A thousand miles away Brodie and Deacon were settling into the apartment, something else Terry Walsh had arranged before his ability to arrange anything was suddenly curtailed. They were likely to be here for some time, and it had occurred to him that sharing the close confines of a hotel room with either of them wasn't a fate he'd have wished on his worst enemy.
They'd gone to the clinic first. The doctor conducting the drug trial spent some time with them, examining Jonathan and going over his X-rays, explaining the science behind the drug he intended to use. He promised nothing. That was the purpose of a trial: to evaluate whether a new drug was any better than what went before. He didn't want to give them hope only to dash it.
But nor was he a cruel man. He didn't want them to feel they were wasting their time here. Jonathan's tumour was typical of the type the drug was designed to tackle. Preliminary results had been promising.
Hope is a hawk with sharp talons. Just sitting quietly on your wrist it can draw blood. But they wouldn't have had it otherwise. They were both realists â the last six months
had left them no alternative. They knew the cancer could still win. But for the first time in weeks it no longer seemed inevitable.
Unpacking their bags at the apartment felt strange. They'd never lived together. They'd never before had to agree which side of a wardrobe was whose.
Finally Deacon said, âWhat did you think? About the clinic.'
Brodie looked for a non-committal reply. As if sounding too enthusiastic could jinx the process. âIt seems very professional. I think we're in good hands. We've been incredibly lucky.'
It had been a long day. Deacon was too tired for clichés. âDo you think it'll work?'
âI don't know, Jack,' said Brodie frankly. âI'm scared to look that far ahead. It's enough that we're here, that Jonathan's being treated by someone who thinks he has a chance. That the choices, the decisions, are all made, and all we can do now is wait, and hope.'
She put the baby down to sleep in the bedroom. They moved into the sitting room next door. Deacon felt her watching him oddly. âWhat?'
âWhat do you suppose happened?' Brodie's voice was edgy, spiked by troubling thoughts.
Deacon frowned, not understanding. âYou know what happened. Terry Walsh arranged it. We know how many pies he's got fingers in. His paper mill probably gets tax concessions for supporting medical research, something like that.'
âYes. But⦠Doesn't it strike you as a hell of a coincidence?
That the one thing in the world that we need, someone you know is in a position to do for us. And not even someone who owes you a favour. You and Terry are
enemies
! You're sending him to prison.'
Deacon shrugged hefty shoulders. âThat's different. That's business. This was personal.'
âI know. But I keep wondering if it would have happened ifâ¦'
One of Deacon's thick eyebrows cranked higher than the other. âGo on â spit it out.'
âIf I'd never met Hester Dale.'
Deacon considered. âYou mean, we prayed for a miracle, and God sent us Terry Walsh?'
Brodie laughed out loud, then swallowed it as if someone might be listening. âBut if this works it will be a miracle. You weren't there â in all those consulting rooms. They put it different ways, but what all the best doctors in the business were saying was, “If your baby survives, Mrs Farrell, it'll be a miracle.” Maybe this is how it works. Maybe it's never a flash of light and a guy with feathers and a trumpet. Maybe it's always a subtle shifting of realities, so that someone turns out to be less ill than he thought, or someone else comes along with a cure in the nick of time. And
everyone
says, “We've been incredibly lucky.” Maybe it wasn't luck.'
âTerry Walsh as the agent of the Almighty?' Deacon shook his head bemusedly. âAnyway, why us? Every sick kid's parents must pray for a miracle. Why should we get special treatment?'
She looked at him sideways. âMaybe we earned it.'
âBy the exemplary manner in which we've conducted our lives?' snorted Deacon. âI don't think so.'
âDon't sell yourself short,' Brodie said softly. âYou've done a lot of good in this world, Jack, and you haven't always got the credit for it. Mostly that's your own fault â if you tell people you're a nasty bastard you can't complain when they believe you.
I
know you're a good man â not just a good policeman but a good man. And Charlie Voss knows it. I'm not sure anyone else does.
âBut Dimmock, and a lot of people in Dimmock, owe you more than they realise. Some of them owe you their lives. Maybe this is how the balance gets redressed.'
But Deacon shook his head again, stubbornly. âThat's my job. What you're suggesting would be like getting a knighthood for something you've already been well paid for.'
In the adjacent kitchen the kettle boiled. Brodie returned with mugs of coffee, just different enough to what they got at home to taste foreign. âAnd then,' she murmured, sitting down again, âthere's Daniel.'
Deacon cocked an eyebrow. âYou think Daniel's owed a miracle?'
âYou don't?'
They both considered that. Deacon said, âDaniel thinks you're his miracle. Brodie, whyâ?'
But she cut him off. âWe both know he's wrong about that. I've done him much more harm than good.'
âHe never held that against you. You couldn't have known you were going to get him hurt.'
âI could have guessed. At least that it was a possibility.
But that's not what I mean.' She bit her lip. âI've stood in his way for too long. He's thirty years old, and me and Paddy and Jonathan are the closest thing he has to a family. I shouldn't have let that happen. As soon as I realised he wanted more than I could give him, I should have made him look elsewhere. But I liked having him around. I used him. Maybeâ¦' She didn't finish the sentence.
Deacon heard it just the same. His voice came out a shocked whisper. âYou thinkâ¦what happened to Jonathan is because of how you treated Daniel?'
