We moved up our garden path, through the heaving crowds, with the police and Dad yelling something about trespassing. And for the first time since my operation, I could hear my blood roaring in my ears. The roar was so loud it began to drown out the noise around me. Everyone and everything started to get swimmy and blurry.
I was going to faint.
No! NO! Not in front of these people, I told myself frantically. What would Mum and Dad say? What would my friends say? I’d never live it down. I took a deep breath, then another and another. We were close to the front door now. Dad struggled to get the front-door key in the lock. Intense lights blinked on and off all around us like mini lightning bolts. I turned my head slightly and was immediately blinded by more camera flashes. The front door opened.
Come on, Cameron. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The police ushered us into our house, with Sergeant Dexter and a policewoman leading the way. I’d barely got my feet on our doormat before the front door was shut behind me. The unbearable roar was turned into a bearable din outside the door. And my swimmy, sick feeling faded. In spite of the ringing phone we all stood in the hall like statues. No one said a word.
‘Well, sir, welcome home!’ said Sergeant Dexter drily.
Dad looked at him as if he was mad, then smiled slowly. ‘Quite a homecoming,’ he agreed. ‘Are you all right, Cathy?’
Mum nodded. She headed for the ringing phone and picked it up. ‘Hello?’ she said.
I started to walk past her to go into the kitchen to get some water, but the changing expression on her face made me pause.
‘No, we wouldn’t be interested,’ Mum said curtly. ‘No . . . no, I’m afraid not. Goodbye.’ She put the phone down. It immediately started ringing again. With a look of irritation, she picked it up. ‘No, he won’t,’ she said after a pause. ‘No. ’Bye.’
The moment the phone was down it started ringing again. By now Mum’s frown could’ve curdled milk. ‘Hello?’ There came a long pause as her frown grew deeper and deeper. ‘No, we’re not interested. Look, am I talking Martian? I said we’re not interested . . . no . . . well, thank you very much. Goodbye!’ She slammed the phone down. Without a second’s pause it began to ring again.
‘You’re going to get that all day and all night, I’m afraid,’ said the policewoman.
‘Oh no, we won’t,’ said Mum. And she bent to pull the phone lead out of its socket.
We heard the sound of scuffles and then the doorbell rang. Through the frosted glass of the front door we saw the police usher some people away. I looked at Mum and Dad. I couldn’t be the only one thinking that we were in a mad house in the middle of a nightmare.
‘Cathy . . . ?’
‘Let’s wait until after the press conference, OK?’ said Mum.
Dad smiled. Mum hadn’t admitted that maybe she’d been wrong but it was close enough.
‘Was it like this when you came back to get fresh clothes and that, after the story was in the papers?’ I asked Mum and Dad.
I didn’t miss the look that passed between them.
‘A bit,’ Dad admitted.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because we both felt it would blow over.’ Mum jumped in before Dad could answer.
‘I don’t know about blow over. Blow up, more like,’ I said sourly.
‘Don’t let it worry you. And that goes for you as well, Cathy,’ Dad said firmly. ‘I’ll take care of this business.’
I turned away just as Sergeant Dexter’s walkie-talkie started beeping. I really hoped Mum was right and all this . . . chaos would disappear once the press conference was over.
‘Right . . . right . . . OK . . . just a sec,’ said Sergeant Dexter. He turned to me. ‘We’ve got a boy outside who says he’s your best friend. He says his name is Marlon Pearcy.’
Marlon . . .
‘Should we let him in?’ the sergeant asked patiently.
All eyes were on me as the sergeant waited for my answer. ‘Mum told me not to speak to him,’ I replied at last.
‘No, Cameron, I shouldn’t have done that. He’s your friend and it’s your decision, not mine,’ said Mum.
And with those words I lost my ready-made excuse. I wanted to see Marlon. To be honest, I was desperate to talk to him. But all I kept seeing was the front page of the Daily Press. I couldn’t seem to get past the fact that I had trusted Marlon and he’d let me down.
