Donor, The (5 page)

Kay was fast asleep and Georgie was ‘out with friends’ – which for some years had been code for ‘out doing God knows what’ – when Will took a newly purchased notebook into his office. He cleared a space on the desk, opened the notebook at the first page and wrote the heading ‘1) Cynthia’. The fact that he had
written
the number ‘1’ scared him, because this indicated that there were subsequent options; that if this did not work he would need to move on to numbers 2) and 3) and – God forbid – 4), or even 5). He was unwilling to consider failure. He would succeed. He would do everything in his power to get that woman’s kidney. Okay, so the plan was not foolproof. He might not find her. She might be dead. If alive, she might not be compatible. He might not be, for that matter. No! Of course he would be. He had always been able to do everything for those girls. He would be able to do this too. From the moment he received the diagnoses, Will just
knew
that he would be compatible and refused to consider otherwise.

So both parents saving both children was the best option – and should be attempted in full before any others were considered.

A week earlier, Will had spoken to the specialist about the test. ‘Not yet,’ he had said. The doctor, Mr Jamieson – who always had Van Morrison on repeat on the CD player in his office – nodded when Will told him there was no hurry. ‘We can do that any time,’ Will said. ‘Just dotting the i’s. Of course I’ll be
suitable
.’

Sometimes a dreadful scenario crept into Will’s thoughts, one where he has already been tested and is ready to donate, but there is no other donor available. In this situation, he would have a terrible, unthinkable decision to make. The thought of it made him slap his face with his hand (
Don’t go there, Will. Don’t even think about it. Not now. Not ever.
) Which option would this be above? Number 5, perhaps? He hit his forehead with his palm this time and said ‘No!’ out loud. He would never choose. He would save Georgie and Kay – which meant having both donors in place at the same time – which meant finding Cynthia. She was their mother, after all. What mother would refuse? What mother would leave the fate of her beautiful children at the mercy of an unreadable, ever-increasing list – a list with at least 6,500 people on it – yet only 1,800
transplants
had been carried out in the last twelve months?

He sighed, fear overtaking his attempt at confidence, because the sort of mother who might do the above is also the sort of mother who might bugger off to the shops and never come back.

The AA map route to Manchester Prison churned out of the printer. Was that all he needed for the
journey
tomorrow afternoon? He checked the list he’d written under the heading on the first page of his
notebook
.

Will took himself to the smallest bedroom upstairs and stared at the ceiling for several hours before falling asleep.

After Kay went off to school the following morning, he decided not to wake Georgie. The dialysis was really taking its toll on her. She needed her rest.

He was about to make himself breakfast when the doorbell rang.

‘Hello, William,’ his father said. ‘We need to talk.’

His parents visited once a month for dinner, a routine which they had insisted on after Cynthia left. Each month Will dreaded it, Georgie tried to get out of it and Kay looked on the bright side. (‘They’re our grandparents, Georgie. They love us. You can’t go out with friends!’) Will believed these three hours gave his parents a ‘get-out-of-guilt-free’ card. They’d seen their son. Tick. Asked their granddaughters about school and netball and orchestra. Tick. So off they could tootle to their show-home house in North Queensferry, which was far enough away to make further contact (i.e. help) impossible. Will’s father had been a major in the army. His mum a husband-follower who liked good port at dinner parties. They’d sent Will to
boarding
school aged nine, where he’d hidden his loneliness in books and music. After graduating they sent him off to uni in St Andrews, where – much to their
disapproval
– he buried himself in films and filmy types. As a result, Will didn’t know his parents at all. Thus far, he had no regrets. What he knew of them, he didn’t like. Will’s father had retired following the death of his uber-wealthy parents, leaving him enough money to buy twenty-three flats in Spain. He decided to rent them out and asked Will if he would like to manage the rentals for him. (‘It’s all very well wasting time on some Mickey Mouse media course, but it’s the real world now, William. You’re a father! You need to
support
your family.’) The job involved advertising the properties, banking money and talking to people about the firmness of the beds, proximity to beach and pool facilities and the likelihood of rain. For years, Will had logged onto the computer each day with a loud sigh. It was possibly the loneliest and most tedious job in the world. Sometimes he prayed that a film idea would pop into his brain like it used to when he was at St Andrews. It never did.

‘Rentals were down 30 per cent this year,’ Will’s father said. He was in one of his golfing ensembles – well-ironed grey trousers, black and red and grey argyle V-neck jumper. He’d obviously planned the visit to coincide with a round at Loch Lomond. As if Will cared about the rentals at the moment. As if it
bothered
him that Brits were staying home for their
holidays
this year.

‘Thing is, we can’t afford to keep them. Bad time to sell, bottom’s out of the market, over-supply and what not, but I’m afraid we have no option.’

As Will made him a cup of coffee he wondered if he should throw it over his father’s head. He hadn’t seen him since
that
phone call, and he wanted to talk about the credit crunch!

That
phone call was the first Will had made after Kay’s diagnosis. He didn’t beat around the bush. He asked his mother outright. ‘Would one or both of you be willing to be tested?’

