Dead Tomorrow

turned back to Marlene Hartmann. ‘Then they stopped working. That was when she was twelve. She was diagnosed with a condition called PSC–primary sclerosing cholangitis. She spent almost a year in hospital–first down here, then in London, in the liver unit at the Royal South London. She had an operation to put stents inside her bile ducts.’
    Lynn looked at her daughter for confirmation.
    Caitlin nodded.
    ‘Can you understand what it is like for an active teenager to spend a year in a hospital ward?’
    Marlene Hartmann smiled sympathetically at Caitlin. ‘I can imagine.’
    Lynn shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think you can imagine what it is like in an English hospital, I really don’t think so. She was at the Royal South London, one of our top hospitals. At one point, because of overcrowding, they put her, a teenage girl, in a mixed ward. No television. Surrounded by deranged elderly people. She had to put up with confused women and men climbing into bed with her, day and night. She was in a terrible state. I used to go up and sit with her until they threw me out. I’d then sleep in the waiting room or in the corridor.’ She looked at Caitlin for corroboration. ‘Didn’t I, darling?’
    ‘It wasn’t that great in that ward,’ Caitlin confirmed, with a wistful smile.
    ‘When she came out, we tried everything. We went to healers, priests, tried colloidal silver, a blood transfusion, acupuncture, the lot. Nothing worked. My poor angel was like a little old person, shuffling along, falling over–weren’t you, darling? If it wasn’t for our GP, I don’t know what would have happened. He’s been a saint. Dr Ross Hunter. He found a new specialist who put Caitlin on a different regime of drugs,and he got Caitlin’s life back–for a while. She returned to school, was able to swim, play netball, and she took up music again, which had always been a big love of hers. She started playing the saxophone.’
    Lynn drank some more of her coffee, then noticed, to her irritation, that Caitlin’s concentration had gone and she was texting on her phone.
    ‘Then about six months ago, everything went pear-shaped. She started finding her breathing difficult on the saxophone, didn’t you, darling?’
    Caitlin raised her head, nodded, and returned to her texting.
    ‘Now the specialist has told us that she needs to have a transplant–as a matter of urgency. They found a matching donor and I took her up to the Royal for the operation a couple of days ago. But at the last minute they said there were problems with the donor liver–although they never explained exactly what those problems were–not to my satisfaction. Then we were told–or at least, it was hinted to us very strongly–that she was not being treated as a priority. Which meant that she could be in that group of 20 per cent of those waiting for a liver transplant who…’
    She hesitated, looking at Caitlin. But Caitlin completed the sentence for her.
    ‘Who die before they get one, is what my mother is saying.’
    Marlene Hartmann took Caitlin’s hand, and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Caitlin, mein Liebling , please trust me. In today’s world, no person needs to die because they cannot get the organ they need. Look at me, OK?’ She tapped her chest and pouted her lips. ‘You see me?’
    Caitlin nodded.
    ‘I had a daughter, Antje, who was thirteen, two years younger thanyou, and needed a liver transplant in order to live. It was not possible to find one. Antje died. On the day that I buried her I made a promise, that no one would ever die again, waiting for a liver transplant. Nor for a heart-lung transplant. Nor a kidney transplant either. That was when I set up my agency.’
    Caitlin pushed her lips out, the way she always did when she agreed with something, and nodded approval.
    ‘Could you guarantee finding a liver for Caitlin?’ Lynn asked.
    ‘ Natürlich! That is my business. I guarantee always to find a matching organ and to effect the transplant within one week. In ten years I have not had one failure. If you would like reassurance from my past clients, there are some who would be willing to contact you and tell you their experiences.’
    ‘One week–even though she’s an AB negative blood group?’
    ‘The blood group is not important, Mrs Beckett. Three thousand five hundred people die on the roads, around the world, every day. There will always be a matching donor somewhere.’
    Lynn suddenly felt overwhelmed with relief.