The Surgeon

The Surgeon

Neil McGowan

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Text copyright © 2013 Neil McGowan

Cover images courtesy of Simon Howden & Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

All Rights Reserved

This book is dedicated to all those who had to put up with me during its writing.

You know who you are...

Part One

Chapter One

The young black boy lay awake, listening to his parents arguing. At ten, Joe Mackay was old enough to understand that they were deeply unhappy with one another, although he didn’t understand all the words that they yelled at one another.

He shivered. He had an almost unbearable urge to urinate; but he was afraid to leave the safety of his room in case his parents heard him, and dragged him into their argument. It had happened before; on several occasions he had been reduced to tears by the viciousness of his mother’s words.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he buried his head under the pillow, muffling the sounds of the row taking place downstairs and trying to ignore the chill that was seeping into his body.

Joe had been late home from school that afternoon, and his mother had flown into a rage, exacerbated by the half-bottle of whisky she’d consumed that afternoon. His diner had been forfeit, and he had spent the next three hours locked in the small, dark stair cupboard. Eventually, he had been sent to bed with just a single sheet, completely inadequate for mid-February. Outside, the wind was howling around the eaves of the house. Rain spattered the window panes, in insistent tap, tap, tap, that got on one’s nerves after a while. The breath plumed from Joe’s mouth like smoke from a car exhaust.

A solitary tear trickled down his cheek. Why can’t they just leave each other alone, he thought, and stop shouting all the time?

His bladder was a lead ball in his stomach. If he didn’t pay a visit to the bathroom soon, he’d piss the bed, and that would only lead to more trouble for him in the morning. Yet he found himself too frightened to venture out of his room. He kept telling himself that he would go soon, just another minute or two.

His mother’s voice floated up the stairs to him, harsh and cold. The only reason you’re still with me is that little shit upstairs! You don’t care about me; you never did. You just wanted someone to cook and clean for you, and open their legs whenever you fancied!

You’re talking bollocks, you stupid cow. I married you because I loved you. Besides, when I met you, you weren’t drinking a bottle of whisky a day.

Charles Mackay was a tall, thickset man in his early forties. He worked for a small, specialist publishing house, editing books on the occult and the supernatural. He sighed, running his hands through his greying hair, trying to ignore the way his wife was preparing to pounce on his inadvertent use of the past tense. His ebony skin contrasted darkly with the crisp white shirt he wore.

Mary Mackay reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Fishing one out, she tossed the pack carelessly onto the dining table. She placed the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and struck a match, the flame wavering unsteadily as she applied it to the tip, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs. She exhaled slowly through her nose. You arrogant bastard, she hissed. Just because I have the odd drink now and again, you use it as an excuse to fuck any floozy who’s dumb enough to fall for your pathetic line of bullshit! She gave a harsh laugh. Oh, poor me, she whined in a harsh falsetto. My wife is so mean to me, all she does is drink and smoke and laze about all day! She took another drag on her cigarette and blew smoke in her husband’s face. Charles’s eyes flashed.

Get that fucking thing out of my face, he hissed. Mary threw up her hands in mock exasperation.

Oh? Don’t you like it? She gave a shrill chuckle. Her voice was cold. I bet you wouldn’t stop little miss pneumatic tits from smoking!

Charles threw up his hands. Leave Ginny out of this, he growled. She’s a friend, that’s all; she’s my assistant, for God’s sake!

Bullshit, retorted Mary. You’ve been fucking that slag for weeks! Don’t you think I’ve managed to work it out by now? All those supposed ‘business meetings – her fingers hooked inverted commas in the air – that you have to go to? You never used to go to them before. Her tone became sarcastic. Or is it a sudden attack of conscience?

Charles glowered at her, struggling to control his temper. Since when did it matter to you anyway? You barely know when I’m here. You’re usually pissed by the time I get home. You don’t care whether I’m here or not; all you care about is where your next drink’s coming from!

Fuck off, grated Mary. If you don’t like it then why don’t you just fuck off and move in with that bitch you’re screwing.

Charles’s temper boiled over. Why don’t you just shut your fucking mouth! His voice, which until now had been calm and moderated, began to rise in volume. If I was seeing Ginny – or anyone else for that matter – then I’d be long gone by now. Do you really think that I’d stick around here, putting up with all your bullshit, if I’d be happier with someone else?

You don’t have the balls to leave me, Mary shouted back. You couldn’t bear to leave your precious son behind!

Shut up! Charles was screaming now. Just shut the fuck up!

Oh, get fucked. Mary took a last pull on her cigarette then crushed it out in the already overflowing ashtray beside her. She reached for the bottle that stood next to it and took a long swallow, relishing the way the whisky burned as it went down, hitting her stomach in a ball of heat that sent out a warm glow.

Charles lashed out, sending the bottle spinning from her hand. It hit the floor and exploded like a bomb, spraying amber liquid everywhere. Mary gave him a look of pure hatred. You dirty stinking no-good bastard. Her voice was venomous. I ought to –

Her words were cut off abruptly as Charles’s open palm struck the side of her face with a sharp crack. She stared at him, unbelieving. You hit me, she murmured. A thin ribbon of blood, no wider than the pull strip on a packet of cigarettes, oozed from the corner of her mouth. Her lips were already starting to swell, and she winced as her tongue tested them, tasting blood.

You fucking hit me, she said again in quiet, almost stunned, disbelief.

Charles was breathing heavily. That’s right, he said. I hit you. And I’ll do it again if you don’t quit it with that tongue of yours. He spun and headed for the door, grabbing his coat and keys. I’m going out, he grated. Don’t wait up.

Mary stared after him as he left. That’s right, she shouted, the words mushy and indistinct, go and fuck your little whore! She crumpled to her knees and burst into tears – harsh, racking sobs that reached up to Joe as he lay in his room.

Chapter Two

Charles slammed the door of the Volvo, furious with Mary’s behaviour and ashamed of the way he had behaved. In twelve years of marriage he had never laid as much as a finger on her before. He despised himself for his weakness; for the past month he had been promising Ginny that he would tell Mary of their affair. Starting the engine, he sat for a moment, lost in thought.

Ginny will know what to do, he told himself. Putting the car into gear, he flicked on the headlights and wipers and pulled out of the drive slowly. The mechanics of driving and the monotonous hum of the engine calmed him, easing some of the tension from his body. He switched on the radio, scanning through the stations until he found something he liked. Classical music filled the car, Beethoven’s Ninth, and he sighed, reminiscing.

Charles had suffered through a bleak childhood. At school, he had been subject to a constant barrage of racial abuse. His family had been poor; and because he was unable to compete with some of the more affluent members of his class, his shabby clothes (often second- or third-hand from the Salvation Army thrift box) had been the cause of numerous fights. The fact that he was genuinely interested in his schoolwork – and in English in particular – had caused him even more trouble. Shouts of Teacher’s pet! drifting through the classroom whenever he scored highly in a test or assignment, as he invariably did.

After school, he had drifted through a number of menial jobs, trying to find something he enjoyed, until he began working in a library. He had become enthralled at the idea of working with books, and his dedication had quickly earned him the post of head librarian.

He had drifted into editing because of a friend. One of