A Time To Die: Neil McKenzie Mysteries, #6

By Chris Grayling

From out of the blue Neil is given a cancer diagnosis. It's bad news because, like anyone else, he doesn't want to die. There's also the question of who he should tell. For a few weeks he tries to stay occupied by helping out an old student and working for CISC, but in the end he decides that he needs to escape to Spain.
In Spain he is trying to escape from thoughts of his own death. Events in the village where he goes, however, conspire to distract him in ways that he didn't expect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Books
• Release date: Feb 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224497195

Book preview

By Chris Grayling

The Neil Mackenzie Books

The Big Keep

The Big Sister

The Big Finish

A Week Is...A Long Time

Death On A Cruise

A Time To Die

Autobiography

Diana Rigg Ruined My Life

Joni Mitchell Ruined My Life

Also by Chris Grayling:

The Neil Mackenzie trilogy

The Big Keep

The Big Sister

The Big Finish

More Neil Mackenzie

A Week is a Long Time

Death on a Cruise

Schooldays Autobiography

Diana Rigg Ruined My Life

Student Days in Liverpool

Joni Mitchell Ruined My Life

1 Monday March 17th, 2014

The consultant looked at me inscrutably. ‘I’m sorry Dr Mackenzie, but it looks like you’ve probably got cancer.’

If I’m being picky, I would have preferred ‘possibly’ to ‘probably’. Even better would have been, ‘I’m pleased to report that I found nothing,’ but she didn’t say that. I’d walked into the Endoscopy Department at my local hospital at nine in the morning feeling fine and here I was, only an hour or so later, hearing the sort of news no one wants to hear.

Although the consultant had maintained an upbeat front throughout the colonoscopy, where hospitals are concerned most of us are glass half empty people aren’t we? Then, when she asked me if my wife would be around so that she could talk to us both afterwards, I silently panicked. Rachel was filming in Chicago, so I had to take the news on my own – although you’ll be pleased to know that I retained my English stiff upper lip throughout the ordeal.

It was just the consultant, a nervous looking medical student, and me sitting in the small consulting room. The student twisted uncomfortably in his chair as the doctor delivered her news to me. As shocks go this felt a lot less impactful than Arsenal conceding a last-minute winner to a Premier League rival even though I objectively knew that it could change, maybe even end, my life. Football results only impact one’s mood rather than affecting something concrete or, for that matter, anything that really matters.

To be absolutely honest, her announcement to me wasn’t completely out of the blue. I’d already been to my GP who’d called me a week or so back, ironically when I was coming out of the gym, to tell me that I’d failed a sensitive blood in my you-know-what test. The doctor explained that I’d failed it rather convincingly – scoring a hundred and ten when a reading of under ten is considered normal. She tried to reassure me that only ten per cent of patients who were sent for colonoscopies had cancer, but I inwardly reserved the right to panic. After all, I was a numbers man and a hundred and ten seemed, to use a couple of technical terms, on the huge side of massive.

I nodded sagely and kept my emotions under control: this wasn’t the time to break-down in tears and I kept an outward appearance of calm and reasonableness. However, inside I was as numb as a tooth waiting to be extracted. I managed to ask her a few questions when she offered me the chance and I tried to act as if I was asking her about an appendix removal rather than a life-threatening condition. She told me that I would have to undergo CT and MRI scans to see if and how far the growth in my rectum had spread. When they knew that it would most likely be an operation. I didn’t go into the repercussions of the latter with her – I wasn’t ready for those details yet and anyway, I guessed she was probably only prepared to discuss the next step with me rather than get into hypotheticals.

After the news had sunk in and I was driving to CISC, all I could think of, apart from dying prematurely in a hospice bed, was how I was going to break the news to Rachel and my two daughters. The doctor had used the word probably rather than possibly which, to a layman like me, didn’t sound good. As a teacher in a previous life, I could have given an accurate estimate of a student’s maths GCSE grade after spending only ten minutes with them. She had a lot of technical equipment as well as tons of practical experience, so I was fearing that she had a similar level of expertise in her field as I’d had in mine.

