Read the book: «Coldheart Canyon», page 7

‘They’re the best.’

‘Yeah. They are.’

‘Are you ready?’

Todd nodded, at which point she instantly transferred her loving attention to the dog. She lifted Dempsey out from Todd’s arms and put him on the steel table in the corner of the room, talking to him all the while, ‘Hey there, Dempsey. This isn’t going to hurt at all. Just a little prick –’

She pulled a syringe out of her pocket, and exposed the needle. At the back of Todd’s head that same irrational voice was screaming: ‘Tell her no! Knock it out of her hand! Quickly! Quickly!’ He pushed the thoughts away, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, because he didn’t want to be blinded by them when this happened. He wanted to see it all, even if it hurt like a knife.

He owed that to Dempsey. He put his hand on Dempsey’s neck and rubbed his favourite place. The syringe went into Dempsey’s leg. He made a tiny little grunt of complaint.

‘Good boy,’ Dr Otis said. ‘There. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?’

Todd kept rubbing Dempsey’s neck.

The doctor put the top back on the syringe and pocketed it. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You can stop rubbing. He’s gone.’

So quickly? Todd cleared away another wave of tears and looked down at the body on the table. Dempsey’s eye was still half-open, but it didn’t look back at him any longer. Where there’d been a sliver of bright life, where there’d been mischief and shared rituals – where, in short, there’d been Dempsey – there was nothing.

‘I’m very sorry, Mr Pickett,’ the doctor said, ‘I’m sure you loved him very much and speaking as a doctor, I know you did the right thing for him.’

Todd sniffed hard, and reached over to pluck a clump of paper handkerchiefs from the box. ‘What does that say?’ he said, pointing to the framed poster on the wall. His tears made it incomprehensible.

‘It’s a quote by Robert Louis Stevenson,’ Andrea said. ‘You know, who wrote Treasure Island?’

‘Yeah, I know …’

‘It says: “Do you think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.” ’

Chapter 6

He waited until he got home, and he’d governed his tears, to make arrangements for Dempsey’s cremation. He left a message with a firm that was recommended by the Animal Hospital for their discreet handling of these matters. They would pick Dempsey’s body up from the Hospital Mortuary, cremate him and transfer his ashes, guaranteeing that there was no mingling of ‘cremains’ – as they described them – but that the ashes they delivered to the owner would be those of their pet. In other words they weren’t putting canaries, parrots, rats, dogs and guinea pigs in the oven for one big bonfire and dividing up the ‘cremains’ (the word revolted Todd) in what looked to be the appropriate amounts. He also called his accountant at home and made arrangements for a ten thousand dollar donation to the Hospital, the only attendant request being that five hundred of that money be spent on putting in a more comfortable bench for people to sit on while they waited.

He slept very well with the aid of several Ambien and a large scotch, until about four thirty in the morning when he woke up and felt Dempsey moving around at the bottom of the bed. The drugs made his thought processes muddy. It took him a few seconds of leaning over and patting the coverlet at the bottom of the bed to bring his consciousness up to speed. Dempsey wasn’t there.

Yet he’d felt the dog, he would have sworn to it on a stack of Bibles, getting up and walking around and around on the same spot, padding down the bed until it was comfortable for him.

He lay back on the pillow and drifted back to sleep, but it wasn’t a healthy sleep thereafter. He kept half-waking, and staring down at the darkness of the bottom of the bed, wondering if Dempsey was a ghost now, and would haunt his heels until the dog had the sense to go on his way to heaven.

He slept in until ten, when Marco brought him the phone with a woman called Rosalie from the Pet Cremation Service. She was pleasant in her no-nonsense way; no doubt she often had people in near hysteria at the other end of the telephone, so a little professional distance was necessary. She had already been in contact with the Hospital this morning, she said, and they had informed her that Dempsey had a collar and quilt with him. Did Todd want these items returned, or were they to be cremated with his pet?

