Donor, The (19 page)

It was like being told his head wasn’t his. The news made everything inside him shudder. It had hit him, obviously, like a bowling ball-sized hailstone, but it didn’t make any sense.

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘It’s a fact. I can show you the test results.’

‘No! I am their father. They’re my girls. They even look like me. Look at this nose!’ Will grabbed his nose angrily, wobbled it with his thumb and index finger. ‘They have my nose!’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Have you heard Kay laugh? She laughs exactly the same way as me … Kind of squeaky, ho-ho-ho!’

‘Would you like a glass of water?’

‘Would I like a glass of water? Listen to me! In bed, Georgie sleeps with one hand grasping her hair, like this.’ Will pulled his fringe back with his right hand. Too hard. It would have hurt if he had any feeling. ‘I do the same!’

‘I’m going to pour you a whisky.’ Mr Jamieson grabbed a bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured a stiff one. Will took it, but didn’t drink.

‘They both like horror films. I like horror films.’

‘Take a sip, Will.’

He took an autopilot sip. He wanted the doctor to take it back, take that stupid sentence, the one he’d said before, just grab it from the air and swallow it.

‘I’m so sorry. I only wish I’d realised this sooner.’

Will placed the glass of whisky on the desk beside Mr Jamieson’s still-perched bottom. He sat in silence for a moment, staring, then said, ‘I’m going to leave now.’ His legs shook as he stood up, and as he walked out the door, along the corridor, down the stairs, and into his car.

He sat in the car park for over an hour, staring at the pillar in front of him. Images flashed on the concrete.

The first time he held them in his arms at the same time. He had an itchy nose. Couldn’t do anything about it.

That time at the window, when they were three, waiting for their mum to come back from the shops.

Kay’s first concert. She had a flute solo. Will cried. Georgie got worried. ‘Are you sad because she’s bad at it, Dad?’

Georgie asking for a family movie, the three of them on the sofa, huddling, laughing.

All those years, all this time, it’d been the three of them. A team. Sometimes a crap one. Mostly, though, a good one.

But they did both look like him. Same hair
colour
, same nose. Kay had the same laugh. Georgie had the same sleep-pose, the same terrible organisational skills. Was it possible they’d taken on his characteristics purely by being around him? Nurture over nature?

All those years, and he was an impostor.

All those years, and he had been fathering someone else’s children. Heath Jones’s children, in all
probability
.

If they weren’t his, then what was he? ‘If I’m not their dad,’ he sobbed, ‘then what the hell am I?’

*

Someone was tapping on his window. Will wiped his eyes, looked up.

‘You all right in there?’ It was that chubby male nurse.

Will wound the window down. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, well take it easy, eh?’ the nurse said.

Will shut the window as the nurse walked towards the lift. He took his phone from his pocket. ‘Georgie?’

‘Hi, Dad, how’d it go?’

‘Oh, fine. Nothing to report yet. I was wondering if Cynthia left her address when she came by.’

‘Um, she didn’t really. She said she was living in a hostel in Govanhill, but I think she’s probably got a flat by now. Why? Is everything okay? Really no news?’

‘None. Everything’s great, darlin’. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Da—’

He didn’t give her time to probe further.

*

There was only one hostel for homeless women in Govanhill. Will parked in front of it thirty minutes later.

‘I’m looking for Cynthia Marion,’ he said to the middle-aged barrel of laughs at the desk.

‘She’s not here. Got a flat.’ The rude bastard didn’t even bother looking Will in the eye.

‘You know where?’

‘None of your business.’

Will grabbed the man by his collar, pulled him towards him, and said, ‘Tell me where she fucking is, you fat prick.’

The flat, as it happened, was just around the
corner
from the hostel. There was no security lock on the main entrance, so Will walked in the close, which had graffiti all over the walls, and stinking rubbish all over the floor. The only door without a name on it was on the first floor. He knocked, then listened. No noise at first, then a groan, then footsteps and a door shutting, or opening, then another groan, then … ‘Will? It’s you!’

She was so high she could hardly stand. Her words slurred, her eyes protested against her attempts to open them. Will grabbed her arm and led her into the living room. The flat was a proper drugs den. No carpet. No heating. Junk and fags and drugs paraphernalia all over the place.

