Читать книгу Soul Murder - Daniel Blake - Страница 8

She’d been in the hospital almost three days now, in the chair beside her sister’s bed.

She left only to eat, attend calls of nature, and when the medical staff asked her for ten minutes while they changed the sheets or performed tests. Those occasions apart, she was a constant presence at Samantha’s bedside.

Sometimes she talked softly of happy memories from their childhood, conjuring up apple-pie images of lazy summer evenings by mosquito-buzzed lakes and licking cake mix from the inside of the bowl.

Sometimes she fell silent and simply held Samantha’s hand, as if the tendrils of tubes and lines snaking to and from Samantha’s emaciated body weren’t enough to anchor her in this world. And in the small hours, she rested her head against the wall and allowed herself an hour or two hovering above the surface of sleep.

People recognized her, of course, though few seemed sure how they should react when they did, especially in a hospital – this hospital – after everything that had happened here. For every person who smiled uncertainly at her, there was another who glared and muttered something about how she should be ashamed of herself.

She acted as though she didn’t care either way. She was one hell of an actor.

And now, late in the evening, one of the doctors asked if he could have a word.

‘Of course,’ she said.

He cleared his throat. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just be straight with you. Your sister is brain dead. Life support is all that’s keeping her going.’

‘I know.’

‘To be honest, with the injuries she received, it’s a miracle she’s got this far. Multiple gunshot wounds to the head…’ He tailed off, spreading his hands.

‘So what are you asking me?’ she said, even though she knew exactly what was being asked of her.

He swallowed. It was never easy, no matter how often you did it.

‘You’re next of kin. I need your permission to turn Samantha’s life support off.’

It was still a shock to hear it stated so baldly, she thought.

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then we get a court order.’

She thought for a moment.

‘I understand a certain amount of medical jargon,’ she said. The doctor nodded, knowing – as did everybody – what she’d been through in the past. ‘Tell me.’

‘There’s total necrosis of the cerebral neurons,’ he replied. ‘All Samantha’s brain activity – including the involuntary activity necessary to sustain life – has come to an end. We’ve conducted all the usual physical examinations to find clinical evidence of brain function. The responses have been uniformly negative. No response to pain, no pupillary response, no oculo-cephalic reflex, no corneal reflex, no caloric reflex.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Sorry. Eye tests; reaction to light, movement, contact and water being poured in the ears. As I said, all negative. And her EEGs have been isoelectric – sorry, flatline – since she was admitted.’

‘And you don’t want to waste your time keeping her alive.’

‘It’s not a question of wanting.’

‘It is.’

‘It’s a question of prioritizing. The damage is irreversible. She’s not going to get better. She’s not going to improve even an iota from what she is now. The only way, medically, we could justify maintaining life support would be to remove her organs for transplant donation, but…’ He spread his hands again.

‘But she was a junkie, and no one in their right mind would touch her organs with a ten-foot pole. I get it, Doctor. You don’t have to soft-soap me.’

‘Thank you. Please understand; we don’t have the capacity or resources to keep her here indefinitely. Even if we did, she has no reason, no consciousness. She’s not living. She’s existing.’

She tipped her head slightly and examined him.

‘You really believe that?’

‘It’s fact. It’s a medical fact. Medicine’s what I believe in.’

When she sighed, it sounded to her like condemnation.

‘You square it with your conscience,’ she said.