Ben

by Cody Young

  * * *

  The woman at the registration desk handed him a name badge on a lanyard that he was supposed to wear around his neck. Dr Benjamin Stein, East City Medical Centre, London. He went through to the gathering crowd of medical men in the hotel lobby.

  A young Polynesian guy with oily black curls made a beeline for him because he had nothing alcoholic in his hand. He raised a silver tray of champagne flutes for Ben to choose from. “Glass of wine, doctor?”

  “No. Heaven’s no. I’ve given it all up for love,” Ben said, and with a kind of monastic fervour he headed over to a table at the side of the room, covered with a white cloth. On it, there were ranks of drinking glasses arranged upside down and several jugs of water with ice with slices of lemon. He turned a glass the right way up and poured himself a large one.

  Three other conference delegates were loitering by the water. Two men and a woman. The woman was a veiny example of what happens to professional ladies in their forties who decide to shed every ounce of adipose fat on their bodies. Her pretzel arms and legs were carefully fake-tanned, and her eyes were huge and hungry in a creased, angular face. Her name tag said she was a thoracic surgeon.

  The two men with her were probably recovering alcoholics, Ben decided. He was reluctant to stick that label on his own forehead just yet, but he feared he was inching closer. One of the men had broken veins on a Rudolf-the-reindeer nose. My future, thought Ben, if I don’t give up, if I don’t join their ranks and stop pouring it down my throat. Lots of doctors had a problem with booze – some of them dabbled in drugs – and untold numbers struggled with depression. It was that kind of life, you needed something when the going got tough. But to have to admit that he needed to stop? It was difficult. It was part of his identity – enjoying a drink – as difficult to discard as his own name or the shape of his eyebrows. His father was a wine merchant for heaven’s sake. Fine wine had always been part of his life history, and he didn’t want it to be a thing of the past.

  “Well,” said Ben, deciding to be the first to speak. “What’s in store for us in the ballroom? I’ve left my programme upstairs in my room.”

  “Oh, it’s the Evolving Nature of the Physician-Patient Relationship,” said the woman, who had obviously studied ahead. And then she gave a little laugh, as if she’d said something slightly risqué.

  Ben smiled. “I didn’t think it was supposed to evolve at all.”

  One of the men – Dr Larry Kinsdale, his lanyard badge said – gave an impatient huff. “It’s not. Those cosy home visits and cups of tea with the patients? That’s 1950s stuff. I’m glad it’s more impersonal now. I don’t know most of my patients’ names and I wouldn’t want to, either.”

  The others heartily agreed. Ben bit his lip.

  Kinsdale looked at Ben, as if distrustful of his youth and inexperience. “You hear about some scandals, though. Horrifying stories. Some of our more impulsive colleagues can’t seem to resist a session on the consulting couch.”

  Ben looked at the floor. Was it written on his badge, along with his name, he wondered? Ben Stein. Hopelessly In Love With A Patient. He looked up and smiled weakly, raising his water to his lips in the fervent hope that it had turned to vodka in his hand.

  “Those scandals are very rare,” said the woman, superciliously. “What clinician in his right mind would expose himself – or herself – to an accusation of professional misconduct?”

  Ben swallowed. And smiled again. Feeling very exposed indeed, all of a sudden. “Well, I don’t really know…”

  “Are you married, Dr Stein?”

  “Not yet.”

  Larry said, “In many ways it’s safer to be married. Patients trust a married doctor. After my wife and I divorced, I kept the ring just to wear at work.”

  Ben thought that sounded rather tragic.

  The second man, the one with the Rudolf nose, finally spoke. “Difficult to find the right kind of wife, isn’t it?”

  The others nodded sagely, staring into their glasses of water.

  “After all,” he continued, “we only meet three types of women, most of the time.”

  “Indeed,” said Larry.

  “Lady doctors,” Rudolf said, with a respectful smile at the female surgeon. “Very unattainable.”

