Mirrors do not lie. Alex had gotten used to the bruises over the past fifteen months, the various wounds with their scars, then the broken bones and then the burns and even more scars. It was July, three weeks after returning from Cairo, his second week in San Francisco and he looked at the deep dark bruising on his skin. Bruising on his arms, legs and torso. They should have faded to yellow long ago. No fights, kidnappings or threats of imminent death here. He was tired and felt crap but that was the expected, he was on anti-depressants and seeing a stupid counselor. The bruises worried Alex. Was it psychosomatic? He was also hot and his glands were up. Time to trust in the internet and some self diagnosis. Anyway, it would just confirm he had man-flu. Only it didn't ...

Acute Myeloid Leukaemia

Cancer - The Big C

Caused by Radiation

Alex was glad for once he was home alone. Everyone else out at the beach for a picnic, he had cried off because of his slight temperature. Two aspirin was not going to cure this. Not when the stupid therapist cost $400 an hour. Treating this in California would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Alex packed his bag, picked up the phone and called Mrs. Jones.

Without a hello, Alex just spat out his demand when he was put through to his ex-boss. "I want to come back to London. ASAP." He gave no explanations, he was a teenager after all, explanations and conversation were not required.

"OK Alex. There's a flight tonight at 8, you have just enough time to get to the airport."

Leaving a note for Sabina and her parents was a bit cruel, but a necessary evil. Cancer treatment was way out of Edward's budget.

The flight was not too bad, as a teenager traveling alone, the flight attendants looked after him. The seat was in tourist class though. Alex was met at Heathrow by a crummy social worker. Better than his nightmare of someone from K-unit or worse, either Crawley or Jones. His first thought was to come clean and scream "No, I need to go to casualty, not the children's home", but Alex decided to keep his worries to himself and suffered the 40 minute drive into West London. Trying not to listen to Mr. Bright and Cheerful talk of positive strategies and settling in. He arrives at a large detached house in Chelsea, home to three care workers and twelve kids ranging in age from six to fifteen. At, sixteen you were out and into a bedsit. The kids are all fairly friendly as he was introduced around and had his short tour. His assigned room had bare walls, but decent furniture. Alex was not a short term placement, this was it. There was no chance of fostering in his case, not after he blew the Pleasure's offer out of the water.

That night Alex phoned Tom to let him know he was back and got told to go screw himself after fucking off again. Well, what exactly had Alex expected, after Tom had been used by Blunt to force him to go to Cairo. Better off without friends. Then Alex's blood ran cold. He'd put all the kids here in danger. It was an easy decision to leave, just after lights out. It was a two mile walk to St. Stephen's Hospital. The whole being ill was probably him just being stupid. It was flu, an allergic reaction, highly unlikely to be cancer. After a two hour wait, he gets to sit on a trolley, give his name, date of birth and the good old truth of no fixed abode as he has runaway. The junior passes his notes onto the houseman, then the consultant comes in and Alex then gets a bed on the adult ward after his blood tests, x-rays. The planned bone marrow biopsy in the morning. Thank god for the NHS, no waiting around when you're an emergency.

Alex is asleep, after his painful minor surgery, when the same social worker arrived. One person Alex did not want to wake up to was the bearded, cheerful, do-gooder, who picked him up from the airport and is sat by his bed. At least the guy left Alex alone to enjoy the affects of the painkillers.

At dinner, it was the head care worker from the children's home by his bed. In the crappy hospital gown, all of the dark bruises on his arms were on show.

"So, Alex. You gave us the slip for this fantastic place?"

"Yeah, hanging out with the hard core party crew, Right, Lorna."

"Yes, now here's the catering. Sandwiches, tea and ice cream for Mr. Rider."

Alex was not hungry and egg sandwiches were the least evil thing on offer, with the alternatives the choice of pork chops or chicken curry.

Mike Harries watched the teenager eat the ice cream very slowly, but leaving the sandwiches in their plastic wrap. "No appetite?"

"No not really." Alex took a sip of the thick, lukewarm tea and grimaced.

"Want me to get you a takeaway?"

"No. Thanks for offering, but I feel a bit off. Jet lag and surgery don't mix." What Alex really wanted he'd never get back. Jack, who could not cook, but was excellent at sandwiches, salads, stir-fries and tapas. His own cooking skills stretched as far as cereal and toast marathons. "I want my home back. Jack, who used to look after me, would always make me s'mores when I was ill. A concoction of marshmallow, digestive biscuit and her secret chocolate supply." Alex started to tear up and looked at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the universe.

