Bloody Bookkeeping (A Nonsensical Gothic Story)

The Question of a Snashter

"When will I get the results of the blood-work?" Leigh asked in a strict tone.

The doctor carefully put an elastoplast over a cotton ball on the crook of her elbow.

"Bend your arm, please," he said.

He pushed off the floor with his foot and rolled away from her on his swivel chair. He had exceptionally long legs, but his calves were rather too thin for Leigh's taste. And so was his overall paleness. He probably had freckles on his shoulders in Summer - and there was a reason why she always preferred Connery's chest to Moore's.

"A fortnight is the normal waiting time for test results," the doctor droned, unaware of Leigh's internal dissection of his appearance. "I'll have to send your sample to the nearest town with an actual lab," he continued. "Supposing that the sample does arrive at the destination, they usually process it in ten week days."

"What do you mean by 'supposing that it arrives?'" Leigh asked, shaken out of her thoughts of the lovely blue bathing shorts in Thunderball. "How often do they not arrive there?"

"In this hinterland? And considering certain idiosyncrasies of the local population?" he scoffed, deftly labelling the beaker with Leigh's sanguine fluid. "Unsurprisingly often."

"Do you mean to say that there's no good delivery carrier here?" Leigh asked, making the most logical assumption.

He gave her a sarcastic side glance, shook his head, and continued typing something on his superannuated computer.

"How long are you staying in Leabadharach, Mr. Garlick?"

"Coincidentally, about a fortnight."

The doctor's long, pale fingers paused their drumming on the keyboard.

"Chances are, you won't even need your test results then," he said with a sigh. "I'll mark it in your file."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Please, take my card," the doctor said; and before she could argue, he took a cardstock rectangle out of a neat little stand on his desk and wrote something on the blank side. "This is my private mobile number. Feel free to ring me up. Night or day," he added in a pointed tone.

"I don't have the habit of ringing people up at night, Dr. Rice," Leigh answered with dignity. "I believe that nighttime is for sleeping, not socialising. I'm especially adamant against such breach of confidentiality when it comes to medical specialists, barristers, and any other professionals providing their services to me. You can feel safe that no such harassment will happen."

"No one can ever feel truly safe, Ms. Garlick," the doctor muttered and shook his card in front of her invitingly. "Would you like me to suggest the best shopping and eating places in the village to you? I can also offer you my company. I don't have any appointments for today."

"Thank you, Dr. Rice," Leigh answered dryly. "But you'll soon find out that I'm a boring - even irritating - companion and will seek a way to escape. I'll spare you the trouble." She got up, picked up her handbag, and carefully put his autographed card into a small inner pocket of her von Holzhausen. "Have a good day, Dr. Rice."

***

'No one can ever feel truly safe, Ms. Garlick.' What a ridiculous puffed up individual! Leigh thought as she made her way down the cobblestone of the alley leading towards the village green.

Leigh was good with maps. She usually only needed a quick squint at one, and she'd be able to orientate herself in most locations. She'd googled the village in the cab the previous night, and now she confidently marched towards a cluster of businesses, bearing a fork-and-knife marker on the digital map.