Monday. The doctors’ surgery on Bennett Street. The place is heaving with the ill and the frail, the skiving and the mad. The loud-mouthed receptionists keep order, spitting bile at anyone with the temerity to question their authority.
Coming out of one of the doctor’s rooms, inching his way towards the receptionist’s desk, Mr Henderson Flint, leaning on a zimmer. Henderson Flint. Five foot two of crumbling humanity. Henderson bloody Flint.
One of the whip-handed receptionists. Weary. Exasperated.
‘Can I help you, Mr Flint?’
This one, worse than the rest. The Dragon Lady.
‘Busy today?’ Henderson says, cheerily.
‘Yes, Mr Flint. Now what is it you want?’
A disdainful glare cuts him off at the knees. Henderson feels the tension in the air around him rise. He leans into it, resting on the front bar of his zimmer. Holds the glare of the Dragon Lady with one of his own.
‘I need you to phone me a ride home,’ he says.
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