Doctor Perry

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Molly’s face betrayed her feelings and Don looked surprised at her discomfort as he took the dripping glass, his fingers brushing hers.

  “Thank you,” Don said.

  Molly sniffed as she walked back to her desk, the sunshine on her face replaced by stormy clouds.

  “Molly?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wanted to give you this,” Don said.

  Molly turned to see Don holding out a cardboard rectangle — a laminated business card.

  “This is my card. Call me in the weekend and we could grab a drink, to get to know each other better?”

  And just like that, the sun came out again as Molly smiled, whipping the card from Don’s hands, and slipping it into her pocket just as Doctor Perry opened his door. Timing was everything.

  “Come through, Don,” Doctor Perry said, his eyes taking in the glass of water and Don’s proximity to Molly. His intuition failed him this time as he disregarded the scene as irrelevant. “Thank you, Molly, that’s all for tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Doctor Perry dismissed the girl. He might keep her on until he retired, her legs were still a delight, despite her being too social for his liking which he hadn’t realised when he’d hired her. He preferred his receptionists to be more circumspect with their lives, and preferably without a social life.

  “Good night, Doctor Perry,” Molly said, gathering up her purse and fair dancing out the door, locking it behind her.

  Satisfied she’d gone, Doctor Perry followed his last patient of the day into his surgery, closing the door and engaging the well-lubricated lock behind him.

  “How are you?” Doctor Perry asked, steepling his fingers on his desk.

  “It’s been a rough week, wrenched my shoulder again,” Don replied, favouring one side which gave him a lopsided Quasimodo gait.

  “More swimming?”

  Don shook his head and swallowed hard, tears forming in his eyes. “My dad died, and I was a pallbearer,” he said. “I had the heavy end.”

  Doctor Perry closed his eyes. He’d been cultivating this client for weeks and this was the first time he’d mentioned any family. His enrolment notes hadn’t shown a next of kin and even when he’d asked about partners, Don Jury had been quick to say that there wasn’t anyone. Jury had just retired from his job, a job which saw him spending long stints travelling out of state. No one relied on him and with no dependants, he’d appeared to be the perfect patient.

  “And your mother?” Doctor Perry asked, fully prepared to abandon his plans for this particular patient. Annoying, but prudent.

  Don grabbed a tissue from the box on the desk and shook his head, explaining that his mother had died years earlier and that his father had been suffering from dementia for the past ten years, in full time care for nine of those. As an only child he had the responsibility for his father’s care, with the funeral being his last act.

  “It was a grim affair. Just me, some of the staff from his care facility and two of his old work colleagues. And I’m pretty sure they were only there for the free food. I don’t think they really knew Dad at all. We had a cup of tea afterwards and that’s it. It’s an ignoble way to go, drooling into your cereal every day.”

  Doctor Perry straightened his shoulders. Excellent, Don Jury was still the perfect patient. Time to start, there was work to do.

  Washing his hands, Doctor Perry considered his procedure for tonight. His tonic was ready on the side, and the restraints tucked out of sight. He’d need to dispose of Jury’s clothing on his way home — he used the charity clothing bins for that, far away from the office. Disposing of Don’s wallet and cellphone were more problematic but not insurmountable, caution and timing. Satisfied with his preparations, Perry dried his hands before turning back to his patient.

  “Up onto the bed please, just sitting and let’s look at that shoulder.”

  Doctor Perry made a show of examining Don’s shoulder, poking and prodding like any conventional doctor. He was pleased that Don kept himself fit, with no extraneous weight, the procedure would go faster, and he smiled to himself as he poured a precisely measured dose into a glass he’d prepared earlier.

  Doctor Perry handed Don the glass filled with the milky liquid. “Drink this, it’s a stronger dose than before. I’ll give it a few minutes to kick in and then I’ll start the manipulation. It will hurt, so I apologise but my tonic will take the edge off. And by bedtime, you’ll be as good as new. Trust me.” Moistening his lips, Doctor Perry watched as Don swallowed the lot in one gulp. Now the fun would really begin.

