Dr. Yes

Dr. Yes Page 16

by Colin Bateman

  'No one, just establishing the boundaries. Quiet night.'

  'It is a quiet night.'

  'Not much to do.'

  'No, there's not.'

  'What if I want to take someone up to my room?'

  'A visitor?'

  'A visitor, yes.'

  'That's not a problem, sir.'

  'It's a single room.'

  'That's not a problem, sir.'

  'A friend up to my room, for a couple of hours.'

  'Soul of.'

  'What if I don't have any friends?'

  'I'm sure you do.'

  'Yes, I do, but not right here, right now. Could you recommend a friend?'

  'Yes, I could do that.'

  'A blonde friend?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Premium?'

  'Discount.'

  'If I wanted two?'

  'Two friends?'

  'It's a quiet night.'

  'Yes, it is. Two won't be a problem.'

  'How does it work?'

  'How does what work?'

  'Finding me friends deserves a reward.'

  'At your discretion.'

  'Have you ever met Dan Starkey?'

  'Dan ...?’

  'He's a reporter on Belfast Confidential; he goes about exposing hotels and how they work hand in hand with escort agencies supplying sex-trafficked call girls to their clientele.' 'No, I haven't.'

  'You have now.'

  I took out my mobile and pushed a button, as if I was switching off a tape. To his credit, he did not flicker or flinch. He remained as cool as his clothes.

  'Nice one,' he said. 'Walked into that.'

  'Yeah, you should have asked what room I was in.'

  'Noted.'

  'But I don't have to write anything. A little info is all I'm looking for.'

  'Really?'

  'Yeah. Doing a piece on yer man. Dr Yes.'

  'Dr Yeschenkov?'

  'That's the one. He came in a minute ago.'

  'Yes, he did.'

  'Visiting his patients.'

  'Yes, he is. He's here most nights.'

  'Have much to do with him?'

  'He's always pleasant. He tips well. His patients are from the needy end of the spectrum.'

  'Does he ever have company?'

  'Sometimes, other doctors, nurses. There's an arrangement with the hotel.'

  'Does he ever stay over?'

  For the first time the concierge hesitated. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

  'How do you mean?' he asked.

  'The clinic block-books rooms?'

  'Yes, it does.'

  'But not all of those rooms are going to be used all of the time. I'm guessing the hotel doesn't want those rooms let out to ordinary guests, because the guests don't want to be seeing patients in all states of disrepair roaming the corridors screaming in pain. So there are certain rooms that stand empty, and I'm asking if Dr Yes ever stays over.'

  The concierge cleared his throat. 'Occasionally.'

  'He have company?'

  'Occasionally.'

  'Mrs Yeschenkov?'

  'Occasionally.'

  'This woman?'

  I turned my phone to show him the photo of Pearl I'd lifted from the Yeschenkov Clinic website.

  'Occasionally.'

  'It doesn't do her justice,' I said.

  'Nope.'

  'She's bigger than that.'

  He looked me dead in the eye. 'She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She sat where you're sitting one night and talked to me for twenty-three minutes.'

  'What about?'

  'Absolutely no idea, but at the end of it if she'd asked for my pin code I would gladly have given it to her.'

  'Do you know Buddy Wailer?'

  'Buddy . . . ?'

  'Very tall, very thin, might be with Dr Yes from time to time.'

  'Can't say I . . .'

  'Carries a hatbox.'

  The concierge smiled. 'The Mad Hatter? Sure. We've all seen him.'

  'Frequently?'

  'Hard to say.'

  'You know what he does?'

  'Isn't it obvious?'

  'Is it?'

  'Hats? The hatbox?'

  'Right,' I said.

  'I mean, we don't know, that's just what we guessed. Those women have more money than sense, and time to kill. They have the shopping channel piped in, but it's not the same. There's designers coming in here all day, can't believe their luck: a captive audience, and a captive audience on painkillers and champagne.'

  'Good job you're discreet.'

  'The soul of.'

  Across the way, the elevator doors opened and Dr Yeschenkov emerged. He walked straight for the exit. I stood up.

  'Thanks for the help,' I said.

