a display that Beatrix found rather excessive and vulgar.
Beatrix had been able to afford a private doctor. The luxuriously appointed reception was an exercise in expensive minimalism: frosted glass, leather Eames sofas and soft classical music piped through hidden speakers. There was an internal fountain, the water tinkling musically, and tasteful prints were hung from the walls. Everything was designed to distract those who were rich enough from the worry of their ailments. The other waiting patients were arrayed around the room, reading magazines and drinking tea that was brought to them by a deferential member of the staff. It reminded Beatrix of a hotel or a spa. She found it difficult to stomach when she remembered the squalor just a few feet from its doors, and the penniless sick who would die from their poverty as much as from their illnesses. She would never have chosen to come here, but she had the money and there was no alternative. She could not sacrifice Isabella and the pursuit of her future safety for the sake of her scruples.
The receptionist announced softly that the doctor would see her and she followed the familiar corridor around to his open door. His name was Abdeslam Lévy. He drove a Porsche Cayenne, lived in a big villa on the outskirts of the city and was putting his three children through an expensive private education. Beatrix had researched him very carefully. Old habits died hard.
“Beatrix,” Lévy said, in the manner of someone greeting an old friend. “How are you feeling?”
“Not bad,” she said.
“Given the circumstances.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve been taking the morphine?”
“Every day.”
“And it’s helping?”
“Yes,” she said. “The pain is better.”
“Very good. That’s about as good as we could have hoped for.”
“Given the circumstances?”
“Yes.” He smiled in what she took to be a paternal fashion. “You’ve come to talk about the scan results?”
“That and something else,” she said.
“Well, let’s talk about the scan first, shall we?”
She nodded; she didn’t really care about that since all it would do would be to recalibrate the time she had left and, therefore, the time she had to accomplish the tasks that she had set herself. Useful enough, but it wasn’t going to change the conclusion they had already reached.
“It’s good news,” Lévy said. “The tumours in your lungs haven’t grown. If anything, they might even have receded a little. And so that’s good. The Docetaxel is working as well as we hoped it would.”
“What does it mean? Practically.”
“It means we have it under control for now. We’ll do another scan in a couple of weeks, but if it keeps inhibiting growth, we might be looking at the higher side of the average I gave to you.”
“So, a year?”
“Yes,” he said. “Maybe a little more. As I said, it’s good news.”
A year. Yes, she thought, that was good news. The initial prognosis had been bleaker than that. She had found the tumour while she was in Hong Kong: a tiny pea that she could almost roll between her fingers when she showered. She had known, of course, that she should have had it checked out, but she had been wary of anything that would record her details, especially her DNA, on any kind of online database. She knew, from experience, how quickly something like that would have been picked up by the people who were looking for her and so, initially, she had done nothing and felt it grow a little each day.
By the time that she had paid a rogue doctor to examine her, the tumours had spread: dark shadows in her lungs and spots in her liver. Surgery was pointless by that stage and so she had the first of two courses of chemotherapy, both of which she had administered in her dingy room herself. There had been two more courses since, both in the peaceful treatment room off Lévy’s office with the view of the garden and the colourful birds that visited it.
Lévy’s treatment had
Beatrix had been able to afford a private doctor. The luxuriously appointed reception was an exercise in expensive minimalism: frosted glass, leather Eames sofas and soft classical music piped through hidden speakers. There was an internal fountain, the water tinkling musically, and tasteful prints were hung from the walls. Everything was designed to distract those who were rich enough from the worry of their ailments. The other waiting patients were arrayed around the room, reading magazines and drinking tea that was brought to them by a deferential member of the staff. It reminded Beatrix of a hotel or a spa. She found it difficult to stomach when she remembered the squalor just a few feet from its doors, and the penniless sick who would die from their poverty as much as from their illnesses. She would never have chosen to come here, but she had the money and there was no alternative. She could not sacrifice Isabella and the pursuit of her future safety for the sake of her scruples.
The receptionist announced softly that the doctor would see her and she followed the familiar corridor around to his open door. His name was Abdeslam Lévy. He drove a Porsche Cayenne, lived in a big villa on the outskirts of the city and was putting his three children through an expensive private education. Beatrix had researched him very carefully. Old habits died hard.
“Beatrix,” Lévy said, in the manner of someone greeting an old friend. “How are you feeling?”
“Not bad,” she said.
“Given the circumstances.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve been taking the morphine?”
“Every day.”
“And it’s helping?”
“Yes,” she said. “The pain is better.”
“Very good. That’s about as good as we could have hoped for.”
“Given the circumstances?”
“Yes.” He smiled in what she took to be a paternal fashion. “You’ve come to talk about the scan results?”
“That and something else,” she said.
“Well, let’s talk about the scan first, shall we?”
She nodded; she didn’t really care about that since all it would do would be to recalibrate the time she had left and, therefore, the time she had to accomplish the tasks that she had set herself. Useful enough, but it wasn’t going to change the conclusion they had already reached.
“It’s good news,” Lévy said. “The tumours in your lungs haven’t grown. If anything, they might even have receded a little. And so that’s good. The Docetaxel is working as well as we hoped it would.”
“What does it mean? Practically.”
“It means we have it under control for now. We’ll do another scan in a couple of weeks, but if it keeps inhibiting growth, we might be looking at the higher side of the average I gave to you.”
“So, a year?”
“Yes,” he said. “Maybe a little more. As I said, it’s good news.”
A year. Yes, she thought, that was good news. The initial prognosis had been bleaker than that. She had found the tumour while she was in Hong Kong: a tiny pea that she could almost roll between her fingers when she showered. She had known, of course, that she should have had it checked out, but she had been wary of anything that would record her details, especially her DNA, on any kind of online database. She knew, from experience, how quickly something like that would have been picked up by the people who were looking for her and so, initially, she had done nothing and felt it grow a little each day.
By the time that she had paid a rogue doctor to examine her, the tumours had spread: dark shadows in her lungs and spots in her liver. Surgery was pointless by that stage and so she had the first of two courses of chemotherapy, both of which she had administered in her dingy room herself. There had been two more courses since, both in the peaceful treatment room off Lévy’s office with the view of the garden and the colourful birds that visited it.
Lévy’s treatment had
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