Human blood:
• 44 per cent haematocrit
• 55 per cent plasma
• And a one hundred per cent mess when it spurts uncontrollably around the room from a punctured artery.
The doctor, as he liked to call himself, even though he’d never completed a PhD, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. This only smeared the spatters of blood, which must have looked pretty revolting. But at least the stuff wasn’t dripping into his eye any more, like last year when for six weeks after treating the prostitute, he’d been terrified that he’d contracted HIV, hepatitis C or some other horrific disease.
He hated it when things didn’t go according to plan. When there was the wrong dose of anaesthetic. Or the chosen ones offered resistance at the last moment and ripped the cannula from their arm.
‘Please don’t… no,’ his client slurred. The doctor preferred this term. Chosen one was too pretentious, while patient sounded wrong to him, because only very few of the people he treated were properly ill. Like most of them, the man lying there now was as fit as a fiddle, even though at this moment he looked as if he’d been wired up to the mains. The black athlete rolled his eyes, frothed at the mouth and arched his back as he struggled in desperation to escape the shackles pinning him to the surgical bed. He was a well-toned sportsman and, at twenty-four years old, at the height of his physical prowess. But what use were all those years of hard training when an anaesthetic was coursing through his veins? Not enough to knock him out completely, for the cannula had been wrenched off, but enough at any rate that the doctor was easily able to push him back down onto the bed once the worst of the fit had passed. And since he’d managed to apply a tourniquet, the blood had stopped spraying out.
‘Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh.’
He placed his hand on the man’s forehead to comfort him. It felt feverish and the sweat glistened under the halogen lamp.
‘What on earth is wrong with you?’
The client opened his mouth. Fear sprung from his pupils like a jackknife. It was hard to make out what he was saying. ‘I… don’t… want… to… d…’
‘But we agreed,’ the doctor said with a reassuring smile. ‘Everything has been arranged. Don’t go backing out now, just before the perfect death.’
He looked to the side, peering through the open door at the instrument table in the neighbouring room. He saw the scalpels as well as the electric bone cutter, plugged in and ready for use.
‘Didn’t I explain it to you clearly enough?’ He sighed. Of course he had. For hours on end. Again and again, but this ungrateful fool simply hadn’t grasped it.
‘Of course it’s going to get rather unpleasant. But I can only let you die in this way. It won’t work otherwise.’
The athlete whimpered and yanked at the straps around his wrists, albeit with far less force than before.
The doctor noted with satisfaction that the anaesthetic was now having its desired effect. Not long now and the treatment could begin.
‘You see, I could break it off here,’ he said, one hand still on the sportsman’s forehead, the other adjusting his face mask. ‘But what would your life be after that? Nothing but fear and pain. Indescribable pain.’
The black man blinked. His breathing became calmer.
‘I showed you the photos. And the video. The one with the corkscrew and the half eye. Surely you don’t want anything like that, do you?’
‘Hmhmhmhmhmmm,’ the client groaned, as if his mouth were gagged. Then his facial muscles slackened and his breathing grew shallower.
‘I’ll take that as a “No”,’ the doctor said, unlocking the brake of the bed with his foot, to roll his client into the neighbouring room.
Into the operating theatre.
*
Forty-five minutes later the first and most important part of the treatment was finished. The doctor wasn’t wearing latex gloves any more or a face mask, and he’d thrown the green disposable apron, which had to be tied behind the back like a straitjacket, into the rubbish chute. But now, in his dinner jacket and dark patent leather shoes, he felt far more dressed up than in his operating outfit.
Dressed up and tipsy.
He couldn’t remember when he’d started allowing himself a snifter after every successful treatment. Or ten, as now. Christ, he had to stop, even though he never touched a drop beforehand, only after. Still. The hooch made him reckless.
Gave him silly thoughts.
Such as taking the leg with him.
Giggling, he looked at his watch.
It was 20.33; he had to hurry if he was going to make the main course in time. He’d already missed the starter. But before he could devote himself to the guinea fowl that was on today’s menu, he had to get rid of the organic waste – the blood he didn’t need and the right lower leg, which he’d sawn off directly below the knee with a splendidly clean cut.
He’d wrapped the leg in a compostable plastic bag, which was so heavy he had to carry it with both hands as he made his way across the stairwell.
The doctor felt woozy, but he was still sufficiently in control to realise that, had he been sober, he’d never have entertained the idea of carrying around body parts in public rather than just tossing them into the incinerator. But he’d been so infuriated by his client that this bit of fun was worth the risk. And it was a low risk. Very low.
