Dr. Yes (26 page)

    'Good
job you're discreet.'

    'The
soul of.'

    Across
the way, the elevator doors opened and Dr Yeschenkov emerged. He walked
straight for the exit. I stood up.

    'Thanks
for the help,' I said.

    'That's
what I'm here for.'

    'Tipping
is . . . ?'

    'Discretionary.'

    'Bear
that in mind,' I said.

    The
Blackheath Driving Range is a floodlit facility on the outskirts of Holywood,
County Down. I only know that because that's where I was, and it was floodlit
and on the outskirts of Holywood, County Down. There was now a stiff, cold
breeze, and a mean rain, but that wasn't going to stop Dr Yeschenkov getting
some practice in. It was ten-thirty when he arrived, and there were only two
other cars in the car park. A bearded man in orange waterproofs was just in the
process of closing up the garden shed that served as his office when the
Porsche pulled in right beside him; the window slid down, something was said,
and the man began to reverse the process. I guess you don't say no to Dr Yes.

    I
parked on the other side of a BMW, switched off, and considered my options.
Sure, it was a splendid opportunity to confront him. Or if not confront him,
talk to him. Or if not talk to him, observe him. But it was cold, and wet, and
from what I had read of the sport, it usually wasn't a good idea to disturb
anyone attempting to play it. Someone famous had once summed up the
frustrations of golf as 'a good walk, spoiled', but I thought it was simpler
than that. It was just shit.

    Confrontation
for the sake of confrontation was pointless. I had no proof of any wrongdoing,
merely suspicions. Equally, he had no proof that I knew anything of his deeds,
yet he had surely been behind the visit of Rolo and Spider-web to my shop, the
warning to mind my own business and the shocking damage to my nose. Rolo had
yet to come back to me on that one, but there wasn't any doubt in my mind. Dr
Yes was rich, good-looking and a social mover. He was used to getting his own
way. He liked power, and when people rubbed him up the wrong way, he wiped them
out. But here he was, on a rain-swept spring night, all by himself. There would
never be a better opportunity to introduce myself. He was just getting his
clubs out of the back of his car.

    I had
to do it
now.
I had to ignore the rain, and the pneumonia that would
surely follow; I had to try and blot out the fact that we were almost in the
country, that there were fields not too far away, featuring the cows of night
and sheep that could fly when no one was looking.

    I got
out of the van and approached the chap now standing morosely in the shed
doorway.

    I
said, 'I want a go.'

    'A
go? We're just closing up.'

    'Oh.'

    Dr
Yeschenkov came walking past us, his golf bag over his shoulder. He nodded at
the man. The man nodded back. He looked at me.

    'He
was the last one,' he said.

    'I
was here before him.'

    'He's
a member; that has certain privileges.'

    'But
your sign says open to the public.'

    'And
we are, except when we're closed.'

    'I
just want a quick game. I'll finish the same time as him.'

    'Read
my lips: n . . . o . . . spells ...'

    'Hey.'
It was Dr Yeschenkov, standing on the slatted wooden path leading to the
sheltered range. 'Why don't you let the guy play? What difference does one more
make?'

    'I'm
not supposed to . . .'

    'Just
say he's with me.'

    The
man blew air out of his cheeks. 'Right,' he said. 'Whatever.'

    Dr
Yeschenkov winked at me. I would have winked back, but once I start, I find it
difficult to stop. As Dr Yes continued on to the range, the man in charge
muttered something under his breath. The only word I picked up began with 'a'
and ended with 'hole'. It was probably a golfing term.

    'It's
ten quid for an hour,' he snapped.

    'How
much for half an hour?'

    'We
don't do half-hours.' 'How much for fifteen minutes?'

    'We
don't ...' He took a deep breath. 'A tenner. You need balls?' I nodded. 'That's
another fiver. Clubs?' I nodded again. He kept looking at me. 'How many?'

    'Just
one.'

    
'Which
one?'

    'I
don't mind.'

    'Whaddya
mean, you don't mind? Which one do you want?'

    'A
good one. You pick.'

    He rolled
his eyes. He crossed the interior of the shed and brought me a plastic bag full
of golf balls and a club. I examined it as if I knew what it was.

    'Yes,'
I said, 'that will do the trick. Is it supposed to have this big thick bit on
the end?'

    'Funny,'
he said.

    'No,
really, is it supposed—'

    'Just
go and play.
I'm closing in fifty minutes come hell or high water.'

    I
took the bag, and walked with the club over my shoulder, like one of the Seven
Dwarves going to work with his pickaxe, except with a golf club, and balls, and
going to the driving range. The rain was made huge and eternal by the
floodlights; the range was peppered with balls, like abnormally large
hailstones.

    My
mobile phone vibrated. I checked it: a text from Alison.

    
Followed
Buddy. House on Tennyson. Eyes peeled. Love you, cheeky chops
.

    I
texted back:

    
Okay.

