The Ice Child (39 page)

“This is Sam and John’s father,” she had said, and smiled shyly. “The owner of the rare haplotype, the awkward cuss.”

She’d handed him the pictures with pride. Douglas Marshall smiled back at her. Douglas Marshall on a beach somewhere. Douglas Marshall on an icy shoreline.

“He had a fixation,” Jo had said. “He passed that to his son too. Franklin.”

The name had been in the news so much recently, as a result of Jo’s
Courier
article, that Elliott felt that he knew the story backward. Jo and Catherine Takkiruq were so sure that John had gone to the Arctic, to a place called King William Island, that Canadian and Nunavut newspapers had carried Sam’s story. Appeals had been made to every organization that ran any kind of transport out there. John’s picture had been posted in Canadian airports.

“I forgot about Franklin,” Jo had told him. “Can you imagine that? Franklin got Doug and me together. We were going to do a program on him at one time. And yet, since Sam was born, I hadn’t given those ships a single thought.”

She’d been in quite high spirits that day. “He’ll come back,” she had said confidently. “He’s a good kid. He’ll come.”

But John hadn’t come.

Four weeks. No one had heard of him, either in England, or Nunavut, or Canada. Even Catherine’s father, in Arctic Bay, had not heard any news of him. John Marshall had simply not turned up to follow Franklin’s footsteps.

Elliott had witnessed Jo Harper’s savage disappointment.

He longed to tell her what he knew. What professional guidelines told him was more politic to keep private. He had been wrestling with this problem, witnessing Jo’s hesitation.

She knew he was not supposed, ethically, to disclose if a donor had been found, let alone if John were a match. She was pursuing John with metaphorical fingers crossed, placing all her hopes in the belief that he could match Sam.

But she didn’t know for sure.

No one did, except the Norberry Trust, and himself.

And that knowledge weighed very heavy.

Elliott turned away from the river, and went back to St. Bene’t Street.

In the hushed road the church was already open, and Holy Eucharist had begun. He hesitated before opening the door, anxious not to disturb the service. Going in quietly, he took a place at the back and closed his eyes.

St. Bene’t was the oldest building in the city, built in the reign of King Canute. Elliott had used to come here regularly when he was a student, to hear the bells. The earliest bell was dated 1588. The altar in the south aisle was medieval. The widely splayed windows were thirteenth century. Men had worshiped and prayed here for centuries.

He leaned forward now, elbows on knees, and prayed too.

He got back to the house at ten minutes to nine.

He found that the TV crew had now arrived; their van, and a couple of four-wheel drives, were parked on the double yellow lines. As he looked in the open door, he could see Jo down the hall, Sam on her hip, his head on her shoulder. She glanced around as she heard his footstep on the flagstone floor.

“Hello, Bill,” she said, smiling. “You nearly missed our big moment.” She handed him a cup of coffee. “We decided on the garden,” she said, and nodded toward the back of the house.

The chairs were set on the lawn, under the lilac tree.

“Looks very professional,” he said.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Hope I don’t fluff it.” She gave him a helpless look. He touched her arm as he looked at Sam. The child stared at him silently. He touched the boy’s cheek, ran his finger down the fine downy skin. Jo looked at Elliott. Her expression was unreadable as she turned and walked into the garden.

“We’re ready for you,” the director said.

Jo sat down on the chair facing the camera, rearranging her skirt, and making sure that Sam was comfortable. They took a light reading.

“Hey, Sam,” the director said, taking something from his pocket, “want to hold this?” He held out a Beanie Baby.

Sam took one look at it and began to cry.

There was a murmur of concern.

“Hey,” Jo said, turning her son to face her, “what’s up?”

Sam arched his back.

“He’s tired,” Jo said. “I’m sorry.”

“No matter.” The director reached instead to the grass behind him and handed Jo a clapper board. Sam looked at it out of the corner of his eye, and his hitched sobs petered out.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” Jo said.

Bill Elliott found a lump coming to his throat.

“Turning,” someone called.

Jo lifted her face to the camera.

“This is my son,” she said, smiling. “His name is Sam. Just under three months ago we found out that Sam was ill.”

Sam, intrigued by the clapper board, had turned his head away.

