Free New World in the Morning by Stephen Benatar Page B

stand there and throw back my head and howl. Howl until the incident was marked, its inhumanity acknowledged, in some way shared in.
    But that wasn’t going to happen.
    â€œOkay, Suze. Easy does it, you mustn’t be afraid! You’re going to be all right.”
    Okay, Suze, easy does it, you’re going to be all right. For the next ten minutes this was the refrain running through everything I said. I felt it mattered she should hear my voice. “You’re going to be all right, Suze. Mr Dodd will take away your pain. You’re going to be all right. As good as new! Oh, dear God! Dear God!”
    Yet that was dishonest. I had nothing but scorn for anyone who, at moments of stress, turned to a god he otherwise disregarded. God played no part in my own world. I didn’t need him. I wasn’t the type to lean; I was the type to be leant upon. “You—are—going—to—be—all—right—Susie. Do you hear me?”
    She was still conscious but a dead weight and my arms were aching long before we reached the vet’s. She smelled dreadful. She was dribbling copiously onto one of my cable-stitch sleeves and there was blood and heaven knew what else across my chest and stomach. I saw scarcely anyone. I passed the ice-cream parlour we had passed the night before but now it gave the impression of still being shut for winter. It was odd to think that only a little over twenty-four hours ago we’d all been drinking inside The Lord Nelson —Susie making up to Moira and Liz, rather than bothering with myself.
    To my relief there was a light in one of the windows above the surgery; it showed pinkly through thin curtains. Not that it would have made any difference if there hadn’t been.
    Mr Dodd looked like a young man out of an American soap. He had striking if somewhat vacuous good looks and thick blond hair combed back into a peak. But then you noticed the skin at his throat: not baggy so much as crumpled and crisscrossed and crêpey: and later on you learned he was a grandfather and you set him down as one of the creepiest people you had ever met.
    (Superman, I can assure you, Matt, could never hold a candle to Mr Dodd!)
    But when he came to the door he instantly took in the situation and opened up without the least sign of reluctance. While I held Susie down and did my best to look away from everything the harsh surgery light was so cruelly exposing he conducted a lengthy examination, having first administered a pain-dulling injection.
    In an attempt to distract myself, I wondered why Mr Dodd, if you saw him about during the milder months, invariably wore an open-neck shirt, with nothing visible beneath, when possibly—with a skilfully arranged cravat or some high rolled-over collar—he could have gone on looking thirty-five forever. It was perplexing. Did he suffer, then, from a blind spot…or was it more from that self-destructive urge we’re all supposed to have, but which, speaking for myself, I could never properly recognize? ‘O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, And foolish notion.’ (Another four lines I could have quoted happily to Jake, and might well have done, had Mr Dodd been present.)
    Yet the poor man was always thoroughly agreeable; besides being a first-class vet. And at present my mind couldn’t dwell for long on quirks of personality or appearance.
    â€œI’m afraid she’s very badly hurt,” he announced at last.
    â€œWell, I can see that!” I said. “But she’ll be all right, won’t she? She is going to pull through?”
    â€œIt’s not these gashes on the body we need worry about. It’s the damage to her head.”
    â€œConcussion—right? But concussion heals with time.”
    â€œUnfortunately, it’s more than that, Mr Groves. I’m sad to have to say it—”
    â€œNo,” I cut