Staring At The Light (31 page)

He always liked the building best when it was empty. Felt like a king in a castle, forgetting he was the mere tenant of a
few rooms with his throne undermined by debt.

It was perverse of him to want the place to look comforting for tomorrow’s patient, especially since the patient was not due
to arrive until the afternoon, and heaven knows what disturbance there might be in the morning. Nothing arduous; he had checked.
This evening would be alone with the journals, thinking time. The elaboration of his preparations for John Smith could mean
nothing more than the fact that he was afraid of the man, and he decided that that was not the prime motivation for all this
fussiness. The fear was of failure. Not being good enough even to inspire faith.

This is silly talk, William, and you were never any good at communication, he told himself, as he went down to the basement,
finding no comfort in the chaos the way he usually did. There was an atmosphere here that he did not trust; the cold from
the window, which since last week would not shut, warped by the wet. The place did not feel as if it belonged to him any more,
but then, looking at his life, he did not think anything belonged to him. Back upstairs, checking again, suddenly a little
bit lonely and wanting to talk, having a chat with the paintings, the way he did sometimes, although he was not usually quite
so sober when he resorted to such inanimate company. Wanting Sarah, because Sarah would understand this, but pushing the thought
from
his mind. Good athletes and, possibly, good dentists should put such feeble need for womankind from mind on the eve of combat.
But it wasn’t combat: it was nothing more or less than
treatment
. They might do
nothing
tomorrow. No-one was going to give him a medal for this. He wasn’t even sure he was going to get any money.

The phone rang at the desk as he tidied things round it. He interrupted it, reluctant to hear the sound of his pre-recorded
voice. ‘Yes?’ he barked.

There was the sound of shuffling and adjustment, a gasp, as if the person phoning expected the anonymity of his recorded voice
rather than this distinctly personal, impatient reply. Followed by a sniffing sound, a hawking into a handkerchief, a tremulous
sigh and a sob. A patient with a post-operative problem – bound to be one of those. He softened his voice. ‘Yes,’ he murmured,
‘how can I help?’ professional solicitude creeping into his tone like a wheeze.

‘William? Is that you?’ Isabella’s sobbing grew earnest. He could feel himself melting, slightly. Who was it said, ‘Let me
not go to death surrounded by wailing women’? Some king who was spoiled for choice. It didn’t strike William as a bad way
to go if one had to shuffle off the mortal coil .in any kind of company at all; women rather than men, any time. A wailing
woman was one in need and William liked to be needed.

‘Isabella? What’s the matter?’
There, there, there
, he wanted to say, but it might sound condescending. He took refuge in a cough, the way he sometimes did
when searching for a patient’s name, hoping the spasm would jerk it into memory.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing, nothing, nothing.’ The voice trailed away, leaving behind it William’s unsteady breathing.
He flattered himself that her occasional calls to the answer-machine might have been something to do with concern for his
health, but this was the first time she had taken the risk of communicating unhappiness. The sound of her distress provoked
a series of responses: irritation, grief, concern, foolishness, guilt, and that shameful pitter-patter of the heart which
had become his neurotic condition as soon as he heard her voice. Nightmares about Isabella and the children; daydreams that
she would come back through the door and beg his forgiveness.

‘I made a mistake, Will, a bad mistake. I misjudged you.’

He had once longed to hear such sentiments, but now they left him disconsolate and strangely annoyed. Why was she the only
one who ever diminished him by calling him
Will
, and why say this
now
, when he had other things to think about, choosing a time when there was no possibility of his indulging the slightest sense
of triumph?

‘Do you think we could try again? I miss you so much.’

Missed
him? Such as, shacking up with someone richer while receiving maintenance without gratitude? That was
missing
someone? All the same, he felt a flush creep up from his neck and over his face and, if
it wasn’t quite pleasure he felt, it was a close relation, which he managed to control, as well as the silly smile on his
face that made him vaguely embarrassed as if she was there, watching. The pause stretched into half a minute.

‘Will … there’s no-one else, is there? No-one special, I mean …’

No-one. Just Sarah. Mysterious, adorable, dependable Sarah. A tart with heart and morals.

‘Perhaps we should meet and talk about it.’

