Dr. Yes

Dr. Yes Page 4

by Colin Bateman

  'Ahm, yes.'

  'I understand completely, sir. Many of our clients prefer the cloak of anonymity. Though I should stress that this is just like going to your own doctor; it's absolutely confidential. Perhaps I could take your phone number and ...'

  'I'd prefer if you didn't.'

  'Perhaps your e-mail ...'

  'No, she checks them as well. You see, it's to be a surprise for my wife.'

  'So it's your wife who will be having the . . . ?'

  'No, it's for me, I'm the bog-ugly one.'

  'Well, I'm sure you're not. But I understand completely, sir, what a wonderful idea.'

  'I just want to come in and have a chat, see what's involved.'

  'Yes, sir, absolutely. A consultation with Dr Yeschenkov. Now I'm afraid there is a charge for that. Fully redeemable if you do join our programme.'

  'How much would that be?'

  'That would be just four hundred and ninety-nine pounds.'

  'I mean for the consultation.'

  'Yes, sir. Would you like me to check for an appointment?'

  I decided to think of it as an investment. 'Yes, absolutely.'

  'All right, then! Let me see. How about the twenty- fourth

  'That's too ...'

  '...of May. That's the earliest we have. I'm afraid he's a very busy man.'

  'So you've, ahm, nothing today, then?'

  'No, sir, I'm afraid

  'I could just like pop in and show him my head.'

  'I'm sorry, sir, that's impossible.'

  'Just a quick once-over; he could give me an estimate.'

  'Sir . . .'

  'It's kind of urgent. What about tomorrow? I'll be passing your place around lunchtime. I could just jump up and down at his window and he could give me the thumbs-up or the thumbs—'

  'Sir! Dr Yeschenkov is not even working tomorrow.'

  'Well you would say—'

  'Sir, he'll be playing golf and under strict instructions not to be—'

  'Well maybe I'll run into him at the club

  'Oh. You're a member at Malone too, sir?'

  'Absolutely.'

  I was playing her like a glass harp.

  'Well that's different. And he does actually do a special rate for fellow members. It's a wonderful club, isn't it, sir? Play there myself, very active ladies' membership. What's your handicap?'

  'Calipers,' I said, and hung up.

  I'd wrung the information out of her like a hamster in a mangle. Now I could seek out Dr Yes at the golf club and quiz him about Arabella's mysterious disappearance without having to enter his lair or pay that frankly ridiculous fee for a consultation.

  The phone rang and I said, 'Hello, No Alibis, Murder is Our Business.'

  And the same woman's voice said, 'I'm sorry, we seemed to get cut off. What were you saying about calipers? And you're from No Alibis? I love that shop!'

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Let me explain why I took Pearl, for that was her name, for coffee. First of all, in chatting to her on the phone I realised that although she claimed to be a crime fiction aficionado, she was all at sea when it came to her actual choice of books. She needed help, she needed guidance. For God's sake, she was still reading Patterson! It is my primary function in this difficult world to steer those who are hopelessly lost towards the light. I am a beacon. A saviour of souls. But I'm not a literary snob, not even for my chosen genre. Yes, of course there are heavyweights out there who are very good, but I'm just as much a champion of pulp fiction or dark and witty noir or even grandmotherly cosies, as long as they don't feature animals who actually physically contribute to the solving, of a case. It's my job to match the right book to the right reader. Also, and perhaps more importantly, she was

  Dr Yeschenkov's gatekeeper, and in meeting her and engaging her in friendly chat I would surely gain an insight not only into him, but also into the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the lovely Arabella. I had played her once, I would play her again.

  She was warm and friendly and fascinated on the phone, and in retrospect, I have to admit, I was a little flattered. Our conversation was continually interrupted, however, by her having to answer calls on her switchboard. In response I also disappeared several times, pretending that I had to deal with a customer.

  She said, 'It's lovely talking to you, but impossible!'

  'I know,' I said. 'Sorry, a bit hectic here too.' Thankfully she couldn't actually see or hear the tumble- weed. 'Do you know what I should do? I should pick out some books for you. Take a look at them, no obligation to buy.' She laughed. I was so good at this. 'Why don't you pop in at lunch time?'