After a pause that was long enough to answer his question, Will’s mother said they’d have to talk it over.

Will’s father emailed two days later. ‘William, we are still thinking about it. Obviously there might be issues because of our age. Have you put the new photographs of the pool on holidaylettings.com?’

‘Here you go,’ Will said, recalling the email angrily and placing the mug of Nescafé on the bench. He was throwing it over his father’s head in his head. He hadn’t written this option in his notebook yet, but as he sipped his coffee he decided it would be option no. 2).

They both drank it as fast as they could while Will answered questions that did not involve being an unemployed single parent with children who might die.

When he left, Will grabbed his keys and found
himself
walking around to Linda’s house.

*

‘You’re crying,’ Will said when she finally answered the door.

‘It’s the tears give it away,’ she said, shutting it behind him.

Over a bottle of Highland Spring mineral water, they took turns to unload. They both had good reasons to. Linda’s involved a mobile phone that rang at 2155 the previous night. At first, she ignored it, thinking it was the radio or a car alarm. But when it rang again at 2157, she followed the twinkle tone upstairs, into the bedroom, and into the fitted wardrobes she’d paid a handsome joiner a fortune to build, and into a pair of trousers.

Her husband, the silly moo, had left his phone in his jeans before heading off on business again.

The phone stopped ringing by the time she found it. She wasn’t the kind to pry into her husband’s business – partly because she wasn’t very interested in him any more and partly because he was bald and fat now and she felt confident that no one would want him.

WHAT TIME DO YOU ARRIVE
? a text from the same number that had just called read.

I’VE BEEN WAITING AN HOUR
, said the next.

WHERE R U
?

I’M WEARING THE PANTIES YOU BOUGHT ME
…

*

It was pretty clichéd, Will supposed, to wipe tears from a crying woman’s cheek then move in for a kiss. Like snogging someone shitfaced at a club. A bad way to start. An accident. But that’s how Will and Linda ended up in bed, with a tear wipe, a kiss and the
following
request:

‘Do you mind if I hit you?’

Will thought for a moment and then said ‘I’d
actually
rather you didn’t.’

‘You deserve to be hit, fucking a married woman.’

He turned to face her in bed. So this was the real Linda: scary while naked. He preferred the fully clad version. ‘Do I?’

‘You do. You’ve been a very bad boy. If my husband finds out he’ll hit you even harder, might even kill you.’

‘Can’t I just feel a bit guilty? Go to confession or something?’

‘This is your confession. What have you done, Good Guy?’

‘I’ve fucked a married woman, but her husband is cheating …’

‘What did you say?’

‘Her husband is cheating on her.’

‘No, the first bit. Say it again.’

‘I fucked a married woman. Please don’t hit me too hard.’

Linda did not comply with this instruction. She grabbed a wooden spoon from the bedside table and walloped Will full throttle on the balls. Will cried. He wished he’d noticed the wooden spoon earlier.

‘I’m going to go home now,’ he said, wiping his eyes, holding his testicles and struggling into his clothes.

‘Ah, that was fantastic,’ she said as Will finally
managed
his shoes. ‘I needed that. Call me later, yeah?’

‘Sure. When I get back from Manchester.’

‘Your daughter was supposed to visit me,’ Heath said from his side of the crescent-shaped chair.

Heath had put on weight since Will last saw him. The anger in his jaw was puffy. He oozed a stench of airless sweat, socks and spunk. Fat, stinky and
incarcerated
, he still scared the living daylights out of Will, who held one hand in the other to try and contain the trembling. They’d never spoken without Cynthia present and Will realised an uncomfortable
lynchpin
was better than none at all. These were her men, her two men, sitting opposite each other, eyeing each other: one with begging terror, the other with violent disdain.

‘She’s not well,’ Will said. Did he stammer? He hoped not. Did it matter if Heath knew how
frightened
he was? Did it matter that Will seemed infantile, tiny and feeble in comparison to this brute? Perhaps not, but it annoyed Will no end that Heath Jones still held all the power despite his prison-issue polo shirt.

‘So?’

‘It’s both the girls, Cynthia’s girls.’ (How long since he’d said her name out loud? The hot sound of it
travelled
through his veins.)

‘Like I said,
So
?’

‘So I want to find my wife.’

‘Wife!’ Heath paused for a dramatic gangster-style laugh then spoke with a snigger. ‘Do you still take hours to cum? She hated that.’

‘Where is she?’ Will’s hands had separated and were now visibly shaking as they rested on top of his
notebook
and pen.

He was red. He knew he was red. Inside the red was Cynthia’s voice saying, ‘Get off me, will you? Can you not tell I’ve finished?’

‘What’s it worth to you?’ Heath moved closer. His breath smelt of pus.

Will suggested one hundred pounds.

‘Actually, no thanks, mate,’ Heath said, sliding down his chair, getting comfortable. ‘I’m more than happy to do an old friend a favour.’

Will hesitated. Heath’s fixed smile unnerved him. ‘Well, thank you,’ he managed, after a long pause.

