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“Childhood ALL, aged nine. Managed with chemotherapy, bone marrow transplant, the lot. Aggressive sort—they threw everything at it. But he came out the other side. Complete remission. Regular check-ups all clear until he came in a few days ago. Temperature, sweating, nausea. All the signs, but as you can see”—he pointed to the notes—“all clear.”
Romilly thanked her colleague. “Can I keep this?” she asked of the chart, and he nodded. She went to leave, but he stopped her.
“Dr. Cole,” he said, “don’t go near him with a needle. Don’t even talk about it. Complete trypanophobia.”
She frowned. This guy had just gotten more interesting. From a purely professional viewpoint, of course.
* * *
She half expected the coffee shop to be empty when she arrived. But there he was, at a seat on the far side. He stood up as she approached.
“What do you want?” he asked. “I’ll get you a coffee.”
“No, I’m fine—”
“Please? Least I can do. I’m sure you’re a busy woman.”
She smiled. “Thank you. Americano, hot milk.”
She took a seat at the table and watched him as he ordered. He’d taken his coat off; he was wearing jeans, brown boots, and a navy jumper. Broad shoulders, nice smile. The assistant thought so too, Romilly noted, hearing the tinkle of laughter as she passed over his change.
He placed the two coffees down and sat opposite her.
“So, am I going to die?” His words were light, but his smile was forced.
“In a word, Mr. Bishop, no.”
“No?” He still didn’t believe her, she could tell. He reached for his coffee, and Romilly saw his hands were shaking.
She put the paperwork down on the table and pulled his test results to the top.
“See here?” She leaned forward, her finger pointing to the page. “This is your white cell count. A normal result would be between four and eleven, which yours is. And here, the result from your bone marrow aspiration shows an entirely normal number and morphology of cells.”
“So the cancer hasn’t come back?”
“Definitely not, no. I would guess that your symptoms were no more than a bout of the flu coupled with some pretty nasty anxiety.”
He sat back in his seat, then ran his hands down his face. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“I don’t, no. It’s understandable, you’d panic. To experience what you went through at such a young age, it must have been traumatic.”
He nodded slowly. “It was nearly twenty years ago, but I still remember it as if it were yesterday. Especially coming back here. I don’t think I’ve been in a hospital since. Except when work brings me here.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a detective. In the Major Crimes team.”
Romilly looked at him, surprised. “That’s a full-on job. Why did you choose it?”
He smiled. “It sounds like a cliché, but I wanted to help people. To be there at the worst times of their lives and make it better.”
“So why not be a doctor?”
He laughed. “Not clever enough. And …” His voice trailed off. “Other things.”
The fear of needles, she thought, but didn’t say it.
“So why did you become a doctor?”
