Crisis (6 page)

‘Fair to middling,’ he said. ‘How about you?’

‘No problems,’ said Stella. ‘Routine removal of
ovarian cysts. What happened about John Thorn’s
patient?’

‘I’m afraid the section was malignant. What was
the problem there, anyway?’

‘The patient had multiple breast lumps and John suspected from the X-rays that there was a deeper
tumour which they couldn’t reach by needle biopsy
beforehand. He wanted you on hand to examine it
if they came across it during the op. Everyone trusts
your opinion.’

Bannerman rubbed his forehead in a nervous ges
ture, then realized he was doing it and stopped.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Stella. She put her
hand on his.

‘No, nothing,’ smiled Bannerman. ‘I’m just a bit
tired that’s all.’

‘Poor Ian,’ said Stella.

The comment was affectionate but it made
Bannerman feel guilty. He felt sure that Stella had
more reason to feel tired than he.

‘I’ll just check the sauce,’ said Stella, getting up and disappearing into the kitchen. ‘You could open
the wine.’

Bannerman opened the wine and removed the
cork slowly from the end of the corkscrew. ‘Stella?’
he said.

‘What?’ came the reply from the kitchen.

‘Why do you think we’ve remained such good
friends?’

‘
I don’t know,’ said Stella, coming into the room
holding a hot dish with two hands and protect
ing her fingers with a dish cloth. ‘Is it impor
tant?’

‘Maybe,’ said Bannerman.

‘Why,’ asked Stella, depositing the dish on the
table and turning to face Bannerman. ‘What’s brought
this on?’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Bannerman.

‘About what?’

‘Life.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bannerman.

‘Well, what can I say?’ said Stella with a grin.

‘Why haven’t you got married? Why haven’t I? Do
you think it’s some defect in our characters?’

‘Personally speaking I’m quite happy as I am,’
said Stella. ‘Perhaps we don’t need the hassle. We
both have demanding careers and busy lives. Maybe
that’s enough?’

‘Yes but …’

‘But what? Who has been getting at you? Or have
you been stricken by a sudden bout of middle-
age?’

Bannerman reacted to the word ‘middle-age’ with
a slight wince and Stella noticed. Stella noticed
everything. ‘So that is what this is all about,’ she
said knowingly.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Bannerman
hastily.

‘You’re having a mid-life crisis! That’s what I
mean,’ exclaimed Stella. ‘You’re indulging in an
orgy of self-analysis! Do you want to lie along the
couch and tell me all your innermost fears?’

‘Certainly not,’ insisted Bannerman, feeling
vulnerable and wishing he had never broached
the subject. He should have known that Stella
would see through him right away. ‘I was simply
thinking.’

‘Ugh huh,’ nodded Stella. ‘And putting yourself on a diet while you were doing it …’

‘Sometimes I hate you,’ smiled Bannerman.

‘Eat up,’ said Stella. ‘You can always dance it off
at the disco on the way home …’

Afterwards, as they sat on the couch with their cof
fee, Bannerman said, ‘I almost bottled it today.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Lost my nerve. The tumour section wasn’t as
clear as I would have liked and theatre insisted on
an answer before the new prep was ready.’

That isn’t exactly the easiest of positions to be
in,’ said Stella.

‘I know but it’s what they pay me for,’ said
Bannerman.

Tell me about it,’ said Stella.

Bannerman told her the details of what had
happened and Stella looked at him in disbelief.
‘You call that losing your nerve?’ she exclaimed.
That was an absolutely nightmarish situation to
be in, and you got it dead right.’

That’s the way it worked out but it could have
been so different,’ said Bannerman. The woman
could have lost her breast unnecessarily.’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Stella. ‘She had the best
histopathologist in the country examining the
biopsy.’

Thanks,’ said Bannerman, but his expression
showed that he wasn’t convinced.

‘You really are down aren’t you?’ said Stella.
‘What brought all this on?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Bannerman, ‘I had a lecture
this morning and before it I suddenly found myself
thinking what a waste of time it all was.’

‘We’ve all thought that from time to time, especially if you get a bad class,’ said Stella.

‘But they weren’t bad at all as it turned out. We
were discussing
slow
virus brain disease and they
seemed genuinely interested. I finished up feeling guilty for misjudging them.’

‘What you need is a change,’ said Stella. Take
some time off, re-charge your batteries.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got too much to do.’

‘No one is indispensable Ian, not even you.
I’m sure the hospital could survive for a cou
ple of weeks. Leeman could cope with the lab
couldn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bannerman.

‘And you have a first-class chief technician in
Charlie Simmons?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, do it.’

‘I have two more lectures to give on brain disease
for the course.’