Slowly, I shook my head. ‘I’m tired,’ I lied. ‘I’ll see him on Monday at school.’
Sergeant Dexter spoke into his walkie-talkie. Mum and Dad watched me silently.
‘I am tired,’ I insisted.
‘Of course,’ Mum smiled. ‘You take it easy. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.’
I ran upstairs to my room. I made it to the top of the stairs without having to pause for breath. And downstairs, I knew that Mum and Dad were watching me.
Chapter Sixteen
Questions
‘If you could just put this microphone up your shirt and attach it there.’
I took the microphone from the woman who held it out and did as she’d asked. I couldn’t get it attached though. Suddenly all my fingers had turned into thumbs.
She smiled. ‘Here. Let me.’
Gratefully, I let her get on with it. She clipped the tiny microphone to one of my button holes. I wondered how powerful the microphone was. Would it be able to pick up my pounding heart? – ’cos that’s what it was doing. Hammering. Pounding. Drumming like it was going out of fashion. And I had furious, charging elephants in my stomach. Mum and Dad were strangely quiet too. Dr Bryce and Dr Ehrlich chatted to each other as if they didn’t have a care in the world. I envied them. They’d obviously done this many times before.
A short woman with blond hair tied back in a pony-tail appeared in front of me from nowhere. She smiled at me. ‘Just a touch of make-up.’
I drew away in horror. ‘No, thank you.’ What did she take me for?!
She smiled at the look on my face. ‘It’s just some powder to take the shine off your face while you’re in front of the cameras. You don’t want to shine like an oil slick, do you?’
‘I don’t mind,’ I told her. ‘I’m not an actor or anything. I don’t need make-up.’
‘I’ll let you into a little secret,’ she whispered. ‘Footballers, boxers, sports stars in general; they all have make-up on when they’re interviewed on the telly. That’s what makes them look so good!’
‘Footballers? Really?’ I was still suspicious.
‘Really!’ The make-up lady nodded.
‘Well, all right then,’ I agreed reluctantly. ‘But only powder. I don’t want any mascara or lipstick or stuff like that.’
She laughed. ‘’Course not.’
Behind me I could hear Mum and Dad laughing too. I couldn’t help flinching a bit when she dabbed at my face with a dry sponge covered in powder. The moment the press conference was over, I’d find the nearest sink and this muck was coming straight off.
I watched as she patted some powder on Mum’s face and then Dad’s. He looked about as impressed as I had been. Yeah, it wasn’t so funny when he had to do it too! I looked around. My elephants were still charging.
‘Mum, what if I say something wrong?’ I whispered anxiously.
‘You won’t, dear.’ Mum smiled. ‘Just answer each question truthfully and then shut up.’
Dad started grinning. I frowned at Mum. If she thought she was putting my mind at ease, she was very much mistaken.
‘The trick is to tell what you know, but don’t tell all you know,’ she continued.
Dad looked at her, surprised. ‘What makes you such an expert?’
‘I read it in a magazine somewhere,’ she replied vaguely.
‘Dr Bryce, aren’t you nervous?’ I interrupted his conversation with Dr Ehrlich.
‘I’m always nervous at these things,’ Dr Bryce admitted, to my surprise. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘But someone once told me that i
f you have to talk to a lot of people, just imagine them all naked and it makes you less nervous!’
I burst out laughing. ‘Really?’
‘Really!’
‘Mr and Mrs Kelsey? Doctors? Cameron? We’re ready for you now.’
A man wearing headphones with a microphone attached ushered us from the waiting room, then strode ahead to lead the way down the grey corridor. No one spoke. My mouth was so dry I wondered how I’d get out one word, never mind a sentence if anyone asked me anything. But hopefully all the questions would be directed at the doctors. I couldn’t think what anyone would want to ask me – apart from how I was feeling. And that I could answer – just about.
