The Skinner's Revenge. Chris Karsten
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he studied the label and noted the ingredients: liquorice, ipecac extract, sodium benzoate as the preservative. He returned the bottle to the nightstand. Ipecac. His mother had given his father and brother ipecac syrup on the night they had suddenly and simultaneously fallen ill. Ipecac syrup was a home remedy used to induce vomiting when someone had ingested poison. Not that it had done his father and brother any good.
Banishing the two of them once more from his thoughts, he waited for Dr Lippens and wished he had his MP3 so that he could listen to Paganini.
His thoughts turned to Jules of Bujumbura, whom he’d met in Johannesburg. Jules, who had supplied him with African masks for his gallery of ethnic artefacts in the mall. All his beautiful, authentic masks, which had spoken to him from the walls, sharing with him their stories and legends and myths. All gone now, presumably packed in boxes, gathering dust in the dark, stuffy room where the police locked away their evidence.
It couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t have brought them along. His flight had been too sudden, entirely unexpected. But he would get others, with Jules, on their travels through Africa. To the Bwa and Nuna in Burkina Faso, the Zackana in Mali, the Grebo of the Côte d’Ivoire, with their rare battle masks.
Yes, he would like to go in search of a Grebo. The small round eyes signifying vigilance and aggression, the teeth sharply pointed and exposed, the straight nose depicting obduracy – like his own new nose, despite its being crooked. A Grebo as a symbol of a new phase in his life and his destiny, liberated now from the straitjacket that had tied him to his mother for fifty years. A Grebo in the place of his beloved Punu, which he had left on a faceless skull.
“Mr Lomas, I’m glad to see you’ve come back to us.”
He opened his eyes, saw the perfect proportions of the surgeon’s face, the harmony and balance lent to the face by the nose and chin. He smelt the subtle aroma of cologne on the unblemished skin. He heard “ooh” and “aah” and “mmm” as the fingers probed and palpated the skin of his cheeks, chin and ears; felt the cold metal of the stethoscope on his chest.
“How many cosmetic procedures have you done, Dr Lippens?”
“The nose isn’t right. The splint moved when we were treating the infection. The cartilage didn’t set properly.”
“How many?”
“Hundreds. Reconstructive surgery is actually my field. Victims of fire, accidents, shooting incidents, birth deformities.”
“You said two nights.”
“We’ll have to work on the chin as well, perhaps a smaller implant, not so prominent. But it’s still better than no chin, isn’t it, Mr Lomas? At least you have a chin now.” He gave a rueful smile.
The patient didn’t like lies. On that account he had been seriously reprimanded during his childhood by his mother, who had called down fire and brimstone on his head. But there were times, he believed, when a white lie was unavoidable. Even his mother would understand and pardon him.
“When can I come for the final work on my face? The nurse said a month. Enough time for the soft tissue to heal. In a month’s time I’ll be ready for the modifications.”
“Of course, Mr Lomas. I’m glad that you’re so positive about this unfortunate incident. That you understand the risks of infection. It’s hard to believe, but I’ve had patients who have been beside themselves with rage when the bandages were removed.”
“So I can be discharged now?”
“Perhaps tomorrow morning. Spend tonight here, just to be on the safe side. I’m very proud of your ears – they came out beautifully. Flat against your head. Michelangelo couldn’t have done it better.”
Pixie ears, the nurse had remarked.
“Why Burundi?” the patient asked. “Wouldn’t Europe be better, where there’s less danger of infection? Wouldn’t your wife prefer to live in Europe instead of Africa?”
“I’ll be going now,” Dr Lippens said. “I have a few more patients to visit before I can go home, and it’s almost ten o’clock. On a Saturday night! No time for myself. I’ll take another look tomorrow morning. If everything seems in order, I’ll sign your discharge papers. All right, Mr Lomas?”
“He’s not married,” the nurse volunteered as soon as the doctor had left the ward.
“Oh,” said the patient. “I don’t want to be disturbed. I want to sleep. Draw the curtains around the bed.”
As soon as she’d left, he pulled the IV needle from his arm and put on his dressing gown, tying the cord around his bulging stomach. He searched for his shoes in the rusty metal nightstand. There, along with his clothes and shoes, were his wallet, his watch and the keys to his 4X4 bakkie and the door to the back room he was renting from the widow Demarcène. There was also a stainless-steel knife, made by J. Russell & Co. of Turner’s Falls, Massachusetts – ideal for severing tough sinews and cartilage while slaughtering animals.
He pushed the knife into his dressing-gown pocket and slunk to the window. The sharp lights in the ward had been dimmed and the silence was almost complete except for an occasional sigh or groan from a bed in which sleeping tablets and sedatives had not yet taken effect.
He undid the catch, pushed up the sash and felt the sultry subtropical night air on his injured face. He clambered out and pulled the window back down. With its large grounds, the clinic lay at an intersection. His window faced the car park used by the hospital staff, out of sight of the main gate and visitors’ parking lot. He waited under an acacia tree beside the wall, a motionless figure in his dressing gown. His eyes searched the dark shadows, then glanced up through the branches at the night sky, where the stars were obscured by dark clouds that had begun to gather over Lake Tanganyika.
Someone came out through the side entrance, got into a car and drove away. He focused his attention on the cars belonging to the night staff, on the door and on the large green metal dumpsters for medical waste.
Half an hour went by before the door – illuminated by a dim light and displaying a sign that read NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY: HOSPITAL STAFF ONLY – opened again and Dr Lippens stepped out, his white doctor’s coat folded over his arm.
The patient came out from under the acacia and moved towards the car that the surgeon was heading for. The doctor must have heard his footsteps because he turned.
“Mr Lomas!” he exclaimed.
“There was something I wanted to tell you, Doctor … ”
“What are you doing here? You should be in bed.”
“I wanted to tell you: I lied.”
“What?”
“About being back in a month’s time to have my nose and chin fixed. I’ve given it some thought: I like the sharp, crooked nose. And I like the chin. It’s a strong chin. It says something about my personality.”
“I’m surprised. Are you sure?”
“The only thing I don’t like is the pockmarks on my chin.”
“Yes, that is a pity. It’s the result of the sepsis.”
“My skin was always smooth, like a baby’s. I like smooth skin without scars. Babyface, they used to call me.”
“Skin grafts … we can try. But we’ll discuss it tomorrow, during my last consultation before I sign your discharge forms.”
Dr Lippens unlocked his car door and put his medical bag inside.
The patient stepped closer to the open door, took off his dressing gown, placed it on the seat and took the coat from Dr Lippens’s hand.
“What are you doing?”
The patient said nothing, just held the blade of the Russell knife to the soft hollow at the base of the startled