Something in the Water - By Trevor Baxendale Page 0,1

desk, but the angle of his body was way too steep. At forty-five degrees, one hand on the desk and the other on his hip, he looked absurd. And he knew it.

‘Hello, good morning, come in,’ he trilled to the creature that stepped into his surgery.

Saskia Harden was no beauty, but she had the kind of looks that turned people’s heads. Men and women. The fact that she had tried to kill herself on a number of occasions only added to the air of exotic mystery that had built up around her at Trynsel, and had led Iuean Davis to christen her ‘the Angel of Death’.

She was always cool, almost statuesque, with a face that looked as if it had been carved from some sort of smooth, living stone. Her eyes were smoky, amused, scornful, hopeful, all at once, as if she was somehow physically removed from everything and everyone else, acting only as an impartial observer.

Letty Bird had once described her as ‘that woman who always looks like she’s on the other side of a pane of glass’.

Saskia walked into the surgery and closed the door softly behind her. She was wearing a thin, light raincoat belted at the waist. Her legs were bare below the knee, apart from her shoes, and this gave the impression that she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the coat. Bob felt his pulse quickening.

‘Is this yours?’ she asked, bending neatly to pick up Bob’s pen.

‘Thanks, yeah.’ Bob straightened awkwardly, took the pen, tossed it carelessly onto his desk and watched it roll off the other side and drop onto the carpet again. ‘Look at me – all fingers and thumbs this morning.’ He laughed and sat down, indicating that she should take a seat as well.

Saskia Harden slid demurely into the patient’s chair opposite and smiled at him. She had the strangest smile but it was her eyes that captivated him. They seemed distant and yet extraordinarily focused, as if they could see things that no one else could.

Bob thought of them as the eyes of a predator, sizing up its prey from deep cover.

It was also hard to describe exactly what colour they were. It was almost too easy to say they were green, and not strictly accurate. Not quite green, then. Grey? Not really. Jade? No. Emerald? Absolutely not. Somewhere in between, perhaps. All of them and none of them, depending on the light and the time of day, whether she was indoors or outdoors, morning or afternoon or midnight. Her eyes had that kind of variable quality, what jewellers refer to as chatoyance. Bob even wondered if she used tinted contact lenses.

Suddenly realising that he had been staring deeply into her eyes for far too long as he tried to make sure, he found her smiling that smile at him again. The smile that made him think she either wanted to kiss him or kill him.

‘Right!’ he said, clearing his throat and sitting back. He put his hands behind his head in an effort to look relaxed, but then, worried there might already be sweat-patches under his arms, sat forward and folded them on the desk instead. ‘What can we do for you this morning? I mean, what can I do for you this morning? Anything?’

‘I’ve come back for my check-up,’ she replied, still smiling.

‘Of course.’ Bob turned to his laptop and quickly accessed her records. ‘Right, let’s see.’ He looked back up at her. ‘How’s it going? How are you feeling?’

‘Fantastic.’

Bob raised his eyebrows. ‘Good. Great! So – as I said. What can I do for you?’

She leaned forward, keeping his gaze. Her liquid, not-green not-grey eyes were mesmerising. ‘Dr Strong, I’ll be blunt: I need to find a man.’ When she spoke next, her voice was little more than a dark whisper. ‘I want to procreate.’

‘I see,’ said Bob, equally quietly, and then cleared his throat again. This time it was difficult, like there was a real cough there.

‘I think you can help me with that, Dr Strong.’

‘What? No, I don’t think so. I mean no. No. Well, not me personally, if you understand. What I mean is …’

He was blithering. Doing exactly what Iuean always complained about.

But Saskia seemed not to notice, or perhaps care. She said, ‘I’m looking for the right kind of man. And I think you’re the one.’

‘Ah,’ he said, for want of anything more intelligent to say. He decided at this point it was best to just shut his mouth and say as little