This was different though; this was something which threatened to consume him, yet which he knew had to be conquered and contained within him, never allowed to show on the outside, least of all to Olive.
Since the illness had been diagnosed, he had experienced a succession of horrors. Now, waiting for his wife to come down from the ward, he sat contemplating apprehensively the weekend to come.
They had been warned about the treatment, about the sickness that was the most common side-effect of the drugs. 'These are very powerful and toxic chemicals. Olive,' their supervising nurse had warned as she had talked them through what would happen. 'Their job is to seek out and kill the cancer cells, but they will have a hell of an effect on your entire system. We'll give you steroids to control it, but the chances are that you'll be very sick for a couple of days after your first treatment.'
At that moment, he was fearful of that imminent crisis more than anything else. His mind had simply locked away the long-term possibilities, refusing to contemplate them, but right there and then he dreaded the very thought of watching his wife's distress.
'Mr Mcllhenney?' The calm voice broke into his fearful anticipation.
'How are you getting on?' He looked up from his chair to see Derek Simmers standing over him.
'Okay,' he replied, trying to smile. 'Just waiting for Olive, as instructed.'
'I've just left her,' said the consultant. 'She'll be another twenty minutes or so. Don't wait here; come on through to my office. I'll tell reception where you are, so she can find you when she comes down.'
Neil nodded. He stood, picked up his coffee and followed the tall, fair-haired Simmers to the desk at the entrance, where he paused, then round a corner and into a small office opposite the room where their initial consultation had taken place. There was no desk, only a few chairs and a low coffee table.
'Sit, down, sit down,' the physician insisted. And then unexpectedly, he sighed. 'You know,' he began, 'I've lost count of the number of patients I've treated in this place. I've lost count of the number of husbands and wives that I've seen in your shoes; but still I can't really imagine how it must feel for either the patient or her partner.
'I can try. I do, of course; but, not having experienced it for myself, not having sat on your side of the desk at the consultation, seeing with your eyes, listening with your ears; not even having sat out there being ministered to by the WRVS ladies in their canteen, I don't suppose I even get close to the reality.'
'No,' Mcllhenney answered quietly. 'I don't suppose you do.'
'Maybe that's a good thing, though. Because it ensures that I remain objective, and as long as I do I have something to offer my patients beyond the mechanics of the treatment.' The gentle blue eyes settled on the policeman, and he felt the same wave of inexplicable relief which had swept over him at his first meeting with Simmers.
'I will never lie to Olive, or to you,' he said, earnestly. 'I will always tell it to you like it is; to a great extent the success or failure of her treatment will depend on the interpretation which both of you place on my words. I am dedicated to the preservation of life, Neil, for as long as that can be. I will prescribe and administer the most appropriate treatment for Olive's physical condition.
'But once I've done that, your job begins; you have to remain positive and you have to remain mentally strong. From what I've seen of you both, you will be able to do that.
'The next couple of days will be tough, for both of you; make no mistake about that. But in the course of this treatment, which will last for up to six months, they will probably be the worst you'll experience.
'My best advice to you is to set yourselves targets. For example, in a couple of weeks, maybe even next weekend, you might be able to contemplate an evening at the theatre. After two months' treatment, you might want to go on holiday. If you do, I'll make a gap in the schedule for you. Working towards and achieving objectives like these will be a tremendous psychological help to you both and will improve Olive's chances of keeping this thing at bay'
Simmers paused, and Mcllhenney saw pain written in his soft eyes.
'The hardest thing for me,' he continued, 'is to tell devoted partners like you and Olive that one of you has an incurable disease. I don't discuss survival rates or make prognoses; anyone can pick all that stuff off the Internet if they have a mind. I can tell you this though, from long experience: the people who believe from day one, without doubt, that they will wind up on the positive side of the ratio, whatever that might be, are the people who do best.
'You do believe that, Neil, don't you?'
The policeman felt his jaw tighten as he returned the consultant's gaze. 'Absolutely,' he said.
'That's good. Hold fast to that belief; it's the best advice I have for you.'
The physician rose to his feet. 'We'd better go back out there. Olive should be down from the ward any minute.'
Mcllenney nodded. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you very much, Mr Simmers.'
The man laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Listen Neil, over the coming months you and Olive and I are going to have to maintain a close, trusting relationship. So please, drop the Mr Simmers stuff. Don't call me Derek either; I've never cared much for that name. Call me by the name my friends use. Call me Deacey.'
42
She found the apartment without difficulty: a short taxi trip across the Bridges from her own small flat offNicolson Street, down Broughton Street, through the traffic lights at Rodney Street and there it was, facing her as Wayne had described it.
He was ready to leave when he opened the door, tall and handsome in jeans and a red LaCoste waterproof. His beard looked as if it had been newly trimmed.
'Am I late?' she asked, untypically concerned that he might think she was evening the score for Giuliano's.
'Not at all,' he drawled. 'I saw your taxi arrive, that's all. Say, before we leave, come on in and say hello to Dennis. He's ready for bed but he's decent.'
Karen was not entirely certain that she wanted to meet Wayne's friend again, remembering his sourness when she had checked him in at the conference centre, but she followed him inside. The paraplegic was in his wheelchair, dressed in pyjamas and a silk dressing gown.
His hair was damp at the edges, and his skin slightly pink, as if he had just come from a bath. He seemed to be concentrating hard on the Scotsman crossword.
'Say hello to Karen, mate,' the tall Australian commanded.
Dennis Crombie looked up, peered at her through his spectacles, and barked a quick, 'Hello.'
She grinned back at him, and pointed towards the newspaper on his lap. 'Friday's usually the hardest,' she said. 'That's what I find, anyway.'
'Eh?'
'The crossword.'
'Oh. Yes, it's tougher than yesterday's.' The faintest smile seemed to cross the economist's face, and a gold filling in one of his upper canines caught the light for an instant. 'Too many Scottish words, that's the problem for me.'
'Don't worry, if you're staying on for a few weeks you'll learn the language.'
The smile vanished. 'As long as I can stay warm, I don't give a stuff about the language. I never thought Scotland would be so cold.'
'Hey, it's not that bad,' she protested.
'It is when you can't move about.'
She felt a mixture of guilt and sympathy. 'I'm sorry, Dennis, I didn't think.'