  'I'd love to - but I only get half an hour and that's barely enough for coffee and a sandwich. Actually, I usually go to that Starbucks just near you.'

  'Well tell you what, I could pop across with them.'

  'Really? Would you do that? That would be marvellous.'

  I was pretty marvellous. 'How will I recognise you?' I asked.

  'Don't worry,' she said, I’ll recognise you. You'll be carrying books. About one?'

  'About one.'

  'Marvellous. It's a date.'

  I have to admit, I got a little glow inside when she said that, although obviously she meant nothing by it.

  I was, I suppose, at a slight disadvantage, because I had no idea what she looked like. Not only would I be carrying books, but as a customer of No Alibis she undoubtedly already knew me to see, whereas I forget my customers as soon as they leave, and occasionally while they're still there. It was, however, reasonable to assume she would not look like a dog's dinner, given that she was the first person people would see when they came along to Dr Yeschenkov's clinic for an estimate, and if she looked like she'd been beaten with the ugly stick, potential customers would probably change their minds as soon as they saw her. On the other hand, if she was a real stunner, I would have remembered her being in the shop. What I did know was that she sounded funny and bubbly, had said she wasn't into horror or gore or any of the more explicit authors, but that Christie bored her and she never quite 'got' any of the Scandinavians. Her tastes seemed to quite mirror mine, so selecting what I felt was right for her wasn't a problem. I picked up an Elmore Leonard, a Robert B. Parker, a Pelecanos, for obvious reasons, and, a little out of left field, Graham Greene's Our Man in Havana. I fixed my remaining hair and scooted across to Starbucks a little before one, so that I could have exactly the coffee I needed ordered and delivered before she arrived in case she thought I was in any way weird. I work my way through the menu once a month and any deviation leads to chaos and confusion, particularly in the paperwork that scrupulously records my intake. I couldn't afford to have her arrive first and buy me something out of sequence.

  I was studying a leaflet about their East African coffee, and how for every one-pound bag of it they were contributing to a global fund for the treatment of those living with Aids on that continent, and thinking how little I cared about that fact, when her now familiar voice said. 'This must be you?'

  It was indeed me, and it was indeed her.

  And she was the MOST BEAUTIFUL CREATURE ON GOD'S EARTH.

  Beaming down at me.

  She had luxuriously long black hair, a sprinkle of freckles on her pure white cheeks beneath deep-pool green eyes and above a smile dazzling enough to make Mormons jump off cliffs. She was gloriously free of make-up and wore a top that revealed nothing but suggested everything.

  I just nodded, stunned, and she put her hand out and said, 'Hi, it's me, Pearl. Pearl, hi.'

  Although I am normally loath to shake anyone's hand, I made an exception. She was not the sort of woman that bugs would exist on. They would give her a pass; they would say not much point in hanging around here, she's out of our league.

  I said, eventually, 'Let me get you a coffee. What do you fancy ... ?'

  She glanced up at the menu before saying: 'I'll have what you're having.' I ordered. As I waited at the delivery desk, Pearl picked up
the books I'd left on the table, and studied their covers, and then flipped them over to read the back. She smiled up at me again. 'Fantastic, fantastic, I can't wait to get into them.'

  I smiled back.

  I felt glad to have landed on this planet. I returned to the table.

  I said, 'Pearl's a lovely name; you don't hear it much these days.'

  'Mum always loved it.'

  'Mother of Pearl.'

  'Usually I get Pearl's a singer.'

  'The only other Pearl I know is . . .' And I tapped the Robert B. Parker book. 'Spenser's dog in this .. .'

  'Are you comparing me to a dog?'

  I laughed. I reddened. I was thinking, if you're a dog, you're the most beautiful dog I've ever seen. She burst into laughter.

  'I'll take that as a compliment,' she said.

  'Did I say that out loud?'

  Under the table, her foot touched mine.

  It was just an accident.

