Ballardian

What might have happened if J.G. Ballard had used his medical training to its fullest potential and become a doctor rather than a writer? Well, there would be no pen name for a start; ‘Jimmy Ballard’ would be a different man indeed, as Johnny Strike discovers. In this fascinating snapshot into an alternate Ballardian universe, Mr Strike transplants the cold, airless, subliminally deviant psychopathology of JG Ballard’s writing into Jimmy Ballard’s life…

Johnny Strike is the author of the cult novel Ports of Hell published by Diagonal in the UK. His work has appeared in Headpress and Ambit among other journals, and he is a founding member of the influential US protopunk band Crime. ‘Jimmy Ballard’s Hospital Review’ was included in A Loud Humming Sound Came from Above, Johnny’s latest collection of short stories, published by Rudos and Rubes Press.

Jimmy Ballard got out of the taxi and stood admiring the vast, impersonal buildings of the hospital whose wards and departments constituted a city unto itself. His mind was filled with the wonders of transplant surgery, the various highs induced by the deadpan team of anesthesiologists, and the haunted pictures displayed in the X-ray rooms. He had always suspected that this hospital was also part of an advanced psychological experiment. And now he was part of it. He was here to write the annual review for the Board.

On his first day the bookish yet sexually charged PR rep, Kate North, R.N., took him on a quick tour of the inpatient units, the operating theaters, the laundry, the kitchen, and finally the pharmacy/lab, where under a harsh light, a young West Indian wearing a lab coat focused on a small container of dark liquid. Kate North ignored him and he did not acknowledge their presence either. Even so, Ballard felt that there was some romantic bond between his guide and this intense pharmacist. As though reading Ballard’s mind, Kate North quickly guided him along another busy hallway, holding his arm now as though he was a patient who had wandered away from his assigned ward.

From a top tier of the main building, through a glass wall, they looked over the layout of the hospital. Ballard imagined the mental landscapes of the victims of road crashes, the pregnant women, the cancer patients, the kitchen staff preparing massive amounts of food, as well as the army in charge of linen for the 500 beds that were usually occupied. Kate North pointed out a staff lounge in a far corner that boasted an indoor courtyard with shrubs, trees, and an ornamental pool. A round skylight gave the pool and surrounding area a dose of natural light and a false feeling of open air and space. Ballard found this lounge the most unsettling of all the areas he would visit during his inspection.

The hospital was divided into three main sections: the central one housed primary clinical and emergency services, operating theaters, intensive care units, and maternity services. Around the central core were the psychiatric units, outpatient clinics, and administration offices. Grouped in the back were the service areas that provided the hospital with food and other supplies. Kate North pointed out the Accident and Emergency entrance, located near a hallway of shops and cafés. Had the architect thought that the emergency patients on entry might catch a glimpse of the diversions the hospital offered—as a kind of prize to motivate recovery?

Kate North escorted Ballard to his temporary office. “Tomorrow we’ll visit the Casualty Department,” she said flatly. Ballard watched her turn and walk away. He admired her athletic legs and the movement of her well-formed buttocks encased in a uniform that seemed a little tight for regulations; even a hint of black silk could be seen at the hem.

THE CASUALTY DEPARTMENT

Kate’s breath smelled of coffee and cigarettes, and mixed enticingly with the fumes of the Dior perfume she had dabbed on in the wee hours. In the staff area, she pulled Ballard aside so they could view the main reception room without being noticed. A man in greasy coveralls sat holding his crushed arm, with a drained look on his pockmarked face. A fat, red-faced man next to him held a swab of gauze over his eye and looked to be staring into space with the other one. Kate guided Ballard into a dark room where he half-expected her to unzip him, but instead she switched on a dim light and they stood looking through a one-way mirror into a small operating room. A doctor and nurse in scrubs were attending to a patient. A saline drip dangled from above and was inserted into the patient’s arm. A nasty wound on his knee was exposed. The blood was sponged away by the nurse who then applied an antiseptic. The wound was finally sutured by the doctor, then wrapped in a dressing by the nurse.

“There are no new crash or burn injuries today,” Kate said blandly, yet Ballard sensed a touch of chaos in her big, gray eyes. They exited the room and moved on to the blood bank, and Kate inquired at the reception desk as to when the next transfusion was scheduled, as if inquiring the next showing of a film at the local cinema. They watched the rather boring procedure for a few minutes before she nudged him and they left.