‘They were his,’ Todd said, ‘so they should go with him.’

‘Fine,’ said Rosalie. ‘Then the only other question is the matter of the urn. We have three varieties –’

‘Just the best you’ve got.’

‘That would be our Bronze Grecian Style.’

‘That sounds fine.’

‘All I need now is your credit card number.’

‘I’ll pass you back to my assistant. He can help you with all that.’

‘Just one other question?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you … the Todd Pickett?’

Yes, of course, he was the real Todd Pickett. But he didn’t feel like the real thing; more like a badly bruised lookalike. Things like this didn’t happen to the real Todd Pickett.

He had a way with life that always made it show the bright side.

He went back to sleep until noon then got up and ate some lunch, his body aching as though he was catching a heavy dose of the flu. His food unfinished he sat in the breakfast nook, staring blankly at the potted plants artfully arranged on the patio; plants he’d never persuaded Dempsey not to cock his leg against every time he passed.

‘I’m going back to bed,’ he told Marco.

‘You don’t want to put a holding call into Maxine? She’s called nine times this morning. She says she has news about a foreign buyer for Warrior.’

‘Did you tell her what happened to Dempsey?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said: oh. Then she went back to talking about the buyer.’

Todd sighed, defeated by the woman’s incomprehension. ‘Maybe it’s time I got out of this fucking business,’ he said to Marco. ‘I don’t have the balls for it any longer. Or the energy.’

Marco put up no protest at this. He hated everything about the business, except Todd, and always had. ‘Why don’t we go down to Key West like we always promised ourselves? Open a bar. Get fat and drunk –’

‘– and die of heart attacks at fifty.’

‘You’re feeling morbid right now.’

‘A little.’

‘Well it won’t last forever. And one of these days, we’ll have to honour Dempsey and get another dog.’

‘That wouldn’t be honouring him, that’d be replacing him. And he was irreplaceable. You know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was there when I was nobody.’

‘You were pups together.’

This got a smile out of Todd; the first in forty-eight hours.

‘Yeah …’ he said, his voice close to breaking again. ‘We were pups together.’ He tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway. ‘What is wrong with me?’ he said. ‘He was a dog. I mean … come on. Tell me honestly, do you think Tom Cruise cries for a day if one of his dogs dies?’

‘I don’t think he’s got dogs.’

‘Or Brad Pitt?’

‘I don’t know. Ask ’em. Next time you see ’em, ask ’em.’

‘Oh sure, that’s going to make a dandy little scene. Todd Pickett and Brad Pitt: “Tell me, Brad, when your dog died did you wail like a girl for two days?”’

Now it was Marco who laughed. ‘Wail like a girl?’

‘That’s how I feel. I feel like I’m in the middle of some stupid weepie.’

‘Maybe you should call Wilhemina over and fuck her.’

‘Wilhemina doesn’t do fucks. She does lovemaking with candles and a lot of wash-cloths. I swear she thinks I’m going to give her something.’

‘Fleas?’

‘Yeah. Fleas. You know, as a last act of rebellion on behalf of Dempsey and myself I’d like to give fleas to Wilhemina, Maxine and –’

‘Gary Eppstadt.’

Both men were laughing now, curing the hurt the only way it could be cured, by being included in the nature of things.

Speaking of inclusion, he got a call from his mother, about six o’clock. She was at home in Cambridge Massachusetts, but sounded ready to jump the first plane and come visit. She was in one of her ‘I’ve a funny feeling’ moods.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Yes there is.’

She was inevitably right; she could predict with startling accuracy the times she needed to call her famous son and the times when she should keep her distance. Sometimes he could lie to her, and get away with it. But today wasn’t one of those days. What was the point?

‘Dempsey’s dead.’

‘That old mutt of yours.’

‘He was not an old mutt and if you talk about him like that then this conversation ends right here.’

‘How old was he?’ Patricia asked.

