Long Time Dead

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THE DOCTOR WAS A NO-NONSENSE west-coaster, type that called a spade a shovel and if you didn’t like it would add, You got a problem with that?

Problems I had. In spades. Or should that be shovels?

‘What were you drinking?’ he said.

‘Black Heart.’

‘Rum… the condemned man’s tot.’

Like I’d argue. He laid hands on my head, tilted my face to the light, opened my eyelids with his thumbs.

A tut.

‘Pardon?’

No response.

He motioned me stand, said, ‘Open your shirt.’

The unbuttoning was a trial. My hands shook like fluttering starlings. The doc looked at his watch.

‘You in a hurry?’ I asked.

A frown. ‘Are you?’

I got his meaning. Didn’t answer.

The stethoscope felt cold, made me flinch. What made the doc flinch, I could have done without knowing.

‘You’re dangerously underweight,’ he said.

I hadn’t been on any scales that I could remember, said, ‘You weighed me with your eyes, did you?’

He took off his glasses, frowned again. ‘Mr Dury, I can count your ribs.’ He put back his glasses, stood fists on hips. ‘You’re malnourished.’ Then the killer: ‘How frequent are the hallucinations?’

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