by J G Alva
“Good. Please sit. And who is...?”
He stood.
“Sutton Mills, Dr Bodel. Nice to meet you.”
Dr Archibald Bodel was perhaps five feet five inches tall. Not thin, or fat; he had a kind, intelligent face. Sutton knew him to be in his late forties, but he looked younger by a decade, and the only thing that ruined the illusion of youth was his hair, dark but thin, with baldness at the crown of his head beginning to radiate outward in ever increasing circles.
He wore a black suit with a red and black tie. It was strange, but he had a calming influence on Sutton, like a man of the cloth, and at the same time it made Sutton want to speak to him in an awed whisper. Who was this man? Certainly a good doctor, of that he had no doubt, but why should he inspire such reverence? As he shook his hand Sutton tried to analyse it. He could tell, even from having only just met him, and also from his overt inspection of his office, that he was one of those rare ones that are good with both people and books, two totally different sciences, but that didn’t explain Sutton’s reaction to him, at least not to his satisfaction. Perhaps it was because you sensed he had seen and done difficult things, had made hard choices, and yet had come to peace with those choices in his own mind. Many reformed drug addicts have that look, that look which tells you that they have been to hell and back. There was also something else to consider: that Sutton might feel reverence because he was aware of being in the presence of a good and gentle soul. It was a disturbing but not unpleasant sensation.
“Good to meet you too, Mr Mills. This is the friend you spoke of, Diane?”
“Yes. Sutton’s known Gavin for years.”
He looked at Sutton, an appraising look.
“Are you alright? You don’t look well.”
Sutton smiled.
“I’ve strained my back.”
“Ah. Well.” Dr Bodel moved to sit behind his desk; they sat also. “I heard the terrible news about Gavin,” he said. “In fact, it seems almost impossible to believe. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Sutton nodded. There was nothing to say.
“As you probably know, I knew his wife, Rachel. A lovely woman. I’ve been Diane’s – and Diane’s family’s – GP for as long as I’ve been in medicine. I know you two were good friends, Diane, and it shocks me, the terrible events that have transpired. You have my deepest sympathies.”
Diane nodded humbly.
“Now, Mr Mills, I understand you wanted to speak to me,” Dr Bodel said. “About Gavin. I’ll answer any questions I am able to. So…what would you like to know?”
“Dr Bodel,” Sutton said, and stopped.
“Yes?”
Sutton looked at Diane beside him.
“Did you know that, in the past four months, Gavin had been seeing another doctor?”
Bodel frowned in puzzlement.
“No. I did not.”
“We’re just trying to find out why. He didn’t say anything to you?”
Bodel’s eye shifted away uncomfortably, and he moved some items on his desk. So there was something…
“No, he didn’t.”
“But was there perhaps a reason for it?”
Bodel made a face. He looked at Diane, seemingly deep in thought, and then came to a decision.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes on Diane. “Gavin Thompson had cancer.”
Debbie gave a jolt in her chair; Sutton felt the vibration. He could not have been more shocked himself.
“Cancer?” Diane said. “He…”
She looked lost for words in that moment. She shook her head.
Bodel said, “specifically, Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma.”
“Oh my God,” Diane whispered.
Sutton said, “was it…terminal?”
Bodel nodded solemnly.
“We diagnosed it in July,” Bodel said, and Sutton thought back to what Waverley had said: that Gavin had been ill in July. “It’s hard to judge these things, but due to its aggressiveness I was not confident that he would last more than six months.”
He stared at their shocked faces, sympathy showing on his own.
“Gavin had some difficulty…accepting my diagnosis,” Bodel said. “I assume this goes some way to explaining his state of mind, why he would seek consultation from another doctor. And maybe this also explains some of his other recent behaviour. I think you know to what I refer.”
Sutton nodded. Yes. The erratic-ness. The criminality.
“May I ask,” Bodel said. “What was Waverley’s diagnosis?”
Sutton cleared his throat.
“He said…he said he was perfectly healthy.”
Bodel nodded.
“He may have appeared that way. Functional impairment wouldn’t really have been noticeable until the last month. But believe me when I tell you that he was terribly ill.”
The office was completely silent. Sutton could hear a car horn honk in the distance.