Being told that you might die or, more accurately, that you need an operation is always inconvenient. Everyday life has an outward veneer of normality which equates to living and not dying. None of us are keen to interrupt that comfortable, albeit misleading, existence. I’d, for example, only gone to the GP because Rachel, when she was staying with me, had insisted that I go. My visits to the toilet had become more frequent and, if you’ll excuse the detail, much more gaseous in composition. As my old mum would have said, ‘I could have shit through the eye of a needle,’ which, to be frank, I could have done four or five times a day.

My GP had laughed politely at the quote and a rather desperate claim that my troubles were down to the reappearance of a pesky pile that had only ever given me any physical distress once in a shower and again at a Boots at Gatwick some years later: Rocky and I were due to fly out to Spain for a holiday and I’d left him and was looking around the store for some cream and couldn’t find any (I’d figured it would be good to have some available if my arse started to itch on the beach). Embarrassingly, the only available assistant that I could ask was drop-dead beautiful so that I had to reluctantly approach her.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But could you show me where the haemorrhoid cream is?’

She smiled, looking even more lovely as well as the tiniest bit amused, and showed me.

Anyway, my GP had made me drop my jeans and had put a finger up my arse while I lay in an embarrassed, foetal position on a couch. Having done her worst, she announced that she wanted a more sensitive test of my arse and, as they say, the rest is history. A history that involved a colonoscopy and a disheartening diagnosis.

The day of the hospital visit had come – and throughout the previous evening I’d had to clean out my bowels by taking a laxative and sitting on the toilet at regular intervals. I don’t care what anyone says about laxatives: they are utterly disgusting and only marginally better than drinking liquified fruit cake.

I’d not told anyone about the colonoscopy. I’d palmed Rachel off with an amusing story about trying to retain some dignity while the GP had her finger up my anus. As far as she was concerned that was the end of the story. She was filming for a couple of months, so all I’d had to do if I was to keep things under wraps was not mention anything arse related during our phone calls. I hadn’t wanted to worry the girls either, so I’d stayed mum with them about the whole thing. Obviously, I would have to do the big reveal at some point but that could wait until I had more definite news.

After my appointment I drove to Tunbridge Wells and the CISC offices for a late start. I’d told Gere and Rocky about my appointment during the previous week and said that I’d come in on Monday after my appointment. I’d left it as late as possible on the Friday so that I didn’t have to endure too many references to my backside. My strategy had mostly succeeded, except in a text on Sunday about work, Rocky had slipped in a comment that he hoped that I wasn’t shitting myself about my upcoming appointment.

In the car I weighed up the conundrum of whether the consultant’s news meant the situation had changed about telling Rachel and the girls. As you can imagine, coming to a decision about this was almost as straightforward as the formulation of The Good Friday Agreement, so it wasn’t the most fun drive that I’ve ever done. In the end, however, after half an hour’s thought, I resolved not to say anything to them yet. Except, strangely, I actually wanted to share my experience with Rocky and Gere: I thought I knew them well enough to know that they would care while simultaneously not going overboard about it. Maybe, if you’ll cut me some slack about the expression, I just wanted to be the butt of their arse jokes rather than have to put up with the earnest concern of those nearest and dearest to me?

As I came onto the A21 I called ahead on the hands-free and Julie, our office manager, picked up.

‘Calverly Investigations,’ she chirped down the line.

‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Are Sherlock and Dr Watson in?’

She giggled. ‘Yes they are,’ she confirmed. ‘Do you have an apparently indecipherable mystery for them to solve through the powers of deduction alone?’

I chuckled involuntarily. ‘If I did CISC would be the last people I’d employ – except I’ve heard good reports about Neil Mackenzie.’

‘Really?’ said Julie in a monotone. ‘How strange. We think he’s a bit of an idiot, but there you go.’

I laughed. ‘Attractive though?’

‘Not that I’ve ever noticed,’ she said dismissively, although I thought there was now less frostiness in her voice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not claiming to have any power over women. I like to make jokes and more often than not the most miserable of buggers melts a little bit. Not that Julie was ever down in the mouth.

‘How disappointing Moneypenny,’ I said. ‘Anyway, as you may or may not have known, I’m coming in late – at about midday. If Batman and Robin are going to be around when I get there can you tell them that I want to see them?’

‘Of course, James,’ she replied huskily. ‘And if you want your usual in the stationery cupboard, let me know.’