  We were on our second coffee. I was still on menu. She had listened, fascinated, to my views on the

  current state of crime fiction, and to assessments of the career of Leonard and the television work of Pelecanos, and to my explanation - but not justification, definitely not justification - for the Greene. The master himself might have dismissed Our Man as merely an entertainment, but sometimes authors can be too close to their works. In my humble opinion, it is a much better novel than any of his 'worthies'. I was on top form; she could have listened to me all day, I'm sure, but I was there for a reason. She handed over twenty pounds for the books. I waited while she rifled her handbag for the additional fifteen pence. Once that business was satisfactorily completed, I moved on to the equally pressing reason for my having lured her into my home from home in the first place.

  I said, 'I can't believe you've been in the shop before. I'm sure I would have remembered you.'

  'Most times there's an older woman working there? To tell you the truth, she was a bit scary. I never stayed long.'

  'That would be Mother. She's no longer with us.'

  'You mean she's . . . passed on?'

  'Not yet. As the Stranglers used to sing, she's "Hanging Around". She's in a home for the very, very annoying. Actually, though, we do have someone in common.'

  'Really? Who?'

  'Name of Augustine W—'

  'Wogan! Oh God, how do you know . . . ?' She tutted. 'Of course! How silly of me. He's a crime writer. Though I've never read one of his books, and now I'm quite sure I never want to. What a pain in the neck!'

  'He is, isn't he? And he's currently eating me out of house and home.'

  'He's not! Oh, how awful! How did that happen?'

  'Well he came into the shop all ranting and raving, and I kind of felt sorry for him. I'm sure you've gathered how passionate I am about crime fiction, and he is a bit of a legend, so I thought I'd do the old guy a favour seeing as how he was so distressed and had nowhere else to put his head down. Tell you the truth, I wish I'd never bothered.'

  'Oh, I don't envy you. I mean, yes, poor man, but honestly, the trouble he's caused! He's been scaring our customers away and I've had to phone every pizza company in Belfast and tell them to stop delivering to us because we haven't ordered any. He's a menace.'

  'He's convinced his wife

  'I know! But what does he think we've done with her, buried her under the patio? Honestly! She's a perfectly nice woman, she had her procedures, everything went like clockwork and she looked wonderful. Tell you the God's truth, after being pampered for a few weeks, the prospect of returning to him would put me on the first plane to South America as well!'

  'You think that's where she is?'

  'I've no idea. Though I have to say, there's a lot of sitting around recovering in what we do, and I couldn't help but notice that Arabella - lovely name, don't you think? - was reading a teach-yourself-Portuguese book. Now, what do you think, is that a clue? Brazil, maybe?'

  'Or Angola. Or Cape Verde. Or Guinea-Bissau. Or Mozambique. Or Macau. Or East Timor.'

  She blinked at me for a little bit, and then said, 'Or Portugal.'

  And I said, 'Oh shit,' without really meaning to, because I happened to have glanced up, and there at the counter, just taking delivery of two frappuccinos, one of them undoubtedly for me, was Alison; and in that instant she looked round, and spotted me, and was halfway towards a smile when she realised I wasn't alone. The staggering beauty of the woman I was with seemed to strike her like a metaphorical brick to the face. The humour drained out of her and she just looked shocked and mortified in the same breath, neither of which stopped her from crossing the couple of metres to our table. My mouth dropped open as she glared at me, and I vaguely pointed at Pearl and mumbled something like, 'Alison ... I wasn't . . . this isn't. . . this is Pearl. . .', and it must have made some sort of sense, because she responded instantly with, 'I don't give a flying fuck, you two-faced fuck face.' And then she flung her coffee at me, and I would have been burned, but Starbucks put their tops on really well, so it just hit me in the face, which was like being punched, especially with my brittle bones, and even though it wasn't really sore I let out a little yelp, a learned reaction to the slings and arrows of everyday life, and then Alison was away, storming out the way only an enraged, hormonal and heavily pregnant woman can, even though she was only three months gone.

  Pearl said, 'Ooops.'

  And I said, 'She works with me.'