‘Can we do that soon?’

‘Well, yes. Soon.’

He was staring at the door, not even half listening to her. A crucial conversation in the history of his life, and he could
not pay attention, because there was someone outside, knocking against the door so hard it vibrated. He had the ridiculous
thought that it was her on the other side, only pretending to talk from a distance.

‘Like now?’ Isabella was saying plaintively. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so unhappy …’

‘Soon.’

He was slamming down the receiver, not quite believing that he had actually done that and choked her off. He watched, with
his fingers still touching the lifeline of the phone, as the door opened abruptly.

John Smith first, smart and unsmiling, Sarah next, and the fat man who had gone through the records bringing up the rear.
John took the key from behind the desk, locked the door behind himself and gave the key to the fat man. It was a heavy door,
like the
separate door to the surgery, guarding against crazies in a misguided search for drugs even in these respectable quarters.
The presence of all three in the small area by the desk was at first astounding then immediately claustrophobic. John’s aftershave
was oppressive and the silence was overwhelming. William gave his indecisive, nervous cough before he spoke, sounding officious.
‘Mr Smith, you’ve got the time wrong. You’re due here tomorrow. Not today. Tomorrow.’

John Smith sighed, spoke softly, shaking his head at the error of such blithe assumptions. ‘Oh, no, it was always going to
be today. Tomorrow’s too close to Christmas.’ He ushered Sarah forward, without touching her. She was held by the fat man’s
meaty paw on her neck, making her stoop under his weight, preventing her eyes from meeting his. ‘And
this
’, he was still murmuring, ‘is the patient. Bring her in.’

‘Sarah … what are you doing?’

‘Julie,’ she said. ‘My name is Julie Smith.’

She was propelled past William’s stupefied face into the surgery. The fat man hesitated on the threshold for a second, disoriented
by the absence of the chair in his immediate line of vision, then saw it round the corner. It was low to the ground in this
resting state, easy to shove her into it. Following, watching with increasing agitation, making small, inarticulate squawks
of protest, what puzzled William most was her calm lack of resistance, as if she had already learned the futility of it. She
was not easily coerced – that much he knew; she was as stubborn as
a mule, and it followed that there was some form of conspiracy between them. A joke, a trick, a mystery designed to make him
look a fool, like a strippergram victim at a party, all of them knowing about it except himself. Then the fat man, with the
efficiency of a policeman in a second-rate film, produced a piece of tape and attached her wrists to the supports at the side
of the chair, so unlikely and deft a set of movements that William could not believe it, even though he was beginning to perceive
the sickness of the joke. The fat man found a scalpel out of a drawer to cut the tape. They had been here before. She lay
as still and uncomfortably posed as a plastic mannequin in a shop window. Only the abundance of curling red hair, spilling
over the back of the chair, showed her to be real.

‘A woman’s crowning glory,’ John Smith was saying dreamily. ‘Her hair. They can seduce a man with hair like that. The smile’s
more important, don’t you think?’ He was locking the surgery door, putting the key in his top pocket. ‘Cannon was always a
sucker for a smile,’ he went on, ‘because of the reaction to his own. Must have dreamed of a smile like hers.’ He paused,
remembering something, his face sad. The figure in the chair remained immobile; William could see that only her fingers moved
restlessly, as if trying to signal, looking for something to clasp. John Smith seemed to remember where he was and his purpose,
looked at William directly and spoke with the authoritative patience of a teacher to a recalcitrant child.

‘And it was that smile which hooked him,’ he went on, ‘
stole
him from me.
My
lover,
my
heart,
my
flesh and blood,
my
soul,
my
reason for anything. And then
you
, Mr Dentist,
you
did the rest. You gave him his film-star teeth, so that when he looked in the mirror he didn’t see
me
any more. Made him think he was different from
me
. Kid himself he was no longer part of
us
. And how can I live without him? Answer me that, will you? I rot inside, is what happens. I rot away, like my houses.’ He
was shouting by now, wagging his finger, coming closer, so the spittle landed on William’s face. Then he controlled himself,
became calmer. ‘No, I can’t blame you for
that
. Such a conscientious fellow you are. But it does seem fair you should share the punishment. Don’t get me wrong … I’m not
asking much …’