He sat her on the sofa, went to the kitchen, poured her a glass of water, came back into the living room and threw the water in her face.

‘What the …’ She couldn’t even finish the
sentence
. Her body wanted to lie down. Will wouldn’t let her. He sat next to her and held her shoulders with his hands.

‘Did you always know I wasn’t the father?’

A hint of panic entered the half-closed slits of her eyes.

‘Oh Will! Will Will Will … What did you say?’

‘The girls aren’t mine.’

Her head slumped towards her chest. She bounced it back up a second later, hearing what he’d said. ‘Really? Wow. You know I wondered about that …’

‘Is it Heath?’

‘Of course it’s Heath. He’s my man, Will. Willy Willy. Can you tap me a tenner?’

‘No, Cynthia.’

‘I’ll give you a blow job. That’s very good value.’ Her head slumped down again. This time, it took twice as long to lift back up and when she did her eyes remained shut. Will let go of her shoulders, laid her on the sofa, put a blanket over her and left.

Will couldn’t see Heath until the next day and decided he couldn’t see the girls until he had. How could he? They’d know it was bad news straight away. Not the full extent of it, but he couldn’t face them. No, he needed to speak to Heath Jones first.

‘Hey, guys,’ he said into the answer phone,
knowing
they’d be at the hospital dialysing. ‘I’m not going to be home tonight. There’s soup in the fridge. Hope everything’s okay. Everything’s good here, just going to see Si in Edinburgh. Need a night out with the boys!’

He didn’t go to Edinburgh. He booked into the Hilton in town, sat on the double bed, drank a
half-bottle
of whisky and passed out.

*

He hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours when he arrived in the visits room of the prison the following morning. His hands were shaking. His eyes were red and sore from crying. He put his clenched fists on the table in front of him and waited till the father of his children walked into the room.

‘Well, look who it is.’ Heath said, sitting down opposite him. ‘The poofter.’

Will leant forward and spoke with a stern tone that had grown on him since using it for the first time with the arsehole at the homeless hostel. ‘You are a useless piece of shit, Heath Jones, and I hate you. Before
yesterday
, the world was a much worse place with you in it and I’d have been glad if you were locked up in here for the rest of your life. But things have changed. Now, you have a purpose. Listen to what I’m going to say …Are you listening? I’m going to do you that favour I owe.’

Heath, taken aback by the change in the poofter said, ‘Whatever.’

‘You are the father of my daughters, Georgie and Kay. You have their genes. And you have the chance to save one of them.’

Heath burst out laughing. ‘Well, how ’bout that!’

‘I’m going to offer you a deal.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah. I’ll help you convince the parole board to let you out. Hell, I’ll make them cry at how selfless and changed you are.’

‘And …’

‘Some tests, an operation, a rest in hospital. That’s all.’

Hmm, Heath bit the nail of his thumb. He
imagined
his first night of freedom, pure hedonism. He imagined seeing Cynthia again. He imagined having another year in this shithole. ‘You got a pen?

Will gave the pen to Heath and began dictating the words he had composed in his head, being careful not to sound like someone with half a brain.

Will took the letter from Heath when he had
finished
and folded it. ‘We’re going to take this directly to the governor. She’s agreed for us to go to the office now, get the tests organised and have you register as a donor online.’

Heath’s expression changed to one of irritation. He quickly reverted to mock-cooperative and said, ‘Fine. Let’s go.’

Will had indeed organised these things with the governor. He’d phoned before the visit and explained the situation, asking if Heath could be tested for donor compatibility immediately. He also argued that prisons were dangerous places. ‘If anything happens to him, he needs to have registered as a donor.’ The governor, whose elderly mother was on dialysis, empathised and agreed to the last-minute visit. She had already arranged for the prison doctor to conduct the
necessary
tests and knew how to register online. ‘Of course he has to comply to these things,’ she’d said.

‘Of course.’

Will helped Heath register online in the governor’s office. The thug looked as sweet as he possibly could for the benefit of the woman who might help release him, even wiping a pretend tear from his eye as he talked of his newfound fatherhood. After they had finished he asked Will if he could have a photograph of the girls.

