Page 57 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘About three-and-a-half-thousand transplants are performed in the UK a year,’ Harry said. ‘I read a thing about it as part of my CPD.’

‘Okay. That’s a lot.’

‘You’d only need to rule out three thousand four hundred and ninety-nine of them,’ he said. ‘But maybe – if you knew what the condition was – there’d be support groups, that kind of thing. You could track him down that way. If they were mates, he’d want to know how Gray was – that Gray had died.’

‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘But there are loads of conditions it could be, right?’

‘Diabetes, glomerulonephritis, autosomal dominant polycystic kidney disease, lupus, Fabry disease…’ Harry rattled off.

‘Glad someone was paying attention in their CPD.’

‘But you’re not going to be able to find him. You know that, right?’

I did know – but somehow I needed Harry to say it.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Patient confidentiality. Come on, Laurel. You don’t need to have done your CPD to know that – it’s been drummed into us since day dot.’

‘I could try, though. If I don’t get anywhere lurking on online support groups, I could ask people.’

Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘Like who?’

‘I don’t know. People who know about kidneys. Specialists.’

‘They’re bound by patient confidentiality too,’ he pointed out.

I sighed. ‘I guess. So then I’ll just go back to spending my evenings counting the walls of my flat.’

‘Walls unsullied by the presence of any guests,’ Harry said pointedly.

‘Shut up. I’ll buy you another drink here instead.’

‘Deal,’ he said.

I got up to go to the bar. Harry had certainly poured cold water on my hopes of ever tracking Joel down through online research, and I knew he was right – it was an impossible quest.

There was only one person who I felt sure would be able to help me, and that was the one person I could never ask.

Anna.

THIRTY-THREE

ORLA

6 September 2024

It was not so long ago that I wrote that my house was empty apart from me and the cats, but this morning I have an unexpected guest.

The events of last night were so strange and unexpected that when I woke up this morning I believed for a moment that I had dreamed them; then I opened my bedroom door and saw the door to the room that used to be Beatrice’s – and still is, the bed kept permanently made up in case of one of her unannounced visits – was closed. So I have returned to bed with my notebook to record what happened before the details elude me, and to decide what I should do.

First, I heard the sound of a car engine being revved with unnecessary and unsociable vigour so late at night. I heard its door open, a blast of loud music and a man’s voice raised in laughter. There was something about the series of sounds that was aggressive – threatening almost, like a dog fox barking to assert his territorial claim.

The door slammed closed. The car engine revved again, and I heard a screech of tyres as it pulled away, then total silence descended once more. I lay still for a moment, half-wondering if I had imagined the noise, or if it had in fact not been so loud at all but merely seemed that way in the otherwise still night, and then I drifted back into sleep.

But I was woken again by a knock on my front door, and I jerked upright, fully awake now, startled and almost afraid. I am a woman in my sixties, alone in this big house and, I suppose, vulnerable. Normally I do not feel that way at all, but last night I did. I switched on my bedside light and peered out of the window, but thanks to the portico over my front door I could see nothing – the street below seemed deserted.

The knock came again, less timid this time.