“Let me explain a little bit about it, so that you understand,” Bodel said. He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together in his lap, and stared at them while he spoke. “Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma is a strange condition. It is a cancer that develops in the lymphatic system – the spleen, the lymph nodes, the tonsils. In simple terms, NHL begins when a lymphocyte – a type of white blood cell in the lymphatic system – becomes abnormal, and begins dividing. This abnormal cell divides again and again and again, making more and more copies of itself. This compromises the lymphatic system – which is part of the immune system – until it can no longer protect the body from infections or diseases. The build-up of extra cells can often form tumours. There are three types of NHL: indolent, which is low grade; aggressive; and highly aggressive. Gavin had the highly aggressive type, for which there is simply no treatment, at least not at the time of diagnosis. Would that we had diagnosed him earlier, then perhaps – and I say only perhaps – we might have been able to treat him, but nobody is to blame for ignoring symptoms that could so easily have been attributed to something else: fever, night sweats, and weight loss. All of these could so easily have been mistaken, or even ignored, by anyone, as something else.” Bodel looked pensive. He steepled his fingers in front of him. “Treatment for NHL as it stands comes under two headings: biological therapy, or radiation therapy. Biological therapy involves Monoclonal antibodies, which are proteins made in the lab that bind themselves to cancer cells to help the immune system kill the abnormal lymphoma cells. This, however, is only valid for certain types of NHL. Radiation therapy is high energy rays focused to kill the lymphoma cells and shrink tumours. In extreme cases, surgery can also be an option, and believe me when I tell you, Diane, we considered all types of treatment. But Gavin’s condition was so advanced, that I feared that, in order to affect a cure, all of these treatments would have to have been attempted.” He spread his hands. “Alas, the human body could not survive such an assault. And there would be no guarantees in stopping it. We could operate on his spleen, only to have the cancer appear elsewhere. It is my hope, in the future, that techniques will develop that will render this condition obsolete, but as of yet we have not reached that golden age.” Dr Bodel dropped his hands in to his lap.
Sutton said, “I have to ask...Just before he died, Gavin had some...wild theories-“
“Yes, I know,” Dr Bodel interrupted, his voice dropping a notch. “He did share some of them with me. You’re referring to his belief that people were intentionally being given cancer, as part of some sort of experiment.”
Sutton nodded.
“I have to ask,” he continued, “is there any way that what he was saying could possibly be true?”
Dr Bodel looked uncomfortable, and shifted in his chair, and it was a measure of his personality that Sutton felt bad for making him feel uncomfortable. He was a good kind man, and Sutton didn’t want to upset him.
“In a word, no.”
Sutton felt relieved, and then had to go rooting around himself to find out why. Had he somehow thought Gavin’s wild theories we
re tied in to his murder in some way? It was not a possibility he had consciously considered, but obviously some part of him had. Perhaps he had just not wanted to believe Gavin had been as unhinged as he had appeared to be when he had visited Sutton three weeks ago. But the diagnosis of cancer could explain that too, to an extent: Gavin’s mind had fractured under the stress, blurring fantasy and reality.
Another part of Sutton whispered: you didn’t let him down; there was nothing you could have done to help him; there was nothing you should have done to help him; you’re not to blame.
“Let me assure you, there is no possible way anyone can develop Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma through artificial means. As it stands, modern medicine is not clear on how NHL develops at all – hence it is not possible to stimulate it artificially. Yes, if someone were exposed to high doses of radiation then cancer would develop. But it would be non-specific. He would have cancer throughout his body, not just in his lymphatic system. So you see. What Gavin suggested is just not possible.”
All three of them sat in that room in silence a moment, consumed with their own thoughts.
“I can understand what you are going through,” Dr Bodel said. “The human condition, and by that I don’t just mean the physiological one, is a complex mechanism. Absurdly, it is natural for surviving family members – or friends – to feel guilt when something terrible like this happens to a loved one. As if it is somehow their fault. A driving need to expunge these feelings of guilt is the next step, and trust me when I tell you it can be a destructive one. Because redemption from these mythological sins is not possible. They do not exist to begin with, so how can they be absolved? It would take too long to list all of the people I know who have become alcoholics, or spiralled in to a dependence on drugs, or – God have mercy on their souls – committed suicide, simply because they felt they didn’t dote on their son enough, or make time for them in their busy lives or...listened to them when they insisted on something that, at the time, seemed ridiculous.”
The air was heavy with a mix of emotions, almost too heavy to breathe.
“It is a terrible tragedy that you must both endure, but listen to me when I tell you that Gavin’s suspicions were unfounded, and have no basis in scientific fact.”
*
Sutton waited outside in the corridor while Diane spoke to Bodel alone.
It was a long corridor in white and cream; looking out, Sutton stared down dizzily onto the main road. A little way down the corridor, what must have been a nurse’s station sat in a nook, nothing more than a desk with a computer on it, surrounded on all sides by green plants. A woman leaned over the table, making notes on a chart. As he stared at her, she stood up, looked around, saw him, smiled, picked up the chart on a steel clipboard she had been working on, and traversed the short gap toward him. She was wearing jeans, a simple white blouse, and she held the chart to her breast like someone might hold a teddy bear.
As she came closer, Sutton was surprised to find that she was a very tall woman, well over six feet, but from a distance – and with nothing to gauge her against – her proportions had seemed to indicate a smaller, more compact package. At closer range, she proved to be an attractive, leggy blonde, glasses perched on a delicate blade of nose, blue eyes bright, alert, and very pretty, her blonde hair tied rather severely into a ponytail that covered the back of her neck. Her mouth was a little too small and prim for the rest of her, but that proved only to be the effect of the environment she worked in, not genetics.
“Can I help you?” She asked softly.
“No. I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just waiting on someone. She’s with Dr Bodel.”
He indicated the office behind him.
She nodded, smiled, and turned to go.
“You work here?” He asked…felt compelled to ask.
“Yes. Janice Richmond.” He took the offered hand; it was delicate, and slightly cool to the touch.