‘No, I’ve just eaten thanks. Nice of you to offer though.’

‘It’s a service we pride ourselves on at CISC.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ I agreed. ‘Anyway, fuck off and get some work done will you?’

‘Charming,’ she breathed down the phone and rang off.

I got to our offices at around noon. I ran up the stairs and found Julie at her desk peering over her glasses at a monitor. She was an attractive forty-something woman with straight, shortish, light-brown hair. She invariably dressed her slim figure in a mumsy outfit and today was no different – sensible shoes, skirt and blouse.She looked up when I reached the top.

‘Morning Neil – or should I say Afternoon?’

She didn’t know about my appointment.

‘I’ve had things to do, people to follow etc – you know how it is, me being a private eye and such.’

She returned her attention to her computer. ‘Easy on the self-aggrandisement’, she cautioned. ‘Anyway, I thought I was working for a dog-walking business.’

‘That’s no way to talk about Rocky,’ I said. ‘Since he’s lost weight and grown the goatee, I think he looks quite good.’

Her eyes flickered away from her screen to look at me. She smirked.

‘They’re both upstairs supposedly working,’ she said.

‘How’s the novel going?’ I replied.

‘So, so,’ she said grimly. ‘The trouble is that I keep being interrupted...’

‘Sorry,’ I grinned. ‘I’m on my way.’

With that, I turned to the stairs leading to the second floor. A few seconds later I’d found my two partners working on their laptops in the room at the top of the building we rented. One of them thick-set, cheerful-looking with close-cropped dark brown hair and the other taller, grey-haired and similarly twinkle-eyed. They both looked up as I entered the room.

‘Wotcha Slick,’ grinned Rocky, the shorter one. ‘How’d it go?’

‘Bad news,’ I said. ‘The consultant thinks I’ve got a tumour in my rectum. You’re both going to have to find somebody else to keep you in order while I recuperate after I go under the knife.’

Rocky looked shocked and, for once in his life, didn’t come back at me with a pithy response. That’s the trouble with the word tumour – it’s a bit of a conversation stopper.

‘Jesus,’ Gere chimed in. ‘The whole operation will fall apart without you here getting under our feet.’

‘Fuck off,’ I grinned. ‘I could be seriously ill and all you can do is take the piss.’

‘He’s not emotionally very mature,’ announced Rocky, recovering some of his composure. ‘Ask his last few girlfriends.’

‘Girlfriends? I thought he was mostly having sex with himself lately?’

Rocky said wryly, ‘Well, luckily for us, his right hand can’t talk so forget what I said about asking his girlfriend.’

‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Enough about him. I’ve just had a tube up my arse at the hospital and I’ve been given some bad news. I need sympathy and hugs.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the wrong place mate,’ grinned Rocky.

‘I take it that you’ve already told Rachel?’ said Gere.

‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t,’ I admitted. ‘Before I had it, I didn’t want to worry her and after this morning I really don’t want to worry her.’

They both nodded perceptively, although there was some incredulity on Gere’s face as well. ‘When are you going to tell her? She’ll have to know,’ he said reasonably.

I went over to another chair that was standing next to the workstation that I habitually used. It was in front of a window looking out over Calverley Road and I gazed down at the pedestrians and motorists going about their everyday lives.

‘Will she?’ I said absently. ‘Maybe the tests will show that I’m cancer-free and telling her will only make her worry for no reason. She’s filming in Chicago for another month. I can easily make up some excuses, so that I don’t have to go and visit her. By the time I do see her I’ll have had the op and I’ll know what I’m up against.’

Gere didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s up to you,’ was all he said. ‘But you’ll have to tell her then. When they’ve finished cutting up your rectum, you’ll need a colostomy bag won’t you? Unless you try and sell her the idea that you’re trying out a new way of shitting I’ve a hunch she’ll suspect something’s happened to you.’

‘The stitches will be a bit of a giveaway as well,’ chimed in Rocky.

‘Of course I’ll tell her then,’ I said, exasperated. ‘I thought I could just save her the worry leading up to the op, that’s all. But you’re right about not being able to hide it.’

‘Unless you start shagging with your clothes on,’ stated Rocky thoughtfully.

