Dragged into Darkness (16 page)

Troy struggled but held Mary off.  “I did exactly as we discussed.  She wanted rid of the callus and I helped her.  She has such beautiful hands now.”

The Asian girl launched herself at Troy.  He was thrown back against the wall by the weight of both women.  Flailing arms slashed at his body but lacked the power to do him any harm.  He knocked them aside and fled, snatching his bag on the way out.

Troy blew through the store and onto the street, chased by his attackers.  He flung himself into his Porsche and raced off, leaving squealing tires and screaming women behind him.

He jumped two red lights and went the wrong way up a one-way street before he had control of himself.  He was just as shaken up as Mary.

But he didn’t understand her reaction.  He tried.  He really did.  Nothing like this had happened with Carole, Todd or any of his other patients.  He’d done exactly as Mary wanted.  He’d eradicated the callus.  He was appalled by it as much as she was.  It was unsightly.  Removing the callus itself would have left a nasty scar, something that would have drawn as much attention as the callus itself.  His way had made a clean break, drawn a line under the ugliness.  Her hand had a fresh start, a new lease on life.  She would come to understand in time.  Maybe language had been the problem.

Troy had intended cruising bars and clubs for others he could help, but after Mary, he couldn’t face it.  The episode had been too traumatic.  He called it a night.

Pulling into his neighborhood, he saw her.  The poodle-woman was coming out of her front door with the dog on a leash.  Troy skidded to a halt and leapt out.

“Excuse me,” he called.

The poodle-woman tensed.

“My name’s Dr. Gareth Troy.” 
He half-walked, half-trotted across the lawn.

“Oh, yes?”  She wasn’t moving.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I couldn’t help noticing your birthmark.”

The poodle-woman whipped a hand to her face to cover the unsightly blemish.

Troy raised a hand to calm her.  “I understand it’s a painful subject.  I saw you a few weeks back and I wanted to talk then.  I just wanted to say I can help you.”

“How?”

She was curious, he thought.  He had her attention.  She would be open to him now.

“I specialize in people with…I don’t like the word but I want to be plain about things…okay?”

She nodded.

“Deformities.”

The word stung.  The poodle-woman’s mouth tightened, offended by the classification.

“It’s an offensive word, isn’t it?  But it is an honest word.  Deformities sum up the whole thing.  It describes something ugly and upsetting.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Sorry.  I get carried away sometimes.  What I’m trying say in my clumsy way, is that I can help.  What you are ashamed of, what has caused you pain and embarrassment, I can remove.”

“If you mean laser surgery, I’ve spoken to specialists…”

Troy shook his head.  “No laser surgery.  I don’t believe in it.  It hasn’t been perfected.  It always leaves behind a residue of what once was.”

“Then what?”

Her tone was one of interest.  She was aroused by what he could do for her.  His night wouldn’t be a total shambles.

“This.”  Troy delved in his bag and his hand found what he was looking for.  His case fell to the ground.  A scalpel was in his grasp.

The poodle-woman edged back and crashed into the door.

“I believe in removal over cosmetic cover-ups.  Amputation is the only option.”  Troy eyed his scalpel like truth had substance.

Then, he descended.

Troy snatched the poodle-woman’s throat.  He pinned her against the door.  Her hands grappled with his arm.  Her feeble attempts were nothing more than a minor irritation.  His surgeon’s eye had mapped out the incision and positioned the scalpel for the first cut.  She writhed under his grasp.

“Keep still and it won’t take a second.  I’ll make you beautiful.”

The poodle was a pest, barking and lunging at him.  Troy kicked the dog aside every time it got in the way of his duty. 

The scalpel pricked the port wine flesh.  The poodle-woman wailed.  Her shriek silenced the mutt and it dropped to the ground.

She went limp against the door, a whimper her only reaction.  Troy smiled.  He thought his work would be child’s play.  But as he pressed the scalpel deeper, her arm jerked out in reflex.  Her fist connected with his nose. 

He staggered back, doubling over.  Waves of numbness spread across his face and nausea followed in its wake.  His hand shot to his face.  His nose felt hot and large.  Snot and blood moistened his fingers.

Seizing her chance, the poodle-woman flew through her front door and slammed it.   Troy couldn’t let her go.  He tried the door, but it was locked.  He charged and kicked the door.  It stood up to the punishment, but not for long.  It flew back, slamming into the wall with twice the force. 

The poodle-woman had the phone in her hand and her dog at her feet.  “I’m calling 911, you freak.”

“I tried to help you.”  Troy stood over the woman, his hands fists, the scalpel crushed in his right.  “I was doing what was best for you.  Don’t you understand that?”

The poodle woman held the phone out like a weapon.  Her fingers clutched it so tightly her knuckles were translucent against her pale skin.  The 911 operator babbled.  “We have your location.  Units have been dispatched.  Find a room and lock yourself in.”

“They’re coming,” she warned.

