Doctor Perry kept the smile from his face, but her words were a balm to his troubled soul. So many things had gone wrong lately and yet here was Clarita Swann, a healthy young woman, with no friends or family in sight. She was what he needed, and what his clients, the Cavalletto’s, wanted.
An idea formed in his mind; he guessed it had always been there, hence why he’d asked Molly to schedule Clarita’s appointment for the last one of the day. He hadn’t planned on finalising this patient so soon, but the opportunity was too great to pass up, and he had the latest variant of tonic which needed testing. Clarita was the perfect guinea pig.
Doctor Perry’s cellphone vibrated — another call from the same number who’d rung half a dozen times over the past week, a police detective wanting to speak to him about two missing patients. He fingered his collar. Either the humidity was making him sweat, or it was the creeping unease pressing in on him at every juncture. Molly had switched off the air conditioning and it was unseasonable humid for this time of the year, but he knew it wasn’t either of those things. It was time to pull the pin on the others and get out of town. The last thing he wanted to do was have a nice chat with the police. They always took things the wrong way.
He fingered Clarita Swann’s file, the tiny red ink circle in the upper right-hand corner a reminder of his plans. He’d bring them forward, he’d done this a hundred times before, more probably, and knew nothing could go wrong.
“Come over to the bed, Miss Swann.”
“Clarita is fine.”
“Very well, Clarita. Hop up onto the bed if you will, and I’ll check your blood pressure and the rest of your vital signs.”
With Clarita rearranging herself on the bed, Doctor Perry washed his hands and pulled on a pair of gloves. His bottles of tonic stood ready on the shelf over the sink. This was the newest batch, extra strength. He measured out five fluid ounces, then tipped in a little more. It was stronger than the last batch but he needed this done quickly. He checked the line on the cup, eight fluid ounces, more than enough for her weight.
Doctor Perry left the cup on the shelf, now wasn’t the right time for her to drink it. “Are you ready?” he asked.
Clarita Swann smiled at him from the bed, excellent.
Doctor Perry used his stethoscope to listen to her chest, asking her to inhale, exhale, the usual doctor patter. Next he wrapped the modified blood pressure cuff around her arm, his own pulse racing. He’d rigged it in his lab, trialling it on a recently bedridden resident Tracey wanted gone. It had worked perfectly. Done in his lab, no one had bothered him as he’d tinkered with different placements of the hypodermic he’d concealed in the cuff until satisfied with the end product. Impossible to see, and a seamless delivery of the strong sedative he needed to use on patients not so prepared to swallow his tonic. He had no time to waste.
“I’ll inflate the cuff now, so you will feel some pressure, which will ease off after a moment. Ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” Clarita replied, with what would be the last word she’d ever speak.
The doctor pressed the power button on his blood pressure machine and the cuff inflated, the pressure around Clarita’s arm slowly increasing. She squirmed a little as if trying to ease the discomfort.
“Please stay still, Miss Swann,” Doctor Perry advised. She’d be immobile shortly, a shame, but a necessity. He couldn’t ignore the messages from his clients requesting fresh stock, and those requests hadn’t come with any pleasantries. There’d been another message today, which he’d replied to by promising to deliver Clarita Swann tonight. After supplying them Clarita, the twins, and then Myra, the Cavalletto’s would have an excess of stock, giving him ample time to disappear before they asked for more. And Mary Louise, he’d forgotten about her, he still had her up his sleeve. And Molly, she’d go too. Over the years, his receptionists had been excellent stock, a ready supply. The money he’d earned so good, it was a shame to walk away, but the Cavalletto’s were getting too pushy, and now with the police asking questions about two of his elderly clients… He knew where the two men were, and their files. He’d have to destroy those, but he worried that that might make it look more suspicious? He’d think on it later.
The blood pressure monitor beeped, and the cuff deflated automatically with a quiet hissing sound, leaving no other sounds in the room other than Clarita’s shallow breathing. A tiny prick of blood appeared as he removed the cuff from her arm, and Doctor Perry wiped the blood away with a fragment of gauze.
