Naked. This was how he presented himself, to those in the next room. His special room. And the excitement. Usually a force, hard as iron. Rock hard. But tonight, the excitement was muted. He opened the door. There were no windows. Here, the darkness was complete, like being blind.
He followed the ritual. He switched the light on. Suddenly the blindness was lifted, and there they were, in full view, visions of wonder. Before him, on one wall, framed in glittering silver, photographs, in neat rows and columns. Faces. Staring out. Staring at him. Exactly as it should be. He was their creator. He was their God. He had the power of death, and in death, he brought something new. A changing. A metamorphosis, from the grub to the butterfly. But each butterfly had proved short of the measure.
On another wall, a single portrait of a woman. Not a photograph. A painting. Completed with skill and attention. Unsmiling. Rather, a solemn, almost stern look. Face white as bone, eyes dark as obsidian, making for a startling contrast. Hair a cascade of silver-grey. Cheeks high and harsh, a wide mouth, lips two pink lines, set. Her nose perfectly centred. Her brow unblemished. A face caught in a frozen moment in time. Often he pondered her expression, and often he arrived at the same conclusion –
Accusatory.
In his hand, a framed photograph of his latest attempt. He hung it beside the others, stepped back. At the time, he thought his modifications were as close as they had ever been. Now, on comparison, he saw how the face he had endeavoured to create was a poor imitation.
He saw how he had failed. A tweak around the eyes, a scrape of bone on the chin, a reduction of the cheeks. Next time, perhaps, he would do better.
If there was a next time. The fear returned. It had never really gone away. Someone had seen him. Someone had taken a photo of him with their phone, as he was leaving the house. He had witnessed this with his own eyes. Careless. Shameful. And yet the police had not presented the photo at the press meeting, nor did the photofit bear any resemblance. It made no sense. This scared him the most. Not understanding.
A storm is brewing.
The excitement dissipated to nothing. In its place, a great yawning terror. He turned the light out, left the room, stood in his hallway, swaying on his feet. His hands trembled. His lungs burned, his breathing felt tight, constricted. He collapsed to his knees. His chest spasmed. He began to cry. Great racking sobs. He beat the floorboards with his fists. Hard and furious, a constant motion, like firing pistons, up and down, until the skin burst and the knuckles bled. But the pain was nothing, swallowed up by his fear and self-loathing. Careless. Shameful.
Time passed. His tears subsided. He got to his feet, gathered himself, regulated his breathing, padded through to his bedroom. His clothes lay spread on the bed, in an orderly fashion. It was then he became aware of the blood. And the pain. He raised his hands. His right hand was bruised and cut, but functioning. His left hand was puffed and bloody, and he realised, as he tried to move his fingers, it was broken.
One hour later.
The pain was too much to endure. He drove, with a little difficulty, to the nearest hospital, to Accident and Emergency at Hairmyres Hospital. A ten-mile drive from his house deep in the Eaglesham Moors. It was 9pm. The place was busy. The waiting room was full. He gave his details to the receptionist – name, address, date of birth. She asked him briefly the gist of the problem. He raised his hand. It was swollen to double the size, like a pink club. She raised an eyebrow. “Looks nasty,” she said. “We’ll try and get you seen quickly.”
He found a seat. The room, despite being busy, was virtually silent. The faint smell of booze tinged the air. People pissed, fallen or slipped or in a fight, now waiting in a hospital. This was a place where no one wanted to be. Conversation was muted and sullen. He ensured he didn’t meet anyone’s inquisitive gaze. He kept his hand under his jacket. Already his mind was churning, planning. Thoughts tumbled in his head.
His latest project – Evelyn Stephens – was, he had thought, perfect. Now, on hindsight, he had been way off the mark. Six months wasted. But wasn’t it always so? He thought, with a sudden tingle of dread, he might never find the right person. That no matter how many times he employed his skills, he might never produce an acceptable result.
He thrust such thoughts from his mind. He had disappointed. He had to show he was capable. That he was not incompetent. The next one would be much quicker. He would recreate an image so perfect, he would be showered with praise.
An hour passed. His hand was numb. His name was called. Quicker than he had expected. Other patients watched him askance, vexed that he’d got the green light before them.
He made his way through double doors, to a passage, then another set, into a second reception area, open plan, beyond which, a long corridor with cubicles on either side, each cubicle curtained off. A young nurse met him, directed him to the reception desk. His name was taken again. The nurse escorted him to cubicle ‘6’. She whisked open the blue plastic curtain. There – a bed, with a machine on one side, and a chair.
The nurse beckoned him to the bed.
“The doctor will be with you soon. Can you take your jacket off?”
“Of course.”
The process was awkward. The nurse helped him. She tugged the sleeve gently over his hand.
“That looks a sore one,” she commented. “What happened?”
“Slipped. I was… careless.”
Her lips twitched into a small smile.
“Accidents happen. No reason to blame yourself.” Ah, but I do.
The nurse left. She kept the curtains open. He got up, and pulled them shut.
Ten minutes later.
The curtain swept open.
She entered.
He saw her, and his heart soared. Suddenly, the past was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. His existence was diluted down to this one moment, and nothing else in the world mattered.
Her hair, her face, her neck. Her posture. Everything was exactly as it should be. And her smile. She smiled when she saw him, and her smile was perfect. Her gaze immediately focused on his hand.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s a beauty.”
You’re a beauty.
He raised his swollen hand, smiled back, apologetically. He felt tongue-tied. The excitement he thought he had lost returned, threefold. He could barely think. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his breath short.
She came closer, touched his hand with a tenderness no one had ever shown him. Her body was only inches from his. The scent of her perfume suffused the air, intoxicating. She studied his hand, and he studied her.
Maybe just the tiniest of changes, he thought. Maybe a tweak round the corners of her eyes. Maybe a tiny fraction off her nose.
“Can you move your fingers?” she asked.
He found his voice. More of a low whisper.
“No… it’s too painful.”
She stepped back, still smiling, and met his eyes. His excitement heightened.
“What happened?”
“Slipped,” he said. “In the garden. On some slabs. Silly me.”
“Are you right or left-handed?”
“Right-handed.”
“Just as well. I have a strong suspicion your left hand is going to be out of action for a while.”
He said nothing. Yes – a sliver of bone off her nose, and perhaps a shade off her cheeks. But not much. A skim, no more. His thoughts drifted to the type of blade he might use.
“You okay?” she asked.
He blinked. “Sorry. I never heard you.”
Her smile never left. “I asked you what you did for a living. Your occupation?”
“I’m… between jobs. So to speak.”
“Sure. I’m going to get you a wheelchair, and someone’s going to take you to get that hand X-rayed. Then we’ll see what we do next. Good?”
He nodded. “All good. I’d like to say, Dr…?”
“Doctor Sinclair.”
“I’d like to say, Doctor Sinclair, you’ve been very kind.”
“Don’t mention it. Let’s concentrate on getting you fixed up.”
She left the cubicle.
Sinclair.
He had a name. A name was all he needed.