"I heard you grunted at Jeff this morning. He's a good social worker. He's trying to get you sorted with a placement. Being shuffled between the dump and here is not ideal."

"The dump?" Alex guessed it was what the kids called the home.

"There is a place at a half way house in Dorking, teenagers in bedsits, two staff on site. Not ideal for chemo, but Jeff is working on something better."

"I'm nearly 16, whats the point in February, its not Jeff's problem anymore."

"It is while you're in treatment and if it is Leukaemia, like the doctor's think, you have a tough road ahead." Mike had read Alex's file. Serial bereavements, failing school, arrests, suspected arson, running away. Over a dozen complaints filed by the school, neighbours and parents over his previous placement with Jack Starbright. Alex should have been removed from her care last April after the incident with that crane, but Alex had been failed by the system. The hippy housekeeper had pulled him out of school in June, taken him to Egypt and died. A classic case of yo-yo parenting, with neglect and physical abuse suspected, followed by overcompensation. "You need to look after yourself. My girlfriend is a life coach, all positive thinking, yoga and Pilates. This disease takes no prisoners. Hell, I'll learn to cook those s'mores things, if it gets you thinking of the future. All this before getting a school placement sorted and Year 11 is a tough one, without spending it throwing up."

...

Alex felt better the next morning and was going back to the Dump on Cheshunt Road. He guessed he was free from MI6's machinations now and would just have to make the best of things. In three to four days he would go back to St. Stephen's for the results of his various tests, see a haematologist, and get the chemo started. Alex guessed that with the immediate biopsy, it was almost a cert he was ill. On arriving back after the short taxi ride, Mike had told the other kids to leave Alex to rest and that he was tired. Cary snuck in, a fifteen year old like himself, but one that did not attend Brooklands.

"You go to St. Anthony's, I guess?"

"No, Sacred Heart. You went to Brookland. I overheard Mike yesterday on the phone. Whatever you did, blondie, they don't want you back." The girl stated with her arms crossed.

"I kind of glad I'm out of there. No friends, I had to endure being sent to Coventry and pathetic attempts at bullying and the fact nothing I did made up for the fact I ran away during a school trip and was missing for nearly three months."

"Oh, right. Was that recent?"

"Last September." Alex then shifted, from Scorpia to the Bahamas, then the whole bag of crap over Ash. "So, are you a straight A type of girl?"

"Well, try to be. Want to be a doctor. Only here 'cause my mum's in the nuthouse. Stopped taking her meds and went completely manic on me. I called for the men in white coats, so she tried to beat the crap out of me. She's a fantastic mum, when she takes her meds. So what's your story."

"Orphan." Alex knew he could leave it at that, but his life was way more complicated than that. "Parent's died when I was a baby. My uncle brought me up. Only thats a lie, a series of housekeepers had that pleasure. The last was a crazy hippy law student, Jack was great. Well, Ian died in a car crash in 2001. She continued to look after me, even though I was impossible... she died in June. Terrorist bombing in Egypt. I really liked the school there as well". That was pushing the terms of the OSA to the limit, but Alex was not going to sugar coat her death.

"Shit and I thought my life was crap. Welcome to the end of the line. I'm trying to get a scholarship to boarding school... Ampleforth in North Yorkshire is likely. I already have four GCSE's."

"God, now I feel like a brain dead chav."

"No, Blondie. Daniel is the brain dead chav in this house. You are interesting. I better let you rest. Sweet dreams."

Alex pondered on the fact she had not asked about hospital, then again the house meeting had probably let on he was ill, as in really ill. Might die, ill. After all those crappy excuses for missing school, this was almost poetic justice. He was ill because of Sarov, that bomb and standing in the radiation hot spot in Murmansk. The thought of dying was not altogether frightening. He was not religious, but was it the end? In October he had been sure his mother was watching over him. Was she still? That was comforting, in a strange way. He fell asleep looking at the simple photo frame on his bedside table. John and Helen on the left and Alex and Jack on the right. The photo of him and Ian that used to be in the frame had been binned, with his conclusion Ian had really been a twisted git over his game plan for his nephew. Really all the shit that had happened could be laid at Ian's door.