by Chris Ryan
‘What happens then?’
‘I pay him!’ The words came out as a brittle laugh. ‘He has to have the donor tested and that costs money. My illness has made me a poor man.’
Amber sat in silence, unable to think of anything to say.
The man sighed. ‘I was an engineer. Now I can’t work. I’ve sold everything my family owns. I have to pay for dialysis. I have to pay for tests. I need dialysis twice a week but because I am paying for tests I can’t afford two lots of dialysis. It is like a gamble. Every tiniest test costs money but it is like an investment; there is hope in them. Dialysis is just standing still.’
‘How long have you been waiting for a donor?’
‘Two years. All the doctors say I’m too ill for a transplant. They won’t look for donors for me. But the agent will. He will help me when no one else can. And whoever gives their kidney, they will be doing a wonderful thing.’ He looked directly at Amber. His brown eyes were surrounded by yellowed whites. It was a direct appeal from a dying man: Heal me.
The nurse finished tending to the woman on the dialysis machine and beckoned to the man. He tried to get up but staggered, unbalanced by his distended belly. Amber stood up and put out her hand to help him.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but I can manage.’ He walked stiffly towards his machine.
Amber sat down again to wait. She was shocked. She had to say to herself: He’s not the man who’s expecting Bina’s kidney. So by rescuing Bina you’re not depriving him of life. Remember you are here to help someone. And sometimes you have to see some hard things in order to do that.
The nurse hooked the man up to his machine, pulled the screen around him and bustled out of the room.
Amber realized no one had come to see her for a while. Had she been forgotten? Perhaps the staff were busy. Still, the longer they delayed, the more she could find out. If she could bear it.
She had to get through that locked door, but how? She got up and glanced over at the figures at the machines to see if they noticed, or cared. No, they were off in their own private worlds. Was there anything in Paulo’s toolkit that she could use? She opened the zip and peeked inside. There seemed to be a lot of probes, screwdrivers and nut-and-bolt type things. She frowned. How could anyone need that many? But anyway, what good would they be against the numerical lock? She zipped the bag up again.
Amber walked up to the door and looked closely. If the lock was used a lot, she should at least be able to work out which keys were used more than the others. That would narrow down the possible combinations to about 120. Hmm, she thought, still not brilliant.
A noise alerted her from one of the trolleys. She looked round. The engineer was beckoning to her. His screen was slightly open. She didn’t want to go over. Those jaundiced eyes made her feel like a fraud.
‘Two-four-seven-C-B – and hold down the seven while you do the C,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent hours lying here with nothing else to do and I’ve worked it out.’
Amber gave him her widest grin. ‘Thanks,’ she said and skipped over to the door. Put him out of your mind, she told herself. She punched in the combination and slipped through.
16
THE DONOR
Something odd was happening outside the clinic. Alex saw it mirrored in the screen of his phone. He was outside the cinema, pretending to key in a text. There had been a few comings and goings: he had seen the swollen man walk stiffly in, leaning back to balance his huge belly. But now a youth was holding onto the railing at the entrance, shouting at someone in the doorway of the clinic. He was much younger than most of the patients who came and went – more like Alex’s age; certainly not the usual age of someone needing kidney treatment. Of course, it wasn’t impossible, but Alex thought it was odd.
The boy turned and leaned heavily on the railing along the walkway. Then very slowly he made his way back to the road. Was he drugged – or in pain? Something about him made Alex’s spine tingle.
The boy was so wrapped up in his misery he didn’t notice Alex cross the road, heading straight for him. When Alex nearly bumped into him, it looked like the most normal thing in the world.
‘Sorry,’ said Alex.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled the kid.
When Alex got a good look at the boy’s face he was shocked. His skin was slick with sweat and his eyes were half closed.
‘Can I help?’ said Alex. ‘Are you all right?’
‘They won’t take me,’ said the kid. Alex now noticed his breathing was shallow and fast. Definitely in pain. And shivering, despite the clammy heat.