‘Eleven, going on twelve.’

‘That’s a decent age.’

‘Not for a dog like him.’

‘What kind of dog would that be?’

‘You know –’

‘A mutt. Mutts always live longer than thoroughbreds. That’s a fact of life.’

‘Well, mine didn’t.’

‘Too much rich food. You used to spoil that dog –’

‘Is there anything else you want besides lecturing me about how I killed my dog with kindness?’

‘No. I was just wanting to chat, but obviously you’re in no mood to chat.’

‘I loved Dempsey, Mom. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘If you don’t mind me observing something –’

‘Could I stop you?’

‘– it’s sad that the only serious relationship you’ve had is with a dog. It’s time you grew up, Todd. You’re not getting any younger, you know. You think about the way your father aged.’

‘I don’t want to talk about this right now, okay.’

‘Listen to me.’

‘Mom. I don’t –’

‘You’ve got his genes, so listen for once will you? He was a good-looking man your father, till he was about thirty-four, thirty-five. Now granted he didn’t take care of himself and you do – I mean he smoked and he drank a lot more than was good for him. But his looks went practically overnight.’

‘Overnight? That’s ridiculous. Nobody’s looks go –’

‘All right, it wasn’t overnight. But I was there. I saw. Believe me, it was quick. Five, six months and all his looks had gone.’

Even though this was an absurd exaggeration, there was an element of truth in what Patricia Pickett was saying. Todd’s father had indeed lost his looks with remarkable speed. It would not have been the kind of thing a son would have noticed, necessarily, but Todd had a second point-of-view on his father’s sudden deterioration: his best friend Danny had been raised by a single mother who’d several times made her feelings for Merrick Pickett known to her son. The rumours had reached Todd, of course. Indeed they’d become practically weekly reports, as Danny’s mother’s plans to seduce the unwitting subject of her desires were laid (and failed) and re-laid.

All this came back to Todd as his mother went on chatting. Eventually, he said, ‘Mom, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to make some decisions about the cremation.’

‘Oh, Lord, I hope you’re keeping this quiet. The media would have a party with this: you and your dog.’

‘Well all the more reason for you to clam up about it,’ he warned. ‘If anybody calls, saying they want a quote.’

‘I know nothing.’

‘You know nothing.’

‘I know the routine by now, honey. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Don’t even tell the neighbours.’

‘Fine! I won’t.’

‘Bye, Mom.’

‘I’m sorry about Brewster.’

‘Dempsey.’

‘Whatever.’

It was true; when Todd gave the subject some serious thought: Merrick Pickett had indeed lost his looks with startling speed. One day he’d been the best looking insurance agent in the city of Cincinnati, the next (it seemed) Danny’s mother wouldn’t look twice at him. Suppose this was hereditary? Suppose fifty percent of it was hereditary?

He called Eppstadt’s office. It took the sonofabitch forty-eight minutes to return the call and when he did his manner was brusque.

‘I hope this isn’t about Warrior?’

‘It isn’t.’

‘We’re not going to do it, Todd.’

‘I get it, Gary. Is your assistant listening in on this conversation?’

‘No. What do you want?’

‘When we had lunch you recommended a guy who’d done some work for a few famous names.’

‘Bruce Burrows?’

‘How do I get hold of him? He’s not in the book.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll hook you up.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re making a good call, Todd. I hope we can get back in business as soon as you’re healed.’

Once he had the number, Todd didn’t leave himself further room for hesitation. He called Burrows, booked the consultation, and tentatively chatted over some dates for the operation.

There was one piece of outstanding business before he could move on: the disposal of Dempsey’s ashes. Despite the reassurances of Robert Louis Stevenson, Todd did not have any clear idea as to the permanence of any soul, whether animal or human. He only knew that he wanted Dempsey’s mortal remains to be placed where the dog had been most happy. There was no doubt about where that was: the back yard of the Bel Air house, which had been, since his puppyhood, Dempsey’s unchallenged territory: his stalking ground, his school-yard when it came to learning new tricks. And it was there, the evening before Todd put himself into the hands of Bruce Burrows, that he took the bronzed plastic urn provided by the Cremation Company out into the yard. The urn contained a plastic bag, which in turn contained Dempsey’s ashes. There were a lot of them; but then he’d been a big dog.

