“Are you suggesting we’re just supposed to lie to him? Every day? Until he dies?” Simon’s voice is low but the tone is harsh.
This isn’t a discussion for a corridor but I don’t think any venue would sweeten what I’m about to say. “You just have to ask yourself, Simon, who exactly would benefit from his remembering your mother’s death? Why are you so keen on making your father remember that one event?”
He stares at me, blindsided by my questions. Confused by the subversion of the customer-is-always-right rule he assumed also operated in hospitals. He swallows whatever vitriol he was about to say and replies simply, “I want him to remember it because it’s true. It’s important he remembers it because it’strue.”
“Yes, it is true, Simon. But lots of things are true. I could theoretically wander up to Oncology right now and tell everyone up there that ninety percent of them definitely aren’t going to make it, but what on earth would be the clinical benefit of that? Your father isn’t going to get any better. He won’t remember these things, no matter how often you tell him. It will only upset him. And if you tell him, he will hate you, Simon. He may well live another fifteen or even twenty years. He may outlive us all. I think we’d both like his remaining years to be happy ones. I’d advise you to let your sister take over as next of kin from now on and to limit your visits if you’re not happy with what I’m recommending. And if you do insist on continuing to visit your father, I’m going to have to ask you to stop deliberately agitating and upsetting him. He’s a vulnerable adult and what you’re doing is bordering on psychological abuse.” As harsh as that may sound, Howard is my patient, it’s his welfare I’m here to safeguard, not his son’s.
Simon glares at me for a second before he replies.
“I see,” he says finally. “Um, well, obviously, I hadn’t realized I was causing him so much distress….”
People don’t want truth from us doctors, not really; they may think they do but they don’t. People want doctors to be like priests. They want hope delivered with authority.
I catch sight of an RN waving over to me from the nurses’ station: she gestures to a phone receiver at her ear. I suggest family support counseling to Simon and say goodbye.
With a rallying smile, the nurse hands me the phone. On to the next.
“Hi, Emma.” The voice on the other end of the line is my secretary, Milly. “Sorry to chase you round the building but there was a phone call earlier from the U.S. I told them you were on call and they said they’d call back at half past. And I haven’t seen you since, so I thought I should let you know.”
I look down at my wristwatch: 8:27. I can make it back to Neuropsychiatry in that time—at a jog.
“Who was it, Milly?”
“Er, a man named Richard Groves. Dr. Groves.”
I frown at her down the line. “RichardGroves? That can’t be right. Are you sure?”
“That’s definitely what he said his name was.” She says it with mild disinterest. I can hear her continuing to type as she talks.
“TheRichard Groves?”
The line goes silent for a second. “Um…I don’t know, Emma, sorry. He just said his name and I wrote it down. Why? Who is he?”
I momentarily consider explaining who he is to Milly, then think better of it. She wouldn’t have nearly the right reaction if I told her who Richard Groves was. If she googled him, which I’m absolutely certain she won’t, she’d see a career spanning thirty years at the forefront of neuroscience, she’d see bestsellers, essays, university placements, corporate and political consultancies resulting in new tech, new procedures, new government policies. If she googled my actual job title, which again she wouldn’t, but if she did google the word “neuropsychiatrist,” Richard Groves’s name would come up in the Wikipedia “Notability” section. Mine would not. Well, not yet.
“Okay. Did he at least say what he was calling about, Milly?”
“Um…” I hear a rustle of papers. “Um, no. No, he didn’t.”
I have met Richard Groves twice. The last time briefly at a medical conference networking session in Dubai three years ago. I wrote my thesis on him, and I had—have—disagreed with some of his methods, but that’s what medical papers do. That’s the scientific method, right there. He was affable when we met,collegial,but I wouldn’t say we were quite on telephone-chatting terms. Out of the blue doesn’t even begin to describe this phone call. Why the hell is he calling me from America at 8A.M.on a Monday morning?
It’s a question I’m pretty sure Milly won’t have the answer to. I look at my watch again—two minutes now. I can make it if I run.
3
THE MAN
DAY 1—PEOPLE ARRIVE
“Thisis Bravo Seven for Sierra Four-Three. Sierra Four-Three, proceed immediately to the car park at Holkham Beach. Report of suspicious behavior: IC-One, white, male, thirties-forties, approximately six foot, dark clothing, erratic behavior. Elderly caller has eyes on suspect, has been advised not to approach.”
Static.
“Received, Bravo Seven. Sierra Four-Three en route. Go ahead, over.”
Static.
“Non-urgent call. But proceed with caution, suspect may be under the influence or possible mental health issues. Appears to be in some distress. No visible weapons but potential suicide risk, over.”
