Eyes of the Innocent

  Chapter 2

  Zoé sat in the chair after their meal, crying. "It is as I thought," she said through her tears for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening. At least she was holding baby Jack securely.

  Matt felt numb. Okay, so their local GP wasn't one hundred percent sure at their emergency appointment, but they'd know in the morning when they visited the local hospital to see a consultant specialist. Their own GP had taken everything seriously and had rung the hospital to arrange a scan. Retinoblastoma. Matt had already looked it up on the Internet and could understand why Zoé was so upset. The tumour usually developed before the age of five, and the medical website said some children were born with retinoblastoma. Right -- Jack, for one. For the first time he could see the full reason for the death of Zoé's niece, which her aunt had simply called cancer.

  He glanced at his watch. "I have to be going soon."

  "Going?"

  "I told you at tea. Ken wants me to follow up on those two men tonight. The company knows that they'll be at the----"

  Zoé stood up, nearly dropping Jack. "You think your Ken is more important than me?" Her eyes flashed.

  "Not more important, but..."

  "You will phone Ken Habgood and tell him about the GP."

  He should have seen this coming, and Zoé was right. "Okay, the family comes first. I'll phone him now."

  Zoé sat down again, almost smiling. Matt went across and gave her a hug. "Is it okay if I get back on the Internet after I've phoned Ken?"

  "You will not find out anything more, Matt. It is a serious cancer. We do not need to be told that again."

  "I was thinking about finding a specialist clinic."

  Zoé dabbed her eyes with a tissue, holding Jack firmly with her other arm. "You do not think our local hospital knows what to do? You must remember, I work there as a nurse."

  "Do they specialize in eye problems in young children?"

  "We have a pediatric department."

  "For treatment of eye cancers? Okay, okay. Let me phone Ken at his home. He's not going to like it, but you and baby Jack need me here. Definitely."

  Zoé seemed more absorbed in Jack than in Matt as he made the call. Ken sounded remarkably understanding, although he clearly had no intention of carrying out the surveillance himself that night, or indeed any other night. Matt put the phone down. He had more to worry about than an upset client.

  He sat at the computer with a coffee. Zoé didn't want a drink. All she wanted to do was watch baby Jack who was now lying peacefully in his navy blue crib on its wooden rocker, staring at the colored toys strung across in front of his eyes. Jack was clearly oblivious to the anxiety of his parents.

  Retinoblastoma. Perhaps it wasn't so bad after all. Lots of sites came up in his online search, and the consensus seemed to be that nine out of ten sufferers were cured, although in some cases there was a need to remove the eye. Nine out of ten sounded good. Not so good for the odd one out.

  Jack suddenly started crying. He shook his head, looked at Zoé, and decided he needed to pull himself together. One of them had to stay on top during this ordeal.

  "Leave him to me," Zoé said quietly, reaching forward to lift Jack gently from the crib. "Have you found anything useful, Dr. Rider?"

  He let the title pass without comment. "Nine out of ten recover."

  "That is something I already know. Me, I am a nurse. But what happens if our baby is number ten?"

  "There's a specialist clinic in New York that just about guarantees one hundred percent success on treating small children for cancer."

  Zoé gave a hollow laugh. "I think we had enough of clinics that promise one hundred percent success when we were in Avignon. I nearly died on the operating table."

  "But this one's in America, not France. And it's not the same team running it. Anyway, you were nearly killed there for snooping. You won't be getting any more problems from those two surgeons. They're dead."

  Zoé was rocking Jack in her arms in what looked like a careful, motherly way. Her depression seemed to have lifted slightly, in spite of her concern about the ten percent failure rate. Certainly she was very unpredictable at the moment. "You can stop reading about it," she said quietly. "We could not afford the treatment in America."