Ahead, ambulance lights played off the corridor walls as Kate and Ballard made their way past the X-ray techs who slumped slightly, perhaps imitating their patients, weighed down by lead aprons. A couple of them stood sipping teas in their doorways, forlornly guarding their domain of equipment, darkrooms, and radiation residue.

Kate stopped and introduced Ballard to Dr. Stuart, head radiologist and diagnostic expert. Dr. Stuart wore black frame-glasses and a neatly trimmed mustache. His bluish-black hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights from ample application of hair gel. He reminded Ballard of a barber more than a doctor, and he seemed to be sizing up Ballard as well. Stuart invited them into his office and led them to seats that looked borrowed from a spacecraft. Stuart sat opposite, behind a wide blue steel desk. The color photos on the walls were all of children; Ballard was soon to learn they’d been photographed in Peru, where the doctor had done field work in his younger days. After a well-practiced recital of the hospital’s features and the general functions of most departments, he began an in-depth discussion of his specialty. Here his passion poured forth and Ballard felt he was listening to an opinionated visual artist rather than a radiologist. Dr. Stuart segued into the proper preparation of a barium meal, as though he were a profiled chef working for a swank restaurant, determined to maintain its high rating in the Zagat Guide. Again, Kate seemed entranced as he spoke, and Ballard wondered if she’d had liaisons with all the prominent men at the hospital.

Ballard’s mind wandered as they left Dr. Stuart. Had one too many documentaries been filmed in these corridors and departments, making his assignment redundant, even meaningless? How could his review ever compete with the cine-cameras, zoom lenses, and continuity people viewing the latest drama in the Trauma Ward? Ballard could imagine Dr. Stuart checking his makeup before stepping onto the set to explain the X-ray results to the frantic and distressed family members. The Board need only view these films to see that their experiment had taken on a life of its own.

Kate invited Ballard to lunch with some of her friends. “They’re all techies,” she said. “So you’ll get a flavor of all their points of view.” They chose a pizza parlor a short walk from the hospital and Ballard was the only male present. Holly, the stylish, brunette X-ray tech who wore her makeup so pale it approached that of a Goth rocker, worked exclusively with radiation treatment. She was the quiet one of the bunch, but occasionally exuded a sultry look between sips of Diet Coke and rearranging her salad on a paper plate. Betty, a middle-aged redhead with bottle-green eyes and a thin upper lip, called herself a mechanic and began describing in loving detail the various hospital equipment and machinery she worked on. Her discussion of a new type of laser might have continued for the entire lunch, had Kate not butted back in. The lab tech, Sharon, an Amazon who could have pursued a career as a fashion model but seemed ignorant of her especially good looks, wore little makeup and her hair was cut into a messy style that she occasionally brushed out of her eyes. She talked about her duties with a curious zeal. Was she eager for a glowing report from him? Ballard wondered. He enjoyed listening to her while the others seemed to be daydreaming or scanning the room for potential lovers.

“I move from department to department,” Sharon continued, touching Ballard’s hand in a familiar way, “but, mostly, you’ll find me in pathology. I’m the queen of the biopsies and the microtome. I study blood as well, some biochemistry, but lately it’s been more work than I can handle from the doctors in microbiology. Bacteria today are becoming increasingly immune to the antibiotics at an alarming rate. And everybody is afraid of a pandemic.” This brought everyone back and Kate looked especially disturbed.

Sharon laughed and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll always have a stash of antidotes for my friends.” Everyone laughed but Ballard.

“She’s joking, James,” Betty said, winking like a drunken sailor.

“Is it true,” Ballard asked, “that all gated communities in this district have medical tele-linkage with the hospital?” Kate answered in the affirmative and the others nodded silently.

On the walk back, Kate told him that there was a fifth member of their usual lunch group, Will Sanders, who was a physical measurement technician, but that he was out sick with the flu. His specialty was audiology; he suffered from hearing loss himself but wore an advanced aid not yet on the market that gave him the acute hearing abilities of a barn owl. In fact, he was nicknamed “The Fox,” and his ears twitched when he tried to listen to anything a bit out of his range.

THE OPERATING THEATRE

The surgical team entered the theater and approached the patient on the operating table. Each began their respective tasks. The nurse adjusted the patient’s gown to expose the abdomen. She cleaned the skin with an antiseptic, then the surgeon outlined the area where the incision would be made. The anesthesiologist placed a mask over the face of the already unconscious patient.