‘Who won’t?’ said Alex. There was a bench a little way along the road. It was also out of sight of the clinic – he was trying not to be spotted in case he had to go in later. ‘Here,’ he said, and took the boy’s arm. ‘Come and sit down.’
The boy took tiny, painful steps, leaning on Alex. When they reached the bench he lowered himself down very carefully, just like Alex’s father had when he had broken some ribs on an exercise. A rib? Mootama had lost a rib when she had her kidney stolen. Had this boy just sold a kidney? Or, worse, had one stolen?
‘You said they won’t take you,’ said Alex. ‘Who won’t take you?’
‘The clinic. Now they’ve got what they wanted.’ The boy spoke through clenched teeth.
Got what they wanted. Should he ask outright?
The boy might get scared or turn violent. On the other hand, he didn’t look capable of much. Alex decided to chance it. ‘They took your kidney?’
The boy nodded.
‘Here, in this clinic?’
‘No. They sent me to a hospital.’
‘When?’
‘Six days ago. They threw me out.’
‘What do you mean, they threw you out?’
‘The man who bought my kidney. He was feeling better. He didn’t want to pay for me to stay in hospital any longer. He came to me and said, I feel better so you must too. But I’m still in pain. He could walk; I couldn’t. I told him, I’m still in pain. I’m cold all the time. He said, Here’s your money, now get out. If you try to stay I’ll get the police. I didn’t dare stay.’
So the transplants weren’t done in the clinic; they were done in a hospital. Perhaps Bina would be taken there. This was an important lead. ‘Where is the hospital?’
The boy shook his head violently. ‘No. They will call the police if I go back there and I will go to prison . . .’ His voice started to rise in panic.
Alex swiftly changed the subject. ‘You got your money?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you could go to another hospital. I’ll help you get there.’
The boy shook his head vigorously. ‘No. The hospitals will know what I’ve done and arrest me. So I stay here. The clinic will have to take me. They kept me safe before.’ He shuddered violently, as if he was trying to keep warm.
Alex put a hand to the boy’s forehead. He had a fever. He probably had a post-operative infection. He needed antibiotics – and some good painkillers. No wonder he couldn’t think straight. He could go to a private hospital and get treatment, but he thought everyone was watching him. And, Alex realized, I’m probably not helping by questioning him.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I want to help. Why didn’t the clinic let you in?’
‘They said they couldn’t treat me. Said I should be in hospital. I said I can’t stay in hospital. They said they couldn’t treat me there. But they’ll have to take me back.’
Alex was sure they wouldn’t. The clinic were probably terrified to see a donor coming back, especially in that state. What would new donors think if they saw him?
Was that what would happen to Bina too? Would she be carved up and broken like this? Mootama had taken months to recover when her kidney was taken.
‘Listen,’ said Alex, ‘I want to help you. If you tell me where this other hospital is, then I’ll know where I shouldn’t take you.’ Somehow, he had to get the name.
The boy started to hyperventilate. ‘No,’
he said. ‘Don’t take me back there. They will put me in prison.’
‘I won’t take you there, I promise.’
‘I stay here,’ said the boy stubbornly. ‘They have beds, medicines, nurses in the clinic. They will have to take me eventually.’
They were going round in circles. The boy was nearly delirious and fixating on this one idea. Did he really think that if he sat on this bench for a few hours, the clinic would take him back? And how would Alex persuade him to tell him the name of the hospital? If he didn’t, this could well be what Bina would look like in a few days’ time.
The kid got up. ‘I’m going back to the clinic now.’ Alex went to stop him. They’d only throw him out again.
But the kid never got that far. He stopped and leaned against a lamppost, barely twenty metres away, panting as though he had been running hard.
Alex went up to him. He looked worse. Alex put his arm around the boy to steer him back to the bench.
The boy screamed.
Alex pulled away, shocked. He’d never heard anyone scream like that. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He took him by the arm instead.
The boy could hardly walk now. How could he have deteriorated so fast? Alex wondered. Should he leave him where he was? No, surely he would be better sitting down. Very slowly, he led the boy back to the bench and helped him settle. The boy lowered himself awkwardly, as though he couldn’t bend in the middle. He needed help, and quickly.