  She laughed to indicate she was flattered.

  “Nurses. Barmaids, and patients. Take your pick.” Rudolf shook his head at the thought of the dilemma.

  “So which one did you choose?” said Ben, noticing that the man was wearing a wedding band. “Or is the ring for decoration?”

  “I chose a nurse, of course. Though I did have a dalliance with a barmaid.”

  Yes. The nose bore testimony to that, Ben thought.

  “Do you have someone nice, waiting for you at home?” Rudolf enquired.

  “Yes,” Ben said. “A flower girl, from Bethnal Green.”

  And the other three laughed, because they thought he was making a joke.

  Ben scowled and stared at his water. Would anyone ever take his relationship with Layla seriously?

  Why shouldn’t he have a girl like her if that’s what he wanted? He worked hard, diagnosing, prescribing and referring. Sending broken people to methadone programs, mental health professionals, and abortion clinics. He worked long hours and it was often depressing. He needed to come home to a girl like Layla – a girl all peachy and fresh with breasts that bounced when she ran forward to hug him – a girl who was so pleased to see him at night it practically burst out of her. A girl with a shy sparkle in her eyes and music and honey in her laughter. He wanted to sit and gaze at her while she told him about scented roses, camellias and giant peony flowers, cupping her hands to show him how big they were and raising them to her face like they were real and she could breathe in the sweetness of them. And for a moment he could close his eyes and forget about work and imagine them too – all scented and dewy and sweet just like her.

  Why shouldn’t he have that? Why did he have to find someone more appropriate?

  What was appropriate about coming home to an empty flat because your other half was working double shifts to prove she could shatter the glass ceiling? What was the point of being a pair of synchronised careers, instead of two people in love?

  Of course, the sacrifices could have paved the way to great things – as Catherine used to remind him. If it was all done correctly, it would lead to professional advancement, well-deserved salary hikes, and strategic house purchases in up and coming areas. Nice houses and grassy gardens that they were far too busy to enjoy. And later, much later, a pair of perfectly planned children they would never see – who would be raised in educationally stimulating settings (the hospital crèche) and schools of long-standing reputation (and huge fees) so that maybe, just maybe, they too might get to be doctors.

  He’d met Catherine at a medical conference just like this one, and been as lonely inside the relationship as he had been before it began. It had ended in a terse discussion about the flat, and a depressing Sunday evening spent listing things they had bought together and deciding who got the salad tongs.

  Suddenly he realized he was standing alone now, in the almost empty hotel lobby. Everyone was gone. They’d all drifted into the ballroom to find a seat, and hear the opening address from the Keynote Speaker.

  * * *

  When Tracey got home to the Rookeries, she found Mr. Birch sitting at her mother’s kitchen table. His suit was pale and impeccable. Like he’d just returned from somewhere hot. His cologne spoke of spicy salons and afternoons spent in the boudoir. “Hello, darling.”

  Tracey glanced nervously at her mother, who looked all wan and worried.

  “Just tell him, Trace.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “Tell him where Layla’s gone.”

  “Why?”

  Mr Birch looked at the girl, like she was demonstrating the symptoms of a rare disease. A disease called innocent curiosity. “Because it’s time Layla came home, my dear. To where she belongs.
I only sold her virginity. Not her soul.”

  Tracey felt perplexed. “But he paid all that money, so Layla could be free. He didn’t even want her virginity. He’s not like that, she says. He’s waiting for her…”

  Mr Birch laughed. “Oh dear, oh dear. The poor altruistic doctor. Didn’t even manage to get his money’s worth. Well. That’s his problem.”

  Tracey shook her head. “Leave her alone, Mr Birch. Please. She’s happy.”

  Tracey’s mother gasped. “Don’t be speaking out like that, Tracey. It isn’t polite.”

  Which Tracey understood to mean don’t cross Mr Birch.

  But he smiled, pleasantly. “She’s a rook, and she needs to fly home to the nest.”