Standing for a moment in the pose of a matador, the surgeon stepped forward and made his incision. One of the two assistant surgeons carefully swabbed the blood. In rapid succession, the surgeon cut through the layers of muscle. The anesthesiologist studied his instrument panel, making sure the patient was getting the right mixtures of gases. Both assistants clamped off the severed blood vessels and used retractors to pull back the skin and muscle flaps. The surgeon found the appendix and quickly removed it. The assistants worked together to remove the clamps and expertly sew up the incision. The surgeon bowed slightly to his team and departed. Ballard looked at his watch and saw that the whole process had taken under fifteen minutes. He thought of the faceless patient waking up later, groggy and sore and pressing the call button for a shot of morphine. He looked at his notes and the peculiar configuration of his drawing: surgeon, anesthetic machine, assistants, nurse, operating light, patient, diathermy machine, and the instrument trolly that held the various surgical instruments: the dissecting forceps, operating scissors, and the scalpels.

“Tomorrow you’ll have a day on your own,” Kate said, escorting him back to his office. “Will you miss me?” she teased, making him smile and say yes. “But then Wednesday first thing. I’ll be introducing you to all the big shots.”

“Till then,” Ballard said, taking Kate’s hand and feeling the warmth of her palm, but instead of the look of seduction he was hoping for, her expression had shifted to business-as-usual. But she did finally throw him a vampy smile before heading off. Kate North was a mystery that he longed to solve.

THE HOSPITAL DOCTORS

When Kate and Ballard entered Dr. Kaminsky’s office, led by his haughty secretary, they could see him across the room in a white lab coat, standing, viewing a computer screen, wearing headphones. His modish haircut came over the collar of his coat. He was writing something in a notebook. The secretary gestured toward two chairs that faced the doctor’s desk and they sat down. Dr. Kaminsky finished up, removed his headphones, and turned to greet them. He was a young man, with generally good looks and a pleasant smile. Ballard stood briefly and shook hands with him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ballard, but I prefer to stand whenever I can.” Dr. Kaminsky walked behind his desk, folded his arms, and cradled his chin with his right hand. “I’m an anesthesiologist, and so a key member of the surgical team. I, also, hold the patient’s life in my hands.” The doctor looked briefly at his hands. “We deliver the patient into the world of dreams, across the rivers of myth, to a multitude of netherworlds.” He smiled beatifically. “The afterlife is previewed and it’s nothing like what religions tell us. No, it’s more like the mind of Dali or the hallucinations of the Huichol Indians of Northern Mexico.” Dr. Kaminsky was charming and eloquent and peculiar. Ballard listened with interest as he keenly described his gases and drugs. He was also a contact if needed, set into position a year ago by the Board.

They moved on to Dr. Huber, a cardiologist, who was the opposite of the young Kaminsky, an older man with an annoyed presence, wearing a suit that would have better served a lawyer. He announced that his specialty, heart disease, was bound to affect everyone eventually. Dr. Huber touched his stethoscope and looked expectantly at Ballard, as if waiting for him to volunteer himself for a listen.

“My friends are the diagnostic machines in D Ward,” he said with the wicked, impersonal smile of a new breed of gangster scientist. “They display for me the electrical patterns that help me to see certain blood vessels.”

Next, Dr. Paul, the head pediatrician, was a tall, bony man in his early forties. He, too, wore a modish cut like Dr. Kaminsky, but Dr. Paul had a receding hairline, a Roman nose, and dull, brown eyes. He wore a lab coat with lollipops, candy sticks, pens, and thermometers stuffed in the upper pocket. They met him in the hallway and as he talked he glanced around, monitoring the foot traffic in and out of his department. As they chatted, Ballard got the impression that Dr. Paul was covertly still a child himself, and a devious one at that—overly cautious about what he had to say. Even his expressions seemed borrowed from his adolescent patients. A smiling Eurasian nurse appeared with a young Down syndrome girl in tow. Dr. Paul abandoned their conversation and crouched to face his young patient. They communicated in some barely audible, secret language.

“This is Sybil, my star patient,” he said, looking up at Ballard and Kate. Dr. Paul’s entire face had transformed into a bright smile.

Sybil seemed only marginally affected by the Down syndrome and, after a quick study of the couple, offered her hand. Dr. Paul, Sybil, and the nurse moved on toward the hospital gift shop. Dr. Paul called back that they were going shopping, promising to meet up later in the Children’s Ward.