Elliott closed his eyes, seeing the negative imprint of the tree, the woman, the child.

“Like any two-year-old,” Jo was continuing, “Sam likes to get into all sorts of trouble.” She stroked his shoulder. “And like any mother, I’m used to getting him out.” She gently pulled Sam around so that he was facing the camera.

There was an awful silence in the garden, as Sam at last looked directly into the lens.

He had been a handsome, mischievous little boy with a thick head of straw-colored hair and startlingly blue eyes, not so long ago. But the face that would reach into every home on every TV screen the following weekend was not handsome or mischievous anymore.

He had lost a great deal of hair. His skin was yellow.

Worst of all, Elliott thought, was that look in Sam’s eyes. He had seen it a thousand times before. It was filled with a knowledge of pain. Elliott had often thought before that there came a point—to some early, to others later—when a child, and the parents of that child, inherited an expression that was not quite of this world. They went to places of the spirit that were so cold, so frightening, that it changed them forever, and the evidence appeared in the expression of their eyes. They were different inside. Not just because of the illness, but because of the peculiar and particular journey that they had made in their hearts. They were travelers, all. And in countries where no human soul could survive for long.

Tears filled Bill’s eyes. He looked down at the ground, frowning. Hoping no one had seen him, as he quickly rubbed them away.

“But this time I can’t get Sam out of trouble,” Jo was softly saying. “He’s got something called aplastic anemia, and if you’re like me, you’ll think … well, that doesn’t sound so bad.” She smiled. “But unfortunately, it is bad. Sam needs a bone-marrow transplant.”

She paused. She, too, seemed to be struggling with her emotions. The crew looked at each other. The director, watching her, held up a restraining hand.
Wait for her
.

Jo finally raised her head. “That’s a pretty bad position to be in,” she said. “And Sam needs a donor. A bone-marrow donor.”

She glanced, very briefly, at the director. She was making a picture sign at her, to demonstrate that she should carry on, and that images would be overlaid at this point.

“This is John Marshall,” she said. “He’s Sam’s half-brother. It’s just possible that John could be a bone-marrow match for Sam. It’s a kind of straw that we’re clutching at right now.” She gave a hesitant smile, took a deep breath. “The problem—and it’s a big problem—is that we don’t know where John is, and we wonder if you could help us. John is an archaeological student. He used to live in Cambridge.”

The director’s hand made a slicing motion. The image was back with Jo.

“Sam and I would like to ask you today if you have seen John Marshall,” Jo said. “He might be in this country, or abroad. Perhaps you’ve traveled recently, and you’ve seen him. At an airport, or in another country. He’s tall, and fair haired, and he … well, he looks quite a bit like his father, Douglas Marshall.”

Bill Elliott quietly moved closer, across the grass.

“The James Norberry Trust is an organization that matches up bone marrow donors to patients like Sam,” Jo said. “There are millions of people all over the world who offer to donate their bone marrow,” Jo said. “And it can make all the difference. It can save a life. Right now. This minute. Today. John Marshall was registered with the Trust.”

Sam leaned back in her arms and, as if on cue, gazed up at his mother.

“So, if you think that you could be a donor, or if you think you have seen John Marshall,” she said, “please contact the number at the bottom of the screen today. And”—she bit her lip—“thanks very much,” she murmured. “Thanks.”

They were all finished by half past nine. Bill Elliott had made his thirty-second shot with Jo. Between the beginning and the end of her appeal, there would be other shots of him sitting with case files in his office, and talking to nurses on the ward. Cut in through both Jo and Bill and the images of John would be the work of the Trust. The item, originally sponsored by the Trust, was due to be screened the following Sunday, in the traditional appeal slot just before the late-afternoon news.

In terms of publicity it wasn’t a huge amount. But it certainly was better than nothing.

“You did well,” Jo said, as they sat together after the crew had left.

“Not if you saw the stuff they took yesterday,” Bill said. “They showed me the rough cut in that Handycam they carry.… I walk like a duck.” Jo began to laugh.

“Imagine living to my advanced age and never knowing you walk like a duck,” he said. “It’s appalling. I’ve got to balance books on my head or go to classes, or something.”

