Staring At The Light (20 page)

The streets were wonderfully quiet on Sundays. Cars passing
en route
to somewhere else, stopping dutifully at lights with none of the weekday impatience; empty parking bays, allowing him to
see the buildings and delight in them. Turning a corner into Marylebone High Street, the wind caught his face and the bruise
stung. He felt an enormous affection for his own environment and, thinking of Cannon, a surge of excitement. Ahead of him,
two Arab men walked arm in arm.

He had always wanted a brother, had created, as a child, an imaginary companion to offset his own single-child status. When
that companion died of natural causes, although William had created an elaborate accident on a mountainside to explain his
absence, he had mourned him. Cannon had an estranged brother; that much William knew. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility
that this man with the similar teeth and oh-so-similar eyes was
that
brother. Maybe, he, William, could engineer a reunion? Rubbish, but he liked the idea, and it would be a fitting addendum
to his paper on the teeth of twins; a double whammy; the coup of a lifetime. A service to humanity, better than merely professional,
and it would make his paper remembered.
As well as make him proud. He was wistful at the mere thought.

He could go back to the exhibition and find out who had bought the Mouth. Or wait. Or tell himself, as he turned back for
home, suddenly reluctant to reach it, that it was sheer imagination that had led him to yesterday’s assumption that the man
who had hit him was Cannon’s twin. William stopped, and stared at a massive front door of mahogany, polished to such a shine
that he could see in it a blurred reflection of himself. Vainly he struggled to recall the features of the man who had hit
him, but the face itself blurred into a strange photofit. All he could remember was the teeth. He reached his own front door,
looked at it as if it had nothing to do with him, realizing at the same time how he had forgotten that part of the reason
for the walk had been to buy milk and eggs. His cold, soft, well-tended hands were uncomfortably free. There were some things
that were bound to be forgotten: toilet rolls, letters, the most tedious of necessities.

What was
wrong
with phoning Sarah? Why did he so often cut off his nose to spite his face? Because of the other men, who left him free of
any obligation for her? He didn’t care about that, most of the time. He hated admitting need, that was all; told himself,
as he noticed how the door seemed oddly askew, that he was becoming old and strange.

The keypad worked, the big front door opening with surprising speed when it was usually slow, buzzing at him like an angry
bee. He did not think of it at the time as he mounted the stairs to his third floor. He thought,
That foyer might once have been a ballroom before they put in a lift. I wonder who danced there? And the same feeling of mild
euphoria made him add, Bugger the eggs and milk, bugger everybody. I’ll have beans and toast for supper and a bottle of wine.

It was deserted at the weekend. Five specialist dental suites and a penthouse suite above his own. Quiet as the proverbial
grave. Thick carpets, which Isabella had chosen and the communal expense of which he heartily resented, muffling his steps
to his own front door. Sarah also forgets the eggs and the milk.

The door to his suite was open, which did not particularly surprise him. William automatically assumed that any omission was
due to his own negligence; he tended to apologize as soon as he opened his mouth. It was the presence of his dental records,
released from their cabinet and spread, systematically, over the floor, that made him realize that this was not his fault
any more than it was accidental. A large man sat on the floor by his records, leafing through them with every appearance of
disinterest. He was expressionless, like a Buddha, grossly fat and unperturbed. William had a confused memory of a similar
figure patrolling the street the morning before, the one who looked as if he had lost his dog.

It was so much warmer here than outside that his eyes began to water and the bruise to throb. He nodded at the man on the
floor, as if to a casual acquaintance whose name he could not recall. He had the strange feeling of returning to an appointment
he could not remember having made: the man looked as
if he belonged, as of right. The nod was returned. William had a sudden vision of officialdom. VAT men? The Dental Practice
Board investigating a complaint? On a Sunday? It all seemed extremely silent and legitimate. He walked into his surgery, heart
thudding.

