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couple of minutes.’
    The man stood up to allow Bannerman to take his place at the microscope. Bannerman altered the distance between the eyepieces to compensate for the fact that his eyes were slightly further apart than the technician’s. He adjusted the fine focus then manipulated the stage controls to permit a stepwise examination of the slide without going over the same area twice. ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath.
    ‘You’ve found something?’ said the technician.
    ‘It looks bad,’ said Bannerman, moving the focus control as if there was a perfect level that still eluded him. Take a look, just there at eleven o’clock.’
    The technician sat down again and said, ‘Yes, I see it but it’s not as clear as …’ His voice tapered off as he showed himself unwilling to commit himself to a definite opinion.
    A young woman came into the room and inter rupted them. She said, ‘Theatre say they must know right away.’
    ‘I’ll see if the other prep is ready,’ said the tech nician who had been examining the slide. He came back a moment later looking sheepish. ‘It’s going to be another ten minutes I’m afraid. Something went wrong.’
    Bannerman looked at the embarrassed expression on the technician’s face but did not pass comment. He turned to the woman and said, ‘I’ll talk to theatre.’ He got up and followed her through to the main lab where he picked up the receiver. This is Bannerman. Can you give us ten minutes?’
    ‘Negative,’ said the surgeon’s voice. ‘I have to know now.’
    Bannerman closed his eyes for a moment and then said, ‘It’s malignant.’
    ‘Understood,’ said the surgeon and the line went dead.
    There was a silence in the room which threatened to overwhelm all of them. Bannerman broke it. He said, ‘I’ll be in my office. Let me know when the other prep is ready.’
    Bannerman walked over to the window of his office and lit a cigarette with fingers that trembled slightly. There was little to see, save for a stone wall barely seven feet from the window with rain water running down it from a faulty gutter somewhere above, but then he wasn’t really looking at the view. There was too much going on in his head.
    A light tapping came to the door and Bannerman said, ‘Come in.’
    The prep’s ready.’
    Bannerman nodded and walked over to the door where the technician held it open for him. As he passed through, the technician said quietly. ‘You were right. I had a look. It’s malignant.’
    Bannerman paused in the doorway for a second and felt the tension melt from him. He took a couple of shallow breaths and said, ‘I didn’t imagine for a moment that it wasn’t, Charlie.’
    ‘Of course not,’ said the technician with the barest suggestion of a smile. For a moment they held each other’s gaze then the technician said, ‘The second prep is as clear as a bell … poor woman.’

 
     
    TWO
    Bannerman left the hospital at six-thirty. He noticed that Stella’s white Volkswagen Golf was still in the car-park as he edged his own Rover out of its sardine-like space at the end of the line reserved for ‘Medical Staff. He had hoped that the worst of the rush-hour traffic would be over but he still had to wait for nearly a minute at the gate before he could ease out into the slow moving line. He swore as he had to clear the windscreen yet again with his glove as condensate built up because of the rain. ‘Living in London is like living down a dark wet hole,’ he muttered, turning up the fan and switching on the rear screen demister.
    The traffic came to a halt because of some unknown obstruction up ahead; it did nothing to improve his temper. He pushed a cassette of Vivaldi into the car’s tape player and tried to concentrate on the music rather than the frustration of city driving. The tapes had been Stella’s idea. Fed up with his bad temper at the wheel, she had embarked on a programme of ‘sound therapy’, insisting that he try out the soothing effect