‘Ah,’ conceded Stella, ‘that’s more difficult.
When do your lectures finish?’

‘The last one is a week on Friday.’

That’s not long,’ said Stella. ‘Finish your lec
tures and then take time off.’

‘I’ll consider it,’ said Bannerman.

‘Do it!’ urged Stella.

Bannerman thought for a moment then said,
‘Maybe I’ll do something I’ve planned to do for
a long time but haven’t quite got round to.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Go winter climbing in Scotland.’

‘You’re serious?’ asked Stella.

‘Absolutely. I used to do it when I was a student
at Glasgow. I promised myself that I would do it
again one day.’

Stella looked bemused and said, ‘I must confess
I was thinking more along the lines of you lying on
the beach in the sunshine, chatting up dolly birds,
drinking ice-cold beer, but if this is what you really
want …’

‘We’ll see,’ said Bannerman attempting to close
the subject, but Stella made him promise that he
would give it some serious thought.

‘I promise,’ said Bannerman. ‘Can I give you a
hand with the washing up?’

Stella declined the offer, saying that she would
do it in the morning. She wasn’t due at the hospital
until eleven. ‘How about you?’

‘I said I’d do the autopsy on the Bryant kid
who died at the weekend and I’ve got a meeting
at ten-thirty so I’d better get an early start.’

‘I heard about that,’ said Stella. ‘Very sad, brain cancer wasn’t it?’

‘Almost certainly,’ said Bannerman, ‘but I sup
pose I’ll know for sure tomorrow. If it is, the MRC
will want a full report for their survey.’

‘What survey?’

They’re monitoring the incidence of brain disease in the UK to get an overall picture of the
situation.’

‘Is this a routine survey or has something
prompted it?’ asked Stella.

They’re pretending it’s routine but it has a lot
to do with the BSE scare we had last year. People
suddenly realized that no one has a clear picture
of what is going on because brain disease is so
difficult to diagnose and classify. The tempta
tion is always to use vague generalities like,
“dementia”.’

‘Somehow I get the impression that things like
Alzheimer’s disease are on the increase. Is that
right?’

‘I fear so,’ said Bannerman, ‘but the survey
should give us a clearer picture when it’s com
plete.’

Stella looked at her watch and said, ‘It’s late and
if you’ve got to get up early …’

Bannerman nodded and got to his feet. He
thanked Stella for dinner and took hold of both her
hands to say, Thank you for being my friend.’

‘Off with you,’ smiled Stella. ‘And …’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t stay too long at the disco.’

Bannerman woke at three in the morning with the
sweat pouring off him. He had awoken from the
nightmare just at the moment when the naked
woman had raised the knife above her head to
stab him. The act of stretching had caused the
jagged surgical wounds on her chest, where her breasts should have been, to split open and weep
blood over him.

Bannerman sat bolt upright, breathing heavily
and repeating an oath under his breath. After a
few moments he swung his legs out from below
the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed to light a
cigarette. He took a deep lungful of smoke and let
it out slowly while he massaged his forehead with
his fingertips.

The nightmare had been so vivid that there
was no question of lying back down again and
risking sleep. The woman with the knife would
be waiting for him just below the brim of con
sciousness. He pulled a dressing-gown round him and went through to the living-room to turn on the
television. It didn’t seem very interesting - some
American film from the sixties by the look of it
- but it provided a distraction, and that was the
main thing. The soundtrack was therapeutic as he
shuffled into the kitchen to turn on the kettle to
make tea.

James Stewart and an actress he didn’t recognize
were about to live happily ever after and there
were two more cigarette stubs in the ashtray before
Bannerman felt like risking sleep again.

At ten-fifteen in the morning, Bannerman returned to his office from the post-mortem suite with the
taped report he had compiled of the autopsy on
Paul Bryant, aged nine. ‘I’ll need an MRC report
form Olive,’ he said to his secretary on passing.
‘He had cancer of the brain.’

‘You aren’t forgetting the monthly Health Board
meeting at ten-thirty are you?’ said Olive.

‘No,’ replied Bannerman without enthusiasm.

Olive Meldrum smiled. She knew how much
Bannerman hated routine meetings.

Bannerman sat down behind his desk and picked
up the telephone. The events of the previous day
and night had been preying on his mind too much.
He resolved to do something about it. He pressed
a four digit code and waited for a reply.

‘Drysdale,’ said the voice.

‘Dave, it’s me, Ian Bannerman. Do you think we
could have a talk sometime today?’

‘What about a drink at lunch-time?’

‘I meant a more professional talk,’ said Bannerman.

‘Oh I see. Well I think I should warn you that I
suspect your “patients” are a bit beyond psychiatric
help,’ said Drysdale.