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Back Going Under Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  3. DEDICATION
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. PART I BIRTH
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EIGHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. PART II LIFE
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. TWENTY
  27. TWENTY-ONE
  28. TWENTY-TWO
  29. TWENTY-THREE
  30. TWENTY-FOUR
  31. TWENTY-FIVE
  32. TWENTY-SIX
  33. TWENTY-SEVEN
  34. TWENTY-EIGHT
  35. TWENTY-NINE
  36. THIRTY
  37. THIRTY-ONE
  38. THIRTY-TWO
  39. THIRTY-THREE
  40. THIRTY-FOUR
  41. PART III DEATH
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. THIRTY-NINE
  47. FORTY
  48. FORTY-ONE
  49. FORTY-TWO
  50. FORTY-THREE
  51. FORTY-FOUR
  52. FORTY-FIVE
  53. FORTY-SIX
  54. FORTY-SEVEN
  55. FORTY-EIGHT
  56. FORTY-NINE
  57. FIFTY
  58. FIFTY-ONE
  59. FIFTY-TWO
  60. FIFTY-THREE
  61. FIFTY-FOUR
  62. FIFTY-FIVE
  63. FIFTY-SIX
  64. FIFTY-SEVEN
  65. FIFTY-EIGHT
  66. FIFTY-NINE
  67. SIXTY
  68. EPILOGUE
  69. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  70. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I turn back to the file. Mr John Wilde is a sixty-year-old farmer from somewhere west of the middle of nowhere, and now he’s dying. No one wants to operate because no one thinks they can save him. His cardiac function is crap, his lungs are damaged by years of smoking, and now he has a huge malignant brain tumour. The hospital closest to his farm tried radiotherapy, chemotherapy and more radiotherapy to no effect, and now he’s staring the end of the road square in the face. Or, as Mr Wilde says to me later, the horse has well and truly bolted.

John Wilde wants to be saved. I don’t blame him, the poor bastard. Until you’re dead in the ground the human instinct is to cling on. His brain tumour is a pit of crocodiles and he’s found one surgeon who might offer him a rope.

Mrs Wilde had called Dr Prince’s room’s directly and, after battling with his less-than-pleasant receptionist, managed to get an urgent appointment. Dr Prince is clearly something of a humanitarian. Any other surgeon would take one look at Mr Wilde’s scans and say, ‘No fucking way.’

In a fairy tale, the patient would be grateful and happy. How fortunate for him that this big-time brain surgeon has agreed to see him. Mr Wilde acts like he doesn’t care—and, who knows, maybe he’s beyond caring. But it’s clear that he’s mortally afraid. His fear hovers around him like a thick grey fog. His eyes are tired, and his body’s battered. The cancer has rendered him unable to swallow, so food is delivered via a tube that’s been inserted into his stomach, like a grotesque abstract painting.

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By the end of the day Dr Prince still hasn’t shown up to the ward. It’s getting dark and I’m about to go home.

‘Where is he?’ Mrs Wilde asks when I pop by to check on Mr Wilde. ‘He is going to come, isn’t he?’

I feel so sorry for her that I muster up the courage to call Dr Prince on his mobile.

He doesn’t answer, and I leave a rambling voicemail message, like a complete idiot.

It turns out I needn’t have bothered, because five minutes later he appears, looking at his phone, then at me.

‘Hello, Katarina. Did you call me?’

‘Yeah … just, ah, ignore the message.’

‘Is everything all right?’ Absent-mindedly he brushes his cap off. He’s just come from theatre and is still in his scrubs.

His eyes are blue today. The scrubs make them blue.

‘Everything’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘I just wanted to check when you were going to see Mr Wilde.’

Mr Wilde is looking at Dr Prince with a suspicious expression. ‘Took you long enough,’ he says grumpily.