  Jury sculled the liquid, eager to get on with life without his father and the resulting drain on his own finances. The doctor’s milky liquid slipped down his throat, reaching its icy fingers out towards his extremities, slinking along his arteries and inching along every tiny blood vessel. He fancied he could feel it seeping through his hair follicles and out his fingertips. An iciness filled his flaccid penis and Don lurched backwards, a sudden dizziness overtaking him. His skin prickled at the sudden coldness engulfing him. Closing his eyes relieved the nausea but also made it feel as if the hairs on his face were being sucked into his skin. He tried opening his eyes but he gave up fighting the tiredness and inertia took over. He let himself drift away from his worries, away from the dreariness of caring for a father who didn’t recognise him, away from a career which did nothing for his soul, away from a life void of love. Somewhere he could hear the muffled sound of Doctor Perry talking and thought perhaps that the good doctor was reminding him about the pain. Don tried smiling, he was ready for it he wanted to say, but when the pain came he screamed. And he screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed.

  After years of practice, Doctor Perry had his timing perfect, and he’d strapped Don down as soon as his eyes had closed due to the effects of the tonic. Doctor Perry gave each of the straps another tug, reassuring himself there’d be no injuries during the changeover. Injuries had occurred a few times in the early days, and it was hard explaining away broken limbs when his patients had come in without them.

  Doctor Perry stepped back as the tonic worked its magic on the man on the table. Perry didn’t enjoy being too close, the screaming hurt his ears. He’d tried gagging them in the past but that had ended badly so he hadn’t tried it again. Instead he tolerated the noise, knowing they were alone in the building and there was no one to hear the screaming.

  And Don Jury carried on screaming as his bones shrank one by one, and his nails pulled away from the shrinking skin. Pools of blood bloomed on Don’s fingers and toes but Doctor Perry wasn’t concerned — it was part of the process. With nothing to do now except wait for the transition to finish, Doctor Perry settled at his desk to write up his notes. Every patient’s reaction differed, and as a good doctor, he recorded those vagaries for analysis at a later date.

  Through it all Don screamed until his throat was raw, and his memories vanished along with his facial hair and elongated toes. The gristle of his ears absorbed itself until only tiny newborn ears remained, which looked absurdly small on Don’s adult sized head. No matter how often he’d tinkered with the formula, the head was always last. Doctor Perry shuddered as he considered some of his early patients and their unfortunate outcomes, their files still part of his research library. It was a shame he’d never be able to share his library given how fastidious he’d been at recording his trials over the years.

  The pitch of Don’s screams changed and Doctor Perry looked up from his notes. Ah, the cranium was shrinking. Perry watched as gleaming white adult teeth disappeared back into Don’s jaw, the sucking noise setting his own teeth on edge. Finally, Don’s eyeballs liquified and reassembled themselves into cloudy unseeing newborn eyes, with infinitesimal baby eyelashes.

  The room fell silent as the straps loosened around the mewling infant on the bed. The baby was in no danger of falling off for it would be weeks until it mastered the ability to roll on its own. Normally Doctor Perry didn’t reverse his patients this far back, but intuition told him
time was running out, and he’d been around long enough to trust his gut.

  Opening a bag he kept in his bathroom, he selected a blanket and swaddled the baby boy with a practised hand. He felt nothing for the child, he never did. Babies were just part of his stock, and stock control was key to his other business, a more profitable business.

  11

  Elijah arrived late to dinner to ensure he sat as far away from the newest resident as possible. He could see Sulia in the corner by the window, her table companions slack-jawed at her vivacity so he slipped into a vacant chair at the nearest table, not noticing who else sat there, until a quiet voice murmured good evening.

  He looked up to see Muriel Lincoln, bundled up in a canary-yellow cardigan and sweater. A pearl necklace lay loose around her wrinkled neck which matched the crumpled skin hanging from her tiny frame. Old age seemed to pull the skin from her body. A quiet woman, she received no visitors and made no outings. She was waiting to die. Just like the rest of them.

