I was ghostwriter on this heartbreaking tale of personal injury and medical and legal negligence.
At the back of the group emerging into the Arrivals hall was a young man leaning heavily on a small boy. I looked again. What I saw made me shudder. Coming towards me was an emaciated man, limping and struggling with every step. It was David.
My son staggered towards me. His face was bloated and his head swollen gruesomely; he looked at me with a mixture of anguish and pleading in his eyes. Alarm bells started to ring inside me.
My younger son John ran towards me, gave me a kiss, and said, ‘David’s not well.’
Which made it sound like David might have a stomach bug, but I could see this was no minor ailment. As David hobbled ever closer to me it became clear that something was dreadfully wrong.
‘What happened? Are you all right?’ I asked frantically.
David was groaning horribly and couldn’t get the words out to explain what was wrong.
‘My head, my head. It’s torture … I can’t stand it … help me, Mum, help me!’