Reckoning Point, стр. 27

25

THE DOCTOR

HOLLAND SPOOR

6.7.15 Morning

Bram reads through the medical reports on the ten women. He places his finger on the page and moves it along as he reads, careful to take in everything, not to miss a single word. Because of the way the girl’s three monthly checks are scheduled, his reports usually come in batches of ten. After he finishes with each one, he puts it in a neat pile to his left. Upon completion he is left with just one report. He closes it softly and leans back in his chair to reflect on his findings.

Nine girls, all healthy with more than satisfactory scores, but one girl, not quite as satisfactory. Bram rubs at his eyes, he’s tired all of a sudden and now, with this latest batch of reports, there is even more work to do. He thinks back over the years, how much care he has taken and can’t believe that after decades in this work, the streets are still unclean. It’s not good enough and because he is in charge, it means he’s not good enough.

Moving slowly, his legs still aching from his long walk the day before, he walks over to the locked medicine cabinet and peers in through the toughened glass. He doesn’t even have the required dosage of antibiotics that would fix her, which means he’ll have to place an additional order.

He walks back to his desk and begins to boot up the old computer that he rarely uses. As the screen flickers into life he hears the peal of the doorbell and he rolls back in his chair, looks through the window. Whoever it is seems to be standing right under the porch, he can’t see them at all, so grumbling a little, he hoists himself upright and makes his way to the outer office to open the door.

It’s a new girl, one that he is not familiar with and this one is very young. He looks down at her without speaking.

“Are you Doctor Bastiaan?” she asks in English.

“Yeeees,” he drawls, still looking her up and down. She’s certainly a fresh face, this one. Mixed race, probably diluted by a couple of generations, he guesses, with the telltale ‘Fro hair but green eyes which are certainly Caucasian.

“I was recommended to you, by a … friend. I wonder if I can make an appointment, if it’s not convenient to see me now?”

He pulls the door open all the way, charmed by her polite manner. He stands back and makes a sweeping motion with his arm to show her in. In turn she moves quickly past him, taking care not to brush against him, he notes.

Bram shows her into his office and gestures to the chair opposite to the one he sits himself in behind his desk.

“What can I do for you, my dear?” he asks, and propping his elbows on his desk, he sets his chin on his hands, studies her intently.

She looks away from his gaze, seems to gather herself before speaking. “I’ve been suffering from … some sort of memory problem. I had an incident recently, one that I’d prefer not to discuss.” She shoots a stern look at him and then averts her eyes. “I have nightmares too, ones that are beginning to …” She shakes her head, appears to forget where she had got to and tails off altogether.

Bram can’t take his eyes off her. From all of the women that he deals with on a daily basis, there is something almost exquisite about this one. As he allows this thought to roll around his mind, she turns her attention straight to him and he is taken aback. It’s her eyes, he thinks, they are emerald green, quite stunning against the colour of her skin and hair but, there is no expression in them. They are flat. Dead.

He looks away, clears his throat. “This memory loss, is it short term? Long term?”

She looks like she’s thinking again, brow slightly furrowed. “Short term.”

There is a silence that goes on a little too long, broken by Bram bringing his pad towards him. “I’ll need your details, name.” He tries to make his voice kindly; none-threatening, because for some inexplicable reason, he wants to see this girl again.

She hesitates for the briefest moment before answering, and in turn, her pause tells him so much. “Elian, my name is Elian.”

He writes it down, raising her eyebrows at her in a silent question. She reads what is written on his pad and nods, confirming he has spelt it correctly. He opens his mouth but to his surprise she is speaking again.

“My friend said perhaps an MRI scan, to see if there is any damage.”

What happened to her? He wonders, what happened to this girl to make her think she has some sort of brain injury?

“I think,” he starts, chances a look at her before continuing, “I think we will need to do something that you will no doubt be reluctant to do. And that, my dear, is to explore what actually happened to cause your … injury.” At the horrified look on her face he