  “This isn’t your usual table,” she said across the plastic-covered table.

  The tablecloth crackled as he tried to get comfortable, turning his body away from the woman’s inquisitive look, refusing to converse. He was here for dinner not for conversation. He usually ate alone, in the corner. In the corner the larger-than-life Sulia entertained her table companions — all people he’d never once sat with.

  “It’s fish tonight. I hope they’ve cooked it better than last week,” Muriel tried again.

  “It’ll be fine,” Elijah replied. He didn’t want to discuss the quality of the food, the food was shit, like his life. He deserved nothing good. The best thing about tonight’s serving of fish was that it would be easy to eat; always overcooked and served with peas and mash and rice pudding for dessert, a meal he could manage with the cutlery provided, so tonight he’d be going to bed with a full stomach.

  Their meals arrived — fish, mashed potato, peas. No surprises there. Jugs of weak juice joined the plates of bland food and the clink of cutlery against crockery filled the room. Laughter pulsed from Sulia’s table. They’d stamp that out soon Elijah thought. The Rose Haven Retirement Resort did not encourage happiness, despite what their advertising said.

  The orderly, Preston Sergeant, was thumping plates onto the table next to them with all the finesse of a performing bear. Elijah watched as plate after plate of mediocre food landed on the surrounding tables. It wasn’t a surprise when a crumbed fish fillet fell off one plate and onto the floor. Preston bent down, picked it up, and whacked it back onto the unfortunate diner’s plate, and moved on.

  “This was on the floor!” the resident complained, a diminutive man, one Elijah didn’t recognise.

  “And now it’s on your plate for you to eat. Stop your complaining old man,” Preston said.

  “But it’s been on the floor.”

  “And I can put it back on the floor if you like, now shut up and eat your food, you dumb shit.”

  The newcomer backed down, and poked at his meal, wiping the dust and hairs clinging to his crumbed fillet. And once again, Elijah pondered the choices which put him in this chair — poor judgement, alcohol, financial misfortune. A shopping list of bad decisions had forced him into this waiting room of death, a segment of society abandoned by their families. Retirees who considered living here preferable to being eaten by their decorative lap dogs on the bathroom floor of their decrepit homes.

  Across from him, Muriel had pulled a pack of playing cards from her pocket and was laying them out on her side of the table, her fish abandoned on her plate. The flicking over of Muriel’s cards was mesmerising, and Elijah found himself fantasising that he could predict which card would come up next. He was so focussed on Muriel’s game that he didn’t notice Sulia lumber over.

  “Elijah,” she boomed.

  Elijah jumped up, knocking his chair backwards. Grabbing for the chair, his fingers brushed its steel frame sending daggers of pain through his deformed fingers. He jerked his hands back but with his forward momentum already in effect he fell heavily onto the chair and floor.

  The dining room erupted and staff rushed towards the commotion. Their performance bonuses rested on keeping the peace, avoiding injuries to the residents, and mitigating risk everywhere.

  “Clear the way, clear the way.” A tiny Filipino woman pushed her way past the crowd clamouring around Elijah. Like a fog lifting, they made way for the one person they all respected, Tala - the head nurse.

  “Elijah’s fallen over, he didn’t even put his hands out,” offered one resident.

  “Tripped right over,” said another.

  “Thank you yes, I can see that. Give him some space,” Tala said.

  With a hidden strength, Tala heaved Elijah onto the straightened chair, strong hands firm under his armpits. He didn’t even notice — the pain in his fingers and joints so intense the world had faded to a pinprick of white.

  “Can you walk?” Tala asked, her voice soft with the melodic merging of her native accent with that of her adopted homeland. She had to repeat herself a couple of times until she got through to him.

  “Yes,” Elijah whispered.

  “Good, up you get then. I’ll take you to your room,” Tala said. There was no discussion about it.

