“There’s no easy way to say this. The ultrasound you had on the 15^th showed that you either have endometrial cancer or hyperplasia that will likely rapidly progress to cancer. I’m so sorry.’

The unexpectedness of what he says is so great that I don’t react at all. I feel myself go blank and numb. The big C? Me? Impossible. I’m born under a lucky star. I’ve been so spoilt. So sheltered. So fortunate. It’s just not possible.

‘What the fuck are you talking about? Can you fucking talk English?’ BJ erupts aggressively.

Dr. Freedman shifts uncomfortably in his chair. It’s obvious that he is not used to being spoken to so rudely. It is only BJ’s size or pity that keeps him for retaliating. ‘Your wife has a large mass in her uterus. It surrounds the baby on the top and sides. The rapid growth from total absence at the dating scan to what it was yesterday, makes me strongly suspect that it is certainly malignant and aggressively so. You should have been told at the ultrasound session yesterday, but the sonographer wanted to run the scans by me before making such a drastic diagnosis.’

‘You’re saying my wife has cancer?’ BJ asks in disbelief.

‘Yes.’

BJ jumps up so suddenly and with such force that his chair crashes to the ground. He slams his hand on the desk, his black eyes boring into the doctor’s, and shouts, ‘No, this a fucking mistake. How do you know the test results haven’t been mislabeled? You do those fucking tests again.’

‘Please, Mr. Pilkington. Sit down and calm down. This outburst is not going to help your wife.’

I reach out blindly for BJ’s hand. His hand closes over mine. I look up at him. ‘Please, BJ,’ I whisper. For a second he doesn’t respond. ‘Please,’ I beg again.

He picks the chair off the floor, rights it, and sits down. I notice that his hands are shaking. He fists his right hand and covers it with his left hand.

‘The treatment for cancer and hyperplasia to the extent I saw on the ultrasound,’ the doctor continues, ‘is immediate hysterectomy to stage and figure out the prognosis.’

‘A hysterectomy?’ I gasp.

The doctor shifts uncomfortably. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘You want to take her womb out?’ BJ repeats in disbelief. ‘What the fuck! She’s 23 years old, for the love of God!’

‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor says lamely.

BJ lunges forward suddenly. ‘If you say you’re sorry one more fucking time, I swear, I’ll give you something to be sorry about. This is a mistake, pure and simple.’

The doctor’s eyes bulge with fear. He leans backwards and places his hands on the armrests of his chair, as if he is getting ready to bolt. ‘I know you are very upset, but I have personally gone through all the results and I can assure you, Mr. Pilkington, that there is no mistake.’

I glance at BJ and I see by his crushed expression that he knows the doctor is telling the truth. BJ has used violence to solve every problem in his life. He has never encountered a scenario that he couldn’t win using brute force alone. But for the first time his fists are of no use. He is totally helpless. And it scares him.

‘Is there another way? A way to save the baby?’ I whisper.

‘I’m very sor—.’ The doctor stops mid-word and glances nervously at BJ. ‘I’m afraid there is no way to save your baby. I must recommend immediate termination of the pregnancy.’

‘What happens if I don’t do anything?’

BJ has fallen eerily silent. He is cradling his head in his hands.

The doctor frowns. ‘First of all you will be greatly endangering your own life. It’s not a risk that’s worth taking since the lack of room will mean your placenta will be on your cervix. With the weight of the baby and the tumor, you would be at a high risk for a placental abruption.’

I exhale the breath I was holding. ‘What is that?’ I ask.

‘It’s when the placenta peels away from the inner wall of the uterus before delivery. It deprives the baby of oxygen and causes heavy bleeding in the mother. It can be fatal to both mother and child.’

‘I still want a second opinion,’ BJ says with a deadly calm that’s more frightening than his furious outburst before.

The doctor nods calmly. ‘I have already arranged for your wife to see the head of OB and a maternal fetal specialist at 9:00 the day after tomorrow. They’ll do another ultrasound with better equipment and they will also perform an ultrasound biopsy.’

‘Is the ultrasound biopsy safe for my baby?’ I ask.

The doctor looks pained. ‘They will be able to stay away from the baby and the sac, but the chances for a spontaneous miscarriage afterwards exist. I would recommend an immediate termination.’

I stand up abruptly. ‘All right. Thank you, doctor,’ I say, and look down at BJ.

He gazes up at me. He looks so confused and lost I want to take him to my breast. He stands slowly. It’s obvious he is not ready to leave, as if discussing it further could change anything.

We walk out of the doctor’s office and cross the car park like two survivors of a war. Hanging on to each other. Seeing nothing around us. Shell-shocked. Devastated. BJ unlocks the car and opens the passenger door for me. I slide into the seat in silence. He gets in, closes the door, and puts the keys in the ignition, but does not start the engine.

I turn to him. He looks as dazed and bewildered as the moths that fly into light bulbs and fall to the floor, lying on their backs, they slowly wheel their legs into the arms of death.

‘Can you believe it?’ I ask.

‘Oh, baby,’ he croaks. ‘I think I just need to hold you for a second.’

I throw myself at him and sob my heart out in the bleak hospital car park.

We drive home in heavy silence, both of us locked in our own pain. When we reach our home, I stare ahead of me blankly. I simply cannot summon the energy to open the car door and go into the house.

He opens my door and holds his hand out to me. With a sigh I put my hand in his and let him haul me upright.