  'That's what I'm here for.'

  'Tipping is . . . ?'

  'Discretionary.'

  'Bear that in mind,' I said.

  * * *

  Chapter 29

  The Blackheath Driving Range is a floodlit facility on the outskirts of Holywood, County Down. I only know that because that's where I was, and it was floodlit and on the outskirts of Holywood, County Down. There was now a stiff, cold breeze, and a mean rain, but that wasn't going to stop Dr Yeschenkov getting some practice in. It was ten-thirty when he arrived, and there were only two other cars in the car park. A bearded man in orange waterproofs was just in the process of closing up the garden shed that served as his office when the Porsche pulled in right beside him; the window slid down, something was said, and the man began to reverse the process. I guess you don't say no to Dr Yes.

  I parked on the other side of a BMW, switched off, and considered my options. Sure, it was a splendid opportunity to confront him. Or if not confront him, talk to him. Or if not talk to him, observe him. But it was cold, and wet, and from what I had read of the sport, it usually wasn't a good idea to disturb anyone attempting to play it. Someone famous had once summed up the frustrations of golf as 'a good walk, spoiled', but I thought it was simpler than that. It was just shit.

  Confrontation for the sake of confrontation was pointless. I had no proof of any wrongdoing, merely suspicions. Equally, he had no proof that I knew anything of his deeds, yet he had surely been behind the visit of Rolo and Spider-web to my shop, the warning to mind my own business and the shocking damage to my nose. Rolo had yet to come back to me on that one, but there wasn't any doubt in my mind. Dr Yes was rich, good-looking and a social mover. He was used to getting his own way. He liked power, and when people rubbed him up the wrong way, he wiped them out. But here he was, on a rain-swept spring night, all by himself. There would never be a better opportunity to introduce myself. He was just getting his clubs out of the back of his car.

  I had to do it now. I had to ignore the rain, and the pneumonia that would surely follow; I had to try and blot out the fact that we were almost in the country, that there were fields not too far away, featuring the cows of night and sheep that could fly when no one was looking.

  I got out of the van and approached the chap now standing morosely in the shed doorway.

  I said, 'I want a go.'

  'A go? We're just closing up.'

  'Oh.'

  Dr Yeschenkov came walking past us, his golf bag over his shoulder. He nodded at the man. The man nodded back. He looked at me.

  'He was the last one,' he said.

  'I was here before him.'

  'He's a member; that has certain privileges.'

  'But your sign says open to the public.'

  'And we are, except when we're closed.'

  'I just want a quick game. I'll finish the same time as him.'

  'Read my lips: n . . . o . . . spells ...'

  'Hey.' It was Dr Yeschenkov, standing on the slatted wooden path leading to the sheltered range. 'Why don't you let the guy play? What difference does one more make?'

  'I'm not supposed to . . .'

  'Just say he's with me.'

  The man blew air
out of his cheeks. 'Right,' he said. 'Whatever.'

  Dr Yeschenkov winked at me. I would have winked back, but once I start, I find it difficult to stop. As Dr Yes continued on to the range, the man in charge muttered something under his breath. The only word I picked up began with 'a' and ended with 'hole'. It was probably a golfing term.

  'It's ten quid for an hour,' he snapped.

  'How much for half an hour?'

  'We don't do half-hours.' 'How much for fifteen minutes?'

  'We don't ...' He took a deep breath. 'A tenner. You need balls?' I nodded. 'That's another fiver. Clubs?' I nodded again. He kept looking at me. 'How many?'

  'Just one.'

  'Which one?'

  'I don't mind.'

  'Whaddya mean, you don't mind? Which one do you want?'

  'A good one. You pick.'

  He rolled his eyes. He crossed the interior of the shed and brought me a plastic bag full of golf balls and a club. I examined it as if I knew what it was.

  'Yes,' I said, 'that will do the trick. Is it supposed to have this big thick bit on the end?'

  'Funny,' he said.

  'No, really, is it supposed—'

  'Just go and play. I'm closing in fifty minutes come hell or high water.'

