found her, all blotched and defeated.

If the positions had been reversed she knew she would have felt a fall from grace was exactly the punishment for a conceited bitch who cared nothing for other people's feelings, but young Samuel Opakanjo had been cast in a very different mould. He hung around, sympathised, put this one hiccup in her career into perspective, made silly jokes until she couldn't help but smile. By the time they left that hidden spot and she faced the world as it existed after her shame, her self-esteem was on the way to recovery.

He didn't tell her until their fifth date that he was a university student augmenting his meagre allowance with casual labour. By that time she wouldn't have cared where he came in the pecking order.

Not once since had he ever alluded to that first encounter, but Candice had never forgotten it. Time and again she'd seen the same integrity. Like a stick of Blackpool rock; whatever you did, the essential core of authenticity remained. It was hard sometimes not to resent a man whose moral plumbline showed up her own uncertain standards, but his devotion and pride in her achievements somehow neutralised her volatility. Slowly, gradually, she learned to trust. It took time. You couldn't overnight shake off the inheritance of childhood: blazing rows, a stormy separation, an acrimonious divorce.

Nowadays though, since the twins, everything was different. His passivity and tolerance irked her increasingly. Why did he never retaliate? Why did he just take whatever she threw at him, no matter how mean and unreasonable she was?

Her eyes took in his sheer size; the bulk of a man who packed a frightening punch in the gym, who'd been first choice in the local tug of war every year. She noticed the hunched shoulders, the bowed head above the uneven hairline – the same hairline she used to trace with her finger, teasing him that it showed he had a crooked sense of humour, back in those far-off days when life smiled.

Here in this small room, he was like a slave chained to the galley, forced to row against the tide, for an overseer who was at once fickle and domineering. She knew a sudden desire to release him, send him away, before the damage became irreversible.

It was his boss's fault for granting him protracted leave. In the early days she'd have given anything for extended homecomings, but the repeated absences had taken their toll. Onshore leave wasn't the honeymoon her friends imagined. Adjusting was hard work. Both ways. Especially when he was at sea at her most fertile times. When there was no one around to share her monthly disappointment.

He'd told her only this morning: he'd been given another two weeks off work. Full stop. There was no 'Would you like?' 'What d'you think?' Couldn't he see how much she needed her own space?

The words when they came slammed their way through all her mental preparation.

'I can't go back until we've decided.'

She gritted her teeth.

'I don't see what we've got to lose,' Samuel said.

'Destiny. That's what.'

He turned to face her. She saw something in his eyes she didn't want to name. She looked away.

'They wouldn't do that. They wouldn't take her away,' he said.

'You can't promise that. You don't know.' She heard her voice rising and forced herself to stop.

'They wouldn't. You have all the claims. You carried her all those months. You gave birth to her. They couldn't take her away.'

'So, why d'you need tests, then?'

She watched him rehearsing his reasons. It had become habitual, this caution, doctoring sentences, tiptoeing around her emotions.

'Well, what about the real parents – the biological ones, I mean? This was their embryo. Maybe it was partly yours or partly mine, but it's somebody else's too. It's not wholly ours. It's their genes too. Maybe they haven't got any kids at all. Maybe they won't ever have any. They went through all the hell we went through to produce this embryo, then somebody else gets the kid. Don't they at least have a right to know?'

'But why? For what purpose?'

'Well, I'm sorry, but I'd want to know if I'd had a kid.'

'What good would it do?'

'I'd feel better if they at least knew they'd created it, and it was being brought up properly.'

'She's not an "it". She's a "she",' Candice bit back.

'I was being non-specific.'

'Hmm! Well, to be very specific, suppose we had the DNA test, this other person, this stranger, this couple, are told and they want to be part of Destiny's life. Or to bring her up themselves? What would you say to that?'

'What would I say?' Samuel mused. 'I… I wouldn't want them to take her away.'

'You sure about that?' It was a quick slice at his defences. Uncalled for. But instinctive.