Troy fixated on the birthmark.  Although the woman’s complexion was fish belly white, the birthmark was richer, darker.  “Won’t you let me help you?” he pleaded.

“No,” the poodle-woman spluttered between chattering teeth.

Troy sighed.  He’d done all that he could, so he turned from her.  Snatching up his bag on the way out, he raced back to his Porsche, ignoring the frightened faces peering from behind drapes.  Firing up the car, he charged into the night.

Pulling into his garage, Troy was consumed with defeat.  The night had been a failure.  He couldn’t understand people’s revulsion towards his treatment.  But he was damned if he would give up.  He took solace from a triple scotch.

Putting his feet up on the glass coffee table in his study, he sank into a leather recliner, letting the cool leather caress him with tender affection.  He lay back, holding his scotch to his forehead.  He had to change his approach.  The world wasn’t ready for radical treatment.  Not many were.  And that was where he was going wrong.  He’d treated people on the fringes, but he was dealing with the masses now.  He gulped down the last of his double malt and leaned forward to place the tumbler on the table. 

Nausea rocked him as he stared into the table’s smoked glass.  He raced for the bathroom, flicking on the light.  He stared at his reflection.  His nose was history.  It was pushed back and smeared to the left.  Dried blood caked his nostrils.  He touched the monstrosity, feeling a dull ache, not from his face but from his heart.

Dr. Gareth Troy was no more, he knew.  He would never be the handsome doctor his patients spoke of in overwhelming reverence.  The men would no longer want to be him and the women wouldn’t desire him.  He, like them, was flawed.

It didn’t matter how perfect he kept his physique or how his thick glossy hair never receded.  His nose would always be crooked.  All the king’s plastic surgeons couldn’t put poor Humpty Troy’s nose back together again.  Even if no one else could tell, he would see the flaws.  His nose would never be perfectly straight again.  The bones would have to calcify to join together.  The scars would never be totally invisible.  He would never be happy.

The doorbell rang, followed by impatient thumps on the woodwork.  “Dr. Troy, Beverly Hills Police.  Open up, sir.”

He could only be complete by being incomplete.  Like the good doctor he was, he knew what was best for his patient.  Finding the scissors in a drawer, he slipped the open blades over his nose. 

“Dr. Troy, open the door, now!”

Dr. Gareth Troy smiled as he snapped the scissor blades shut.

The landing craft bobbed clumsily on the waves.  The damned things were so unstable when they didn’t have a full accompaniment of men to act as ballast.  Captain James
Clelland’s
six-man team was no substitute.  The ride back would be better.  The boat would be full.

They were half a mile out and
Clelland
could see the carnage on the beach.  He didn’t want to look at it or think about it.   There would be plenty of time for that when they arrived.  There would be sights and sounds that would eat through his soul for a lifetime.  He leaned on the side of the boat and stared into the sky, ignoring the flotilla of boats approaching the beach in a fan formation.

Puffy white clouds passed gracefully across the sky.  He was astounded by how similar the clouds were to those back in England.  Somehow he expected them to be different, at least exotic.  Clouds from the North Pacific should have been different.  He didn’t know how or why, but they should have been.  Floating on the wrong side of the sky maybe, he thought.  He could have watched the clouds all day but the stink was invading his nose.  The beach was close.

“Right, kit-up everyone,”
Clelland
ordered.

“Make way for the Lord Mayor’s Bucket Boys,” Sergeant Williams announced in a pompous, officious voice.

Clelland
hated the term that had attached itself to his men like a limpet mine.  It had started in the mess hall after their second or third mission.  The problem was the phrase was too apt.  The real Lord Mayor’s Bucket Boys picked up horseshit after the annual procession.  His Bucket Boys picked up something different after the battles were waged.  The stench of what they handled was no less disgusting, and most couldn’t stomach the work. Turnover was high.  His men always had a choice, of sorts.  He didn’t.  He was Oracle’s right-hand man.  He was the only man perfect for the job. 

Clelland
tied a handkerchief around his head, over his nose and mouth.  Others did likewise.  The Lord Mayor’s latest Bucket Boy pulled on a gas mask.  After a couple of trips, the mask wouldn’t be necessary.  The stench would offend, but not disgust.  A handkerchief, scented maybe, was all that was needed for a Bucket Boy.

Clelland
tapped the private with the gas mask on the shoulder.  “Take off the mask,” he told him.

Confused eyes stared back from behind the mask.

“Take off the mask, soldier.  That’s an order.”

The private did as he was told. 
“Sir, the stink?”

“Harris, it’s in your best interests to keep the mask off.  You’ll throw up.”

“But if I have the mask…”

Clelland
raised a hand to silence the lad.  Hysteria was creeping into the private’s voice.  “You’ll vomit.  If the stench doesn’t do it, the sight will.  So, it’s better to vomit with the mask off than on.  Then you won’t have to breathe in the stench of your own spew.  So, keep the mask off.”