Melvin Summers’ head lay in the crook of his right elbow. His other arm was stretched across the table, his hand still curled around an almost-full tumbler of beer, the way a sleeping child might clutch a favourite toy. Django eased the glass from Summers’ grip and poured its contents over the dentist’s head. At first Summers reacted at the speed of a mollusc, then the liquid met its mark and he sprang to his feet, toppling the table.
‘Wha the fuck . . . wha the fuck . . . fucking . . .’
Django put a hand on the other man’s shoulder and pressed him gently back into his seat. He righted the table and set it back in place.
‘You woke me up.’ All the grimy wrinkles in Melvin Summers’ face creased. It looked like a fetish mask carved from some pale, moon-grown wood. ‘Do you know what it takes for me to fall asleep?’ His voice was too weary to hold a threat. ‘Christ Almighty.’
The dentist let out a groan and started to bang his forehead against the table.
Stevie leapt to stop him, but Django was quicker.
‘Fuck, Melv, don’t do that.’ He grabbed the collar of the dentist’s jacket, holding his head upright, like an executioner who had forgotten the formality of the guillotine. ‘I wouldn’t have woken you, mate, except that this lady here said she might be able to help with your little Joy.’
Summers bore no resemblance to the neat professional who had graced his company website. His shirt hung open, exposing chest hair matted with beer and sweat. Remnants of dried blood were jewelled around his nostrils and Stevie guessed this wasn’t the first time the dentist had pounded his head against the table.
‘Behave yourself.’ Django ruffled Summers’ already ruffled hair.
Melvin Summers’ mouth hung slackly open. He turned his eyes on Stevie and said, ‘Joy’s dead.’
It sounded like a verdict on the state of the world.
‘We know, mate, but . . .’ Django looked at Stevie as if suddenly realising he didn’t know her name.
‘Stephanie.’
‘Stephanie here is going after those doctors that let Joy down, and she wants anything you can give her on them.’
‘Fuck off.’
Melvin Summers rested his forehead on the table and covered his head with his hands. Django looked at Stevie and shrugged.
‘I told you.’
‘Mr Summers.’ Stevie sat next to the dentist. He reeked of stale sweat, sour beer and urine, but she leant in close and asked, ‘Why were you so sure that the doctors were responsible for Joy’s death?’ The dentist kept his head buried beneath his hands and his reply was muffled. Stevie put a hand on his shoulder. She felt him shrink beneath her touch, but he didn’t pull away. ‘What convinced you?’
The dentist raised his head and looked at her.
‘Because she died.’
‘It wasn’t just that, was it, Melv?’ Django had settled himself on a stool on the opposite side of the table. ‘She’d been ill a long time, your girl, since she was born. There were reasons you didn’t think it was natural causes, weren’t there?’
‘Piss off, Django. Go and get your hole and leave me alone.’
Django gave Stevie an apologetic look and said, ‘Keep it clean, Melv.’
The dentist rested his chin on his knuckles, as if the weight of his head was too much to carry unaided.
‘Where’s my drink?’
Django held up the empty beer glass.
‘If I get you a refill, will you have a chat with Stephanie?’
Melvin Summers’ face was still sticky with the beer Django had poured over him but he looked at his empty glass with bemusement. He thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a bundle of notes.
‘S’okay, Melv, put your money away. It’s on the house.’ Django looked at Stevie. ‘What’s your poison?’
Stevie thought it might be nice to drown in a river of vodka or an ocean of gin, but she said, ‘I’m driving.’
‘Way things are, I doubt anyone’s bothering about the drink-driving laws and I know where Doris kept the champagne.’
‘She said she didn’t want anything, Django.’ The dentist’s voice was knotted with desperation. ‘Now piss off, please, and get me a beer, like the good man that you are.’
‘What did your last servant die of?’ Django said, but he sauntered towards the bar, looking like a man who could face anything, as long as he had a whisky in his hand.
Stevie wondered if she should wait for the drinks to arrive and lubricate the conversation, but the carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed five. Time was draining away.
‘I’m sorry to dredge up painful memories, but like Django said, I’m looking into Fibrosyop, the doctors who treated Joy.’
Melvin Summers stared at her. He had handsome, symmetrical features beneath the blood and stubble, but his eyes held a recklessness that might not be entirely due to alcohol. Stevie wondered whether he would have been a happy family man if his daughter had lived, or if alcoholism and bitterness had always been lurking somewhere, ready to catch him out.
He asked, ‘Who are you representing? A rival drug firm?’
‘No one. Myself.’
‘Why?’
One of the crashed-out drinkers mumbled something in his sleep and turned over.
Stevie said, ‘I lost someone too.’
It was the answer she had given Django, and not quite a lie, but the taste of it was sour in her mouth.
Melvin Summers massaged his eyes with the heels of his hands.
‘Fuck, my brain hurts.’ He leant back in his chair and stared at her. ‘It won’t do you any good. They all back each other up.’
‘Who?’
‘The drug companies, the doctors, the money men.’
Summers looked towards the door of the lounge and Stevie followed his gaze. In the bar beyond, a woman was dancing on her own. The woman raised her hands in the air and wiggled her fingertips, like someone miming rain. The dentist gave a deep sigh. ‘Django’s taking his time.’ He tapped his fingernails against the table in a restless military beat that turned into a clenched fist rapping against wood. Stevie bore it for as long as she could and then put a hand over his.
‘I need your help.’ Now that Melvin Summers’ fist had stopped its banging Stevie could hear the carriage clock ticking off the seconds, beneath the snores of the sleeping drinkers. ‘And I might be the only other person still interested in what happened to your daughter.’
‘What difference will it make now?’ Melvin Summers closed his eyes and Stevie thought she had lost him, but after a moment he opened them again. ‘I’m like the bloody ancient mariner. I’ve got one fucking story and a compulsion to ruin everyone’s day with it. Poor sod had a thirst on him too if I remember rightly.’
He looked again at the door connecting the bar to the lounge.
Stevie said, ‘Don’t worry about ruining my day. It’s already hit the skids.’
‘It’s early. There’s still time for things to get worse.’ Summers rapped his knuckles against the table again, and then settled back in his seat. ‘Parents of sick kids get to know parents of other sick kids. I guess in the old days you would have run into each other in waiting rooms, or maybe at support groups, if you could find the time to go to a support group, but these days the Internet connects us all.’ He spread out his hands, like a conductor getting ready to rouse the orchestra, and then slumped back in his chair again. ‘Joy wasn’t the only child the treatment didn’t help. She also wasn’t the only one who died while she was undergoing it. Okay, so Joy was ill, and there were no guarantees, I understood that, but children with cerebral palsy can live well into adulthood.’ Melvin Summers ran a hand through his hair. It flattened beneath his fingers and then sprang up into the same wild tangle as before. ‘After Joy died, I followed what happened to other children on the programme. The death rate was higher than in the general population of children with cerebral palsy, and the ones who did survive just didn’t improve, not in the way the research suggested they should have.’