Todd sat down in the middle of the yard, where he and Dempsey had so often sat and watched the sky together, and poured some of the ashes into the palm of his hand. What part of this grey sand was his tail, he wondered, and which his snout? Which part the place behind his ear he’d love you forever if you rubbed? Or didn’t it matter? Was that the point about scattering ashes: that in the end they looked the same? Not just the snout and the tail, but a dog’s ashes and a man’s ashes. All reducible, with the addition of a little flame, to this mottled dust? He put his lips to it, once, to kiss him goodbye. In his head he could hear his mother telling him that it was a gross, unhealthy thing to do, so he kissed them again, just to spite her. Then he stood up and cast Dempsey’s ashes around, like a farmer sowing seeds. There was no wind. The ash fell where he threw it, evenly distributed over the mutt’s dominion.

‘See you, dog,’ he said, and went back into the house to get himself a large bourbon.

PART THREE

_________________

A DARKER TIME
Chapter 1

For four months, in the summer of his seventeenth year, Todd had worked at the Sunset Home for the Elderly on the outskirts of Orlando, where he’d got a job through his Uncle Frank, who worked as an accountant for Sunset Homes Incorporated. The place was little more than a repository for the nearly-dead; working there had been the most depressing experience of his young life. Most of his duties did not involve the patients – he had no training as a nurse, nor intended to get any. But the care of one of the older occupants, a man by the name of Duncan McFarlane, was given over to him because McFarlane was prone to unruliness when he was being bathed by the female nurses. McFarlane was no great trouble to Todd. He was just a sour sonofabitch who wasn’t going to make anybody’s life one jot easier if he could possibly avoid it. The ritual of giving a bed-bath to his patient was Todd’s particular horror; the sight of his own body awoke a profound self-disgust in the old man. Asking around, Todd had discovered that McFarlane had been an athlete in his prime. But now – at the age of eighty-three – there was no trace of the strength or the beauty his body had once possessed. He was a pallid sack of shit and resentment, revolted by the sight of himself.

Look at me, he would say when Todd uncovered him, Christ, look at me, Christ, look at me. Every time it was the same murmured horror. Look at me, Christ, look at me.

To this day, the image of McFarlane’s nakedness remained with Todd in all its grotesque particulars. The little beard of dirty white hair that hung from the old man’s scrotum; the constellation of heavy, dark warts above his left nipple; the wrinkled folds of pale, spotted flesh that hung under his arms. Todd felt guilty about his disgust, and kept it to himself, until one day it had been the subject of discussion in the day-room, and he’d discovered that his feelings were shared, especially by the male members of the nursing staff. The female nurses seemed to have more compassion, perhaps; or were simply indifferent to the facts of creeping senility. But the other men on the staff – there were four of them besides Todd – were afterwards constantly remarking on the foulness of their charges. One of the quartet – a black guy from New Orleans called Austin Harper – was particularly eloquent on the subject.

‘I ain’t endin’ up like any o’ these ol’ fucks,’ he remarked on more than one occasion, ‘I’d blow my fuckin’ brains out ’fore I’d sink that fuckin’ low.’

‘It won’t happen,’ Todd had said.

‘How’d you reckon that, white boy?’ Austin had said. He’d patted Todd on his backside; which he took every possible opportunity to do.

‘When we’re as old as these folks there’ll be ways to fix it,’ Todd replied.

‘You mean we’ll live forever? Bullshit. I don’t buy any of that science-fiction crap, boy.’

