Twenty-fourMarilyn Jarvis handed over a hot mug of tea, leaned back against the operating table and waited whilst Samuels carefully sipped the scalding drink. She'd come straight down to the lab after his hysterical phone call, not allowing herself time to put on her neck brace. She felt better without it.
After a while, he looked up, forced a thin smile. He looked ghastly, the colour drained from his face, the eyes red, deep shadows underneath. His hands were shaking as he put down the mug and took a deep breath.
“Tell me again,” Marilyn said, her voice low. She didn't want the man to fall back into a faint. She'd found him lying on the pathology lab floor, curled up in a foetal position, saliva drooling from his mouth. It had taken her five minutes of gentle persuasion to coax him back