Dr. Craig, the head gynecologist, appeared more like a strange policeman or some new type of security agent in his tight, powder blue uniform and Egyptian ankh bolo tie. How did this correspond to his arduous work in the domain of the vulva, pubis, labia, and reproductive system, Ballard wondered. But Dr. Craig cut the meeting short after taking a phone call—a call that Ballard suspected had been pre-arranged. As he walked away, Ballard noticed the many keys that swung from his belt, and a pair of rubber gloves that dangled from his back pocket. He appeared more like a sexual deviant posing as a doctor, Ballard decided. Kate stirred him from his thoughts, touching his lower back. Ballard imagined her as an ardent masseuse or chiropractor assessing the area she soon would be working on.

The head pathologist, Dr. Rollins, an elderly man, they caught snoozing at his desk. Kate knocked loud enough on the open door to rouse him. He reminded Ballard of the French bulldog he had petted in the hospital parking lot the previous afternoon. Dr. Rollins’s desk was piled with files and papers and books. Vials of what looked like blackish blood were haphazardly laying amongst a cigar, a thick men’s spy-adventure paperback, and an open box of prophylactics. Dr. Rollins put his fingers together in a steeple and recited, in a monotone, his trials and tribulations as head pathologist. Kate soon appeared drowsy listening to the words that, clearly, made little sense to either of them.

In the next office, the head psychiatrist insisted that Ballard call her Dorothy. But once they’d left their meeting with her, he had trouble recalling what she looked like, let alone what she had said. Ballard felt as though they had participated in some kind of brainwashing or hypnosis session. This crafty shrink would get a special note in his report.

The last stop for the day was the office of the head surgeon, Dr. Spencer, whom they had watched perform the appendectomy. A hum leaked from some invisible machine in his office and Ballard noted that, like some mad maestro, he did not shake hands but instead gave a slight bow. He reminded Ballard of a stage performer as he spoke and moved around his office, almost as though he were practicing steps and poses. Then he stood still, appearing again for a moment like a slightly unhinged matador. For such a large office, it was surprisingly bare, as if to emulate the surgery theater itself: his desk and bookcases were as sterile and empty as his operating tables. They said goodbye to Dr. Spencer and left him to his elaborate rehearsals.

“Do you have a little energy left for a visit to the Maternity Ward?” asked Kate.

“Of course, sure,” Ballard said as she studied him over her glasses. He could see thickly applied black eyeliner and was lost for a moment in her beguiling eyes. Again she guided him by the arm, now as though he were a reluctant father trying to put off the inevitable obligation of facing his new offspring. He expected to hear babies crying, but the Maternity Ward was strangely silent, and Kate seemed to be enjoying his mystification. She pulled a white lab coat out of a supply closet and offered to help him on with it.

“It’s better that you look like a doctor on this ward,” she said, admiring the fit. In the first room, a midwife was checking a patient’s rate of contractions. The patient smiled at them in a daze. Through a number of doors, they stepped into another room where a young mother was breastfeeding her infant. The bedcover was pulled back and her legs were bare. Kate seemed to bristle, perhaps suspecting that he was admiring the woman’s legs.

“There are supposed to be two, maybe even three, births later today, if you’re interested,” she said as she guided him along a window where the incubated babies were lying in clear, square compartments like some bad science fiction film.

He stopped to view a black baby who appeared almost purple in the gaudy lighting and the circulating swirls of purified air.

“Would you like to visit the Children’s Ward? Dr. Paul and Sybil are probably there now.”

Although Ballard was tired, he felt a boost as they entered the Children’s Ward. The walls were painted in lively colors—one in glitzy red and yellow stripes that reminded him of a carnival tent. The beds were arranged in a circle and two laundry baskets were stuffed with toys. But the beds were empty, as though an abduction had just taken place. A stuffed bear and stuffed giraffe sat there, looking at them dumbly. The Eurasian nurse, Lee, came into the room and explained that the children had gone to the hospital garden. Lee had changed to a lab coat decorated with clowns, balloons, flowers, and butterflies. She led them to the window and they looked down at the line of children being led by Dr. Paul, the adult Peter Pan, and Sybil, an awkward Tinkerbell.

“Beyond the garden, they’ll climb a summit and look back to view the hospital grounds in its entirety,” Lee said, making a motion as though adjusting a troublesome corset.

Ballard spent the next day typing up his notes on an electric typewriter. At lunchtime, Kate tapped on his door in a playful mood.

“You know, James, you haven’t asked me much about myself, or the nursing profession, for that matter.”

“I’m sorry, Kate, it’s a very general report.”

“Aren’t you interested in me?”

“Why, of course.”

“Then take me to lunch?”

“Well, with pleasure.”

“Good,” said Kate with a coquettish look. “I’ve found a little bistro not too far. And no one has discovered it yet.”

