Free You Are Dead by Peter James Page B

while he continued with his phone call, was studying this new young patient in front of him. Conservatively dressed, in her twenties, she had a classically beautiful face, with deep brown eyes framed by long hair parted down the center. She reminded him of the actress Julie Christie, whom he’d had the hots for when he had been a teenager. She reminded him of someone else, too, but that was painful and he pushed the memory aside.
    Finally ending the call, he gave her a broad smile. “So, I haven’t seen you before, have I?” He glanced at her name on the computer screen, having to make a real effort to focus. “Freya?”
    â€œNo, I’ve not come to you before,” Freya Northrop said.
    â€œInteresting name, Northrop. Hmmn. Northrop Frye. Ever read him?”
    She shook her head blankly.
    â€œWonderful literary critic! Wrote some brilliant essays on T. S. Eliot. Really helped raise his profile. Milton’s too—especially Paradise Lost. ”
    â€œAh,” she said, equally blankly.
    â€œHis first name was Herman.”
    â€œAh,” she said again, a little disconcerted by the curious conversation.
    Her best friend, Olivia Harper, had said that Crisp was a wonderful doctor, and so jolly. But he seemed more odd than jolly, to her. She felt as if she was irritating him with her ignorance. “T. S. Eliot, I’ve heard of him.”
    â€œ The Waste Land ?”
    â€œOK, right.”
    â€œYou know the poem?”
    â€œI don’t, no.”
    Edward Crisp’s mind went back to last night. Walking Smut across Hove Lagoon. You could walk dogs along Brighton and Hove seafront in winter without them having to be on a lead. And sometimes in the evening, when it was dark enough, he could let Smut, his white mongrel with a black spot either side of her tummy, who he’d acquired as a rescue dog ten years ago, shit anywhere she liked without having to stoop and pick up the mess with a plastic bag or, like some cretinous dog people, with a pooper scooper.
    He was thinking about that terrible image of the skeleton, lying exposed in the ragged hole in the path. He could not get her out of his mind.
    â€œ The Waste Land ?”
    The young patient’s words jolted him back to reality. “ I grow old ,” he said. “ I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. ”
    Freya Northrop frowned.
    â€œâ€˜The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,’” he said, and beamed. “But enough of that. I’m sorry if I’m not totally with it today, I saw a terrible thing last night, and I’m a bit upset. I’m a doctor, I try to make people better. I couldn’t help that poor woman. But that’s enough about me, let’s talk about you. Tell me why you are here?”
    â€œOlivia Harper recommended you. I’ve just moved to Brighton from London.”
    â€œAh yes, indeed, what a lovely lady Olivia is. Quite a delight. Yes, of course. Forgive me, I’m very discombobulated this morning. But of course you don’t want to hear that. Tell me what brings you here?” He smiled, his eyes suddenly alive and twinkling with humor. He held his elegant, black pen up in front of him and stared at her, as if through it.
    â€œWell,” she said. “I don’t feel ill or anything.”
    â€œOf course not—why would you want to see a doctor if you were feeling ill, eh?” He grinned and it was infectious. She grinned back, relaxing a tad.
    â€œTotally,” she replied. “Why would anyone?”
    â€œExactly! I only like to see patients who are feeling well! Who needs sick patients? They take up far too much time—and they reflect badly on me.” He tapped his chest. “Always come and see me anytime you are feeling well, yes?”
    She laughed. “It’s a deal!”
    â€œRight, well, nice to meet you, Freya!” He feigned standing up to say good-bye, then sat down again, chuckling.