‘I thought that was how everybody did it,’ I exclaimed, slapping my forehead. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve been doing it wrong for all of these years.’

‘Well, it would explain the long line of disappointed women,’ grinned Gere.

I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation with my two best friends and business partners. The main thing was that I’d told them. Now I needed time to absorb the consultant’s news and decide on a course of action. Business was quiet so I left the office by mid-afternoon and went home.

2 Kaz Ray

By the Wednesday I already had appointments for my CT and MRI scans. The NHS seemed to be working like a dream although my early MRI appointment was down to a cancellation. So I ended up having both of them during the same week as my colonoscopy which suited my impatient personality. Granted, now that I had reason to believe that I was riddled with cancer, my two visits to the hospital were somewhat different to the times in the past when my life wasn’t so much on the line. I had the distinct feeling during both of my visits that the scanners’ operators were sitting in their booths shaking their heads at the sight of my spreading tumours, even though I hadn’t the slightest evidence that that was the case.

Rocky and Gere were good about my unscheduled absences from work. Maybe in these circumstances those who are apparently in good health are just grateful that it’s not them who are in line to die early. Who knows? Anyway, I was just grateful for the unobtrusive way my friends dealt with me. Deciding whether or not to tell Rachel or my own grown-up kids was constantly in my thoughts but I reaffirmed my original decision not to mention it to them at least for a while. I’m a bloke for fuck’s sake, so I wanted as little fuss as possible. Most of all, however, was the unnecessary worry I wanted to spare them.

Work wasn’t very busy either which, on one level, was inconvenient – I would have preferred to be occupied. However, it seemed that Tunbridge Wells’ appetite for private detectives had waned. The only thing I had scheduled was a badminton match on the Friday evening when I would have to give Rocky and Gere a blow-by-blow account of the MRI scan that I was having that afternoon. The match was in Tunbridge Wells itself, so I didn’t bother going into the offices until after the scan at around four thirty. I’d agreed to go for a meal with the other two at six, so I thought I’d spend an hour and a half doing admin in my office until they came and collected me. My ‘office’ was on the same floor as Julie’s desk and the waiting room and, when I arrived, she was getting ready to go home for the weekend.

As I reached the top of the stairs she was already standing up in her coat and searching in her bag, presumably for her car keys. She looked up and gave me a wry smile.

‘Heck, this is a funny time to show up for work. Are you feeling alright?’

‘Badminton match,’ I said. ‘We’re going for a McDonald’s at six, but it suited me to come in now.’

She continued looking in her bag. ‘Thank God, for a minute I thought you were showing some enthusiasm for the business.’

‘To do some admin,’ I continued. ‘I hope that puts your mind at rest. Doing anything exciting this weekend?’

She found her keys and pulled them out of the bag. Her glasses had already been put away in her bag and tired eyes looked back at me. A grin still spread across her face.

‘Just the usual – a bit of skydiving with my young lover tomorrow and a spot of deep-sea diving on Sunday.’

‘With your husband?’

‘Nah, I leave him at home. My other boyfriend is taking me.’

‘Blimey, you lead an exciting life. It makes mine seem a bit -.’

‘Boring? Never mind Neil, we can’t all be like me.’

‘There’s a joke in there somewhere,’ I grinned. ‘Anyway, boring is good. An old friend told me that once.’

She lifted her bag off her desk and turned to face me again. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Have fun at McDonald’s by the way. I’m assuming you’ll win the match easily.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to Rocky,’ I cautioned her. ‘His specialist subject is talking bollocks.’

She rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I know. See you Monday?’

‘Hope so,’ I smiled. ‘Don’t leave it too late - pulling the rip cord I mean.’

‘As if,’ she chortled. ‘My timing is perfect.’

And she disappeared down the stairs.

I turned and pushed my way into the adjoining waiting room and then into my office. I looked at my watch and reluctantly took out my laptop – my heart wasn’t in doing anything much but, being the trooper that I am, I sat down and switched the computer on.

I’d hardly had time to find my CISC folder when my mobile rang. I looked at it hopefully – it was an old student from a few years ago - Kaz Ray.

‘Hi Kaz,’ I said, after pressing the screen to answer it. ‘How’s it going?’