‘I’m not saying we’ll live forever. But they’ll have figured out what gives us wrinkles, and they’ll have a way to smooth them out.’

‘Will they now? So you’s goin’ to be all smoothed out, is you?’

‘I sure as hell am.’

‘You’ll still die, but you’ll die all smoothed out an’ pretty?’ He tapped Todd’s ass appreciatively again.

‘Will you quit doin’ that?’ Todd said.

‘I’ll quit when you quit wavin’ it in my nose.’ Austin laughed, and slapped Todd’s ass a third time, a stinging swat.

‘Anyways,’ Todd said, ‘I don’t give a shit what you think. I’m going to die pretty.’

The phrase had lingered. To die pretty; that was the grand ambition. To die pretty, and not find yourself like poor old Duncan McFarlane, looking down at his own nakedness and saying, over and over: Oh Christ, look at me. Oh Christ, look at me. Oh Christ …

Two months after Todd had left Florida to go to Los Angeles for a screen-test, he’d got a scrawled note from Austin Harper, who – given that it was more or less certain that they’d never see one another again, figured it was okay for Todd to know that if Austin had had a chance he would have ploughed Todd’s ass ‘all the way to Key West and back’. ‘And then you’d be all smoothed out, baby,’ Harper had written.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ he’d added. ‘That old fuck McFarlane died a week ago. Tried to give himself a bath in the middle of the night. Drowned himself in three inches of water. That’s what I call a damn fool thing to do.

‘Stay smooth, m’man. You’re going to do great. I know it. Just remember to thank me when they gives you an Oscar.’

Chapter 2

‘Kiddo?’

Todd was floating in a blind black place, his body untethered. He couldn’t even feel it.

‘Kiddo? Can you hear me?’

Despite the darkness all around, it was a comfortable place to be in. There were no predators here in this no-man’s-land. There were no sharks circling, wanting ten-percent of his flesh. Todd felt pleasantly removed from everything. Except for that voice calling him.

‘Kiddo? If you can hear me, move your finger.’

It was a trick, he knew. It was a way to get him to go back to the world where once he’d lived and breathed and been unhappy. But he didn’t want to go. It was too brittle that place; brittle and bright. He wanted to stay where he was, here in the darkness, floating and floating.

‘Kiddo … it’s Donnie.’

Donnie?

Wait, that couldn’t be right. His older brother, Donnie? They hadn’t talked in months. Why would he be here, trying to seduce him out of his comfortable hideaway? But then, if not Donnie, then who? Nobody else ever called him Kiddo.

Todd felt a dim murmur of anxiety. Donnie lived in Texas, for God’s sake. What was he doing here?

‘Talk to me, Kiddo.’

Very reluctantly, Todd forced himself to reply to the summons, though when he finally coaxed his lips to shape it the sound he made was as remote as the moon.

‘Donnie?’

‘Well, howdy. I must say it’s good to have you back in the land of the livin’.’ He felt a hand laid on his arm. The sensation, like Donnie’s voice, and his own, felt distant and dulled.

‘You had us a bit stirred up for a while there.’

‘Why’s … it … so dark in here?’ Todd said. ‘Will you have someone turn on the lights?’

‘Everything’s going to be okay, buddy.’

‘Donnie. Please. Turn on the lights.’

‘They are on, Kiddo. It’s just you’ve got some bandages over your face. That’s all it is. You’re going to be just fine.’

Bandages on his face.

Now it all started to come back to him. His last memories. He’d been going under Burrows’ knife for the big operation.

The last thing he remembered was Burrows telling him to count backwards from ten. Burrows had been smiling reassuringly at him, and as Todd counted – had thought: I wonder how much work he’s had done on that face of his? The nose for sure. And all the lines gone from around his eyes –

‘Are you counting, Todd?’ Burrows had said.

‘Ten. Nine. Eight –’

There hadn’t been a seven. Not that Todd could remember. The drugs had swept him off to their own empty version of La-La land.