Alex’s hand was wet. He wasn’t surprised; the boy was drenched in sweat. He took a tissue out of his pocket to wipe it and suddenly saw that his hand was red. Blood.
A big red stain was seeping slowly through the sodden yellow material of the boy’s shirt. It was where the operation wound would be.
Alex went cold. When the kid had tried to go back to the clinic, the wound must have ruptured. Should he lift the shirt and have a look? It didn’t seem to be bleeding fast; the blood was seeping out slowly. If he moved the shirt he might make it worse. But one thing was clear: he had to get help now. If that wound opened any more the boy might bleed to death.
A plan rapidly formed in his head. He’d have to leave the kid for a while. He didn’t want to, but if the boy heard what he was going to do he would still stubbornly refuse.
Alex made his voice reassuring. ‘OK, just stay here; don’t go anywhere. I’m going to go and talk to the clinic. Make them help you.’
A little light of hope shone in the boy’s eyes. It wrenched Alex’s heart strings. I hope this will work, he thought. ‘Promise me you won’t move from here until I get back?’ he said.
The boy nodded. Alex glanced at the wound again. No more blood had come out, but there was no time to lose.
Alex jogged away towards the clinic but stopped just round the corner. He took out his phone and dialled as he went.
The call was answered. ‘Independent Aid Inc.’ It was a western voice, a little sergeant-majorish in tone.
Alex began talking quickly. ‘I’m with the school-building programme in Nayla. I’m in Chennai with one of the villagers and he urgently needs a doctor. Can you help?’
‘We have doctors but we can’t let just anyone see them.’ The voice was reproachful, like a teacher telling him off.
Alex froze. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The answer came in that same reprimanding tone. ‘A lot of people on programmes get attached to the villagers, but we make it our policy not to interfere. Otherwise we’d be treating half of India.’
This was the last thing Alex had expected. He wanted to just scream, This is a young kid in trouble! But he took a deep breath. He remembered his dad’s anecdotes about dealing with difficult officials. Listen to all their rules and objections, he’d said, and look like you’re taking them seriously. And don’t rush them. ‘Oh, I see,’ said Alex. ‘Under what conditions do you help with medical treatment?’
‘Like I said,’ said the voice, ‘we can’t find medical treatment for everyone. Our doctors cost money.’
It took all Alex’s patience not to lose his temper. How did aid programmes end up employing bureaucrats who didn’t want to help people? It made his blood boil. He glanced round the hedge. The boy hadn’t moved, but he might have passed out. If he fell off that bench the wound might split wide open and then . . . Alex shuddered.
He took a deep breath. ‘No, of course you can’t treat everyone.’ He tried to sound as though he had all the time in the world. ‘But for future reference, so I don’t make this mistake again, can you tell me when you will?’
‘We can only give medical treatment to staff who are registered on the programme.’
Alex seized the opportunity. ‘He is! He’s the foreman’s son.’
‘Oh, well, why didn’t you say? You said you were in Nayla? Let me get my list. What’s his name?’
His name? Did Pradesh have a son? Did they even know? He’d have to bluff. ‘I don’t know. We called them both Pradesh.’
‘He must have had another name.’
Alex had to think quickly. ‘Yes, but it’s Indian and I couldn’t remember it. So I called them both Pradesh.’ He cringed; the excuse was blatantly insulting and showed the kind of attitude Alex deplored. But he couldn’t think of anything else.
Suddenly there was a smile in the voice. ‘Know what you mean. Some of the names are hard to tell apart, aren’t they? You’ll get to tell the difference if you stay here a while.’
Alex thought that if he ever met the officious, loathsome man face to face, he’d give him a piece of his mind. Northumberland style.
‘You bring him in and we’ll treat him.’ The man gave an address and rang off.
A cab was going past. Alex stopped it and asked the driver to pull over by the bench. He saw that the boy was still conscious, but he was breathing fast. Had he got worse?
