Rodgson’s Apothecary on Oxford Street, I happened to know, was one of those chemists which continued to stock the drug, and so it was there that I headed now, new shoes clicking on the cobbles and leather suitcase in hand, every inch the respectable gentleman. There were, I told myself, other drugs which I equally needed if I was to take on medical duties aboard the Managarmr; simple antibiotics and antiseptics, and more vital and expensive chemicals like adrenaline and laudanium. But at the back of my mind, I knew why I was heading to Rodgson’s; X-735T in my blood, calling out for more; the itch which comes on far before full withdrawal. I had been without it perhaps a day longer than accustomed, and yet I already felt its absence.
And, I told myself, why not? The disguise might not persist, but if my courses did – and heavier, as was so often the case with those who left a course of the drug – they would still be painful, and I would still have no concept of how to cope with them. My doctor’s licence was in my wallet. I had the money.
Why not?
(and the answer to that question, later on...)
You may think, from my ominous wording, that there was some hitch with the licence, or, perhaps, that he questioned my purchase of the drug. You may suspect that he apprehended me, or at least reported me. Yet none of these things are the truth; the purchase went without a hitch. Smoothly, if expensively, it was done, and he even offered me a bag at little extra cost, which I gladly took. I was in the process of transferring the medicines into my new bag, my wallet and license out on the desk, when the door jangled. Automatically, I turned... and looked direct into the eyes of the Zephyr’s resident doctor.
The silence stretched out for a long, tense moment. He looked every bit as shocked as I was; they had doubtless sailed away the day before in the glib belief that the women aboard the other ship had done their work for them.
I moved first, shovelling the remaining bottles quickly and carelessly into the bag and grabbing for my wallet, but his tongue was faster than my hands; “THIEF! LIAR!” In long strides, he hurried towards me, eyes blazing. “She’s no doctor, sir, but a woman! That document is a fake!”
And now the entire store had ground to a standstill to watch. Perfect. Bloody perfect.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2010-11-03 01:05 pm (UTC)And, I told myself, why not? The disguise might not persist, but if my courses did – and heavier, as was so often the case with those who left a course of the drug – they would still be painful, and I would still have no concept of how to cope with them. My doctor’s licence was in my wallet. I had the money.
Why not?
(and the answer to that question, later on...)
You may think, from my ominous wording, that there was some hitch with the licence, or, perhaps, that he questioned my purchase of the drug. You may suspect that he apprehended me, or at least reported me. Yet none of these things are the truth; the purchase went without a hitch. Smoothly, if expensively, it was done, and he even offered me a bag at little extra cost, which I gladly took. I was in the process of transferring the medicines into my new bag, my wallet and license out on the desk, when the door jangled. Automatically, I turned... and looked direct into the eyes of the Zephyr’s resident doctor.
The silence stretched out for a long, tense moment. He looked every bit as shocked as I was; they had doubtless sailed away the day before in the glib belief that the women aboard the other ship had done their work for them.
I moved first, shovelling the remaining bottles quickly and carelessly into the bag and grabbing for my wallet, but his tongue was faster than my hands; “THIEF! LIAR!” In long strides, he hurried towards me, eyes blazing. “She’s no doctor, sir, but a woman! That document is a fake!”
And now the entire store had ground to a standstill to watch. Perfect. Bloody perfect.