âNo,' she said, unconvincingly. âMaybe. Oh, I don't know. Only, if someone is keeping a tally, balancing the scalesâ¦'
But Deacon wouldn't have it, and not just because he didn't want her to blame herself for what he might have called an act of God but actually believed was nothing more than vicissitude. âAnd right there is where you get into difficulties with the whole faith business,' he said gruffly. âIf there is a God, and He gives babies cancer because their mothers behave badly, we shouldn't be worshipping Him. We should be finding a way to bring Him down..'
Brodie's horrified look, as if even now his lack of reverence could cost them everything, wasn't enough to silence him. â
I
believe in balancing the scales. I believe in the marble lady holding them on top of the Old Bailey. Because what she measures out is as close to justice as honest people can make it. She looks at the facts â not rumour, not hearsay, not belief or opinion but fact â makes a small allowance for human nature and gives a fair and decent reckoning. She makes us pay for our shortcomings.
She doesn't put our children on the altar.'
Brodie swallowed. The problem was, she'd never been religious either. She didn't know how much you were allowed to question before the vats of judgement were upended on you. âJack, please be carefulâ¦'
In deference to her anxiety he managed not to sneer. âIn case Someone Up There changes His mind?'
She managed a watery smile. âAm I being stupid?'
Deacon sighed. âNo. You're still just trying to do the best you can for Jonathan, same as you always have.'
There had been times when she'd wondered if he blamed her for Jonathan's illness. Not consciously, perhaps, but in the long lonely reaches of the night. His kindness brought a tear to her eye.
But Brodie didn't admit to crying. She cleared her throat. âFor a moment there you almost sounded like Daniel.'
âI don't need Daniel Hood to point out the flaws in someone's case,' sniffed Deacon. He saw that something was still troubling her. âWhat is it?'
Travel doesn't just broaden the mind â it makes it easier to unburden it. Brodie would never have spoken to Deacon this freely in her living room, or his bed. The rented apartment was neutral territory. They could say things here that wouldn't be witnessed by the fabric of their ordinary lives and brought up later to reproach them.
Her voice was sombre. âIt mattered to him, you know. His lack of faith.' But the words were wrong. It wasn't a lack of anything: Daniel's atheism was as strong as any creed. She tried again. âThe fact that his own conscience
was the highest authority he acknowledged. It really mattered to him. I spoilt that for him. I can't seem to stop hurting him.'
Deacon was sceptical. âI doubt it's something we can much affect in someone else, one way or the other. Either you believe or you don't. The arguments for make more sense to you than those against, or vice versa. You can't make someone believe, and you can't stop them believing.'
âNo. But I made him go against his beliefs. I made him put my needs above his ethics and choose between a lie and an apostasy â pretend to pray when he believed there was no one to listen, or abandon a conviction he'd lived his life by. It was a terrible thing to do to someone I care about.'
Deacon feigned a negligent shrug. This friendship between the mother of his child and another man made him as uneasy today as it always had. He'd got past feeling it was an immediate threat to his relationship with Brodie. But he was a conventional man, and the fact that he could never find a pigeonhole for it left him not knowing what to do with the thing. He knew it was real. He knew it had been of enormous importance to both of them. He was pretty sure that, Brodie's recent behaviour notwithstanding, it still was.
âIt's not as bad as that,' he said, clumsily reassuring. âDaniel had gone home by the time Hester Dale arrived. Maybe you were ready to sacrifice his beliefs for Jonathan, but it never came to that.'
Brodie was staring as if he'd said something extraordinary. âJack â¦
how
long have you known Daniel?'
âAs long as you have. Four years.'
âAnd you think that, because there was no one there to watch, he broke his promise?'
Put like that⦠â
You
think he went home alone and prayed to a God whose very name offends him, because he told you he would?'
âThat's exactly what I think.'
Deacon was nonplussed. âBut Brodieâ¦by then you'd insulted him, mocked him and all but thrown him out! He left your house bleeding every way but visibly. You can't treat people like that and still have them want to please you. Even Daniel.'
She didn't look at him. She said in a small, quiet voice, âI didn't say I expected it. I said it's what he did.'
âYou
asked
him?!'
She shook her head, the cloud of dark hair tossing. âI didn't need to. I know him, Jack. Nothing would have stopped him keeping his promise. He wouldn't even wonder if he needed to. He raised his objections when I asked him to do it. After he'd agreed, nothing would have stopped him.'
And Deacon knew she was right. âWhy?' he asked softly. âWhy did it matter so much to you to involve Daniel in something you knew was anathema to him? You must have known that, even though he'd do it, he'd never forgive you.'
âThat was my sacrifice,' she whispered.
She'd lost him. âWhat do you
mean
?'
She stumbled to put it into words. âWhat we were asking â for Jonathan â it wasn't like a charm to cure a
verruca. He was dying of the sort of illness that shows up on X-rays. Reordering reality enough to get round that wasn't going to be easy. A miracle that big I expected to have to pay for. I offered up my best friend to save my son. I offered up his conscience, his soul, his dignity. Every way but actually, I crucified him. Daniel's friendship was the only thing of real value to me that I could give up, and that was the only way I could think of doing it.
âAnd I nearly didn't, Jack. I nearly decided it was too much. Even for my baby. I nearly decided the sacrifice was too great.' The tears were running down her face openly now, spilling either side of her mouth.
Deacon felt he'd been sideswiped by a wrecking ball. Finally he understood. The things she'd done, the things she'd said, that had made no sense to him at the time â finally they did. She'd given up almost the biggest thing in her life for the one thing that mattered more. For the tiny chance that someone was listening who might appreciate the gift enough to save her son. His voice was weak, hollow. âWhen I asked why you were treating Daniel like that, you said he deserved it.'