There was the man with the legs like pillars and his back turned, his arms folded and his head dipped in enquiry, nodding
in deference towards the drill equipment, hoisted safely out of reach on the gantry, and then, as William watched, sitting
awkwardly in the dental chair, still with his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the light. Adjusting himself for comfort, finding
none, slipping on the seat. The features of the man suddenly made sense. Without thinking, William approached, flicked the
switch for the overhead light marked Siemens and put his foot on the pedal to recline the chair. He moved round to Tina’s
side and turned on the aspirator.
Slugggh
, the head of the thing sucking at nothing,
slugghh
. Where there had been silence, there was racket. The man lay, his eyes blinded by the light, his lips in a rictus smile,
his limbs stiff with terror. All he did was remove his hands from his armpits and put them over his ears, as if aping the
monkey who hears no evil. He made a small sound, a hiss; then the prominent red lips, which had been parted, were clamped
shut, forming a wide, red line splitting the jowls of his face. William stood over him. There was no time for fear; he was
simply very angry.

‘What can I do for you?’ he said. He moved the drill gantry so that it hung between them, in front of the man’s eyes. ‘If
I drilled your teeth without water
coolant,’ he said conversationally, ‘I could make them white hot. What the hell do you want?’

The man did not speak. William’s anger became tremulous. ‘What do you
want
?’ he repeated, moving closer. And then, in a voice that sounded petulant to his own ears, ‘Why did you
hit
me?’

The eyes opened wide and stared at the light, blinked and remained fixed. A large hand shot from the torso and grabbed William
by the balls through his trousers. The hand gripped; William gave a sharp yelp. The grip lessened, but remained. He looked
down at the brown paw clutching his groin and grabbed at the wrist. The bone felt like the indestructible iron of the railings
outside. The man blinked again and, for the first time, diverted his glance to William’s face, twisted his grip, then relaxed
it. Then he smiled. ‘This is just to make sure’, he said softly, ‘that we don’t hurt
one another
.’

They remained like that, William and he, staring at each other, William with watering eyes, mesmerized by brown teeth. Then
the hand dropped away. The relief was enormous. As if in response to some command not actually made, William pressed the foot
pedal bringing the chair upright. Almost a normal chair. The man sighed, pushed the offending hand into the pocket of his
trousers and flourished from it William’s card. ‘You gave me this,’ he said. The voice was extremely soft. ‘You
insisted
,’ he added, as if that were more than sufficient to justify forced entry and trespass. The argument seemed completely compelling.
William felt at a loss – again, that strange sense that the
visitor was here as of right, his presence inevitable, even familiar, and that it was he who was owed an apology. He found
it difficult to take his eyes from the flash of the brown teeth, almost urged to touch them. He could do so much for these
teeth; he could redeem a thousand wrongs by treating these teeth. The man got off the chair and began to prowl, his hands
locked behind his back in a mute promise of no further intimidation. William could do nothing but continue to stare at him,
scarcely aware of the third man, who made slight paper-shuffling noises from behind.

‘How did you get in?’ William asked stupidly. It was irrelevant how they had got in: the only fact that mattered was their
presence – the
man
’s presence. The other, somehow, counted for nothing. There was no reply. The man seemed totally absorbed in his own curiosity.
He paused in his perambulations, looked at the battery of equipment on the dentist’s side of the chair, equipment more cumbersome
than that on the nursing side. A deep shudder shook his frame; his body trembled with profound revulsion. It reminded William
of a dog shaking water from its coat.

‘So, Mr Dentist,’ said the soft voice, ‘you think you could do something about my fangs? I’ve got as far as your door how
many times? Five? Six? Never made it inside until now. And I didn’t need your card. Some little boy of a lawyer told me all
about you. If you treat the crap inside prison, like he said, you ain’t too proud to treat me.’ He retracted his upper lip,
let the top teeth pin down the lower lip, the better to expose
them. It was an almost comical snarl, like a child competing with another in pulling faces.

That’s what you might have done as a child; made people laugh at you
.

