Past Lives (5 page)

'Do you own your camels, Ishmael?'

'No, they belong to Zachariah. He owns more than a hundred but I am in charge of three other drivers. Zaccharias trusts me.'

'Have you ever heard of someone called the Nazarene?'

'The one the Christians follow?'

'Yes.'

'He died a long time ago!'

Ignatius nodded to the Stroud who administered another injection.

Benny appeared to have some kind of convulsion. He sat bolt upright with fear etched on his face and cried out in anguish but the moment passed and he slumped back down on the bed. Stroud indicated to Ignatius that he could continue.

'Your name?'

'Ibrahim Dwek.'

Whereas Ishmael had spoken with a coarse accent, Ibrahim Dwek spoke in cultured tones and told of his life as a librarian at the Temple in Jerusalem. He wasn’t married and lived with his widowed mother Nesta and his sister Shula. Ignatius made notes while keeping up a string of questions as he gradually built up a picture of Dwek’s life. 'What do you know about a teacher from Galilee, the one the Christians follow?'

'Jesus of Nazareth? He’s long dead but people still speak of him and he has a big following.'

'Are you or any of your family or friends, followers?'

'No.'

'A little more, please, Doctor.'

In response to the look of doubt that appeared on Stroud’s face, Ignatius whispered, 'He hasn't been put under any real stress.'

Another small injection was administered and Benny's skin became pallid and his breathing laboured. There was a vague chemical smell on his breath which made Ignatius recoil slightly. 'Tell me who you are and where you live,’ he asked in his even, reassuring tones.

'James. I’m from Caesarea.'

'What do you know about Jesus of Nazareth, James?'

‘
He died that we might live forever.’

Ignatius exchanged glances with Stroud. 'You're a follower?’ he exclaimed.

No reply.

‘
You do know him?'

‘
The Romans crucified him the year I was born.’

The disappointment in the room was almost palpable. 'Why did you say what you did about living for ever?

'I met a man in prison.’

‘
You were in prison? Where?’

'The Roman prison in Caesarea.'

Ignatius suddenly became very excited. He had to work at keeping his voice calm. 'You were in prison in Caesarea where you met a man who told you about Jesus of Nazareth?’

Ignatius did not blink as he waited for a reply. He was almost too frightened to take a breath. When no reply was forthcoming he said, 'The man who told you these things, he came from Tarsus, didn’t he?'

'Yes, Paul of Tarsus.’

Ignatius silently mouthed the words, 'Saint Paul.'

'Tell me about your time in prison,' he said hoarsely.

A tremor started in Benny’s hands, which quickly spread to his whole body and he became very restless. His words didn’t make sense any more.

‘
Another injection,’ said Ignatius.

‘
Not possible,’ said Stroud. ‘There’s none left.’

Kansas City

USA

Macandrew left Tony Francini with Saul Klinsman still trying to pacify him while he went to examine Jane. What the hell did Francini mean by ‘not his wife’? One of the nurses saw him as he approached the recovery suite and came over. She said. 'Mr Francini was here Mac; he was very abusive.'

'I've just seen him,' replied Macandrew. 'What's going on?'

The nurse shrugged and looked uncomfortable. 'Mrs Francini seems totally disorientated. She's conscious but doesn't recognise any of the nurses; she didn't know her husband; I don’t think she even knows herself.'

'What does that mean?'

'She insists her name’s not, Francini,’ said the nurse.

Macandrew entered the recovery room where Jane Francini lay. It was a small, quiet room with subdued lighting in line with hospital policy that patients should come round after their operation in a calm and reassuring environment. Any medical paraphernalia associated with emergency resuscitation was stowed in cupboards behind the patient or out of their line of sight. Jane Francini had opened her eyes to a large print of Kansas corn fields at harvest time hung on a wall of sky blue but, at the moment, she was throwing her head from side to side on the pillow in a state of great distress.

Macandrew watched her shrug off the attentions of the nurse who was with her. She growled angrily at the woman and spoke what sounded to Macandrew like a stream of gibberish. The look in her eyes however, suggested that she thought the nurse should understand and respond to what she was saying. The nurse stepped back to allow Macandrew to take over. She seemed relieved.

He could see that Jane did not recognise him or anything to do with her surroundings. Her eyes flitted all over the room and she mumbled almost continuously. It disturbed him that even her voice seemed different to what he remembered. He recalled a pleasant, quietly spoken, reserved woman who had thanked him for explaining her condition to her and outlining the course of her operation.

Despite the seriousness of her problem, she had kept her sense of humour and had commented on his name, saying that she felt safe in the hands of a 'fellow Scot'. She herself was the daughter of second generation immigrants; her maiden name was Campbell. Macandrew remembered wondering at the time why such a pleasant woman had come to marry the brash Tony Francini and had put it down to opposites attracting.

Jane now had a deep rasping voice. Her eyes had changed too; he couldn't quite put his finger on it but there was something about her expression that alarmed him. She sounded deranged but her facial expression suggested intelligence rather than madness.

'Mrs Francini, do you remember me?' asked Macandrew firmly but gently. ‘I’m your surgeon. You’re in hospital. You’ve just had a serious operation but you’ve come through it well.’

Jane Francini's head stopped moving and her face turned towards him. He saw that she was afraid. She started to speak again and a torrent of unintelligible words swamped Macandrew. Jane Francini’s hands reached up to grab the lapels of his white coat as if imploring him to do something, but what?

'Take it easy,' he soothed. 'There's nothing to worry about. Everything's going to be all right. Just relax and get some rest. You'll feel better real soon, I promise.' Macandrew gave her a sedative.

In an almost seamless transition, the look in Jane Francini's eyes changed from fear to puzzlement; her voice also changed. She now spoke in a soft young voice, as if she was a little girl but quite coherently. She looked appealingly at Macandrew. 'I have to get back now. It's getting dark. My mother will worry if I’m not home soon.’

