fathom them.
But Cap were happy and that meant I felt pretty pleased with myself when a couple of weeks later she drove me here to Sandytown.
I soon stopped being pleased, but. Cap had hardly set off back to the car park to drive home afore it was being made clear to me that the Avalon weren’t like a fi ve-star hotel with the guests’ wishes being law.
“Convalescence is a carefully monitored progression from illness to complete health,” explained the matron. (Name of Sheldon—calls herself chief nurse, but with tits a randy vicar could rest a Bible on while he preached the gospel according to St. Dick, she were a shoo-in for the role of matron in one of them Carry On movies!)
“Oh aye,” I said, taking the piss. “And visiting hours from three to quarter past every third Sunday!”
“Ha ha,” she said. “In fact, no visitors at all to start with until we’ve had time to observe you and assess your needs and draw up your personal program—diet sheet, exercise schedule, medication plan, therapy timetable—that sort of thing.”
“Bloody hell,” I said. “Schedules, timetables—makes me feel like a railway train.”
She smiled—I’ve seen more convincing smiles in a massage parlor—
and said, “Indeed. And our aim is to get you puffing out of the station as quickly as possible.”
I could see she liked her little joke. But I didn’t argue. I just wanted to sleep!
That were a couple of days ago. Spent most of the time since then sleeping ’cos every time I woke up there were some bugger ready to pinch and prod and poke things into me. Assessment they call it. More like harassment to me!
Third day, matron appeared all coy and girlish, straightened my 2 6
R E G I N A L D H I L L
sheets, plumped my pillows, and said, “Big day, today, Mr. Dalziel. Dr.
Feldenhammer himself is coming to see you.”
And that’s when I first set eyes on Lester Feldenhammer, head quack at the Avalon. I could tell he were a Yank soon as he opened his gob. Not the accent but the teeth! It were like looking down an old-fashioned bog, all vitreous china gleaming white. Bet he gargles with bleach twice a day.
“Mr. Dalziel,” he said. “Welcome to the Avalon, sir. Your fame has preceded you. I’m honored to shake the hand of a man who got injured in the front line of the great fight against terrorism.”
I thought he were taking the piss, but when I looked at him I could see he were sincere. They’re the worst kind. Never trust a man who believes his own crap.
I thought, I’ll have to watch this one.
He shook my hand like he wanted to make sure it were properly attached and he said, “I’m Lester Feldenhammer, director of the Avalon, also head of Clinical Psychology. I think we’ve just about got your program sorted out, but the greatest aid to speedy recovery must come from within. I’ve taken the liberty of putting in your bedside locker a little self-help book I’ve written. It may help you to a fuller understanding of what’s happening to you here.”
“Gideon Bible usually does the trick,” I said.
“We like to think of them as complementary,” he said. “I’m really looking forward to monitoring your progress, Mr. Dalziel. On matters physiological, you will, of course, have access to our specialized medical staff. On all other matters, I’m your man. Anything you want to know, you have only to ask.”
“Is that right?” I said. “So what’s for dinner?”
He decided this were a joke and laughed like an accordion.
“I can see we’re going to get along famously,” he said. “Now, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
He pulled out this little shiny metal thing.
“I’m not swallowing that,” I said. “And if tha’s thinking of getting it into me by some other route, tha’d best think again.”
T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 7
This time, mebbe because it were a joke, he didn’t laugh.
“It’s a digital recorder,” he said. “State
Kit Tunstall, R.E. Saxton