by Mark McKay
‘Let me think for a minute.’
‘Of course. You might want to consider this – it’s estimated that there are 100,000 people undiagnosed in this country, and by the time a lot of them find out about it, it will be very difficult to help them. You have an opportunity to catch it early, so to speak.’
Harry considered. If he did nothing he would have to live with the uncertainty of never knowing when this thing might actually do some serious damage. Fatal damage. And there was another thing. After 20 years he had a golden chance to find out who really did kill Natalie. It would be just his luck to be struck down on the verge of discovering the answer to the question that had been gnawing away at him for so long. He wasn’t going to let that happen. And then there was the bleeding obvious. He wanted to live. ‘Alright. Let’s give it a try.’
‘Good. I’ll see if the practice nurse is available. She will give you the drugs and tell you how to use them. And she’s there for any support you need while on the treatment.’
Harry sighed. He hoped he’d made the right decision. The nurse was able to see him, so he found his way to her office. She was a bubbly Scottish woman named Isobel, in her mid-twenties. She took some blood and then weighed him and did some calculations. She asked him to wait while she collected the drugs from pharmacy. The ribavirin was in tablet form, and the interferon came in a pre-loaded syringe, all he had to do was attach the needle and inject himself once a week.
‘Are you comfortable doing that?’ she asked.
‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ he replied.
‘You may feel as though you’re getting the flu the first time you inject. It’s actually your immune system making itself felt. Nothing to worry about, your body will soon adjust.’
She gave him her card and said he must feel free to call her with any queries, and that they would see him again after the first month, to monitor progress. He thanked her and left. He had a month’s supply of drugs. Apparently the stuff was expensive, so they doled it out only as and when it was required.
He would be flying to Frankfurt the following day so he decided to have his first injection that evening. That would last him a week, but to be on the safe side he’d take another syringe with him and leave it at Sabine’s apartment. You were supposed to keep it refrigerated, so no doubt he’d need to explain why he wanted to use her fridge to store drugs. She was a nurse, he was sure she would raise no objections once he’d told her about his condition.
Sophie was in Fulham that evening, and he was relieved that he wouldn’t have an audience for his first injection. Not ever having stuck a needle into himself, he was a little apprehensive. But after dinner he summoned up his courage and injected the first dose into his left thigh, just below the hip. Once he got the needle in it was easy enough. Sure enough, an hour later he had a slight headache and aching joints. He took his tablets and decided to have an early night. Last thing he wanted to do was oversleep and miss his flight.
Chapter 15
When Sabine opened the door to him she seemed happy and apprehensive in equal measure. She kissed him on the cheek, and when she withdrew he was sure she paused long enough to get a good look at the street over his shoulder.
‘I’m all alone, you know.’
‘Are you sure? I hope so.’
They moved through to the lounge, Harry manoeuvering his one large suitcase on wheels awkwardly as they went.
‘I hope you brought some warm clothes,’ said Sabine, smiling at his efforts to avoid ruining her paintwork.
‘Germany in Winter – you bet I did.’
‘Where we’re going, it’s very cold,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps I should take you shopping later.’ She motioned towards the sofa, and after removing his coat he sat down.
‘You lied to me about Michael then,’ he stated in what he hoped was a neutral voice. ‘You told me you lost contact with him after London.’
She sat next to him. ‘You’re not really in a position to judge me, Harry. Do you know yet why they’re looking for him?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’ve been told nothing.’
‘I did lose contact actually, for almost ten years. Then one day I got a letter from him. He was living in Sweden, he married a Swedish girl. And he changed his name of course. He’s not Michael O’Reilly any more.’ Her face became suddenly wistful.
‘Are you still in love with him?’
‘What?’ The wistfulness passed. ‘After all this time? No, I think I’m sometimes in love with the memory of him. I loved him in Dublin, but that was a long time ago and I haven’t seen him since. We talk on the phone maybe once a year, if that.’ She laughed. ‘And I have had one or two relationships since then.’
