Page 12 of Obedience

‘Did I do anything wrong?’ Jacob asked softly.

Greta frowned. ‘Wrong?’

‘Yeah. The treatment and stuff. I did what everyone wanted me to. I did all the chemo, every last drop…I never missed one fraction of radiotherapy. They took my fucking leg, for fu—’ He huffed out a breath. ‘I did it all, and I’m still going to die.’

A deep pressure pushed behind Greta’s eyes as she looked at the teenager, his fingers still flicking at his prosthesis. Inhaling deeply, Greta gently laid her hand over Jacob’s fidgeting fingers, dipping her head to find his watery gaze.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Jacob. Your compliance has been incredible. This is the horrendous nature of this awful disease, and I am just so very sorry. You are amazing…you are truly an absolute pleasure to care for.’

Jacob sniffled. ‘It’s so unfair. Some of the dickheads on your books, skipping this, that and the other, smoking weed, drinking and they’re now disease free with all four limbs still attached, but now I have the fucker growing in my lungs. How is that fucking fair?’

‘It isn’t fair, Jakey.’ Sarah choked, she looked to the ceiling. ‘It isn’t bloody fair.’

Greta held Jacob’s pleading gaze until he dropped his head. She softly squeezed his hand before letting go and drawing in a steadying breath.

‘I’ll leave you with Jody for a bit. Please let me know when you’re ready to talk. I’m here. Okay?’ Greta said gently.

‘Thank you,’ Sarah managed through her sobs. ‘Thank you for everything, Greta.’

Smiling at them both, Greta waited a beat before rising from her chair, she looked at Jody, who gave a weak smile. She stepped out, finally leaving the stifling consultation room behind. The spaces were always so small, so unassuming and clinical, yet they were the sites of irrevocable change. The rooms never felt quite big enough to contain the conversations held within them. The magnitude of which pushed at the four walls and the ceiling tiles, leaving no room for much-needed air.

After finishing her final medical note dictation, Greta checked the time. Ordinarily, she would be heading toward a city centre hotel, her mind already shifting into the headspace required for her time with Remi. Instead, she had a mentee to meet. In the bathroom she washed the clinic and devastation from her hands and studied her reflection. The sheer exhaustion of last week had mercifully granted her some sleep the night before, so she looked better than she felt. As always, she managed the facade of a woman who was perfectly composed. With a subtle glow to her skin, dark green blouse tucked into the cinched waist of a deep burgundy skirt, and heels of a perfectly respectable height. Pulling her hair free, she swooshed it from side to side, releasing the tension in her scalp, before sweeping it back up into a high ponytail. After re-applying her lip gloss, she ran a finger under her perfectly winged eyes, took a breath, and began the walk to her office.

***

Hot and flushed, Dylan jumped off the tram, a damp layer of sweat prickling at her skin. Tram delays had left her cutting it fine, and she loathed being late, especially for meetings with a grumpy medical oncologist. Picking up her pace, she weaved her way through the busy pavement toward the main entrance of the Pankhurst Cancer Institute. Stepping into the massive modern atrium, she immediately felt the stress of the journey dissipate, replaced entirely by a surge of optimism and excitement. Scanning the open space, she watched the intermingled crowds of scrubs, uniforms, and civilian clothes. The rich scent of roasted beans wafted from Vanofee, the vintage coffee van parked in the foyer. After mentally judging the name as absolutely shite, Dylan smiled to herself. This building was sacred to her. With over five hundred active clinical trials, the PCI was the peak of European cancer research.

This was it.

This was the place.

***

Greta sat at her desk in her modern soulless office, a perfunctory space, but it was off a main corridor, so it was quiet, and she had all she needed to work. With a desk that faced a wall, meaning her back was to the door, the layout didn’t thrill her, but as a consultant whose time was split between there and the university, she was at the bottom of the Trust’s waiting list for an office upgrade. The overhead lighting was migraine-inducingly bright; the two computer monitors and a green Anglepoise lamp clamped to the desk offered a gentle and more tolerable glow. The only window in the room was tiny and opened just a fraction. She was fairly sure the space was a cupboard on the hospital blueprints.

After setting down a cafetiere of fresh coffee on a small table in the corner of the room, the office phone rang, cutting through the quiet. It was Jody. After Greta left her clinic, Jacob had made his stance clear; absolutely no more treatment. Greta sighed, a deep respect for his bravery and autonomy swelling in her chest. Rarely did patients so young turn down the chance of hope, or more time; however infinitesimally small. Jacob, however, was different. His bravery defied his cruelly young age. She suspected he might change his mind, TYA patients often did, but she would honour his choice.

While still deep in conversation, three slow knocks sounded at her door. With an arm outstretched above her shoulder, she waved her fingers back and forth. The door remained closed. With a more vigorous hand gesture, and added elbow bend, Greta hoped the person would take the hint. Still listening to Jody, Greta barely glanced around, as the door pushed open. As she continued her conversation, the person in her peripheral vision appeared to be taking stock of the impeccably ordered, cupboard-sized office.

‘Okay, Jode, well, book him back into clinic next Friday and we can discuss his decision then. Thanks for letting me know. You, too. Bye,’ Greta said in a soft professional hum.

She replaced the handset and swivelled her chair.

‘Sorry about that. Dylan, I presu—’ Greta froze. The sentence died in her throat as her eyes locked on the woman standing before her in a Fleetwood Mac T-shirt and jeans. A weathered rucksack dangling in front of her thighs, held by the top strap. ‘Remi!’

‘Margot?!’

Their voices hit the air at the same time, racing up an octave. Greta lunged to her feet, her chair skidding backwards, as the rucksack hit the floor with a solid thud. The tension immediately became a physical weight, thick and suffocating, as their pseudonyms—the labels they only ever used in hotel rooms—were dragged into the tiny office of the PCI and hung in the suffocating small space between them.

With a desperate need to put more distance between them, Greta recoiled, shoving the wheeled chair further back; ignoring it as it clattered against the desk. ‘What the fuck are you—?’

‘I’m not—I-I mean…are you?’ Dylan stammered. She blinked rapidly, her mouth opening and closing as though struggling to find the right words.

‘You cannot be here. What are you… I don’t…’ Greta’s voice was a frantic ramble. ‘Remi, the agency will hear about this! This is—’

‘No, no, I’m not Remi. I mean, I am Remi, but I’m not Remi now. My name’s Dylan. We emailed.’

‘You’re my mentee?’