scrape a living by less conventional means. Marty had once been told that Doc was struck off by the Medical Council, but nobody seemed to know why.
He knocked on the door and waited. A few seconds later a light went on in the hallway, shining through the decorative glass panels in the door. A small shape shuffled towards the other side of the door and opened it.
“Thanks for seeing me,” said Marty.
“It’s no bother,” said Doc, turning to the side. “Please, come in. You know the way through, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve been here before, remember?”
Doc nodded, but clearly had no idea. “Come on in, then, and let’s take a look at that stab wound.”
The house was filled with old things. Expensive things. The ex-wife must not have been fully successful in her endeavours to ruin the man, if he’d managed to hold on to this house and all the possessions crammed between its walls. There was clutter everywhere; the walls were covered with paintings (real paintings, not prints), and every piece of furniture — even those in the wide hallway — looked antique.
“Nice place,” said Marty, walking through into the huge reception room.
“Thanks. I’ve lived here for a long time. It probably needs renovating, but I haven’t the heart. I enjoy age; even in myself. I was never happy as a young man.” He smiled.
There was a leather medical table with wooden drawers in the sides set up at one end of the room. Marty remembered it from his previous visits, and guessed that it was always set up for business, ready and waiting for paying customers. He knew that Doc had a little sideline tending the stab and bullet wounds of gang members and drug dealers, and was paid handsomely for his services. The wounds sustained in the kind of fights Marty took part in were probably light relief compared with that.
“Take off your shirt, Marty. Lie down over there, on the table.” Doc was scrubbing his hands at the sink against the opposite wall. He did not look up, just stared closely at his hands as he slathered them in blue fluid beneath the hot tap.
Marty did as he was told. The pain had returned, and the dressing he’d applied to the wound was coming loose. He folded his shirt and set it down on a chair, and then climbed up onto the table. He lay flat on his back, with his arms crossed over his chest. It was a death pose, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He moved his arms to rest by his sides and stared at the ceiling, the sculpted plaster rose at its centre, and the bright light that hung from it.
“So what’s the trouble?” Doc stood over him, his pale arms pink and hairless in the harsh light. “Is it infected? That’s what you suggested over the phone.” He leant over Marty’s torso. His breath smelled of whisky and ginger.
“God, man, how much gauze did you use?” He peeled back the dressing and cleaned out the wound. “What happened to the stitches? Have you been picking at these?”
“No… they just came out, on their own. Maybe I knocked it against something, I can’t remember.”
“You fucking guys… you’re all the same. With your cheap gold rings and your tribal tattoos, thinking you’re real tough guys. You can’t hurry nature, son. Healing — every kind of healing — takes time and care. You can’t hurry it along like a slut on a first date.” His hands were soft and gentle, unlike when he’d worked at ringside. Here, on his own turf, the man became the skilled doctor he must once have been, before life broke him.
“Doc, this might sound a bit funny, but I need you to inspect inside the wound. I think I got something in there.”
Doc stopped working. He straightened his back and stared at Marty’s face. “Are you high, son?”
Marty shook his head. “No. I just have this… this
“Jesus Christ on a bike. You people… drugged up, fucked up, and walking around like you’re masters of the universe. Don’t you realise what kind of mess you’re making of your life?” He shook his head, talking to himself now. “I don’t know; some folk just never know when to quit the game.”
Doc grabbed some stainless steel pincers and a scalpel off a tray and paused. “I’ll try to make sure this doesn’t hurt much, but I’m not making any promises.”
“Okay. Just have a look… check around in there, would you?”
“Aye. Don’t worry. If there’s anything in there, I’ll have it out in a minute.” He bent back to his work, his eyes widening, his lips pressing together.
Doc was as good as his word. The examination did not hurt too much. Marty gritted his teeth a couple of times, but the mild pain was tolerable, much less than he’d expected.
“I’ll put in a few more loose stitches,” said Doc, when he’d finished. “There’s fuck-all in there, son, so please leave it alone this time. If you have any discomfort, just give me another call. Don’t start imagining symptoms — that’s my job.” He winked.
“Thanks,” said Marty, closing his eyes.
When Doc had finished, Marty handed him an envelope of used bills. Doc didn’t bother counting the money; he simply nodded, smiled, and walked Marty to the door.
“Remember,” he said. “Just leave it alone… let it heal.”
“I will,” said Marty, but the door was already closing in his face.
He went back to his car and sat behind the wheel with the engine running. Aretha Franklin was singing on the radio. He listened until the song ended, and then switched it off. He drove away from the kerb, watching the street, wondering what was happening to him. None of this seemed real. It was like a dream he’d once had, when he was a much younger man. The acorn he’d imagined burrowing under his skin was a metaphor, but he did not have enough information to understand what it meant.
Back at the flat, he poured himself a whisky and took out his phone, ignoring the voicemail and text prompts. He dialled Erik Best’s mobile number. The call went through to voicemail, as he’d expected. Erik screened all of his calls.
“Erik, it’s me. Marty Rivers. I have something important I need to tell you. Call me back.” He ended the call and drained his glass, then got up and poured a double. Then he sat back down and waited.
He grabbed the remote control and turned on the stereo. Muddy Waters sang about a Mannish Boy. Marty closed his eyes and enjoyed the music, letting it infect him with its melancholy. His mobile must have buzzed for thirty seconds before he realised he had a call.
“Hello. Erik?” He’d answered without looking at the display. He only hoped that it wasn’t Melanie.
“What is it, Marty?”
No preamble: just get straight to the point. “I quit. No more fights for me. That last one… it wasn’t right. The game’s changed.”
There was a pause during which Marty thought he might have said the wrong thing, or at least picked the wrong time to say it. Then Best began to speak. “I won’t try to talk you out of it, Marty. Actually, I’ve been expecting this for a while. Just do me one favour, yeah?”
Marty swallowed a mouthful of whisky. “What’s that?”
“Go away and have a proper think. Sleep on it; run everything though your mind. Then, in a few days, a week, if you still feel the same, we’ll have this chat again. There’ll be no hard feelings from me. If you really want to chuck in the towel, I’ll respect your decision. I will call on you for other favours, though, just like before. Just a bit of heavy work here and there, or maybe the occasional stint on the doors. A man still needs to make a few dollars, mate, and I’ll always need a battler like you on my team.”
Marty relaxed. “That seems fair enough to me, Erik. I’ll speak to you in a few days. But I doubt anything will change. I’ve made my decision.”
“Okay, marra. Speak to you soon.” The phone went dead.
Marty was about to hit the ‘off’ button on the handset when he remembered that he had a text message and a couple of voicemails. He’d ignored them before, assuming that it was Melanie, but this time he checked, just in case. Both messages were from the same person: Simon Ridley.
“Fuck me,” he whispered, listening to them again. “Fuck me, Simon Ridley.” The messages were short and to the point:
“
Later, “