'Of course I'm sure.'

She shrugged.

'It's about fairness,' Samuel said, as if all the energy had been hammered out of him.

'Really? Or is it because you're suspicious?'

'No.'

'Or worried what people will think?'

He gave her a hard look, opened his mouth, closed it, and walked out of the room without another word.

There was suddenly no outlet for her pent-up emotions. What was it with men? Why were they genetically incapable of reading signals? Why didn't he fight back? Couldn't he see how he drove her to say things she instantly regretted? Things that hovered unresolved until the next time words broke into the silences that inhabited their days.

Her mother had warned her, 'If you marry an Aquarius he won't fight. He'll walk away. Anything for peace.' She'd pitied her mother her impoverished understanding. This was Samuel. Of course he wouldn't fight; he loved her. Neither would she; she loved him. And she'd had enough of fighting to last her a lifetime.

But he had walked away. Many times.

She sighed. Because this tension wasn't new; it couldn't all be laid at Destiny's door. At first it was the infertility. She'd blamed the hormones, the waiting, the loss of control, the whole stressful business. 'As soon as I'm pregnant…'

Then she was pregnant! Wonderfu. Except it wasn't. Because it was twins; twice the hormonal upset, double the anxiety. OK, just 'hang on in there till the babies are safely here. Then we'll be fine again'. She knew they would.

And then there was Destiny.

Everything had conspired to grind them deeper into this habit.

She didn't know who to dislike more in this moment – Samuel or herself.

Later, uncomfortably engorged with milk, Candice stood staring down at the sleeping twins.

The room was a mess. Stains, clutter, the remnants of snacks; everywhere evidence of her neglect. She stooped to gather up the soiled garments discarded at bath-time – two tiny cardigans, two sleep-suits, two milky bibs, a sheet sticky with vomit.

Destiny was sleeping so quietly Candice checked she was breathing. The baby screwed up her eyes and yawned. Candice dropped a kiss onto the downy cheek.

'Oh, baby,' she whispered. 'It's not Poppa's fault. Just you make sure you don't grow into an old crosspatch like me, all scratchy and horrid.'

She sighed. Hadn't she vowed not to be like her own mother? And daily now she recognised the carbon copy; same glowering looks, same cutting asides.

There had been no cessation of hostilities after her father finally moved out when she was fifteen; there was simply a change of whipping boy. Now Candice's younger brother took the flak. Jordan had been labelled from the age of two: a 'slow developer', a boy with 'learning difficulties'. His problems became the trigger for tantrums and maternal spite that would have brought the social services down on them – had her behaviour been visible. But Blossom Solomon was Mrs Respectability outside her own four walls. People looked with admiration and pity at this stoical single mother bringing up a difficult teenager who still couldn't travel on a bus alone, who couldn't tell the time, who refused to go to clubs or into respite care.

And then Jordan was killed, aged twenty, falling down a mine-shaft on the moors behind their home. A merciful release, they whispered. But how terrible for his grief-stricken mother – seeing it happen, summoning the emergency services, watching while they pulled up his mangled body.

Only Candice knew how much her mother had resented Jordan. And she kept her suspicions to herself.

Now she was free to leave the parental home. For good. Her days as comforter, as lightning conductor, were over. She moved four hundred miles away and immersed herself in her work as a physiotherapist, and in her first love, sport. She scrubbed her memory slate clean. She was Candice Solomon, a stand-alone individual, a new creation.

Or was she?

Candice lifted her head and stared at her reflection in the mirror. What had she inherited? Her eyes strayed back to the sleeping child. What if… ? Perhaps it would be a mercy if her genes had not been passed on to another female baby.

She stroked the soft cheek. The pouting lips turned towards her finger, tongue exploratory even in sleep.

'Would you be better off with another mummy…?' She couldn't go there.

Destiny began to whimper. It was all the excuse Candice needed to hug her close. She inhaled the smell of babyness, felt the panting breaths against her neck. Her hold tightened.