‘Sorry, none of my business really. Have you ever been married?’
‘No, I haven’t. I like my independence. Any more questions?’
‘All finished.’
‘Good.’ She got up, and before he could make a move she had grabbed the handle of his suitcase and was wheeling it towards the spare bedroom. He looked at the view as he waited for her to come back. The US Army hadn’t gone anywhere in his absence, he noticed. It was dusk, and as he looked a carpet of twinkling lights unrolled below him, greeting the night. He was suddenly hungry.
‘Can I buy you dinner?’ he asked the vacant space.
Sabine reappeared. ‘Yes, please. We won’t go shopping here, we’ll wait till we get to Stockholm. But I can show you the Christmas market if you like. It’s very pretty.’
‘Ok, sounds good. And when do we leave for Stockholm?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Let’s go and eat now, we can walk to town from here.’
There was no wind as they walked down Panorama Strasse, the air was crisp and cold and still, and he thought if it wasn’t freezing yet it was near as damn it. He wondered how long it would be until it snowed. Tomorrow they would go north and it would get even colder. He should have gone to Lanzarote after all.
The Hauptstrasse was packed with tourists and locals. They sauntered with the humming crowd, encountering the first real evidence of the market at Universitätsplatz. The square was filled with brightly lit wooden huts selling all manner of Christmas paraphernalia. Local liqueur sellers competed with candle sellers, traditional wood carvers, and others offering an array of Christmas cards, books and decorations. One hut contained a nativity scene, with carved life size representations of the players. Sabine bought a huge red candle and a silver hanging Star of Bethlehem.
There was music in the air, courtesy of random groups of musicians with guitars and violins, who were playing what to Harry’s ears sounded like traditional folk tunes. And of course there was plenty of Bratwurst and Glühwein on offer. He bought two mugs of the warm steaming wine, and they found a relatively quiet spot on the corner of the square to sample it.
‘It’s sweet,’ he intoned, screwing up his face in mock horror.
‘What did you expect?’ laughed Sabine. ‘Don’t forget to take the mug back when you’ve finished if you want your deposit back.’
His mug was bright red, with a painted scene of the market encircling it. It would make a nice souvenir. Then he thought of Sophie’s disappointment on seeing it, and changed his mind.
‘Where can we eat?’ he asked.
‘I know a place close to the river, come on.’
The crowd thinned as they made their way down a side street. The restaurant served mostly traditional German fare, and Harry settled for a schnitzel, while Sabine ordered pasta. The place was half full, and service was quick and efficient. He chose a local Riesling, which initially came as a shock to the palate after the sweetness of the Glühwein, so he ordered some water to compensate.
‘It will be strange seeing Michael again after so long,’ Sabine remarked, as he poured water for them both.
‘What I don’t understand is why we need to see him at all. If he has something to tell me what’s wrong with the phone?’
She shrugged. ‘There is something he wants to show
you, I don’t know what. So we must go to him.’
‘So you’re prepared to drop everything and drive me to Stockholm. That’s a lot to do for a man you haven’t seen for 20 years.’
He thought he caught a flash of annoyance in her eyes, but she answered calmly. ‘It is a debt of friendship, Harry. Perhaps you don’t understand these things.’
Perhaps I don’t, he thought. He raised an apologetic hand. ‘Sorry, I’m worried that we’ll go all that way for nothing.’
‘Are you changing your mind?’ He shook his head. ‘We’re going further than Stockholm,’ she continued, ‘to a place called Kiruna, which is in the north of Sweden. It’s inside the Arctic circle, that’s why you need the warm clothes.’
‘Will that Golf of yours make it that far?’
‘We can fly from Stockholm if we need to. But Michael thinks it’s better if we drive. He thinks it’s more secure that way.’
The timely arrival of the food gave him some thinking space. He had to admit it was a sensible precaution. Better not to show up on a flight manifest if it could be avoided. Not that anyone should have reason to check of course, because no one knew what he was doing.