But now he was back from that dreamless place, and Donnie was here at his bedside, all the way from Texas. Why? And why the bandages over his eyes? Burrows hadn’t said anything about bandages.

‘My mouth’s so dry,’ Todd whispered.

‘No problemo, buddy,’ Donnie replied gently. ‘I’ll get the nurse in here.’

‘I’ll have a vodka … straight up.’

Donnie chuckled. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Todd heard him get up and go to the door, and call for a nurse. His consciousness wavered, and he felt himself slipping back into the void from which he’d just been brought by Donnie’s voice. The prospect of that lush darkness didn’t seem quite as comforting as it had a few moments before. He started to panic, scrambling to keep hold of the world, at least until he knew what had happened to him.

He called out to Donnie:

‘Where are you? Donnie? Are you there?’

Footsteps came hurriedly back in his direction.

‘I’m still here, Kiddo.’ Donnie’s voice was tender. Todd couldn’t remember ever hearing such tenderness in it before now.

‘Burrows didn’t tell me it’d be like this,’ Todd said.

‘There’s nothing to get worked up about,’ Donnie replied.

Even in his semi-drugged state, Todd knew a lie when he heard one.

‘You’re not a very good actor,’ he said.

‘Runs in the family,’ Donnie quipped, and squeezed Todd’s arm again. ‘Just kidding.’

‘Yeah … yeah …’ Todd said. As he spoke a spasm of pain ran from the bridge of his nose and spread across his face in both directions. He was suddenly in excruciating agony. ‘Jesus,’ he gasped. ‘Jesus. Make it stop!’

He felt Donnie’s reassuring hand go from his arm; heard his brother crossing to the door again, yelling as he went, his voice suddenly shrill with fear: ‘Will somebody get in here. Right now! Christ!’

Todd’s panic, momentarily soothed by his brother’s voice, started to rise up in him again. He raised his hand to his face. The bandages were tight and smooth, like a visor over his head, sealing him in. He started to hyperventilate. He was going to die in here, if he didn’t get this smothering stuff off his face. He began to claw at the bandages. He needed air. Right now!

Air, for Christ’s sake, air –

‘Mr Pickett, don’t do that! Please!’

The nurse caught hold of Todd’s hands, but the panic and the pain made him strong and she couldn’t prevent him from digging his fingers beneath the bandages and pulling.

There were flashes of light in his head, but he knew it wasn’t the light of the outside world he was seeing. His brain was overloading; fear was leaping like lightning across his skull. His blood roared in his ears. His body thrashed around in the bed as though he was in the grip of a seizure.

‘All right, nurse. I’ve got him now.’

Suddenly, there were hands around his wrists. Somebody stronger than the nurse was gently but insistently pulling his fingers away from his face. Then a voice came to find him through the sound of his own sobs.

‘Todd? This is Dr Burrows. Everything is fine. But please calm down. Let me explain what’s going on. There’s nothing to worry about.’ He spoke like a hypnotist, the cadence of his sentences even, his voice completely calm. And while he went on speaking, repeating the same information – that everything was fine, all Todd had to do was breathe deeply, deeply – he held Todd’s arms against the bed.

After a few moments, the bright bursts of light began to become less frequent. The din of blood began to recede. So, by degrees, did the waves of panic.

‘There,’ Dr Burrows said, when the worst of it was over. ‘You see? Everything’s fine and dandy. Now why don’t we get you a fresh pillow? Nurse Karyn? Would you please get Mr Pickett a nice fresh pillow?’

Oh so gently, Burrows raised the upper half of Todd’s body off the bed, talking to him all the while: the same calming monologue. All the strength to resist, indeed all need to do so, had gone out of Todd. All he could do was abandon himself to Burrows’ care.

Finally he said: ‘What’s … wrong … with me?’

‘First let’s get you comfortable,’ Burrows replied. ‘Then we’ll talk it all through.’