Mrs. Roberts from next door meets us on the pavement.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

I nod automatically. ‘Thank you. Yes.’

She stares at us with a baffled expression as BJ helps me up the steps. He opens the door and we enter our silent home.

‘Do you want to lie down for a bit, babe?’ he asks me.

I nod. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. But can I have a glass of water first?’

‘Of course.’ He seems glad to be of use. I watch him stride away towards the kitchen. Thank god it is Nora’s, my housekeeper, day off. I couldn’t bear to see anyone else. BJ comes back with a glass of water and I drink it all and give him the empty glass. He puts it on the nearest surface and comes back to me.

We climb the stairs together. When we reach the bed a great exhaustion swamps me and I sit heavily on the mattress. He crouches down and gently takes my shoes off. I look down at him, at the way his luxurious eyelashes sweep down to his cheeks, and a crazy, totally inappropriate thought pops into my head. I want to have sex with him. For a second there is intense guilt and then the consoling thought. It’s not crazy. It’s just instinct. My body has no intellect of its own. Every time it’s near him, it just wants to copulate.

I close my eyes and let the instinct slink away in shame. Tenderly he kisses my palms and closed eyelids. Then he stands up and I lie down. Quietly, he covers my body with the duvet.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

He nods gravely, draws the curtains closed and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I hear him hesitate outside the door, then take a few steps, stop, come back to the door. But, after a pause, he goes downstairs.

I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling in disbelief. My mind turns round and round desperately, like a rat in cage, trying to find a way out. There must be another way. Slowly my hands cup my belly. I hear BJ climb the stairs. I put my hands down and turn to my side, facing away from the door, and close my eyes.

He comes in and stands over me.

He knows I am awake. I feel him sit on the bed. ‘I love you, Layla. Whatever happens I love only you. You’re my life. Without you nothing else matters.’ His voice breaks, but I don’t open my eyes. Tears slip out of my closed eyelids.

‘I’m going out now. There are things I need to sort out, but I’ll be back in an hour. Just rest, OK?’

He kisses my head and then I hear his footsteps run down the stairs. I know then that he has made his decision, and he can live it. And now he is doing everything in his power to facilitate that decision. I wait until I hear the front door close before I get up. I walk out of our bedroom and turn right, heading to the nursery.

I open the door, seeing the cot that Lily and I bought, and the full horror of my situation hits me. My knees give way and I slump to the ground outside my baby’s room. My arms pull tight across my body, as if I am cold. I realize that I am actually in a strange, dreaming state. It feels as if my heartbeat has slowed down.

In that oddly still moment, I remember my mother taking me to a tarot reader as a small child. As if it had happened yesterday, I clearly and distinctly remember her telling my mother, ‘I cannot read her cards now, Mara. Her destiny is special. A great sacrifice will be asked of her. If I am still alive then, I will read her cards for her.’

Even as a small girl I had picked up her sense of unease and dread, reverberating on a level beyond language, beyond what is cognitive. I didn’t even need to understand her to feel it.

‘What do you mean?’ my ma had asked.

But she would say no more.

I stumble down the stairs and find my purse. I root around in it with trembling hands and find my mobile phone. Taking a deep breath, I call my mother.

‘Ma,’ I say into the phone. It is shocking how level and even I manage to keep my voice. A few hours ago, I wouldn’t have understood how anyone could appear unmoved when they are dying inside. Now I know. The cold, hard part of me has detached itself enough to be able to function without the rest of me. Appearing unmoved is the price you pay for being able to speak at all.

‘Ah, I was just about to call you,’ my mother says cheerfully.

‘Why?’

‘I’m in a shop and I’ve seen the cutest little coats you’ve ever seen. I’m getting a pink one for our Liliana. Shall I get a blue one for Tommy as well?’

It is like a body blow. The only way to deal with it is talk about something crazy. ‘Why are you calling him Tommy, Ma?’

‘BJ told me that both of you had decided on that name.’

An involuntary smile escapes my stiff features. Oh, BJ. How sly you are.

‘Have you changed your mind then?’ my mother asks.

‘No. No, we haven’t. We are going with Tommy. Yeah, get the blue coat for him,’ I tell her.

‘All right, I will. What did you call me for?’

‘I wanted the phone number of that tarot card reader you always go to. I’ve forgotten her name.’

‘Queenie, you mean?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

‘I’ll text her number to you. Do you want to go and see her then?’

‘Yes.’

‘We can go together if you want.’

‘No, Ma. I was planning on seeing her today.’

‘Is anything wrong?’

‘No. Nothing is wrong. Just wanted to ask her something.’

‘She should be free now. She doesn’t work on Mondays. Too quiet on the pier. I’ll text her number to you now. Speak to you later tonight.’

‘Thanks, Ma.’

The text comes through and I call Queenie and make an appointment to see her in an hour and a half. Then I send BJ a text message.

I switch off my mobile, input Queenie’s address into my GPS, and drive my car to her trailer park. I’m there in less than an hour. I get out of the car and begin to walk.

The body remembers what the mind will not. My legs move confidently forward. My muscles and sinew know exactly where she lives. They always knew that one day I would be returning again to see the woman who could look into the future. She opens the door in her flowery housecoat. She is so small and shrunken. She is nothing like I remember.

‘Poor child. So soon you have been asked for your sacrifice,’ she says sadly.

My chin begins to tremble.

She steps aside and I enter her trailer. She bids me to sit.

‘What do you want of me?’ she asks.

‘Read my cards.’