‘We should start early tomorrow. Perhaps we can share the driving,’ he said.
‘Yes, I agree. We can have an early night.’ She indicated his wine glass. ‘Don’t drink too much.’
Shades of Sophie, he thought. He took her advice nonetheless, and poured himself another glass of water.
When they got back to the apartment Sabine produced a Road Atlas, and Harry sat at the dining room table studying the map of Sweden. Stockholm to Kiruna was a distance of some 1200 kilometers.
‘How long do you expect this journey to take?’ he asked.
‘I was thinking three days,’ came the reply. ‘Tomorrow we drive to Hamburg then take the ferry to Denmark, and spend the night in Copenhagen. The next day we can make Stockholm in about six hours. I think that’s around 1500 kilometers. Then after that, Kiruna.’
‘Yes, but Kiruna is almost two days drive away from Stockholm, maybe we should fly after all. I only have a week you know.’
‘Let me see.’ Sabine emerged from her bedroom, where she was packing, and peered over his shoulder. ‘My God, you’re right. We’ll be exhausted if we drive the whole way.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I have a travel guide for Sweden, let me just check something.’ She went back to the bedroom, and reappeared a minute later, guide in hand. ‘I thought so. There is a night train from Stockholm. If we take the 8pm train we can be there about 14 hours later. And they have sleeper berths. How does that sound?’
‘Much better. We can pay in cash, and we won’t leave a trace that way.’
Sabine tapped on his bedroom door the next morning.
‘Harry, are you awake?’
He grunted something in response then checked his watch. It was 6am.
‘The shower is free, I’m going to make some breakfast,’ she said.
He was half asleep as he found his way to the bathroom, where he briefly toyed with the idea of a cold shower as a form of instant rejuvenation, but rejected it as too Spartan an act at this hour of the day. Warm water revived him, and he was dressed and in the kitchen 15 minutes later, wide awake.
Sabine had prepared sausages, fried eggs, and toast, with cuts of ham and cheese on the side. ‘Eat plenty, Harry, I don’t know when we will stop for lunch.’
He took her advice, and after breakfast he took their cases down to the car. Sabine locked up and followed. He was curious to see her come down the stairs with her saxophone in its case.
‘I might be able to sit in on a gig in Stockholm on the way back, if we have time,’ she explained, laying the case across the back seat.
They were ready to go. ‘One last thing before we leave,’ said Harry. ‘Turn off your phone. From now on we use public call boxes unless it’s an emergency.’
Sabine muttered something about ‘damned secrecy’ but did as she was asked. She took the driver’s seat, handing the road atlas to Harry as he made himself comfortable next to her. ‘I’ll tell you when I need you to start navigating,’ she said.
She pulled out into the empty street, and they were underway.
It was a clear sunny morning, and they were soon on the A5 going north. The Autobahn was congested as they approached Frankfurt, but once the rush hour traffic thinned out the pace picked up, and Sabine cruised the Golf around 110kph. It seemed a rather average speed to Harry, if the numerous other cars overtaking them was any yardstick.
‘Can’t you drive faster?’ he enquired.
‘This isn’t a Porsche. We’re doing fine, thank you.’
He laughed. The Autobahn wasn’t totally without speed limits, so they were slowed down occasionally in certain areas, but there was plenty of unrestricted road, and he made a mental note to return with the Mercedes at some point and see how it performed.
Hamburg was their first target, some six hours away, then he’d agreed to swop driving duties from there to Copenhagen, which would take a further four hours, including a ferry trip. So he had the unusual luxury of doing nothing for a while.
He looked at Sabine, who was deep in her own thoughts with her eyes on the road. He was aware once again of the quietly intense energy she exuded, and the way her face wore just the hint of a smile in its natural repose. She had a way of retreating into some kind of untroubled solitude deep inside, and for a moment he envied her. Apart from the jazz and their common interest in Michael O’Reilly, he knew little about her.
