Trust No One by Alex Walters Page B

ten. ‘It’s not a game, Liam. I don’t do these things for fun.’
    â€˜You can say that again,’ he said. ‘Though Christ knows why else you do them.’
    â€˜To make a bloody living, Liam,’ she said patiently. Almost immediately, she regretted the words.
    â€˜Because I don’t, you mean?’
    â€˜Oh, for Christ’s sake, Liam . . .’
    â€˜How much have I made this month? Sold two pictures. Hundred quid each. Not bad. Just remind me how much the mortgage is again?’
    â€˜That’s not the point. You know I’ve always been happy to support your painting. You’ve got real talent . . .’
    â€˜Maybe. Maybe not. And what happens when I can’t paint?’
    This was a topic she always tried to steer away from. It was unproductive, pointless. And the last thing she needed today. ‘Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Liam.’
    â€˜I’m not being melodramatic. I’m being realistic. It’s a degenerative disease. I’m going to degenerate. Maybe later, maybe sooner. But eventually.’
    And in the meantime you can wallow in the prospect , she thought, though she knew how unfair she was being. They were very different people. Her instinct was to avoid trouble, not face it till she was compelled to. Liam’s was to embrace it head-on. But she knew that he was pragmatic, not indulgent. And this was his trouble, not hers.
    â€˜You don’t know that,’ she responded feebly. ‘You can’t know that. And, anyway, eventually could mean decades . . .’
    â€˜Yeah, thanks for that,’ he said. ‘I feel much better now.’
    â€˜Oh, Jesus, Liam . . .’ She’d lost it, she knew that. It was stupid even to be having this conversation. She took a breath and tried to start again. ‘Anyway, how’ve you been?’
    There was a hesitation which made her wonder what he wasn’t saying. ‘OK. Not so bad.’
    â€˜Are you all right?’ she pushed him.
    She could almost hear him mulling over his reply, wondering whether to make another semi-joking bid for martyrdom. ‘Yeah, I’m all right. I’m fine. Really.’
    â€˜Have you been back to the doctor?’
    â€˜Not yet. I will.’ He was beginning to sound tetchy.
    â€˜Liam, is it getting worse?’
    â€˜Christ, Marie, how do I know? No, it’s not, not obviously. But it’s never been bloody obvious, has it? Not yet.’ For a moment, she thought he’d ended the call. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘I imagine all kinds of things. But that’s probably all it is. There’s no way of knowing till it happens.’
    â€˜Go back to the doctor,’ she said. ‘See what she says.’
    â€˜You know what she’ll say. Nothing. What can she say?’
    It was true. They’d had the diagnosis, and that was unequivocal. Multiple sclerosis. He’d had the scan. They’d been shown the images, the lesions in his brain. Had it all carefully explained. There was no doubt. The only question was how far the disease had progressed. Was it still in the remitting stage, where the symptoms could still come and go? Or was it in the progressive phase, where the likelihood was an inexorable, if possibly slow, decline? The distinction, the neurologist had told them, was not always clear-cut, and Liam’s condition seemed to be on the cusp. That was what she’d said, but Marie had suspected that her eyes, professionally expressionless, had intimated a different story.
    â€˜She’ll give you a view. About whether it’s getting worse.’
    â€˜I don’t need a view. I’ll know if it’s getting worse.’
    She couldn’t tell whether the future tense was euphemistic. ‘At least get it checked out.’
    â€˜If it keeps you happy.’
    â€˜It’ll reassure me, anyway,’ she said.
    â€˜Just as long as you care.’ The