A gale warning had been issued. Once he’d negotiated the intricate route – the narrow shaft you had to crouch in, the corridor with the yellow ventilation pipes that led to the goods lift – he wouldn’t come across a soul.
And the place he’d chosen to dispose of the leg wouldn’t be caught on any camera either.
I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid.
Having reached the final section, the level at the top of the steps which were only ever used by maintenance, and once a month at most, he pulled open a heavy door with a porthole window.
A strong wind whipped into his face and it felt as if he were having to push against a wall to get outside.
The fresh air made his blood pressure drop. He felt sick at first, but soon recovered, and the salty tang of the wind began to revive him.
Now it was no longer the alcohol making him sway, but the powerful sea swell, which thanks to the stabilisers hadn’t been so palpable inside the Sultan of the Seas.
With his legs apart he staggered across the planks. He was on deck 8½, an intermediate level that only existed for aesthetic reasons. Viewed from a distance it made the rear of the cruise ship appear more streamlined, like a spoiler on a sports car.
Arriving at the furthest tip of the stern on the port side, the doctor leaned over the railings. Beneath him raged the Indian Ocean. The headlights pointing backwards illuminated the white foamy peaks formed in the wake of the liner.
He’d actually wanted to say some last words, something like ‘Hasta la vista, baby’ or ‘Ready when you are’, but nothing amusing came to mind so he silently threw the bag with the leg overboard in a high arc.
I somehow imagined that was going to feel more exhilarating, he thought, slowly regaining his sobriety.
The wind tore so loudly at his ears that he couldn’t hear the leg slapping against the waves fifty metres below him. But he did hear the voice that came from behind.
‘What are you doing?’
He spun around.
The person who’d given him the fright of his life wasn’t an adult employee, thank God – someone from security, for example – but a young girl, no older than the little one whose family he’d treated a couple of years ago on the west coast of Africa. She was sitting cross-legged beside the box of an air conditioning system, or some other kind of unit. The doctor was less of an expert in technology than he was in knives.
As the girl was so small and the surroundings so dark he’d failed to notice her. Even now, staring into the darkness, he could only make out her silhouette.
‘I’m feeding the fish,’ he said, pleased that he sounded considerably calmer than he felt. Although the girl wasn’t a physical threat, he could do without her as a witness.
‘Are you feeling unwell?’ she asked. She was wearing a light-coloured dress with dark tights and an anorak on top. For safety she’d put on the red life jacket that was in the cupboard in every cabin.
Good girl.
‘No,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I’m fine. What’s your name?’
His eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom.
The girl had shoulder-length hair and ears that stuck out slightly, although this didn’t mar her appearance. On the contrary. He bet that if you saw her in the light, you’d be able to appreciate the striking woman she would be one day.
‘I’m called Anouk Lamar.’
‘Anouk? That’s the French diminutive of Anna, isn’t it?’
The girl smiled. ‘Wow, you knew that?’
‘I know a lot of things.’
‘Really? So do you know why I’m sitting here?’ she said boldly.
Because she had to speak loudly against the wind her voice rose to a high pitch.
‘You’re drawing the sea,’ the doctor said.
She hugged the pad of paper to her chest and grinned. ‘That was easy. What else do you know?’
‘That you’ve no business being here and ought to have been in bed long ago. Where are your parents?’
She sighed. ‘My father’s dead. And I don’t know where my mum is. She often leaves me alone at night in the cabin.’
‘And you find that boring?’
She nodded. ‘She never gets back till late and then she stinks.’ Her voice went quiet. ‘Of smoke. And drink. And she snores.’
The doctor couldn’t help laughing. ‘Grown-ups do that sometimes.’
You ought to hear me. He pointed to her pad. ‘Have you been able to draw anything at all today?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There were beautiful stars out yesterday, but it’s all dark tonight.’
‘And cold,’ the doctor said in agreement. ‘How about we take a look for your mummy?’
Anouk shrugged. She didn’t appear particularly enamoured of the idea, but said, ‘Okay, why not?’
She managed to stand from the cross-legged position without using her hands. ‘Sometimes she’s in the casino,’ she said.
‘Oh, that’s handy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I know a short cut there,’ the doctor said, smiling.
He cast a final glance over the railings at the sea, which at this point was so deep that the athlete’s leg probably hadn’t yet reached the ocean floor, then he took the girl’s hand and led her back to the staircase he’d just come from.