‘No problems.’ Heath leant forward, scribbled something on Will’s notebook, and stood up.

Oh no, Will thought, he wants to shake hands. Is there any way I can get out of shaking hands?

There wasn’t. Will tried very hard to remain
expressionless
as Heath sealed the deal. This was not possible.It hurt, a lot, and Will’s eyes narrowed with pain before filling with liquid.

Heath turned to leave. He was almost out the door when he stopped and said, ‘Tell me when you’ve found her, eh?’

As Heath disappeared into the bosom of the prison, Will inhaled deeply. He wasn’t sure, but he wondered if he’d forsaken breathing for several minutes
beforehand
.

Half an hour later, Will left Strangeways having achieved two things:

He had Cynthia’s last known address – a year ago, she had lived in a flat in Finsbury Park, London.

And he owed Heath Jones a favour.

*

It was dark by the time Will found the street. He had to park two hundred metres from the address, which was a large Victorian terraced house near the tube
station
. At the front door, he knocked three times and waited.

The door had once contained a rectangle of glass. This had been boarded over with unpainted MDF. The doormat was frayed and filthy. Will stared at it, trying to remain calm. Would he see her any second? Would she be as enthralling as she was back then? How would it make him feel? Suddenly, a piece of paper appeared on top of the mat. Someone inside had posted a note underneath the door. He picked it up.

‘Put the money through the bay window at the front,’ the note said.

What?
Will read it again, knocked again. Nothing happened. He walked out into the front garden (a strip of concrete, really, three feet long). One of the
windows
in the bay was open about two inches.

‘I don’t have money,’ he said through the crack. The bent metal venetians prevented him from seeing inside.

‘Well fuck off, then,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘No money, no gear.’

‘I don’t want gear. My name is Will Marion. Cynthia, is that you?’

The pause that followed was interminable. Was it her? Was she fixing her hair for him? Or jumping out the back window, running through lanes, hailing a taxi?

He moved back to the front door and waited. Oh God, oh God, the door was opening.

‘You know Cynthia?’ The woman before him was about twenty-three. Seven stone at the most. Track marks. Her eyes two empty ponds.

‘I’m her ex-husband. Can I see her?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Is she there?’

‘Maybe.’

He would have to pay, he realised.

‘Go get her,’ he said, placing a neat ten-pound note in her hand.

She put the money in her pocket. ‘She’s not here. She left a year ago. Fucking slag. Stole our gear. Far as I know, she went to India with her friend. You find her, tell her we’ve not forgotten.’

‘Where in India?’

The woman had no idea.

‘What friend?’

‘That’s all I know,’ she said, scratching her arm so hard it made Will’s arm feel sore.

*

Before heading home, Will visited someone he should have visited thirteen years earlier.

Meredith was a foster carer, the last person, in fact, to attempt to parent Cynthia, who had arrived at her house at the age of fifteen. Cynthia loved her, said Meredith was the only adult who ever really
understood
her as a child. Will hadn’t seen Meredith and her then-husband, Brett, since they’d driven all the way to Glasgow for the wedding. The wedding! Cynthia had said she wanted something unconventional and humanist. Somehow, she ended up deciding on the University Chapel and an old hotel in Dumbartonshire. It couldn’t have been more conservative. She even wore white and asked Meredith’s husband to give her away.

‘Brett died a year ago,’ Meredith said sadly. ‘An infected finger ended up poisoning his blood and destroying his insides.’

Since the wedding, Meredith had changed from a middle-aged cuddly person into a fat old person. Will counted four chins as she retrieved a postcard from her magnet-infested fridge.

‘Merry,’ it read. ‘You HAVE to come here. There are so many colours!’

The picture on the front of the postcard showed a gorgeous beach with cafes selling lassi. ‘Chapora, Goa’, it read. It was dated eleven months ago.

*

An accident near Penrith and road works at Dumfries meant it took Will eight hours to drive home. The house was quiet – he assumed both girls were in bed asleep.

So her last known address was in India. He went to his office, took out his notebook and wrote: ‘India – Go there and try to find her myself?’

As he jotted pros and cons neatly, he realised this was not a viable option. He couldn’t leave the girls to cope with dialysis alone.

Next, he googled her name – using her maiden name, Burns, her married name, Marion, and Heath’s surname, Jones. Pages and pages later, he realised the search was too wide, and that it was unlikely she’d have built an internet presence considering her busy
drug-taking
and itinerant lifestyle.

He searched Facebook. The Cynthias with the right surnames as well as head shots bore no resemblance. He began messaging the ones without photos, but became disheartened when he realised he would need to send thousands of them.

He tried Twitter. Got nowhere.

Looked up online missing person’s databases. Needed a drink.

Phoned the UK embassy in Delhi. It rang out for hours, and when someone finally answered the phone they dismissed him with a muffled reply about ‘not being in’ and hung up.

Knowing he needed help with this, he googled Glasgow private detectives. In the end, an agency called The Hunters and Collectors leapt out. Will emailed them the basic details, having decided that he would give the agency three weeks to find her. Failing that, he might have to write another heading on the third page of his notebook.