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minutes. I found myself doing the same, examining the scan as if I knew what the fuck I was looking at.
    ‘You say it’ll keep growing?’
    It was hard to believe that something so insignificant was going to finish me off. I’d always imagined it would be something a bit bigger, something more like the diameter of an RPG, a rifle butt or at least a 7.62mm round, but this little fucker was no more than pea-sized. Checking out like this? It felt so … pedestrian …
    I tried to smile. ‘I always wondered what a death warrant looked like. Does it have a use-by date?’
    I turned away and went back to my chair. I didn’t need to see any more. Looking wasn’t going to change anything.
    Kleinmann followed me. ‘Like I said, Mr Stone, this is where the hard work starts. Chemotherapy and radiation treatment, that’s going to help, and there is—’
    ‘But will that nail it?’
    Kleinmann sat down opposite me. ‘No.’ He flicked his coat over his legs like a woman adjusting her skirt. ‘It could keep you going for six months, possibly longer. But without any treatment? Two months, maybe. We can’t stop the pressure on the brain increasing. Of course, if you need a second opinion—’
    ‘Don’t worry, Doc, no second opinions. It’s there, I’ve seen it.’
    ‘What about the treatment? Would you like to go ahead with the chemo and radiation? The pain is going to get worse. There could be weight loss, maybe incontinence, vomiting still to come. But I will give you some drugs to help you in the short term.’
    I got up and headed for the coat hooks. ‘Thanks, I’ll take whatever Smarties you’re offering. But chemo and all that gear? I don’t think so.’
    Kleinmann sprang to his feet. ‘There are far more advanced treatments available in the US - or Italy, if you want to be closer to home. I could recommend some excellent clinics …’
    I bet he could. With a nice little kickback if I took him up on the offer. ‘I think I’m going to handle this my own way.’
    ‘Let me give you some details of support groups, counselling—’
    ‘I don’t need any of that.’ I shrugged on my coat, then paused. ‘Out of interest, any reason I got it? Just one of those things?’
    ‘You have an unusual amount of tissue scarring. You appear to have taken a great deal of blunt trauma to the cerebral cortex over a number of years. Are you a boxer, maybe?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘When the grey matter is shaken about over a sustained period of time it can cause irreparable damage - and in extreme cases provoke conditions such as yours.’
    ‘Thanks for that, Doc.’ I gave Kleinmann a slap on the shoulder. ‘I hope your next appointment’s a nice boob job.’
    I made for the door, not knowing quite what I felt. It wasn’t fear. Fuck it, we’ve all got to die some day. It was more frustration. I didn’t want to end on a dull note. Better to burn out than fade away, I’d always thought. Better to be a tiger for a day than a sheep for a year; to die quick standing up than live for years on my knees. All the shit I’d seen on soldiers’ T-shirts the world over actually meant something today.
    ‘No, no - wait, Mr Stone. You’re going to need to control the pain as the symptoms worsen.’ He disappeared for a minute or two and came back with a large bottle of shiny red pills. ‘Take two of these every six hours.’
    I nodded.
    ‘And please, take this information.’ He waved a brown A4 folder at me, stuffed with leaflets and flyers. ‘It’s all in there - treatments, support groups, help lines. Read them, think about it.’
    I took the folder and stuffed it in the nearest wastepaper basket, then headed back towards my 911 waiting faithfully in the rain.

3
    16.15 hrs
    The storm pounded against the triple glazing.
    For about the hundredth time in the last hour, I reached for the mobile, twisting and turning it in my hand before putting it back down again.
    What the fuck was I going to say to her?
    Did I need to say