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a substance abuse unit and let them sort out these human messes.
    Danny knew he was breaking the rules.
    ‘ Sorry, Danny,’ I said. ‘You know the score. You’ll get nothing from me. When are you next due at Substance Abuse?’
    ‘ Friday,’ he said pleasantly. ‘And I’ll never last till then.’
    I wasn’t playing ball. ‘But they give you enough for a week.’
    He stopped looking at the floor.
    I have learned that addicts never look straight at you except when they are lying. They break all normal rules of communication. We have to relearn all our instincts. Addicts never look more innocent than when they are attempting to deceive you and squeeze a couple of extra fixes out of the benevolent National Health Service.
    ‘ I met a friend,’ he said. ‘He was going bananas.’ Another pleasant smile. ‘I felt sorry for him. Gave him a couple of days’ of my own supply.’
    Addicts are inventive too. But it’s safest to play along.
    ‘ That was very nice of you, Danny, but it means you’ve let yourself go short.’
    ‘ Bloody typical,’ he grumbled. ‘You do a friend a favour and where does it get you?’
    ‘ Bloody typical,’ I echoed. ‘Unfair, isn’t it?’
    He eyed me suspiciously. ‘I’ll get withdrawal.’
    ‘ If I were you, Danny,’ I said, ‘I would take myself down to Dr McKinley and see what you can wheedle out of him. OK?’
    ‘ You’re my doctor,’ he snarled. ‘I got a problem. I need somethin’ for it.’
    My eyes wandered towards the panic button. ‘You’re right on one point, Danny,’ I said. ‘I am your doctor.’
    He thumped his grubby, bony fist on my desk, making the stack of notes hop.
    ‘ I want my methadone. OK?’
    ‘ No it isn’t OK,’ I said. ‘You know the score. We’ve told you before. I am your doctor. And as your doctor I have a clear, contractual agreement.’ I had stopped caring whether he knew what the word contractual meant.
    Did you dislike Danny Small , Doctor ? ’
    ‘ No ... No ... No . ’
    ‘ My duty is towards your health, not helping you with a habit which is slowly destroying it.’
    He looked at me with cold, dead eyes. Then came the threat. He stood up, leaned right over me. ‘Just pray you don’t meet me one dark night, Doctor.’
    *
    I struggled to regain my composure after Danny had gone, but the encounter had left me drained and depressed. I was glad that I had reached my last patient for the morning.
    Doctors read a set of notes as a fortune teller reads tea leaves. And this set was wafer thin, ergo they belonged to someone who visited the doctor infrequently. One did not have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce this. But I could read more. This man was neither neurotic nor unhealthy. And I could read still more. The name was unfamiliar and so was the address, one I had never visited. So the entire family hardly needed the services of a doctor. I did not even recognise the road. So either his neighbours too did not summon the doctor, or they belonged to one of the other lists in Larkdale or he had no neighbours. I felt pleased with my deductions and memories of Danny began to fade.
    I shook the loose leaves out of the folder and read both name and date of birth. Anthony Pritchard, aged fifty-four. Last consultation ten years ago for a dog bite. There was no record of stitching or hospital admission but someone had recorded a tetanus jab.
    So what had brought him here today?
    I pressed the buzzer.
    Patients have various ways of approaching the doctor. Some march in boldly, almost aggressively, barging in without knocking and dropping into the chair as they blurt out the reason for the consultation. Others are timid, rapping softly on the door and hesitating before they dare enter.
    We have the power to frighten people. Minor conditions are magnified. Piles become cancers. Pleurisy a heart attack. Anxiety becomes any malignant condition in the medical textbook.
    It didn’t take me long to classify Anthony Pritchard. He was one of the