  I took the bag, and walked with the club over my shoulder, like one of the Seven Dwarves going to work with his pickaxe, except with a golf club, and balls, and going to the driving range. The rain was made huge and eternal by the floodlights; the range was peppered with balls, like abnormally large hailstones.

  My mobile phone vibrated. I checked it: a text from Alison.

  Followed Buddy. House on Tennyson. Eyes peeled. Love you, cheeky chops.

  I texted back:

  Okay.

  There were maybe thirty tee-off positions; there were two other practitioners, and then Dr Yes, already in full flow. So far as I could judge, his swing was as smooth as he was. I stood at the tee to his left. My swing would not be smooth. I had never previously swung. If I swung, he would know that. If I swung, I would tear many ligaments, much muscle and several pounds of gristle. Bones would creak and snap. My hand/eye coordination was off the scale, but not in a good way.

  I said, Thanks for that,' as he swung back.

  He completed his swing, unfazed. There was a crack, as club head met ball. Ball launched. Rose high.

  'Oh,' he said. 'No problem.'

  He lined up another ball. As he swung back I said, 'Jobsworth.'

  He struck it cleanly once again. He followed its trajectory before nodding, satisfied.

  'Get them everywhere,' he said. He looked at me, standing over my ball. 'But understandable. It's a dreadful night. Do I know you?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Where do you play?'

  'Malone.'

  'That'll be it.'

  'Good spot.'

  'Yes, it is. Nice people. What do you play off?'

  The club continued to rest over my shoulder. I looked down at my ball. I knew that I wasn't going to even attempt to strike it. There was no point. I am allergic to golf. I had once almost played Arnold Palmer's Pro- Shot Golf as a child; it featured an action figure of the apparently legendary golfer at the end of a pretend golf stick, with an assortment of toy clubs you could fit into a hole in him and operate mechanically, a square of green polyester material to act as a green, a variety of small polystyrene balls for the Axminster fairway and small marble ones for putting. However, before I could take my first swing, my pet gerbil appeared from nowhere and made off with the polystyrene ball. In chasing after her I accidentally knelt on her and broke her neck. I cried and wailed so hard that Mother locked me in my cupboard for three hours.

  So I instead of swinging at it, I picked the ball up. I held it up to the floodlights, so that it appeared dark, and larger than it deserved to be.

  'You're a little sphere of doom,' I told it, before nodding at Dr Yes. 'My handicap is the knowledge that I will never achieve perfection,' I said. 'Sometimes you don't need to hit the ball. Holding the club, and being in the moment, is as good as it gets. Actually striking it is like peeing on your dreams.'

  He studied me for what felt like a long time. 'You know something, sir?' he said eventually. 'You are absolutely right.'

  I nodded. He nodded. He moved his club between his legs, and leaned on the shaft. We both looked out at the slow-motion rain.

  Tell you something?' he asked.

  'Absolutely.'

  'I once stood at the first tee for nineteen minutes, debating whether to take the first shot and risk ruining my day, or leave it, stay happy. For what I do, and the volume at which I do it, I have to be calm, settled, in control, completely stress-free. Nineteen minutes, and it felt like ninety.'

  'Nobody complained?'

  'I was in my front room. It was the Nintendo Wii. Tiger Woods PGA Tour 10.'

  'Gets you,' I said.

  'Gets you,' he concurred.

  We nodded. We stared out at the rain some more.

  'What business you in, you have to be so steady?' I asked.

  'Medicine.' He smiled. The night got a little brighter. He stepped across with his hand out. 'Yeschenkov, of the Yeschenkov Clinic.' He took my hand. He had a firm grip. It grew firmer. I was trying to match him on the grip, but it was useless. I have brittle bones. I was trying not to scream. His eyes held steady on mine. 'And I know what business you're in.'

  All I could manage was, 'Uhuh?'

  'Murder.'

  All I could still manage was, 'Uhuh.'

  Finally he let go. I was determined not to show how much he had hurt me, and just hoped he would mistake the tears for raindrops.

  'Catchy. Murder is Our Business. Nice van,' he said. 'No Alibis, that's in Botanic, isn't it?'

  Like you don't know.