There was a photocopier in the other room by the reception desk. William heard the sound of its operation and, for a moment,
his sensation of panic returned with a different focus. The
records
. They were inefficiently banked on computer; he was not particularly computer-literate and it was still those pieces of paper
that mattered. Without records, he would be lost. The practice would be lost. So would his academic career.

He closed his eyes to blank out the thought. Concentrated on his own voice. ‘Yes. I could do something about your teeth. Veneers
… crowns, all sort of things …’ He faltered. ‘
Yes
, I could do wonders with those teeth. I’ve got all the relevant experience.’

‘Would it hurt?’

William shook his head, without sufficient conviction. ‘Totally painfree dentistry is a modern myth,’ he said earnestly. ‘No
pain as such, or never for long. The analgesics are highly effective, although people vary in response. But it would be …’
he struggled for the right euphemism ‘…
uncomfortable
, at times.’

‘I need fillings, too. I don’t want metal in my mouth. Poisonous.’

‘Amalgam isn’t poisonous. You don’t have to have it. Resin for the cavities.’

‘But you could cause
exquisite
pain,’ the man stated, emphasizing the word, gesturing to the drill.
‘You could
disfigure
me.’ The pause was poignant, as if both recognized that disfigurement of the man was already achieved.

‘Your brother had no pain.’

‘You’re quite wrong about that. I have no brother. I don’t know why you think so.’

William turned his head and, for one horrified moment, thought he saw tears in the other man’s eyes. ‘There’s always the potential
for pain,’ William said. ‘I’ve devoted my life to avoiding it.’

‘Where do you keep the stuff? I’d need to know you had plenty.’

William opened a drawer. ‘Plenty for daily purposes. I keep the minimum, order what I need. You could be sedated.’

‘No. I need to know what’s happening.’

It was a surreal conversation, he thought. He felt as if he were being interviewed, his premises viewed not from the point
of examining his credentials but with some other agenda in mind. The man continued to pull faces, looking clownish, as if
the working of his jaws and eyebrows were essential to the process of thought.

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Let me ask you something, Mr Dentist, before I make an appointment. A test, if you don’t mind. What,
in your life, do you hold dearest? Or, should I say,
whom
?’

The question was oddly shocking. The photocopier made its familiar noise. William tried to remember the order in which he
stored the dental records, what they said, apart from the charts of
teeth. They were stored in sequence, the most recent patients to the front, the bulkier records to the back of each alphabetical
index. What privacy was being invaded? No layperson could read a dental chart. He remembered how he recalled names and addresses
with a note of who had referred the patient to him, so that he could remember to ask after a patient’s referring friend and
thus make it seem as if he remembered who they were. Part of the personal touch he had to rehearse.
What
did
he hold dearest, or whom
? At the moment, his records. The man waited for an answer. It tripped, stutteringly, off William’s tongue. ‘The pursuit of
perfection. Professional
pride
. Technique.’ He held out his hands in front of himself, making a plea for the records. His hands were shaking. ‘And
these
, I suppose.’

The man nodded. ‘You’ll give me an afternoon this week, perhaps. Before Christmas. We’ll fix it. I don’t want anyone else
here, do you understand? I don’t want anyone watching me.’

‘There are rules—’ William began.

‘And rules,’ the man murmured.

He was moving towards the door, William following. He saw, to his relief, that the records were neatly reassembled, sitting
on the reception desk. A briefcase stood by the door. What the other man had copied, he had no idea. It was what he was leaving
behind that mattered. Suddenly everything was polite. Their method of entry was a mystery.

The man stopped and stared at Cannon’s drawing of William’s hands. He stared for a long time. Then
he turned and held out his own. It seemed necessary to reciprocate, like civilized beings at the end of a normal, mutually
beneficial meeting. The man wrapped William’s knuckle in both of his own and crushed it. Then he lifted the hand to his own
mouth and bit it. William could feel the movement of bone, jarring pain, felt as if the hand would crumble into sharp splinters.
This time he screamed long and loud. The hand was released. The scream echoed into the empty hallway, continued as the door
closed.