He perched on the ledge to the far left of the chair, still not looking at her, legs crossed, relatively relaxed, the sweet
soul of reason. ‘I don’t want you to
kill
her,’ he added conversationally, as if they were simply man to man in a bar, discussing a friendly proposition of mutual
interest. ‘It would be
dreadful
if you did. What
you
have to do is wreck that smile, tooth by tooth. I mean, there must be a way of poisoning them at the root, just like someone
did with mine. Murder them and that fucking smile. No anaesthetics, of course.’ He looked at his watch, businesslike. ‘How
long do you think it will take?’

‘I thought it was
you
who wanted treatment,’ William said. ‘I want to treat
you
.’

‘No. How long will this take?’

The obscenity and seriousness of the revolting suggestions finally penetrated William’s shocked and sluggish mind. He punched
John Smith on the jaw. The blow jarred his wrist, seemed to recoil like a heavy gun, thumping into his shoulder as if he had
missed contact with flesh and hit the wall instead. He was as fragile as paper, all height, no density, no skill for a fight.
John Smith returned with a punch to the abdomen and a series of kicks to the legs. The room swam; he was on his back with
John and the fat man leaning over him solicitously, so easy they were scarcely short of breath.

‘You forgot to tell him something, Mr Smith, sir,’ the fat man whispered. Their expressionless faces mesmerized him, and out
of the corner of his eye he could see the fat man’s enormous boot, pinning his forearm to the ground with enough pressure
to hurt extremely.

‘Oh, that,’ John Smith said carelessly. ‘I forgot to mention that. Silly me. If you don’t do what I say, my friend here is
going to stamp on your hands.
Pulp
them. Your precious hands … and you do
love
your hands, don’t you? You even have fucking
drawings
of your own hands about the place, like other stupid idiots have portraits.
Pulp
. Not a whole bone left, even the little ones. I hold, he
stamps
.’ William swallowed the scream. The foot pressed against his arm relentlessly; the pain increased. Then the fat man held
his right hand lovingly, tut-tutting under his breath, bent the fingers back until William gasped. He could picture his hand
dismembered, all those
complex bones rearranged in a pattern of red on the clean white floor.

Sarah’s voice, sounding resigned: ‘Better do as you’re told, William. You need your hands.’

‘Why?’ William screamed. ‘
Why
?’

‘Because she’s a thief,’ John roared. ‘A fucking
thief
.’

‘You aren’t a thief, are you, Sarah?’ The body on the chair seemed to wilt and remained utterly silent. It perturbed him almost
more than anything else. Smith’s smell was a disgusting mixture of adrenalin and scent. William hated him.

‘And it’s not called Sarah, it’s called Julie,’ the fat man stated, then clamped his mouth shut, aware of speaking out of
turn. William looked at him. Of the two, he might be the one with conscience.

‘She’s—’

‘Shut up, William. If you don’t do what they want, they’ll do it themselves.’

Yes, they would.

They seemed impervious to the sound of her voice, both of them jittery now, anxious for something to begin, as volatile as
crazed insects, mad with captivity. William was on his feet, hoisted without effort in arms that felt like girders, standing
upright, clasping his hands and gnawing on a knuckle as if he were a baby instead of the puppet he felt. The fat man was handing
him the white coat. The door was locked, the building was empty, and that mystery person in the chair, his lover, his best
friend, seemed to encourage them by her very compliance. And his hands, his trembling hands.
He could not live without his dextrous, sensitive hands. His mind went back to the bonfire, the last time he had worried about
his hands, wondering then if he would risk them, for love, for rescue, for his living, for his pride, for anything. The fat
man was holding out his white coat. It reminded him now of the uniform of a butcher: high-necked, double-breasted stiff white
cotton, the better to absorb the stains.
If I don’t do it they will; better me than them; what will they do if I renege
? He imagined an amateur let loose with a high-speed drill. Mind in overdrive, brain going tick, tick, tick, like a bomb,
making his voice sound as clear as a voice that belonged to some other person entirely, another kind of man. The Inquisition’s
torturer, paid by the hour, with an agenda all of his own.