With his patient unconscious on the table, Doctor Perry unbuckled the straps from beneath the bed, and strapped his patient down. Elevating the bed, he opened Clarita’s mouth, a mouth full of straight white teeth - an orthodontist had done excellent work here.
Bringing over the glass of tonic, he tipped it into Clarita’s open mouth, massaging it down her throat, like you do with a cat and a worm tablet. The tonic’s effect instantaneous. Doctor Perry had barely poured the last drop in when the convulsions started and Clarita’s body strained against the leather straps.
Doctor Perry rinsed the cup, his back to the machinations on the bed. Not listening to any screaming was a huge improvement why he hadn’t thought of this earlier was beyond him, and made a mental note to take the modified blood pressure cuff to Mary Louise’s house, then he wouldn’t have to bring her here which would save time.
A choking sound made him spin around - Clarita’s eyes were open wide, her mouth frothing. Her bones undulated beneath her rippling skin. How was she awake? This was not the reaction he’d been expecting. He looked back at the cup he’d just washed out. Eight fluid ounces wasn’t too much; five might have taken too long. The splash of liquid on the floor made him look back towards Clarita. The contents of her bladder, her bowel, gastric acid, vomit, her cerebrospinal fluid, dripped from the bed creating a virtual impassable lake around her.
Doctor Perry stood transfixed. He’d never had this reaction to any variation of his tonic, although he had lost several patients in the early years of experimentation, but none like this. Picking up the bottle of tonic, he sniffed it. The odour was no different. He daren’t not taste it, not with the potential outcome disintegrating on the bed in front of him; a disaster. Backing away, he stuffed the tonic bottles into his bag and snapped it shut. He’d have to clean up the mess, but it was still rippling and heaving, the limbs alternately shrinking and growing back.
Pop
A sound like a gunshot made the doctor jump. Clarita’s lovely white teeth weren’t even her own. A full set of dentures exploded from her mouth as her jaw shrank and expanded, landing several feet across the room, scattering the individual teeth in every direction upon impact.
Clarita now resembled the Old Croghan Man - the Iron Age body found in an Irish bog in 2003. With her skin split like a leather lounge suite left too long in the sun, and her tendons and arteries guitar string taut, her body pulled in on itself, distorting her into an unrecognisable gelatinous mass.
Fleeing crossed Doctor Perry’s mind as he surveyed his consulting room, his bag in his hands. There was too much of Clarita left to stuff into the hazardous waste container and cleaning up would take the whole night. He could just run, now, tonight. Forget the others, and the Cavalletto’s, he had enough money to hide from them, and enough tonic. He was looking forward to regaining his youth. But not with this batch, so he couldn’t run tonight. He needed to go to his lab to make another batch, and then he’d run, which meant he had to clean up now.
The shuddering on the bed stopped and silence reigned until Doctor Perry pulled out the trash sacks, shook them open, and stuffed Clarita Swann’s desiccated remains into the thick black plastic bags.
52
“It reminded me of the Grand Canyon,” laughed the nurse.
“How?”
“It was as dry as hell, with those sparse prickly bushes your mother warned you not to touch.”
The nurses laughed into their coffee mugs and sucked on their cancer sticks in the courtyard o
ut the back of the Rose Haven. Bart Stubbs laughed with them, smoking his own cheap brand cigarette. He hated the residents with a passion. They stank and they nagged him, they always wanted more, and made the foulest of messes which they expected him to clean up. He hated the people here so much that listening to the other staff belittle the residents was a patch of sun in his otherwise miserable day.
“What’s happening about you hitting that jogger?” the nurse asked.
“Heard she hasn’t pressed charges, so I’m off the hook,” Stubbs said sourly. Them mentioning the accident just ruined a perfectly good smoke break. He flicked his cigarette into the garden. “I’m due back now,” he said, ignoring their stares. They would talk about him behind his back now, stupid bitches.
