The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

“They’re just scratches.”

“I want a doctor to see you.”

“No.”

“Don’t you dare say no to me,” she replied harshly. “You’re getting into this bathtub right now; you’re going to wash yourself with soap and water and you’re going to have a shave. You have two options: either you do it or I will. And don’t imagine for one second that I won’t.”

I smiled.

“I know.”

“Do as I say. In the meantime I’m going to find a doctor.”

I was about to reply, but she raised her hand to silence me.

“Don’t say another word. If you think you’re the only person for whom life is painful, you’re wrong. And if you don’t mind letting yourself die like a dog, at least have the decency to remember that there are those of us who do care—although, to tell the truth, I don’t see why.”

“Isabella—”

“Into the water. And please remove your trousers and underpants.”

“I know how to take a bath.”

“I’d never have guessed.”

While Isabella went off in search of a doctor, I submitted to her orders and subjected myself to a baptism of cold water and soap. I hadn’t shaved since the funeral and when I looked in the mirror I was greeted by the face of a wolf. My eyes were bloodshot and my skin had an unhealthy pallor. I put on clean clothes and went to wait in the gallery. Isabella returned twenty minutes later with a physician I thought I’d seen in the area once or twice.

“This is the patient. Pay no attention whatsoever to anything he says to you. He’s a liar,” Isabella announced.

The doctor glanced at me, calibrating the extent of my hostility.

“It’s over to you, doctor,” I said. “Just imagine I’m not here.”

We went to my bedroom and he began the subtle rituals that form the basis of medical science: he took my blood pressure, listened to my chest, examined my pupils and my mouth, and asked me questions of a mysterious nature. When he inspected the razor cuts Irene Sabino had made on my chest, he raised an eyebrow.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a long story, doctor.”

“Did you do it to yourself?”

I shook my head.

“I’m going to give you an ointment for the cuts, but I’m afraid you’ll be left with some scars.”

“I think that was the idea.”

He continued with his examination and I submitted to everything obediently, my eye on Isabella, who was watching anxiously from the doorway. I understood then how much I had missed her and how much I appreciated her company.

“What a fright you gave me,” she mumbled with disapproval.

The doctor frowned when he saw the raw wounds on the tips of my fingers. He proceeded to bandage them one by one.

“When did you last eat?”

I didn’t reply. The doctor exchanged glances with Isabella.

“There is no cause for alarm, but I’d like to see him in my office tomorrow at the latest.”