  'Don't worry,' she said. 'I know who she is. You're thinking about having surgery to make her find you more attractive.' She reached across the table and put a hand on my arm. 'She'll understand once you explain. But listen to me. I've taken a good long look at you. And no amount of surgery could make you look any more attractive.' It sat in the air for what seemed like an eternity, during which my heart sank to the pits of hell. Wasn't she saying that I was the ugliest man on the planet? But then she squeezed my arm, and her touch was so soft. 'I think you're just lovely as you are.' Our eyes met for a perfect moment, and then she moved her hand away. 'It's probably time I got back to work.' She .stood and gathered up her books and I wanted to say, stay, just a little bit longer, but before I could she had opened her purse and taken out a business card and set it down and said, 'Why don't you give me a wee call sometime? My mobile's on there too,' and she smiled that smile and walked away.

  I watched her go.

  Everything had happened so quickly.

  When she had slipped from sight, leaving only her scent and the outline of her bottom on the armchair opposite, I picked up the card she had so recently caressed and read what it said:

  THE YESCHENKOV CLINIC

  Pearl Knecklass

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Alison was a jealous, moody cow and I was quite prepared not to speak to her for the rest of her life. We could communicate through our respective solicitors. I wouldn't demand visitation rights with the child even if she produced proof it was mine. Children are overrated. If I wanted to see it, I could stand in her shrubbery at night and watch through the window the way I usually did.

  Then I saw her opposite No Alibis, waiting to cross the traffic.

  So, another showdown.

  She didn't scare me. But mostly to protect my property, I put my hand on the mallet beneath the counter. It used to be a meat cleaver, but that was too dangerous. You could cut someone's head off with a cleaver. With a mallet you would just flatten anything that stuck out, like a nose. I didn't necessarily want to flatten

  Alison's nose, but I was prepared to, and just about had the strength, thanks to the steroids I'd been taking for the past ten years. You wouldn't necessarily notice my muscle definition but you could tell by the size of my penis, which had shrunk further. Alison said that size wasn't everything, and I was in a fortunate position to agree with her, particularly when applied to bookshops.

  She opened the door and gave me a bright smile and said, 'So how did it go?'

  'How did what go?'

  'Your meet
ing.'

  'I believe you were there. I believe you threw coffee at me and called me a two-faced fuck face.'

  'Ah, I was only putting on an act. You're so easy. Jeff told me where you were and I came across to offer moral support and to take a gander at her, working for a plastic surgeon and all. She's a bit of a beauty, isn't she? Well out of your league.'

  It was a double bluff, because I can read people, years of training, and I'd seen the fear on her face and the terror in her eyes at the thought of losing me, and you don't hurl a steaming cup of coffee at someone and hit them in the face with it as an act. You could scald someone.

  And she said, 'I couldn't have scalded you with an iced coffee, halfwit.'

  And I said, 'Did I say all of that out loud?'

  She ran her finger along the counter top, checking for dust, which was just ridiculous. 'She was gorgeous, though, wasn't she? So skinny she only needs one eye. And isn't a girl allowed to be a teensy-weensy bit jealous? After all, you're my man.' I snorted, although, actually, I liked the sound of that. 'So, did you think she was fantastically sexy and lovely?'

  'She was all right. It was work.'

  'Did she not look a bit pinched?'

  'Not that I noticed.'

  'Like her skin was tied up behind her neck and all you'd have to do is snip the knot and her whole face would fall into her chest, which, incidentally, appeared to be pointing upwards. A sixteen-year-old would be lucky to pull that one off.'

  'I wasn't aware of her pulling anything off.'

  'Yeah, you wish.'

  I said, 'Is there a point to this conversation, or did you come over to apologise for your appalling behaviour?'

  'Apologise for what?'

  'Throwing . . . and calling .. . and embarrassing me in front of an informant.'

  'That was nothing; you should see me when I'm angry.'

  'You're really selling yourself. You're going to end up an old maid.'

  'How can I be an old maid when I'm carrying your child?'

  'So you say.'

  We both sighed.

 

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