  Tracey’s knees felt weak, and her mother pulled out a kitchen chair and told her to sit down.

  “Once a rook. Always a rook.” Mr Birch adjusted a gold cufflink held by one of his starchy white cuffs. “Please help me out and tell me where my little rook’s gone?”

  Tracey looked up at her mother. A worn, tired woman, gazing wistfully out of her kitchen window. “Go on love. Tell him. It’s no shame on you. It’s just how it is. You have to tell him.”

  * * *

  It was morning – in the sunny flat in Richmond. Layla hadn’t drunk enough Tequila to feel hung over, but she did want to sleep in because they’d been up quite late. Reminiscing and listening to music. Ben had stacks of CDs. Stuff they’d heard on the radio – old love songs from eight or ten years ago when he’d been a student and she and Trace had been barely old enough to know what love was supposed to be about. Layla thought about the age difference between her and Ben for a moment. Ten years, but it didn’t seem to matter. She was as protective of him as he was of her. He needed someone to look after him. He spent all day caring for other people and pouring out his compassion. He had told her he couldn’t bear to see children with cancer and old people dying in terrible pain and mothers so tired they didn’t notice they were getting a tumour. He dealt with that all day long and it took something from him. It would with anybody. And Ben was so… driven all the time. So keen to make everything better. She loved him. With her whole heart. And when he got back… she was going to tell him she was ready to love him with her whole body too.

  She heard the sound of the front door opening, but she snuggled down in the covers. Relax, she thought. It’s only Rakshima.

  * * *

  Ben went upstairs to his hotel bedroom after a headache-inducing array of papers, including Personalizing Palliative Care and Management of Deep Vein Thrombosis. The mini-bar beckoned. Spoke his name, almost, as he passed. He stared at it, the small squat little fridge – which when opened – would be a magical doorway to a better place. A place full of friends with familiar names like Smirnoff and Budweiser and Jack Daniels.

  He sighed and went and had a long shower. He turned the hotel telly on and marvelled at the saturation frequency of ads on American television. He checked his conference schedule for tomorrow and booked a wakeup call. Jet lag was the only thing that had ever caused him to sleep through an alarm. Actually, it might have been cognac.

  Then he got into a bed so starchy and crisp it was like sleeping inside a paper envelope. And he tried hard to think of anything but Layla. And eventually he fell asleep.

  * * *

  Layla could smell the scent of Rakshima’s clothes – and that should have been reassuring. But there was something else. Footsteps. Rakshima catching a breath like she was scared. Layla sat up, suddenly. And saw movement through the crack in the door. And then heard Rakshima stifling a sob. “Please, no.”

  Layla jumped up out of bed. And saw that one of the men had Rakshima, he had his huge tattooed hand over her mouth. Her wild brown eyes looked at Layla from over the top of his fingers.

  It was them. Birch’s bully boys. No mistaking them.

  * * *

  The wakeup call seemed to come in the middle of the night. When Ben checked his watch he realized it was the middle of the night. He picked up the phone, ready to exchange some rather crisp sentiments with whatever idiot in reception had programmed the call for the wrong time.

  He’d be rather British about it, and they’d be all effusive and American. Then maybe he could roll over and get another few hours of sleep. Which he certainly needed. He had to give a paper himself this afternoon. Vitamin Deficiency in Children from Inner City Areas. Gripping stuff.

  But the voice on the phone was British. Very different from Ben’s voice, of course. “Aloha, doctor. Having a nice time in Hawaii?”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name’s Birch. You can call me Mr Birch. I believe we’ve had the pleasure of doing business before.”

  Ben’s heart sank.

  No Return

  Birch told him to stay put in Hawaii and organize to send the money within forty-eight hours.

  Ben didn’t like that idea.

  Birch said Layla was perfectly safe. And reasonably happy. He thought she’d been missing her friends.

  Ben didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe that at all.