  Tala needed him up and out of the dining room before any word reached management. They would place the blame for the fall on one of the staff, any excuse to deny a performance bonus or promotion. She put up with their erroneous judgments because she needed this job, and they kept her on because she often turned a blind eye to their more dubious practices. And she was a good nurse. She wanted to fly home for her mother’s birthday soon so she was counting on her annual performance bonus. She needed it.

  Tala tried hurrying Elijah down the hall. She’d taken him the long way back to his room to avoid the main office, but Elijah was shuffling along too slowly, Tracey could come by at any time, or one of her loyal lackeys.

  “You need to pick up the pace for me now, come on,” she chided.

  Elijah limped faster, she was sure he knew why she needed him to. He kept to himself but she knew he wasn’t as addled as some other residents. She also knew what was in his patient file, the circumstances of how he ended up here. She wasn’t one to judge, but she felt sorry for him. Lambasted through the media, in front of the entire nation. No wonder he kept to himself. She wasn’t sure she could have withstood the media firestorm that he had.

  “We’ll get you to your room then I’ll find something for the pain,” she said, loosening her grip under his arm.

  Elijah nodded, keeping up the pace she’d set. She was grateful he had few words, it reduced the risk of being overheard.

  Once in Elijah’s room, Tala lowered him into his chair. She winced as he cried out, shushing him frantically.

  “Sorry, sorry. I’ll be back soon but I’ll close the door to keep away prying eyes. You understand?”

  Tala ducked out, pulling the door behind her. Out in the hallway she closed her eyes and recovered her breath, she was strong but Elijah was a big man. Seconds later the smell of nicotine wafted over her. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know who was there - Bart Stubbs, Rose Haven’s laziest employee, one who seemed impervious to any form of disciplinary action. Every accusation of incompetence, impropriety, theft or abuse, bounced off him. He spent more time smoking in the covered courtyard than he did working.

  “What’re you doing outside Cone’s room?” he asked.

  Tala recoiled from his toxic breath. “What are you doing?” she countered.

  Bart’s lip curled over his yellowed teeth and his eyes narrowed. He coughed, a hacking precursor to emphysema.

  “You should get that cough seen to, you don’t want to be passing it on to any of the residents,” she suggested. From her years of nursing experience, the only passing which would come from Bart’s cough would be his passing into the afterlife.

  Bart Stubbs seized upon her words as expected. “You think I need a docto
r? You think one of the old tossers has given me this cough? Cause if they have then Rose Haven needs to be paying my doctor’s bill. Can’t afford it on my salary here…”

  Tala sighed, inevitably Stubbs was as tight fisted as he was lazy. She’d have to factor his doctor’s bill into her budget but it was worth it to protect herself and the other staff. She’d do what she had to, to protect the others.

  “I’ll make an appointment for you with Doctor Perry. You should be able to see him today if you go now,” she suggested. Stubbs leaving now wouldn’t make any difference to the workload of the others — they all operated as if he wasn’t part of their team as it was.

  Stubbs coughed again, and the sound of phlegm navigating its way from his nasal passages down his throat turned her stomach, but at least he’d agreed to go to the doctor. Maybe the doctor would persuade him to give up smoking.

  12

  Doctor Perry stretched out, the cotton sheets cool against his skin. It would be a shame to leave this behind him but it wouldn’t take long to build it all up again — the anonymity of online shopping was so convenient. He was still tired from the procedure the night before. He always got a headache after one of those sessions. Not for the first time he considered building a properly soundproofed room, he hated listening to the screaming. Maybe when he moved.

  A shape stirred underneath the covers next to him. His current wife. A masterful cook and a fastidious home keeper, she’d been a fine selection, at the time.

  Her head appeared above the covers, tightly furled curls the colour of burnt honey and a hundred different shades of blonde. She looked to be on the cusp of thirty or so.

  “Good morning,” he said, before frowning. “I don’t like the look of those lines this morning.”

  Myra Perry pulled away as he reached out to stroke her forehead, batting his hand away and swinging her legs out of bed onto the wooden floor.