‘I think I follow,’ Grace said. ‘What... what does that mean for his prognosis?’
Burton looked at him, their faces just inches apart now. Grace could feel the warmth of the consultant’s breath with a faint, not unpleasant, tinge of garlic. ‘How honest and explicit do you want me to be?’
‘I’d prefer you to be totally honest and not dress anything up.’ He stared back at the consultant levelly, with an inkling of what might be coming, however much he dreaded what he was about to hear.
Burton gave an uncomfortable smile. ‘I know you coppers cope with some of your worst horrors through gallows humour. So do us medics. Some of us call the MRI scanner the “doughnut of death”. Apologies if that’s offensive.’
Grace shook his head. ‘I get it.’
‘What it showed with Bruno is a tight brain with widespread contusions — both bruising and ischaemia — where his low blood pressure has further impaired his brain functions. And now a brain that’s swelling and pushing down, out of the skull. I wish I could give you better news but I can’t.’
They were interrupted at that moment by Cleo returning, with a small holdall. She sat down and Burton quickly recapped for her. Then he said, ‘I don’t want to mislead you or give you false hope. I’m afraid to say we’re rapidly approaching the point at which there will be nothing more we can do for him.’
Grace stared back at the consultant. ‘Nothing? What do you mean, nothing? There’s always something, surely? There must be some doctor — neurologist — neurosurgeon — somewhere in the world — who could help him? I don’t care what it costs. I’ll do anything. Anything at all.’
Burton sat in silence for some moments, his eyes fixed on the couple. Then he said, ‘Believe me, if there was anything we could do, anything that would give a chance, however small, that Bruno could be saved — other than by a miracle — I would suggest it. But he wouldn’t survive a move from here to any hospital, anywhere — and we really do have top consultants, please believe me on that. I know from some of our staff that you’ve been critical of this hospital in the past, but we’ve made huge strides. The neurosurgeon who’s on his way is world class.’
Grace looked back at him through misted eyes. Memories of being at his father’s bedside as he lay dying, then his mother’s, came flooding back, overwhelming him. ‘Isn’t there anyone — don’t they have brilliant neurosurgeons in America at some of their teaching hospitals? Germany? Russia? Is there anyone at all?’
‘If there was even a one per cent chance, I would suggest it.’
‘What about this intracranial bolt — can’t that possibly help?’
‘It won’t treat the injury, it will just monitor the pressure inside the brain,’ Burton replied.
‘So what’s the point in doing that?’ Grace said, his anxiety rising even further.
‘I’m afraid its main purpose, normally, is to confirm brainstem death. If Bruno has avoided that and does, by a miracle, pull through, it is very likely he will have permanent brain damage.’
‘How serious? I mean — how impaired would he be? Would he be able to function normally? Go back to school?’ Cleo was struggling to keep her voice down.
Burton stared at her levelly. ‘We’ll know more later, after the neurosurgeon, Mr Hoyle-Gilchrist, has seen him.’
Grace folded his body, resting his head in his arms, as he fought off tears. He lost track of the time as he sat, before finally straightening up again and gratefully accepting a tissue the consultant passed him from a box.
‘You both need to remain strong,’ Burton said gently. ‘We’ll keep you informed every step of the way, but I would urge you to prepare yourself for the worst.’
52
Two hours later, finally and reluctantly dragging himself from Bruno’s bedside after talking to him incessantly, with no response, before he had been taken off to theatre, Roy Grace left the ward and peered into the Relatives’ Room. Cleo was dozing in a chair and looked up as he entered.
‘A guy — a porter, I think — has gone to get us two camp beds.’
He smiled. ‘Good. If I can sleep. Be back in a few minutes.’ He closed the door quietly and walked a short distance along the deserted corridor, checking his phone in case there was any message from Lorna. But there was nothing. Then he hunted for the mobile phone number of the Road Policing Unit Inspector, James Biggs, unsure if he had it. To his relief, he did. It rang several times, and just when he was convinced it was going to voicemail, he answered with a curt, ‘Inspector Biggs.’
‘James?’
The tone of the Inspector’s voice changed instantly. ‘Sir?’
‘I apologize for calling so late.’
‘Call me any time, sir, twenty-four-seven. I’m so very sorry about your son. How is he?’
‘I’m at the hospital now and it’s not looking good, I’m afraid. Bruno—’ Grace had to stop for a moment to compose himself. ‘He has serious brain damage. At the moment his prognosis is pretty poor, to be honest.’
‘I’m extremely sorry to hear that, sir. I’m afraid it looked to me, from the damage to the vehicle, that his head had taken quite an impact. We’ve made enquiries at the school and it happened during break time, when all the kids were outside. Bruno somehow managed to find his way out of the grounds.’
There was a brief awkward pause. Then James Biggs said, ‘Is there any information I can help you with, sir?’
‘Yes, there is, please. I’m struggling to understand what exactly happened — I mean — what was he doing crossing the road? I dropped him off at school this morning myself. He was in a strange mood, but that wasn’t unusual for him. He should have been in class all morning — I’m curious about what he was doing out of school and crossing the road.’
‘We’re still gathering information — seeing what CCTV from the surrounding properties will give us, if anything. I’ve also put out an appeal for any motorists with dashcams who might have been in the area at the time, as well as to any cyclists with GoPros or similar. At this stage we’re talking to independent witnesses. Our best so far is an elderly lady who my officer Tom Van der Wee spoke to at the scene. He said she was out doing her morning constitutional with her dog — a Westie — and noticed a St Christopher’s boy looking down at his phone as he walked along the pavement.’
‘What was he doing out of school?’ Grace quizzed again.
‘We don’t know that yet. She’d spotted him from some distance by his red jacket. According to her account, she saw him walk out straight into the path of a sports car. She described him being struck by the car and landing on the road. Tom said the lady was pretty shaken by the experience but managed to give him a fairly clear account.’
Grace absorbed this before replying. ‘Is she saying that he hadn’t seen the car?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, sir. It was a BMW i8 sports car that was up for sale. It was being driven by an interested potential customer, with the owner of the company, Sussex Sporting E-Cars, beside him. From the measurements my team have taken so far, all the indications are that the car was being driven at a speed right on the legal limit. But we have, of course, impounded it.’