  Birch said that a dear friend of his was taking care of her. Jimmy Warren. She was in good hands.

  Ben almost wanted to vomit. His stomach clenched and he turned his head.

  Birch said if Ben couldn’t pay, there were others who would. And perhaps that was only fair, because a little bird had told him that Layla hadn’t provided satisfaction. Or was it the other way around?

  Ben willed himself not to get angry – not to start swearing into the phone – it would do no good, and it might do a great deal of harm. First do no harm. Ben grabbed hold of the time-honoured principle and held fast to it, to get through the call. “Forty-eight hours, you say?”

  “Yes. Don’t try anything, Doctor. Just send the money and don’t be a hero.”

  Ben put down the phone and rose to his feet. After that it was a smooth, seamless sequence of events. No need for thought. No need for explanations. All decisions were already made.

  He looked at the papers spread out over the bed. And he knew that he wasn’t giving a speech today. His name would be called and he wouldn’t be there. People would frown and wonder why, and then go off in search of another coffee.

  No need to pack. Luggage would slow him down. He only needed his coat and his wallet.

  He paid his hotel bill and refused to be drawn into any discussion about why he was leaving. “Any message for the conference convenor?”

  Ben shook his head. “An emergency.”

  As he headed for the sliding glass doors, his taxi swung in over the curved piece of tarmac right outside the hotel and Ben walked out to meet it.

  “What time’s your flight?” said the driver.

  Ben shrugged. Planes left Honolulu all the time. He’d be on the next one. “Just get me to airport.”

  He had to pay a premium, of course. But the best things in life come at great cost, and that had always been how it was over Layla. He felt no resentment, paying double for a dreadful economy seat.

  He took his place in the middle row. Between a heavily-pregnant woman who must surely have lied about her dates, and a couple who spoke no English at all. Refusing all offers – food, wine, and conversation – accepting only water and a set of headphones – Ben endured the long flight home to England.

  * * *

  The eighteen hour flight had given him plenty of time to think out his exact strategy. He wasn’t storming into the Fizz Club. Not this time.

  He’d seen the name ‘Warren’ before. On a beige manila file at the medical centre.

  So he went there.

  Sal looked up when he came in, like she was seeing a ghostly apparition. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Hawaii?”

  “Personal crisis,” he murmured. And used his swipe card to get into the reception area.

  This time – no lies, no excuses – just turned on the computer and swung it to face him. He tried to enter the database and look for Warren but it kept flashing
the words: Access Denied. Access Denied.

  He sighed. “It’s not working. It won’t let me in.”

  “Of course not,” Sal said. “It’s password protected. To keep people like you out. Look Ben, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “When was the password added?”

  “While you were away. Look, Ben, you’re in a spot a bother…”

  “Yes I am. And I need you to put the password in. Now.”

  “What?”

  “Put the fucking password in, Sal.”

  She stared at him like he’d lost his mind. But the determination in his dark eyes was potent, and compelled her to comply. She leaned down to type the password in. “Fiona’ll kill me.”

  Ben tapped through a few entries, looking for Jimmy Warren. Nothing. He was still searching when Fiona and the clinic director rounded the corner.

  “Oh, shit…” murmured Sal.

  “Dr Stein?”

  Ben looked up, and caught the unpleasant look on the face of the clinic director. “Jonathan?”

  “This is a surprise,” the older man said.

  “Why?” said Ben. “I work here.”

  “Yes…” said Jonathan. “For the moment. Sally – what information has he asked for?”

  Sally looked harrowed. “Um… a patient’s contact details. Sorry. Maybe I should have said no.”

  “Yes, you should have said no,” said Jonathan, tersely.

  That’s when Ben sensed the atmosphere. Fiona and Jonathan and Sal. They all knew. All three of them. Sal’s eyes showed pity, sympathy. She’d always seemed to like him. But the other two were hostile. And they had what people always call ‘grave faces’.