We turned another corner, then came to a set of double doors with the large words QUIET PLEASE written on them. A red bulb was situated on the wall above the doors but it wasn’t switched on. The man opened the double doors for us and we all trooped in, Dr Bryce first and me last. We were in a large studio with lots of huge lights hanging from the ceiling and at one end of the studio was a large table on a long platform. The table practically groaned under the weight of all the microphones that were on it. I’d never seen so many microphones in my entire life. And every light in the place seemed to be trained on the table. Rows of chairs were placed in front of the microphones, but they were in dark shadow. There was an aisle down the middle of the chairs and I could see a TV camera being pushed up it, closer to the table. Reporters and journalists sat on the chairs, with digital recorders and notepads. On either side of the chairs were yet more men and women with cameras. The cameras started flashing as soon as they became aware of our presence. Everyone stood up and turned to face us. An instant buzz filled the studio. Huge heavy studio cameras swung around to follow our progress.
I wanted to sit at the end of the table to be as inconspicuous as possible, but I was ushered to the chair next to Dr Bryce and he sat in the middle with the lights full on him. Glancing down the table, I saw Dr Ehrlich at one end of the table on the other side of Dr Bryce. Then there was me, and Mum and Dad sat at the other end of the table. As I looked around I felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. I sat in my chair, frozen. I couldn’t have moved at that moment, even if the whole studio was on fire. It was like being in the car trying to get to our house all over again – except this was worse. I couldn’t make out any faces – not full faces. They were shrouded in shadow. The intensely bright lights trained on our table were baking my head and making my skin prickle. If only the camera flashes would stop – just for a second.
‘Quiet, please. Five seconds to air,’ a man’s voice yelled out from the floor before us.
Instantly the camera flashes stopped.
‘Four . . . three . . .’
I looked around, panic-stricken. This was just a dress rehearsal, wasn’t it? We would get the chance to hear the questions and practise first, wouldn’t we?
A red light flashed on the TV camera directly in front of our table.
‘I’d like to begin by reading a statement,’ Dr Bryce immediately announced. He glanced down at a sheet of paper before looking into the huge TV camera ahead. ‘For years now, the number of people waiting for heart transplants has far exceeded the number of hearts available for transplantation. At our research lab we’ve been working on ways to overcome this problem. Our solution has been to use the hearts of specially bred and genetically altered animals – in this case, pigs. Once government restrictions were lifted a few years ago, there was no reason why we couldn’t proceed, confident of success. Cameron here is living proof that pig-heart transplantations do work. We’ve all been amazed at his progress. He’s fitter and has a better quality of life now than he ever did. Cameron is our first success but I know he won’t be our last. I think that at long last we can offer a viable remedy to those in urgent need of a heart transplant, who have been told time and time again that there are no hearts available. Thank you.’
As I watched the doctor deliver his speech, an icy feeling squeezed at my stomach and started to fan out through the rest of my body. He made the whole thing sound so cold, so clinical. He could’ve been talking about a new make of car that would make everyone’s life better or a new brand of microwavable chip. Dr Bryce sat back, his hands on his lap, his fingers linked. I looked from his hands to his face and realized something. He was acting. I don’t mean in an obvious, theatrical way. But his speech was well rehearsed and professionally delivered. And even his current pose was staged. I looked away, confused by my feelings. Why was I so . . . disappointed?
‘Dr Bryce, how long did . . . ?’
‘Dr Bryce, when did you first . . . ?’
‘Dr Bryce, where did you . . . ?’
A tide of questions rushed towards us.
Dr Bryce smiled. ‘One at a time, please.’
‘Dr Bryce, how long was the operation?’
‘Twelve hours.’
‘Dr Bryce, d’you think it’s ethically responsible to use the heart of a pig in a transplant operation?’
‘Our pigs are specially selected, genetically altered and bred. We’ve spent many years and millions of pounds in research making sure that we are responsible. And if we hadn’t performed the operation, then Cameron wouldn’t be sitting here now,’ Dr Bryce answered easily. ‘Ask the millions of people around the world who are dying of heart disease whether or not they think heart transplants are a good idea. I’ll let all those dying people do my talking for me.’