Walking back into the Rose Haven was like being hit with a rotten egg, and Stubbs coughed again. He hadn’t seen the doc yet, cause the doc hadn’t found time to fit him in. That slant-eyed nurse had lied to him, probably wanted him to die of the cough. He tried to call in sick today, same as yesterday, except Tracey told him over the phone he couldn’t have anymore sick days, and that it was his final warning. He’d had plenty of final warnings, but she’d sounded serious this time. So he’d reluctantly left a game of Counter Strike: Global Offensive and came in for his shift.
So far Bart Stubbs had been to the courtyard twice for a smoke, had badgered Pauline in the kitchen for breakfast, and now fancied an early morning tea. He’d banged into the medicine cart someone had left in the middle of the hallway, so pushed that back to the nurses station, ignoring the closed doors in the corridor. The residents had to keep them open during the day, to make it easier for the staff to check on them, but he didn’t want to see any of the old tossers in their pjs. If you were unlucky when you walked past, you’d catch them getting dressed, their saggy old butts hanging to the floor. Couldn’t even see their dicks, they’d shrivelled up so much. No, Bart ignored the closed doors, intent on filling his stomach with the free food.
“Have you checked on the residents in the South wing?” Tala asked when he got to the nurses station.
“Yup, just came from there, all good,” Stubbs replied, sliding the trolley into its slot under the desk. “Just going to grab a coffee before breakfast duties.”
Tala’s eyebrows lifted, Bart Stubbs wasn’t known for ever helping set up for any meal, other than his own.
Bart wandered towards the kitchen, feeling Tala’s eyes on his back. It was likely her who’d told Tracey not to let him have any more sick leave. Karma would get her, he was a true believer in that stuff.
Pauline was in a foul mood in the kitchen, and refused to give him the time of day let alone morning tea, so he helped himself to a handful of chocolate chip cookies left out for the residents and got well out of the way. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the old-timers so wandered around until he found himself at the reception desk. No old farts here because it was out of bounds, being so near to the road. The only time the old biddies came through here, was then they arrived. Fancy decor, real potted plants and Cherie, the sweet little receptionist who sometimes shared her cigarettes and herself when they were on a night shift together, today, the reception desk was busy and Stubbs sidled up against the wall to listen.
The two detectives stood at the desk asking Cherie if they could speak with Doctor Perry, and the other residents. This was not good. Not that he had anything to hide apart from the old Rolex on his wrist, but he’d helped himself to that a good year ago, after the old wrinkly had died on the toilet. Stubbs considered it payment for the shit he dealt with. Still, he tugged his sleeve down further, and shoved his hand in his pocket.
Cherie spied him lurking in the corner. “Bart will show you to Tracey’s office, the manager, and you can ask her,” she said.
Stubbs added Cherie to his karma list, the little slut, there’d be no more sharing his Camel’s with her after this.
He walked the two detectives to Tracey’s office, knocking once, then opening the door. At least she’d see he was doing something and not skiving off the way she’d accused him over the phone this morning. His karma list was getting longer.
“The police want to speak with you,” Stubbs said, enjoying the look of shock on Tracey’s face as he mentioned the police. He wanted to be a fly on the wall listening to this conversation.
“Thank you, Bart,” she said, standing to greet the guests. “Come in,” she said to the men. “Close the door, Bart,” she ordered.
He closed the door and stood alone in the corridor contemplating whether he should try listening at the door when he realised he wasn’t alone. He glimpsed the weaselly nephew of Tracey’s - Tricky Ricky Donovan, disappear down the stairwell to the doctor’s lab come temporary morgue. What was he doing going down there?
At the mention of the word Police, Ricky had scarpered. They wanted to take his pipe, or his pills or his trinkets, or everything. He’d hidden his trinkets here because the lab was full of old abandoned stuff, broken things, obsolete equipment, giving him a cornucopia of hiding places for the treasures he’d liberated from the residents. It was also a terrific place to hide from the police. No one came here, except him, the doctor, and dead people. And not at the same time — that would’ve given him more nightmares, nightmares like the bug one, and he hated that one and wanted no more bug nightmares, ugh. They put the dead people in the big chiller thing on one side, and no way, uh uh, was he going anywhere near that, ever.
