The Case of the Misplaced Models. Tessa Barding
1
First published by Improbable Press in 2019
Improbable Press is an imprint of:
Clan Destine Press
www.clandestinepress.net PO Box 121, Bittern
Victoria 3918 Australia
Copyright © Tessa Barding 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including internet search engines and retailers, electronic or mechanical, photocopying (except under the provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-In-Publication data:
Barding, Tessa
The Case of the Misplaced Models
ISBN: 978-0-648 5236-4-2 (pb)
ISBN: 978-0-648 5236-5-9 (eb)
Cover © Willsin Rowe
Design & Typesetting: Clan Destine Press
Improbable Press
3
For Susanne
CHAPTER ONE
There was light seeping under the door gap of my small operating room. Nothing was supposed to seep out of my operating room, not at 6.45 in the morning and definitely not without me inside.
I yanked the door open.
The room was dark except for the light above the operating table on which a young man sat, right leg stretched out before him, left one dangling from the table. He had taken off his trousers that lay, neatly folded, on the small chair next to the basin. A pair of well-worn Dr. Martens boots lay underneath it. He was looking at an ugly gash on his thigh with a frown, fingers tapping against the surgical stapler sitting next to him.
‘May I ask what you intend to do with that thing?’
He raised his head by a mere fraction but didn’t bother turning around. ‘This needs to be taken care of.’ He gestured towards his wound.
‘It certainly does. Why aren’t you at a proper A&E department?’
‘Because the next A&E department is inconveniently located.’
‘And this place isn’t?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Breaking into a practice isn’t an inconvenience?’
‘Your security system is easy to bypass, and the door itself requires only the most basic of lock picking skills. It’s more like opening a closed door.’ He twisted his upper body around to look at me. ‘Dr Watson, I presume?’
‘Says so on my name badge, doesn’t it. Now, let me have a look at that.’
I walked across the room and stood at the other side of the table, facing the patient. Seen from up close and in the merciless white light from above he turned out to be older than I had first thought him to be, maybe in his early thirties. He seemed in good physical shape. His outstretched leg showed the lean musculature of a long distance runner, there were no signs of malnourishment or neglect and at first glance no signs of drug abuse either. His speech was neither slurred nor did he speak with exaggerated enunciation, and, when I looked at his face, I found his eyes to be clear and focussed with a normal pupil reflex.
‘Aren’t you going to call the police?’
‘Have you stolen anything? Helped yourself to a dose of narcotics?’
‘No.’
‘Have you destroyed anything on your way in? Damaged the door? The security system? Other than bypassing it, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘So the way I see it, you’re just another patient arriving a tad early.’
He shot me a surprised look.
‘Are you always that easy?’
‘Easy?’
‘About having your practice broken into?’
Of course I wasn’t. Quite the contrary. I had told Robbie again and again it was about time we had the old security system replaced and that the lock on the main door was a joke. Our team had doubled in size, with Tim and Sheila having joined the year before, and we now had four fully stocked treatment rooms plus my operating room. It was only a matter of time before somebody other than this guy broke in, and not just to staple his own leg together.
Fact was, I was angry at myself for having forgotten my gym shoes at home – thus missing my morning workout; my landlord had given me notice because his daughter needed the flat; and this guy here was cute. Not twinky-innocent cute, but tall-lanky cute with sharp features and a pronounced chin. I liked tall and lanky.
‘Well, didn’t you just tell me your entering didn’t qualify as breaking in?’ I bent over his leg to take a closer look at the wound. It was a long, shallow cut that didn’t look as if it had been caused by a knife. More of a tear, really. ‘May I ask where you got that? And please don’t tell me you cut yourself shaving.’
‘I got stuck.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I looked up. ‘Will you need a tetanus shot?’
‘No, I’m all good.’
‘Good. Let’s get started then.’ I held out my hand. ‘Stapler, please.’
I put the stapler where it belonged and walked up to the cupboard to take out what instruments I would need and prepared a tray, slipped into a disposable surgery coat, donned mask and hat, and started scrubbing my hands and forearms.
Behind me, I heard my patient shift and grunt. When I turned around, I found him stretched out on his back, eyeing me suspiciously.
‘You’re not going to perform open-heart surgery, are you?’
‘What?’
He made a vague gesture. ‘Mask, coat and all.’
‘Well, I don’t intend to sneeze on you but it is a rather long wound. I’ll have to clean it and then stitch you up. Better safe than sorry.’ With one foot I pulled up my stool and sat down. ‘Careful now,’ I warned when I had adjusted the height of the table, ‘this will hurt.’
He nodded his assent and I rinsed the wound carefully before cleaning it. Wherever he had got stuck, it had better been worth it, for the souvenir would remain with him for the rest of his life. Even cleaned up the injury looked ugly, and it would require more than the eight stitches I had thought it would take. With the exception of one single hiss at the very beginning of the treatment, not a sound came from him and I looked up to see if he had lost consciousness – happens more often than you’d believe, and it’s usually not the members of the so-called weaker sex who faint – but his eyes were fixed on me.
‘No anaesthetic,’ he said when I reached for the syringe.
‘You sure? That’ll be some eleven or twelve stitches. You certain you want to do this