Will didn’t want to give him one, but he also
wondered
if the sight of their beautiful faces might help Heath feel something, make sure he kept his word. ‘You can have this one,’ Will said, handing over a
photograph
of the girls on the beach in Arran. They were standing at the edge of the water, bare feet, jeans rolled up, arms around each other, smiling broadly.

Hmm
, Will thought, taking one last look at the photograph as he handed it over, Georgie is smiling in that one.

‘When does the board meet?’ Will asked the governor.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said.

‘And if he gets it?’

‘Depends on us and on the criminal justice
social-work
service. If we have everything in place – all the conditions, like a suitable address, drugs counselling, anger management, whatever else might be considered necessary by the social workers and the Parole Tribunal, then it could be immediate. What I’ll do is check if things are in place. If they are, all we need to do is get the licence drawn up immediately. Considering the urgency of the situation with your daughter, I could make sure this is done as quickly as possible. Of course, you mustn’t get your hopes up. It’s up to the Tribunal to decide. As you know, Heath, any breach of your life licence would mean an immediate recall to custody.’

‘Of course, I understand.’ Heath was still looking at the photograph. Will wanted to punch him in the face. How dare he look at the girls?

‘In that case, Heath, if you are granted parole
tomorrow
and you’re released immediately, could I come and collect you?’ Will said.

‘Oh, come on. Give me one night with my missus.’

‘Right. One night. Then come to my house – you know where we live. You were a regular visitor there over sixteen years ago. Come to my house around
midday
.’

The Tribunal consisted of three members of the Parole Board for Scotland and a Chairman. Three of them knew Heath well as he had passed the punishment portion of his sentence several years ago and, since then, had repeatedly unimpressed them. His reports, letters and temper were notoriously poor. However, having read the social-work and prison-based reports, the board already felt differently about this year’s
application
. They had, in fact, enjoyed a lengthy discussion before he arrived in the room. He’d completed as many courses as a prisoner possibly could, ranging from
victim
awareness to drugs counselling to anger
management
to hairdressing. He hadn’t failed a drugs test and had worked in the joinery sheds and in the laundry. He’d even played a minor role in a play in the chapel. But it was his personal letter that clinched the deal.

‘You are going to donate your kidney?’ the younger of the two women said. She was around fifty-five, prim and proper.

‘I am. I’m a perfect match, the doc says. I’ve got a letter here from a Mr Jamieson to say so. You want a look? It just arrived an hour ago.’

The four members of the panel took turns to read the letter Mr Jamieson had written that morning, the crux of which was that Heath’s blood and tissue types were perfectly compatible with those of his twin daughters. Further tests would be required regarding general health and psychological well-being, but it was looking very positive indeed.

‘So I want it done as soon as I can. I have two daughters I didn’t know about. How about that, eh? Here I was, thinking I was a total waste of space, that the world was worse with me in it, and then I
discover
I’m a dad and that they need me, like in a
life-or-death
kind of way. I have to make up for lost time, be a father. Save a life. And of course, help with … the one who’ll still need a kidney …’

He’d forgotten her name. Luckily, none of the
decision
makers noticed.

‘Poor girls,’ he said.

‘And your address has been assessed as suitable by the social worker covering the Govanhill area,’ the other woman said. She was around seventy. Had very short dyed brown hair and no eyebrows.

‘That’s right.’ Heath was still wondering how Cynthia had managed to sit upright during the social worker’s visit. ‘We’re going to get married.’

The board member who used to be a cop spoke next. Heath knew he was a cop because they’d assaulted each other on separate occasions, a year or so apart. The cop had come off worse. ‘On the licence,’ he said, ‘we would want to add conditions.’

‘Of course.’ Heath tried to say
Sorry for breaking your nose
with his eyes.

‘A condition to attend drugs counselling as directed by your supervising officer, as well as anger
management
and assistance with work or training.’

‘Excellent,’ Heath said. ‘Soon as I’ve recovered I’d like to get a job. Buy presents for my daughters. Have a nice wedding.’

The vote was unanimous.

The prison worked at breakneck speed.

Heath would be released the following day.