The Children Act by Ian McEwan Page A

free will.”
    There was a trace of a lopsided smile on Mark Berner’s face.Admiration for his adversary, perhaps. “You’ve just told my learned colleague that in your twenties your life was a mess. You said you were a bit of a wild man. Hardly likely, is it, Mr. Henry, that several years earlier, when you were Adam’s age, you knew your own mind.”
    “He’s lived his whole life in the truth. I didn’t have that privilege.”
    “And then, as I recall, you said you discovered that life was precious. Did you mean other people’s lives or just your own?”
    “All life is the gift of the Lord. And his to take away.”
    “Easy to say, Mr. Henry, when it’s not your life.”
    “Harder to say when it’s your own son.”
    “Adam writes poetry. Do you approve of that?”
    “I don’t think it’s particularly relevant to his life.”
    “You’ve rowed with him about it, haven’t you?”
    “We’ve had serious conversations.”
    “Is masturbation a sin, Mr. Henry?”
    “Yes.”
    “And abortion? Homosexuality?”
    “Yes.”
    “And this is what Adam has been taught to believe?”
    “It’s what he knows to be true.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Henry.”
    John Tovey rose and, somewhat breathlessly, told Fiona that given the hour he had no questions to ask of Mr. Henry, but he would call the social worker, the Cafcass officer. Marina Greenewas slight, sandy-haired and spoke in short precise sentences. Helpful, at this stage of the afternoon. Adam, she said, was highly intelligent. He knew his Bible. He knew the arguments. He said he was prepared to die for his faith.
    He had said the following—and here, with the judge’s permission, Marina Greene read from her notebook. “I’m my own man. I’m separate from my parents. Whatever my parents’ ideas are, I’m deciding for myself.”
    Fiona asked what action Mrs. Greene thought the court should take. She said her view was simple, and she apologized for not knowing every turn of the law. The lad was clever and articulate, but still very young. “A child shouldn’t go killing himself for the sake of religion.”
    Both Berner and Grieve declined to cross-examine.
    BEFORE HEARING CLOSING submissions Fiona allowed a short break. The court rose and she went quickly to her room, drank a glass of water at her desk and checked her e-mails and texts. Plenty of both, but nothing from Jack. She searched again. It wasn’t sadness or anger she felt now, but a dark hollowing-out, an emptiness falling away behind her, threatening to annihilate her past. Another phase. It didn’t seem possible that the person she knew most intimately could be so cruel.
    It was a relief, several minutes later, to be back in court. When Berner rose it was inevitable that he should move theargument to “Gillick competence”—a point of reference in both family law and pediatrics. Lord Scarman had provided the formulation, and the barrister quoted him now. A child, that is, a person under sixteen, may consent to his or her own medical treatment “if and when the child achieves sufficient understanding and intelligence to understand fully what is proposed.” If Berner, in advancing the hospital’s case to treat Adam Henry against his wishes, was invoking Gillick now, it was to preempt Grieve from doing so on behalf of the parents. Get in first and shape the terms. He did so in quick short sentences, his smooth tenor’s voice as clear and precise as it was when he sang Goethe’s tragic poem.
    It was a given, Berner said, that not transfusing was of itself a form of treatment. None of the staff looking after Adam doubted his cleverness, his extraordinary way with words, his curiosity and passion for reading. He had won a poetry competition run by a serious national newspaper. He could recite a long part of an ode by Horace. He was truly an exceptional child. The court had heard the consultant confirm that here was an intelligent and articulate boy. Crucially, however, the doctor had just