The Surgeon by Karl Hill

Author:Karl Hill [Hill, Karl]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books

* * *

He got his travelling bag, his mobile phone, and went into the house.

Monday afternoon and evening passed without incident. He had no supplies, but there was some tinned food in a cupboard, and coffee. He had switched his mobile phone off.

Tuesday morning. He got up late. The sun was hidden behind a blanket of clouds the colour of old bruising. Looked like rain was coming. His bag was running worryingly low. He reckoned he might get another half dozen hits, if he were careful.

He drove into Aviemore on Tuesday afternoon, three miles distant, bought some milk and some processed food he could stick in the microwave. He bought a packet of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. He hadn’t smoked for twenty years, but thought, randomly, he would resurrect the habit. He bought some wine. He browsed the shops, bought a coffee, sat at an outdoor table. Aviemore had always bored him. Shops selling either outdoor gear, or overpriced tourist tat, possessing as much charm as a cheap fun park.

The rain stayed away.

He got back to the house, late afternoon. His nerves jangled. As ever, his mind was in overdrive. He wondered, not without a degree of dread, what mysteries his mobile phone held. Who was wanting what. He guessed Billy Watson was top of the list. Certainly his firm. Perhaps Mrs Shawbridge had stirred things up. If so, the partners would want a little tête-à-tête, for sure. And if things had escalated, perhaps the police were now interested.

But he chose to ignore it. Instead, he took another line. The evening wore on. He went for a walk at 8pm, around the loch, a distance of about four miles. Darkness was falling, but he knew the way. When he was much younger, he cycled the path. He and his mother. She was fit then, well, before the cancer. He felt a swell of profound sadness. If he could turn the clock back…

He got back to the house. He watched some mindless crap on TV. He went to bed at midnight.

On Wednesday, he got up at 8am in a deep state of depression. He took another line of cocaine. His heart and mind buzzed. He was awake once again. He still didn’t turn his mobile on. He wanted to toss the damn thing in the loch. He chose not to. Like most people in the civilised world, the phone was like an appendage to the human body. Losing a phone was like losing a limb.

The sun was out again, but in brief slants, finding the spaces between the clouds.

2pm. Just as Stark was finishing his lunch appointment with Edward Stoddart one hundred and eighty miles away, there came a knock on Bronson’s front door.

Bronson was sitting in the lounge. The view was directly of the loch. He had the television on, and therefore would not have heard a car approach and park at the side of the building. He did however hear the knock. He jumped at the sound. He remained still.

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