He’d had such a fun time in the lab last night, playing with the pretty pills, crushing them into powder using the clever bowl thing he’d found — he’d seen people use those on TV so knew how to use it. Ricky was like the doctor, a professional laboratory worker, crushing pills and mixing them. The lab was half filled with a huge medical thing, all tubes and coils and things which were hot but were perfect for heating his pipe. He’d spent the whole night here using his finger to trace patterns in the powder he’d spilled on the ground. Ricky hadn’t wanted to waste it so after he’d finished drawing patterns, he’d scooped it all up and had tipped it into the glass jars hanging all over the weird drug making contraption. During the night, he’d watched it warm things up and then boil and then he’d followed the little tiny drops inching their way along the glass straws and drip into another jar, where it would begin all over again. He’d been in meth labs before, and none of them looked as awesome as this, this was how you did it properly.
The stuff he’d pocketed from the residents made him sleepy and he’d used the toilet a hundred times but apart from that their pills gave him a great sleep, free from the nasty bugs who attacked his arms when he slept. If he stayed, he might get to do the trolley run by himself again, and then it would be one for them and three for Ricky.
The full jars at the end had gone now, so he guessed the doctor had come by when he was upstairs, but no one said anything about it so they hadn’t noticed, which was lucky. Ricky wasn’t good at many things, but opening locked doors was a skill he’d mastered over the years. Most of the time here, he didn’t need to open locked doors, he had a swipe card. They trusted him so much, they gave him his own special card, with his name and photo on and everything. It didn’t work down here, or for the drug cupboard. Too many people were always near the drug cupboard so he hadn’t been able to get in there, but if he did, it would be like Christmas presents and Easter eggs and Halloween candy all at once. But the lock on the lab door was so old, a baby could have sprung it. Lucky he was no baby.
He’d wait here till the coast was clear and smoke his special pipe. The doc had his big lab thing running, so he didn’t need to use his trusty lighter. And off he went to that la la land in the sky with enormous fairies and cookie dough bears and beakers full of meth.
53
Elijah limped through the beige corridors of the rest home trying to ignore the pain spreading its vicious tentacles throughout his body. Each day brought a new niggle, compounding the pain he’d endured in his fingers for years. Today’s contribution w
as a flame of agony licking his spine. Like most football players of any note, he had old injuries which flared up but this wasn’t one. This was a torment inflicted upon him by that most wicked of mistresses — time.
A gaggle of people whispering in the corridor gave Elijah a moment of respite. The Rose Haven Retirement Resort wasn’t the place where residents gathered in corridors, the staff didn’t approve. You ate in the dining room, relaxed in the lounge, and slept in your room. The residents paid for the privilege of living like toddlers deprived of external stimuli. And they all accepted it. Or they had. Even Elijah felt a change in the air, a paradigm shift in the atmosphere at the Rose Haven. There was something bubbling up. Nothing like an explosive regime overthrow by weary citizens rising against a cruel dictator, but something more subtle. It scared him.
“Where is she?”
“They said she’d gone to live with family.”
“What family? She had none.”
“Just saying what I heard.”
“That’s not what I heard. I saw them clearing out her room, she’s gone to hospital—”
“Which hospital?”
“No, not the hospital, another rest home, better than here…”
“Where’d she get the money for that?”
“Was it the lottery?”
Elijah tried walking past the women congregating outside Muriel Lincoln’s empty room but there wasn’t room to slip by unnoticed. He mumbled a quiet excuse me but they pounced, hoping for fresh insights into Muriel’s disappearance, which by now had gone in so many circles no one quite knew who knew what and how.
“You were with Doctor Perry last night, did he say anything?” Eileen Hislop asked.
“Benson would have said if Muriel was ill. Pity he’s off duty this morning—”
Doctor Perry Page 21
