‘If this pattern continues, I’d expect she may be in need of an emergency replacement sooner than that. So far, the right ventricle is holding up remarkably well, but I’d expect to start seeing a thickening of the wall given the strain it’s under. If you find that her tolerance for exertion declines further, or the tet spells become more severe or frequent, or her sats start to worsen when she’s resting, we’d conclude that the heart is struggling to cope.

‘An emergency surgery is far from ideal for many reasons that I’m happy to expand on, but I’m afraid Tabby’s heart may not be equipped to last another six months with a profoundly inadequate valve.’

Each sentence is a blow to the stomach. I have never in my life felt so powerless. So sickened. Every single day, I watch my daughter, so small and frail for her age, navigate the art of surviving life rather than thriving on it because one of her body’s most basic functions is compromised. I’m forced to decline her pleas for gym classes and ballet classes. I’m the mother who hands over medical fact sheets to any parent who hosts her for a playdate.

She needs a new fucking pulmonary valve, and she needs it now, and I don’t have the hundreds of thousands of pounds required to get it for her privately. So I’m stuck here, hopelessly dependent on our overstretched National Health Service to shuffle us along in its never-ending queue of equally deserving, equally sick children until we one day reach the front.

‘I know how frustrating it is,’ the doctor tells me softly. ‘Perhaps this is something you and your partner can discuss, so that if emergency surgery is the only option, you feel better prepared for⁠—’

‘There is no partner,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, Tabby’s father’s not in the picture. It’s just me and her.’

I swear the compassion on her face ratchets up a notch. ‘Of course. I apologise. This is a lot to bear alone. We have support services available to the parents of children with these conditions. I can give you a leaflet…’ She trails off.

I don’t need a leaflet.

I need a Hail Mary.

Such an unfortunate turn of phrase when the only possible Hail Mary available to me is to sell my soul to some guy who may as well be the Devil himself for the price he’ll demand.

But God knows, I’ll pay it.

I pull out my phone and shoot off a few texts.

At the hospital

Tabs had another blue spell

And Dean fired me for leaving early

Looks like Seraph is the only card I have left to play

CHAPTER 2

Marlowe