“Sutton Mills. Sorry. It’s just…no uniform…”
He indicated the length of her, and by inference her casual clothes.
“Oh. Yes. Well. I work in the Children’s Hospital. We don’t wear uniforms. It makes it seem less like a hospital.”
“Ah.”
She nodded to the door and said, “Dr Bodel is perhaps one of the best doctors in this hospital.”
Sutton nodded.
“He was treating someone, a friend, some time ago,” he said, and it felt like he was babbling. Shock, he supposed; he hadn’t quite assimilated all that he had been told.
Janice had a careful eye on him.
“He died,” Sutton said, finally, explaining.
“I’m sorry,” she said forthrightly, and for some reason it didn’t seem like a hollow empty platitude.
“Thank you.”
Delicately, she said, “did your friend…was it Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma?”
Sutton felt shock, and Janice saw it, and said quickly, “I only ask because a lot of his research is based on it.”
“Oh. Okay. Yes…it was.”
Janice nodded again.
“Dr Bodel is one of the men who might eventually put an end to Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma, once and for all. He’s a brilliant man. Some of his studies are the basis for the drugs we use today to treat the less aggressive types of NHL.” She stared at him once more, that careful concerned eye…the eye of a good nurse, Sutton thought. “I am truly sorry about your friend. There are support groups, if you need to speak to someone…?”
“No, I’m fine,” Sutton said.
She nodded and the prim mouth loosened a little for a small smile and she went on her way.
“Janice,” he said to her back, a little awkward with using her name for the first time.
She stopped, and turned.
“Thank you,” he said.
She raised her pretty eyebrows.
“For being a human being,” he explained. “And not just someone doing their job.”
Janice took the compliment with aplomb, and tilted her head in acknowledgment. He watched her walk down the hall and turn in to a room at the far end of it and he couldn’t help noticing that she moved well. Softly, like a dancer.
*
Eventually, Diane left Bodel’s office and joined him in the hall.
She looked spent.
They stared at each other, and there was so much to be said that Sutton couldn’t find the thread to even start to unravel it.
Diane was about to speak, but seeing the look on her face, and recognising the hesitation, Sutton said, “don’t worry, I’ll get a taxi.”
Her shoulders sagged.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“It’s fine.”
“I’m just exhausted.”
“Go home. Go to bed. Get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She nodded and turned to walk away.
But then she stopped.
She turned toward him.
“I’m exhausted, but…you must be so much worse…”
He smiled.
“I’m fine, Diane. Just go.”
*
As he paused at the curb, the pain in his side flared briefly. There was no way he was travelling any great distance in this condition, so the only decision now was whether to wait for a taxi outside the hospital or try the rank outside of the bus station.
It was while he was debating that he saw the nurse, Janice; she had stopped at the curb further down, and was busy checking a grey knapsack for something. She had bundled up against the chill in a beige jacket and beret, but the tall, tidy figure was unmistakable. The beret suited her in a way he wasn’t sure he could define until he realised it was because it gave her a pleasant bohemian air.
At the sound of his footsteps, she looked up, her expression wary, until she recognised him. Her smile was warm.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Hi,” he said. He stopped, and for a moment his mind went completely blank.
A pretty frown creased her brow.
“Are
you alright?”
The mechanism of his brain slipped neatly back in to its proper cogs, until it seemed to be working normally.
“Yes. Sorry. Wool gathering. Finished your shift?”
“Yes, just about. I feel like I’ve been working for days. I can’t wait to get home, have a nice warm bath, and snuggle up under the covers.”
As if hearing someone else say it, he said, “that’s a shame, because I was going to offer to buy you a drink. But if you have to get home...”
The wary look came over her face again, and she gave him a frank appraisal, from the top of his head to the shoes on his feet, and he felt in that moment that she had weighed him against some personal scale, risk against pleasure, and that he had squeezed through by the narrowest of margins, and it was all done so quickly that only two or three seconds passed before she smiled.
“Oh. Well. I could probably delay it for a drink. But only coffee. In my current state, a glass of wine would either start me giggling uncontrollably or send me to sleep.”
He smiled.
“Coffee it is then.”
She checked him over once more, but this time with a professional eye.
“Are you alright?”
He smiled.
“Yes. I’ve just pulled a muscle in my back.”
“Come on,” she said. “My car’s just parked over here.”
*
“Oh, my Dad was a doctor, and my Mum was a nurse, so it was probably on the cards before I was even born.”
On the first floor of the Galleries Shopping Centre is a small open plan cafe, pushed up against the edge of the balcony that runs the length of the building, ten or so tables arranged tidily inside glass barriers in a long rectangle. In the run up to Christmas there was still a good smattering of shoppers crowding each and every floor, their hands full of bags of seasonal cheer, their wallets lighter with financial dismay, but the cafe was running down for the evening, and only two other tables were occupied.
The beret and knapsack were on the seat beside her. Sutton had discovered something about Janice Richmond, once they had been shown to their seats: her hair, unfurled, was a secret weapon in those games that adults play, lethal to any unsuspecting male. It was a rich gold blonde, so soft and luxurious no one could fail to wonder what it would look like spread out on a pillow.