“You do not walk like a duck,” she said.

“It was folding my arms behind my back. That put the cap on it.”

Jo laughed. He saw her eyes trail up to the bedroom window above them, where Sam could be heard fretting.

“His temperature is all to hell,” she murmured.

“I ought to go,” he said.

She glanced at her watch. “Are you late?”

“No,” he said, “but I like to be early. I get one Sunday a fortnight with the kids, and I don’t like to make them wait.”

She stood up. “It must be tough for you,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s amazing what you can get used to.”

“To go to their new house and everything,” Jo said.

“See someone else in your place, yes,” he agreed.

She moved to the door of the house, which led through to the kitchen.

“Jo,” he said, “you know that, if they find a match, you must go to Great Ormond Street for the transplant.”

She looked back at him. “I’m glad you believe in a match,” she said.

“You have to believe it,” he said. “Plan for it.”

“Excuse me if my faith is a little thin,” she said.

“You know what my head nurse tells me?” he offered. “You go in flesh, and you come out steel.”

“What?” she said, frowning suddenly.

“When you face a crisis,” he said, “it’s like a furnace. You go in flesh and you come out steel.”

She paused. The color had flooded to her face. He hesitated, wondering what the matter was. What he had said.

“I hate that stuff,” she muttered.

“I’m sorry? What stuff?”

“God makes burdens for the broadest backs,” she muttered. “All that stifling ridiculous sanctimonious crap.”

He halted, shocked.

She was looking away from him, into the shadows of the house. “I had a priest here yesterday,” she said. “Apparently he’s the local vicar.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t know, because I don’t go to church. I don’t even know how he knew who I was.” She picked up a tea cloth from the nearest chair, folded it abstractedly. “Do you know what he said to me?” she asked.

“No. Tell me.”

“He asked me if I could give my sorrow to God.” She threw the cloth down and turned to him, hand on hip.

“And can you?” he asked.

She threw up her hands. “Oh, don’t
you
start,” she exclaimed.

“You don’t believe in God,” he said.

“Have you looked at Sam? Do you blame me?” She glared at him. “You know, Catherine has a faith,” she said. “And it looks like you have.”

“Yes,” he said.

She shook her head angrily. “Well, tell me,” she said, “how do you do that? I don’t get it. Catherine watches Sam as much as I do. He’s almost like her brother or son. And she just—she just doesn’t get angry.”

“And you’re angry,” he said.

She advanced on him, eyes blazing. “Bloody right I’m angry,” she said. “You want me to think there’s some logic or reason behind all this? Some omnipotent being? You want me to pray? Ask Him for help?” Her mouth trembled. “I can’t ask Him. Do you understand that?” she said. “I can’t pray anymore.”

They stood, face to face.

Bill Elliott had the intelligence to say nothing at all.

He tried to touch her, but she didn’t see him. Instead she caught sight of the coffee cups, waiting to be washed, on the drainboard.

She snatched up the nearest and threw it at the wall.

“Jo,” he said, flinching as the pieces scattered over the floor.

“Nothing will happen.” She sobbed. “John won’t be a match, he will never come back. Sam is going to die.”

“You mustn’t believe that,” he said.

“Don’t start telling me what to believe again!”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m telling you that you must hold on.”

“I can’t,” she cried. “I can’t bear another day of watching him go from me. I can’t do it anymore.”

“You must,” he said. “If you don’t believe, Sam will sense it.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. He saw the utter devastation in her face. “I’m nowhere. I am actually nowhere. I don’t have any compass points.” She gasped. “I don’t know where to go or what to do. I can’t see a way out. And all this talk of John, it’s what I said for the TV just now, it’s just a straw, isn’t it? I’m clutching at straws.” She sat heavily down in the nearest chair and plunged her head into her hands. “He isn’t a match.” She groaned. “He isn’t a match. Nobody is.”

“He is,” Elliott said.

There was a pause. Then she lifted a tear-streaked face to his. “What?”

“John
is
a match,” he repeated.

She got slowly to her feet.

“Christine Lord told me last week,” he said.

She stared at him, open mouthed. “She isn’t allowed to say,” she murmured. “Neither are you.”