‘But we’re not talking about hearts donated by the loved ones of those who have died. We’re talking about taking the heart of a domestic animal and putting it into a human,’ another journalist stated.
‘And if the heart works and prolongs life?’ asked Dr Bryce.
‘Is that your only consideration?’ asked yet another journalist.
‘As a doctor, it’s my sworn duty to improve the quality of life. I’m not going to apologize for that.’
‘Don’t you think you’re behaving like Dr Frankenstein and creating monsters?’
‘Are you calling me a monster?’ I got in before Dr Bryce could.
The woman who’d asked the question turned to me. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you’re a monster as such. But how do you feel, knowing that a pig’s heart is beating inside your body?’
‘It’s just a heart. A muscle. It has nothing to do with what I am or how I think or behave or feel,’ I replied.
‘Did Dr Bryce tell you to say that?’
‘Dr Bryce doesn’t have to tell me what to say,’ I said, annoyed. ‘I’ve got a brain of my own and a mouth of my own. I’m not some kind of ventriloquist’s dummy with his hand up my jumper!’
‘Cameron . . .’ Mum nudged me and mouthed the warning.
‘But, Mum, they keep asking stupid questions,’ I protested. The only trouble was, I’d forgotten about the microphone attached to my shirt and my voice boomed out around the studio. ‘Sorry,’ I quickly mumbled.
I bent my head, hoping and praying that this was just a dress rehearsal. Something told me that it wasn’t though. ‘Cameron, how are you feeling?’
‘Fine, thank you.’ From now on, I’d keep my answers short and sweet.
‘Mr and Mrs Kelsey, what do you say to all those people who’ll accuse you of allowing your son to be used as a guinea-pig?’ asked someone else.
I looked down at my lap at this point, remembering that those were the exact some words Mum had used when Dad first told us about Dr Bryce.
‘Anyone who has a child who is ill with heart disease will know what all of us were going through,’ said Mum. ‘Our son was very ill. He only had a few more months to live. This was a chance at life and he wanted to grab it with both hands. Neither his father nor I could or would stand in his way under those circumstances.’
‘Mrs Kelsey, do you believe you did the right thing in allowing the operation to go forward?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Mum said at once. ‘It’s what Cameron wanted and that’s all that mattered.’
/> ‘And would you do the same thing again?’
‘Under the same circumstances – yes, of course,’ Mum replied without hesitation.
‘And you, Cameron? Any regrets?’
‘Like Dr Bryce said, I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for the operation,’ I said.
No, I wouldn’t be here now. I’d be at home lying in bed or reading or playing on the computer – just passing the time until there was no more time to pass.
‘Do you feel any different, Cameron?’
‘No. Not at all. Just fitter.’
‘Will your son be returning to school, Mrs Kelsey?’
‘Yes, on Monday.’
‘Do you consider him to be a normal boy now?’
‘How else would I consider him?’ Mum replied tersely.
‘Cameron, what about your friends? How have they taken to your new heart?’
‘I haven’t seen any of them since my operation,’ I admitted.
‘Dr Bryce . . . ?’
‘Dr Ehrlich . . . ?’
‘Mr and Mrs Kelsey . . . ?’
‘Cameron . . . ? Cameron . . . ? Cameron . . . ?’
On and on and on they went, until my head was buzzing with question after question.
‘Mum?’ I whispered.
Mum bent her head so that her ear was next to my mouth.
‘Mum, I don’t want to answer any more questions.’ I made sure my voice was no more than a murmur so that the microphone wouldn’t pick it up.
‘Are you tired?’ she asked, immediately concerned.
After a moment’s pause, I nodded.
‘Excuse me, everyone, but my son is getting tired so I’m afraid we’ll have to leave now.’
‘Cameron, are you feeling ill . . . ?’
‘Just one more question . . .’
‘One more question, Cameron . . .’
A number of the reporters had risen to their feet now. The lights were making me feel hot and sick. I desperately wanted to leave.
Pig-Heart Boy Page 10