'I can't,' she whispered. 'I can't let you go. You're mine. You belong to me.'

The snuffling grew more urgent. Destiny licked the skin of her face, searching. The milk surged before she could unbutton her shirt and draw out her aching breast. The sight of her black nipple against Destiny's pale lips made her shiver, but the baby knew no doubt.

'Oh baby, baby, what will you think when Mummy comes to collect you from school? When the other children say cruel things? Will you wish you were in a white family? Is that what you would choose, sweetheart? Will you hate me for keeping you?'

A tear splashed onto the pumping cheek. Candice wiped it away with her thumb.

'I'm just so, so tired. So tired.'

As if he smelled his own deprivation, Orlando woke, and his demands raced from nought to sixty in two seconds flat. Before she could move, Samuel was there, lifting him, changing him, passing him across, clean and comfortable.

The wrinkled fingers, the strong smell of steeping fluid, told her Samuel had been sluicing the nappies. She wanted to thank him for his support. She didn't. There it was again; that malfunctioning valve between intention and action. As soon as mother and twins were happily synchronised Samuel returned to the washing without a word being exchanged. He left her to simmer until coffee time.

'Doughnuts today,' he announced as if the rest of the morning had never happened. 'You deserve a treat.' And talk moved onto the news that three suicide bombers had attacked in Afghanistan, fourteen innocent lives had been forfeited, two of them babies.

What were her cares in the face of tragedy of those proportions?

Sadly, today, in this house, they were a thousand times bigger.

6

UNTIL NOW CANDICE had always deferred to her consultant, Dr Blaydon-Green. She liked him, she respected him. He had a wealth of experience – not only of obstetrics and fertility, but of life, its tragedy as well as its comedy. And he knew her. Inside out, you could say!

But on this one point she was adamant: she wanted their next meeting to be at The Pemberton Centre, as every other time.

An hour before they were due to leave, Lily-May, the receptionist, rang.

'Would you mind coming to the back entrance this time, Mr Opakanjo? Instead of taking first left off the main road, go third left. Follow the road round to the signpost and go sharp left again. You'll see a grey door on your right with a reinforced glass window in it. The car park's on the right. Ignore the signs that say, "Staff Only". Call up on the intercom at the grey door and we'll let you in. Take the lift to the second floor. You'll come out right opposite reception. Any problems, give me a ring.'

No reason given. But there were always road works somewhere. Good of the staff to let them know.

The misgivings started the minute she saw the familiar row of blue chairs. The old disappointment, stress and tension mocked her stupidity.

Wreathed in smiles, Lily-May came out from behind the desk to crouch beside the twins, cooing.

'I'm afraid Dr Blaydon-Green's been held up. But that gives me a chance to admire these beautiful babies.'

No specifics. But they understood. It was the price of dedication.

Candice tried to immerse herself in the Mary Higgins Clark novel she'd started the day before. It was one of the few bonuses of her new life; even during the long night-feeds she could find solace in fiction. She read novels she'd never even heard of before, air-headed beauties falling in love with seriously rich heroes, and for a time her own problems would recede.

But here in this clinic today the words might as well have been ancient Greek. Samuel was hidden behind the Guardian; a much more sensible choice. Why hadn't she thought of that? A crossword, codewords, anything would have been better.

Thirty minutes passed without a syllable being exchanged. No sound except the rustle of the paper, an occasional grunt from one of the twins.

Another couple took their seats, directly opposite. Candice allowed herself a swift glance, a half-smile, before dropping her eyes back to the safety of her book. They were smartly dressed, Asian. And they too sat in silence.

But now the atmosphere seemed charged with a different kind of tension. Oh for an invisibility cloak to throw over her babies. Babies? Here?

A second couple joined them. More apologies from LilyMay.

Regret turned into annoyance. Dr Blaydon-Green should have known, he should have overruled her, insisted somewhere else would be more appropriate. Samuel should have known, he should have insisted.