    There
were maybe thirty tee-off positions; there were two other practitioners, and
then Dr Yes, already in full flow. So far as I could judge, his swing was as
smooth as he was. I stood at the tee to his left. My swing would not be smooth.
I had never previously swung. If I swung, he would know that. If I swung, I
would tear many ligaments, much muscle and several pounds of gristle. Bones
would creak and snap. My hand/eye coordination was off the scale, but not in a
good way.

    I
said, Thanks for that,' as he swung back.

    He
completed his swing, unfazed. There was a crack, as club head met ball. Ball
launched. Rose high.

    'Oh,'
he said. 'No problem.'

    He
lined up another ball. As he swung back I said, 'Jobsworth.'

    He
struck it cleanly once again. He followed its trajectory before nodding,
satisfied.

    'Get
them everywhere,' he said. He looked at me, standing over my ball. 'But
understandable. It's a dreadful night. Do I know you?'

    'I
don't know.'

    'Where
do you play?'

    'Malone.'

    'That'll
be it.'

    'Good
spot.'

    'Yes,
it is. Nice people. What do you play off?'

    The
club continued to rest over my shoulder. I looked down at my ball. I knew that
I wasn't going to even attempt to strike it. There was no point. I am allergic
to golf. I had once almost played Arnold Palmer's Pro- Shot Golf as a child; it
featured an action figure of the apparently legendary golfer at the end of a
pretend golf stick, with an assortment of toy clubs you could fit into a hole
in him and operate mechanically, a square of green polyester material to act as
a green, a variety of small polystyrene balls for the Axminster fairway and
small marble ones for putting. However, before I could take my first swing, my
pet gerbil appeared from nowhere and made off with the polystyrene ball. In
chasing after her I accidentally knelt on her and broke her neck. I cried and
wailed so hard that Mother locked me in my cupboard for three hours.

    So I
instead of swinging at it, I picked the ball up. I held it up to the
floodlights, so that it appeared dark, and larger than it deserved to be.

    'You're
a little sphere of doom,' I told it, before nodding at Dr Yes. 'My handicap is
the knowledge that I will never achieve perfection,' I said. 'Sometimes you
don't need to hit the ball. Holding the club, and being in the moment, is as
good as it gets. Actually striking it is like peeing on your dreams.'

    He
studied me for what felt like a long time. 'You know something, sir?' he said
eventually. 'You are absolutely right.'

    I
nodded. He nodded. He moved his club between his legs, and leaned on the shaft.
We both looked out at the slow-motion rain.

    Tell
you something?' he asked.

    'Absolutely.'

    'I
once stood at the first tee for nineteen minutes, debating whether to take the
first shot and risk ruining my day, or leave it, stay happy. For what I do, and
the volume at which I do it, I have to be calm, settled, in control, completely
stress-free. Nineteen minutes, and it felt like ninety.'

    'Nobody
complained?'

    'I
was in my front room. It was the Nintendo Wii. Tiger Woods PGA Tour 10.'

    'Gets
you,' I said.

    'Gets
you,' he concurred.

    We
nodded. We stared out at the rain some more.

    'What
business you in, you have to be so steady?' I asked.

    'Medicine.'
He smiled. The night got a little brighter. He stepped across with his hand out.
'Yeschenkov, of the Yeschenkov Clinic.' He took my hand. He had a firm grip. It
grew firmer. I was trying to match him on the grip, but it was useless. I have
brittle bones. I was trying not to scream. His eyes held steady on mine. 'And I
know what business you're in.'

    All I
could manage was, 'Uhuh?'

    'Murder.'

    All I
could still manage was, 'Uhuh.'

    Finally
he let go. I was determined not to show how much he had hurt me, and just hoped
he would mistake the tears for raindrops.

    'Catchy.
Murder is Our Business.
Nice van,' he said. 'No Alibis, that's in Botanic,
isn't it?'

    
Like
you don't know
.

    I
nodded. He was so up himself he hadn't even asked for my name.

    'If
you don't mind me asking, what happened to your nose?'

    
Like
you don't know
.

    'Book
trade's tough, and getting tougher.'

    'I
could do something about that.'

    'It's
beyond saving.'

    'The
nose, I mean. You should call by.'

    'The
clinic? I've heard of you. Aren't you the surgeon to the stars?'

    'I
take on mere mortals as well.'

    'Six-month
waiting list, I heard.'

    He
was lining up for another shot. He stopped and looked across at me. 'Yep,
that's the story I put out. Then people feel very important when I agree to see
them in a matter of days.' He smiled. He reached into his back pocket and
produced a business card. He handed it over. 'Give me a call. That's my private
line. I'm sure I'll be able to sort out a fellow swinger.' He winked.

    I
said, 'Is it going to cost me an arm and a leg?'

    'Only
if something goes tragically wrong.'

    
Smart
.

    As he
swung I said, 'There's a first time for everything.'

    It
did not affect him at all. Straight and true and high.

    I
left him to it. He was good. He was charming. He was pleasant. He was warm. As
a doctor, he would instil confidence in you. As a friend, loyalty. He had to
know who I was, yet he had come across like I was his best bud. Or
Buddy.