‘
Where’s home, Jane?’

'Fulton Grange.'

Macandrew looked to the two nurses who shook their heads but before he could ask Jane anything further, she grew very tired as the drug took effect and her head fell back on the pillow.

'I’ve given her enough to keep her out for a while,’ said Macandrew. ‘This business isn't going to do her heart condition any favours.'

'What's wrong with her?' asked the younger of the two nurses in the room.

It was a simple question and Macandrew found himself wishing he had a simple answer other than, 'I don’t know.'

With Jane sedated and sleeping peacefully, Macandrew returned to Saul Klinsman's office, albeit with some trepidation. He wasn't looking forward to another verbal assault from Tony Francini. When he entered, he found Francini sitting in Klinsman's green leather armchair, nursing a drink; he could smell it on the air; it was brandy. He appeared to have calmed down although Klinsman was still speaking to him in appeasing tones, assuring him that nothing had gone wrong at the operation. The tumour had been removed cleanly and without complications but he had to understand that his wife might still be very ill; it all depended on what the lab report said about the tumour itself.

'How is she?' Klinsman asked as Macandrew came into the room.

'Sleeping. I've sedated her.'

'What's wrong with her?' asked Francini. His earlier aggression had been replaced for the moment by vulnerability. His eyes appealed for answers.

'Quite frankly Mr Francini,' said Macandrew softly, 'I haven't come across anything quite like this before.'

Francini slumped forward in the chair and then re-donned his tough guy mantle. 'I should have taken her to LA,' he said to no one in particular. 'Letting some hick with a knife loose on Janey wasn't the brightest thing I've ever done.'

Macandrew took the insult stoically. The man was hurting. Klinsman moved uncomfortably in his chair behind the desk as Francini went on to slate the Med Centre as if no one was present. 'Fucking two-bit hick dump. . . ’

'Mr Francini,' began Macandrew in controlled fashion.

Francini looked up from the floor and Macandrew almost recoiled at the dislike he saw there in his eyes. 'Your wife is sleeping; she'll be out for some time. Why don't you go home and get some rest? We'll call you if there's any news.'

Francini got up slowly and came towards Macandrew. Macandrew held his ground and did his best to remain motionless when, in reality, his brain was warning him to take some defensive action. Francini stopped short in front of him and stabbed his finger into his chest. 'If I lose her . . . ' he warned. 'If I lose her . . . ' Francini turned and walked out of the room.

Klinsman let out his breath in a long sigh and Macandrew slumped down in a chair and closed his eyes. 'I thought he was going to hit me.'

'He might still,' said Klinsman. 'Just don't hit him back. We’re in enough trouble.'

Klinsman's comment had not entirely been concerned with ethics. Macandrew was a surgeon but he was built like a light-heavyweight boxer. He was at least six inches taller than Francini and probably weighed fifty pounds more. Although his features were refined and his manner gentle, he’d always felt his size was a disadvantage in his chosen profession. Joe public preferred that neurosurgeons be slim and studious - preferably with a mid-European accent and wearing rimless glasses. To be tall and broad was fine for a lumberjack but in the operating room, people started equating size with clumsiness and wondering about dexterity. Even his name was wrong; John Macandrew sounded more like a ranch owner than a doctor. Operate on my kid? The hell yuh will . . .

'I really don't know what's going on,' said Macandrew wearily. 'I only hope it's some weird reaction to anaesthesia and she'll be OK when she wakes up.'

'You and me both,' said Klinsman. 'The Med Centre can do without this right now.'

'What do you mean by “this”?' asked Macandrew, displaying uncharacteristic paranoia.

Klinsman looked at him dispassionately and said, 'I have to think of the Med Centre's reputation, Mac. Mistakes can lead to damaging publicity, not to mention lawsuits.'

'There was no mistake,’ Macandrew insisted. ‘It was a textbook operation. The tumour was removed cleanly and in its entirety. There was no damage done to any other area of the brain. We haven't had a full path report yet, but there was no surgical damage. Period.'

Klinsman held up his hands as if in self-defence. 'I'm not suggesting you screwed up Mac,' he said. 'Believe me. It's just that I'm sitting in the hot seat and we have a patient who appears to be, for the moment at least, post-operatively damaged.'

Macandrew calmed down and thought for a few moments before deciding that there was no point in continuing the conversation. He got up to leave.

'Keep me informed,' said Klinsman.

Macandrew paused for a moment outside in the corridor, suddenly feeling very alone. On the way back to his office, he felt sure that people were looking at him accusingly out of the corner of their eyes. He told himself it was probably his imagination - and it was - but he was still relieved when he reached his office and closed the door behind him. After a few minutes of just sitting at his desk with his chin resting on his folded hands, he picked up the phone and called the path lab. 'Any word on the Francini case?'

'One moment please.'

Macandrew glanced out at the reddening sky while he waited. It would be dark soon. Not exactly the perfect end to a perfect day.

'Mac, it's Carl,' said the voice of Carl Lessing, Chief of Neurological Histopathology. 'I was just about to call you. I've been looking at the Francini sections. Sorry for taking so long but it’s bad news, I’m afraid. The tumour was malignant and pretty aggressive too. If you have a moment maybe you could come down? There’s something I’d like you to see.’

‘
On my way,’ said Macandrew.

Macandrew took the elevator to the basement where the Pathology Department was situated. His eyes watched the floor indicator but his mind was on other things. Jane Francini’s pre-op scans had only shown up a single tumour but in view of what Lessing had just told him about the tumour’s aggressive nature, maybe there had been small secondaries that hadn’t shown up or worse still, had been so small that he’d missed them. This would be one explanation for her condition.