  I nodded. He was so up himself he hadn't even asked for my name.

  'If you don't mind me asking, what happened to your nose?'

  Like you don't know.

  'Book trade's tough, and getting tougher.'

  'I could do something about that.'

  'It's beyond saving.'

  'The nose, I mean. You should call by.'

  'The clinic? I've heard of you. Aren't you the surgeon to the stars?'

  'I take on mere mortals as well.'

  'Six-month waiting list, I heard.'

  He was lining up for another shot. He stopped and looked across at me. 'Yep, that's the story I put out. Then people feel very important when I agree to see them in a matter of days.' He smiled. He reached into his back pocket and produced a business card. He handed it over. 'Give me a call. That's my private line. I'm sure I'll be able to sort out a fellow swinger.' He winked.

  I said, 'Is it going to cost me an arm and a leg?'

  'Only if something goes tragically wrong.'

  Smart.

  As he swung I said, 'There's a first time for everything.'

  It did not affect him at all. Straight and true and high.

  I left him to it. He was good. He was charming. He was pleasant. He was warm. As a doctor, he would instil confidence in you. As a friend, loyalty. He had to know who I was, yet he had come across like I was his best bud. Or Buddy.

  It was still bucketing down when he finished his practice. He must have cracked off two hundred balls, and there wasn't a hair out of place. When he emerged from the covered area, the rain seemed to avoid him. His cream trousers remained pristine. He smiled at the man, and his tip appeared big enough to ensure a wide grin and a grovel in return. I was a hundred metres away, parked up in the van, lights off, watching through binoculars. Dr Yeschenkov wasn't quite so calm and collected when he saw that someone had scratched Tosser into his passenger-side door. And Knob into the driver's door.

  My nail for the scratching of cars with personalised number plates hadn't had an outing for months.

  It felt good to be back.

  * * *

  Chapter 30

  I wasn't unduly worried when I couldn't raise Ali
son. I was more concerned for my own well-being. I had followed Dr Yeschenkov home to his mansion high up in the Craigantlet Hills. He disappeared behind security gates and a high wall, leaving me on a lonely country road, alone but for ten billion insects. It was close to midnight, the lights of Belfast were twinkling below and there was a half-moon above, providing just enough light for me to mistake trees for monsters and hedges for ghastly spice sucking Dune-worms. If he had lived in town I would have thought nothing of donning the night-vision glasses and slipping over his wall to stand staring in at his windows; God knows I did it most nights around the city anyway. But this was different; he had dogs that barked, and I am allergic to dogs, and cats, and hamsters, and wheat, and gravel, and daffodils. I could not physically bring myself to get out of the car for fear of the Bogey Man. Mother had instilled in me a lifelong dread of the BM. Once, when I was very young, and Father was away on business, the BM had climbed into bed beside me and tried to remove my pyjamas. He had smelled of Old Spice. When I protested he had apologised and gone to look for Mother's room. She told me over breakfast that she had wrestled with him all night, and ultimately triumphed. I now suspect that she was lying, but that did not negate my fear of the Bogey Man, who contributed still to my lack of sleep. Out here, in the wilds, he did not have to be a Bogey Man; he could be a Bogey Cow or a Bogey Goat. It was Bogey Land, and I was uncomfortable. Also, night pollen.

  I tried calling Alison, but it went to her answer machine. Jeff picked up but said he couldn't talk. I went home. I called Alison again, but nothing. I took my medication and went to bed. Obviously I did not sleep, but went jogging in the Land of Nod, and opened my eyes again at six, exhausted. There was still no message from Alison. I presumed she was being both dozy and dizzy. I drove to work. There were three messages, all from the Sunny D. Mother had locked herself in the toilets. Then she had emerged from the toilets and taken refuge in an airing cupboard. Finally she had broken down in tears and confessed to being a Communist. Could I please come and pick her up?

  I wiped the messages and took up position. At nine fifteen the shop door opened and Rolo came in. He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket. They didn't match. He had The Godwulf Manuscript in his hand. He placed it face down on the counter. He tapped the back of it and said:

 

‹ Prev Next ›