Alex knelt down beside him. The boy looked at him with wary eyes. The slash of blood across his shirt looked a little bigger – or was that Alex’s imagination?
‘I spoke to the clinic,’ he told the boy. ‘They misunderstood and they’re very sorry. They have somewhere they can look after you and would like to send you there now in this taxi. I will tell the driver where to go but you’re in control. You can stop it any time you want, and even get out if you change your mind.’
At last the boy seemed to trust him. Perhaps it was just because he was so ill. He nodded.
‘If anyone asks,’ said Alex, ‘your name is Pradesh and your father is a builder from Nayla.’
Very carefully, after giving instructions to the taxi driver, Alex helped him up off the bench. Ever so slowly, the boy climbed into the cab. He settled uncomfortably, lying across the back seat, breathing hard.
‘Just one more thing,’ said Alex. ‘The clinic want to know which hospital treated you so badly. They won’t use it again.’ It was a gamble; would it work?
Perhaps the boy believed him; perhaps the fight was just draining out of him and he’d have told him anyway. He said in a quiet, rasping voice: ‘St Francis.’
17
CLUE
‘I thought I was fanatical about recycling,’ said Li, ‘but this is surreal.’
She was exploring the market with Hex and Paulo. Old clothes, used cooking utensils encrusted with grime, plastic margarine containers, plastic bottles creased from multiple use were on sale alongside sari fabrics and food. Between the big stalls, people were selling their wares from windowsills. A man stood in the locked doorway of an apartment building, shouting vigorously to invite shoppers to examine his collection of old drugs in battered packets. It was sensory overload: the shouting, the smell of people packed closely together and the heavy fug of spicy fried food.
Paulo’s mobile trilled. As he hooked the phone out of his top pocket, a scrawny, filthy brown hand loomed up out of the crowd. For a moment Paulo thought it was trying to grab the phone, but it just stretched out like a plea, hoping for coins. An untouchable. The three friends had seen them moving between the shoppers, look
ing for tourists. The Indian people didn’t even seem to notice them.
Paulo dodged the figure and looked at the caller’s number. It wasn’t Amber or Alex. The untouchable moved on to an American couple who seemed prepared to pay him more attention.
Paulo answered the phone. ‘Hello?’
A hesitant voice spoke at the other end. ‘Hello?’ It was high and female. Young and female. The hairs stood up on the back of Paulo’s neck. ‘Bina, is that you?’
Li heard him and gripped Hex’s arm. Hex looked at her, startled.
With all the yelling and the noise of frying food, Paulo could hardly make out the quiet voice. ‘I can’t hear you!’ he shouted. ‘Hang on. I’ll go somewhere quiet.’
He began to run through the crowd, still talking. ‘Hang on. Don’t go away.’
Li and Hex hurried behind him. Had Bina called?
The street ended in a park. Across a large expanse of green was the white domed building. The open space was like a breath of fresh air.
At last Paulo could hear. ‘Hello?’ he said.
Li and Hex stared into his face. They heard the tinny crackle of talking at the other end.
Paulo’s shoulders sank. ‘Yes, it’s me. Hello, Radha. How are you?’
Li sighed. Hex looked down. For a moment they had both been full of hope. But maybe Radha had news.
Paulo was talking and shaking his head. ‘No, Radha, not yet. But we’re doing our best.’ He flopped down on the grass. Then he straightened up again, listening intently. After a few moments he said, ‘Radha, that’s excellent. Can you read the number to me?’ He gestured to the others, making a wiggling motion with his hand. He wanted a pen and paper.
Hex patted his pockets; he didn’t have a pen. Li didn’t either. She switched on her phone and handed it to Paulo. He keyed in the number and read it back to Radha to confirm it. ‘That’s really helpful,’ he said. ‘Well done, and tell Sami well done too.’
Li and Hex clearly heard a girlish giggle at the other end of the phone. They looked at one another. Obviously Paulo had made a hit there.
‘You all be careful now,’ said Paulo. ‘Adios.’ He cut the connection.