‘Tell me about your nursing career,’ he said.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything of course.’
She smiled, eyes still on the road. ‘Well, nowadays I look after terminally ill people who are mostly in the last stages of cancer. At that point they need someone to support them emotionally, and also help them with practical arrangements. It can be quite demanding on both sides.’
‘Know anything about hepatitis C?’
‘A little, why do you ask?’
He told her about his diagnosis and the treatment regime. ‘I’ve started the drugs, as of yesterday. I left a syringe in your fridge by the way.’
‘Yes, I saw that – interferon. I was wondering when you might tell me why it was there. How do you feel?’
‘Ok at the moment. I just hope it’s effective.’
Sabine gave him a look of concern. ‘I’ll need to keep a professional eye on you. If you find it all too much then there are alternative approaches you could consider, like Chinese or Indian medicine. I can make some enquiries when we get back if you like.’
‘Let’s see how it goes. The disturbing thing about all this is that I find myself thinking about death a lot lately.’
He was surprised to hear her laugh. ‘That might be a good thing, Harry.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘Did you think before your hepatitis that you were going to live forever? Of course not, you’re a rational man. But in our culture we prefer not to think about it, we push it away. So when it becomes a real possibility we aren’t ready. We take life for granted.’
She paused for a minute to concentrate on the traffic, which was slowing down for no particular reason. Harry didn’t want to break her train of thought and stayed silent.
‘I didn’t mean to laugh’, she continued. ‘You’ve realised that you aren’t immortal after all, and that is a good thing to realise. I’ve had plenty of time to think about this issue in my professional and private life, so I think I know what I’m talking about.’
‘What, you mean you’ve lost parents?’
She had her profile to him, but he could see the sadness in her expression.
‘No, not my parents, my sister. She died young, and I was even younger when it happened. I thought about it a lot at the time and ever since.’
‘Sorry, shall we talk about something else?’
She reached out a hand from the steering whe
el and half unsightedly finding his hand, squeezed it quickly. ‘It’s ok, Harry. Let me explain. I did philosophy at university, and in Heidelberg we’re quite famous for our philosophy. I had good teachers. As we were all so busy trying to define the meaning of life we sometimes tried to understand the meaning of death too. Have you heard of Nietszche?’
‘Can’t say I have,’ replied Harry.
‘A very famous German philosopher. He wrote like a poet. He said that “the certain prospect of death could sweeten every life with a precious and fragrant drop of levity.” What I think he meant was that the awareness of certain death could encourage us to live with a much fuller appreciation of life. So I try to live with a little levity every day.’
‘I see.’ He considered her words. ‘Not sure if that helps or not. So you’re a philosopher too – did you find the meaning of life?’
She grinned. ‘Perhaps there isn’t one. You need to find your own meaning. I find it mostly in my music. For you, it will be something different I guess.’
Yes, he thought, that makes a kind of sense. Where was the meaning in his existence? Not in his work, that was for sure.
‘I’m sorry about your hepatitis, Harry. Didn’t mean to lecture you with philosophy.’
‘That’s ok. It’s funny, I thought so much about Nat’s death and the meaninglessness of it, and never stopped to think about my own. Stupid of me.’
The traffic was speeding up again, the unseen obstacle restraining it now gone. Sabine accelerated through the gears and they were soon back at cruising speed.
‘My turn,’ said Sabine. ‘Tell me about your wife. What’s her name, what does she do?’
Harry was happy enough to change the subject, for now at least.
Near Hamburg they found an Autobahn service area and stopped for lunch. The opportunity to move around was a welcome relief after nearly six straight hours of driving. After lunch Sabine squeezed the saxophone into the boot and stretched out on the back seat for a cat nap. Harry took the wheel, heading for Puttgarden and the ferry to Denmark, and less than two hours later he was queuing to load the car on for the 4pm crossing. Sabine woke up as the Golf rumbled into the hold to take its place in the neat line of vehicles ahead.