Todd felt the motion of the nurse as she slipped the fresh pillow into place behind him. Then, with the same tenderness as he used to lift him up, Burrows carefully lowered Todd back down upon the pillow.

‘There. Isn’t that better?’ Burrows said, finally letting his patient go. Todd felt a pang of separation, like a child who’d been abruptly deserted. ‘I’m going to let you rest for a while,’ Burrows went on. ‘And when you’ve slept, we’ll talk properly.’

‘No …’ Todd said.

‘Your brother Don’s here with you.’

‘I’m here, Todd.’

‘I want to talk now,’ Todd said. ‘Not later. Now. Donnie! Make him stay.’

‘It’s okay, Kiddo,’ Donnie said with just the right edge of threat, ‘Dr B’s not goin’ anywhere. Answer his question, Doc.’

‘Well, first things first,’ Burrows said. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your eyes, if that’s what you’re worried about. We just have to keep the dressings in place around your eye-sockets.’

‘You didn’t tell me I’d be waking up in the dark,’ Todd said.

‘No …’ Burrows replied. ‘That’s because the procedure didn’t go quite as we planned. But every operation is a little different, as you’ll remember I explained to you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke …’

Now that he was calmer, Todd began to recall some of the things about Burrows that had irritated him. One of them was that voice of his: that fake basso profundo that was a practised attempt to conceal his queeniness, and to match his voice to the heroic proportions of his body. An artificial body, of course. The man was a walking advertisement for his craft. He was fifty-five at least, but he had the skin of a baby, the arms and the chest of a body-builder and the wasp-waist of a show-girl.

‘Just tell me the truth,’ Todd said to him. ‘Did something go wrong? I’m a big boy. I can take it.’

There was a pin-drop silence. Todd waited. Finally, Burrows said: ‘We had a few minor complications with your procedure, that’s all. I’ve explained it all to your brother Donald. There’s nothing – absolutely nothing – for you to be concerned about. It’s just going to take a little more time than we’d –’

‘What kind of complications?’

‘We don’t need to go into that now, Todd.’

‘Yes, we do,’ Todd said. ‘It’s my face, for fuck’s sake. Tell me what’s going on. And don’t screw around with me. I don’t like it.’

‘Tell him, Doc,’ Donnie said, quietly but firmly.

Todd heard Burrows sigh. Then that studied voice again: ‘You’ll remember that during the preparation evaluation I did warn you that on occasion there were reactions to chemical peels which could not be predicted. And I’m afraid that’s what happened in your case. You’ve had an extreme, and as I say completely unpredictable allergic response to the peel. I don’t believe for one moment there’s going to be any significant damage in the long term. You’re a healthy young man. We’re going to see some swift epidermal regeneration –’

‘What the fuck’s that?’

‘Your skin’s gonna grow back,’ Donnie replied, his Texan drawl turning the remark into a piece of cold comedy.

‘What do you mean?’ Todd said.

‘The effect of the procedure we use – as I explained in our evaluation, and is fully described in the literature I gave you –’

‘I didn’t read it,’ Todd said. ‘I trusted you.’

‘– the procedures we use may be likened to a very controlled chemical burn, which produces changes in the dermis and the epidermis. Damaged or blemished skin is removed, and after forty-eight hours at the most, new, healthy skin is naturally generated, which has pleasing characteristics. The client regains a youthful –’

This time it was Donnie who interrupted Burrows’ molassic flow. ‘Tell him the rest,’ Donnie said, his voice thick with anger. ‘If you don’t tell him, I will,’ Donnie went on. He didn’t give Burrows a chance to make the choice. ‘You’ve been out of it since you had the operation, Kiddo. In a coma. For three days. That’s why they sent for me. They were getting worried. I tried to have you moved to a proper hospital, but that bitch of a manager – Maxine, is it? – she wouldn’t let me. She said you’d want to stay here. Said she was afraid the press would find out if you were transferred.’