Kaz had done A level maths and his dad had employed me to come around to his house every week during his Upper Sixth year to make sure that he passed. For his part Kaz was good at the subject, and we’d also got on like a house on fire. He’d let on to me early on during my visits that he intended, against his parents’ wishes, to have a go at a career in acting. Consequently, I’d made it my business to make jokes about it, especially when Mr Ray was around. Kaz hadn’t broken the news to his mum or dad about his real career intentions after A level, so it was a fertile field for leg pulling for a git like me.

‘Good, good,’ he said in a cheery voice. ‘I’ve got a lead role in a play at Trinity at the moment. If it doesn’t bomb it should last three months. I’ve been on the telly a few times as well.’

‘Blimey,’ I exclaimed, feeling annoyed with myself that I hadn’t realised. ‘You’ve come a long way since Sixth Form! How’re your parents?’

‘They’re both good thanks Dr M, but my career or the health of my mum and dad isn’t the reason for my call.’

‘I must admit that I was a bit surprised when I saw it was you who was calling me. What’s it all about?’

‘Actually, I’m in the precinct now. Can I pop over and tell you face to face?’

‘Course you can. I make a pretty good cup of coffee as well – it’ll be great to see you.’

Kaz laughed. ‘Okay Dr M, I’ll be there in five.’

Five minutes later I buzzed Kaz in. I’d already made the coffee and sat him down with it in the waiting room. It was more comfortable than my office so meeting him there felt less like an interview. I stretched back on one of the settees and looked at him: he was a fresh-faced, handsome Bengali with thick dark brown hair and an enviably straight hairline. Slim for the son of the owner of a takeaway business, he had big brown honest eyes and a friendly demeanour. After a few minutes of catching up we arrived at the reason he had come around.

‘So, what’s happened to make you want to see me – the last time I looked in the mirror I was as relevant to young people as aftershave.’

Kaz grinned. ‘Well, something strange has happened to me. I was passing here earlier and I remembered that you were an investigator now. I thought I could kill two birds – catch up with you and tell you about my experience.’

‘You smooth talking Asian,’ I grinned. ‘Come on – spill the beans.’

‘Well, this week at Trinity a man – he called himself Cain Chandra - came to see me backstage on Wednesday night. Before the performance.’

‘Right. What did he want?’

‘He wanted me to impersonate him.’

‘Fucking hell Kaz – really? Any particular reason why?’

‘Because, in appearance we’re like identical twins. When he came into my dressing room I nearly fainted.’

‘Identical twins? Blimey, that really is amazing!’

‘I know. He said that he’d thought that from the publicity stills he’d seen that there was a vague resemblance between us but when he saw me on stage the night before he was blown away by the likeness. He was a few years older than me I guess, but it was like meeting myself.’

‘So why did he want you to stand in for him?’

‘He said it was a long story but, essentially, he said that his wife was two-timing him with his brother, and he wanted to get away from the situation and start afresh.’

‘Start afresh?! And how the fuck was he going to do that – or didn’t he go into details?’

‘No, he didn’t as a matter of fact. He said that he had access to the company account – the one owned by him, his wife and his brother – but wasn’t going to touch it – I think he told me that in case I was worried that I was helping him steal money.’

‘So, this was on Wednesday? I take it that you haven’t decided what to do yet?’

Kaz looked sheepishly at me.

‘Jesus! So, he came to see you a couple of nights ago,’ I calculated. I wasn’t known as the brains of CISC for nothing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve said yes already - what does he exactly want you to do?’

‘Of course not!’ grinned Kaz awkwardly again, shaking his head. ‘I’m not stupid Dr M, I thought I’d get your advice first. I have to call him today to say one way or the other.’

‘Even though you’ve avoided the question,’ I laughed. ‘I’d have told him on Wednesday night. No, would’ve been my answer. Look Kaz, it could land you in trouble – for a start, whatever he says, you could be helping him steal. That’s a crime. What would your mum or dad say?’

‘That’s what’s been worrying me,’ he said. ‘The trouble is, he said it would be easy and he’d give me five thousand pounds if I did it. He wants to get away from his wife and start again abroad, that’s all.’

‘Five thousand quid – she must be one hell of a munter! Anyway, why doesn’t he bite the bullet and divorce her? Speaking