They left the hospital, boarded the Tube, and got off one station later. The restaurant was on the second level of a shopping complex: dark, comfy, something like a gentleman’s clubroom. They settled themselves into a leather booth in one corner. They both ordered the crab stew special, and Ballard was pleased to see a good French wine on the menu. During lunch, Kate spoke of growing up in London, her early disillusionment with art school, the great thrill of the early punk scene, and a summer of bumming around the beaches of Greece and Turkey. After a profound dream where she’d been a nurse on a battlefield, she became obsessed with the profession. For once, her parents gave her their complete support and even paid for nursing school. From the beginning, she had studied hard. After graduation, she’d worked in many of the different specialties: intensive care, psychiatry, midwifery, elder care, pediatrics, but finally found her true calling in public relations.

“But what was the most challenging before you took this job?” Ballard asked, and wondered just what had so attracted him to this independent young lady twenty-three years younger than he was.

“The elderly,” she said, looking at him as though he had somehow just been transformed into Herbert Humbert, and she into a more sophisticated Lolita. “And it was also the most rewarding.” She sipped her wine and stared off across the empty room, perhaps picturing some stressful life-changing experience she’d had while working in the world of geriatrics.

“Depression is widespread with this age group,” she said. “But I worked under a brilliant doctor who knew the cure and used it: opiates. During that time, the ward for the elderly was an even happier place than the Children’s Ward. He determined the dose each patient could tolerate while remaining functional and then prescribed that dose as needed. Pain complaints ceased almost completely. He also supplied other drugs if the patient had a preference; cannabis extract was very popular.

“During this period, one patient, who’d been a notorious swinger in the Sixties, filled notebooks with her racy memoirs that were later published. And a fantastic art show was exhibited by the elderly patients; it was reviewed by the local media and even caused a bit of controversy. A certain eighty-seven year-old, Mr. Simon Thurston, had obtained Polaroids of his disfigured penis from his medical files and displayed them as found art.

“There were a few musicians there at that time who held impromptu concerts. They covered Stravinsky, Mariachi music, and even some cool jazz. They changed the lighting in the ward to a mix of soft golden splashes and dreamy purple shades, which helped to transform it into an atmosphere of a decadent nightclub-cum-opium-den. But it couldn’t last, of course. The doctor was exposed and booted from the hospital.

“I secretly agreed with his treatment,” she added quietly, as though someone might be listening. “But soon after the scandal, things went back to their old gloomy ways, and after some night classes, I applied for a position in public relations.” Ballard made a mental note of the doctor’s name to file a petition to have him reinstated.

The following day, Kate introduced him to a blur of people. She seemed to take some pleasure in making the endless introductions, including the staff from the hospital gift shop; the manager of the on-site radio station; the chaplain again, whom Ballard managed to neatly brush off; and a sexy, young couple that he was surprised and delighted to find were the hospital disc jockey and beautician.

THE HOSPITAL AT NIGHT

The first thing Ballard noticed was the absence of activity in the hallways. The quietude was enhanced by dim lighting throughout the corridors and waiting rooms. He stopped by a room where a red light above the door was flashing. At the far end of the hallway, Dr. Huber and two nurses were hurrying towards him. Dr. Huber urged Ballard inside. In a moment, they were all in the patient’s room.

In bed was an elderly woman lying on the covers, motionless. Her head was to the side and an arm was dangling over the bedside. A night nurse explained to Dr. Huber that heart massage and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation had both failed. Dr. Huber watched his team set up two trolleys of machines, including a defibrillator. An oxygen mask was strapped onto her by one nurse and a tube was guided down her throat. The electrocardiogram equipment was set in place and Dr. Huber studied the readout and then placed the shock pads on the patient’s chest. After two jolts, the woman was revived. She sat up suddenly, with an almost serene expression, and the team quietly congratulated her.

“Send Mrs. Martin to IC for a few days,” Dr. Huber instructed the night nurse. He turned to Ballard with a nod and then he was gone. Ballard walked out of the room and down another hallway, letting some inner sense of navigation guide him. He wandered the back corridors and looked into the empty rooms and offices. He came across a few porters in a waiting room watching news on TV and drinking tea. He continued on his inspection and spoke with a few women from domestic services. The kitchen was open so he bought a coffee and headed to his office.

MEDICAL ENGINEERING

The clear plastic-covered booklet on his desk, probably left by Kate North since she knew his interest in this field, was titled: Medical Engineering, 1984. The cover diagram depicted a green, human form showing all the current spare parts of the human body in yellow, with corresponding numbers. One leg and arm were orange and obviously artificial. The illustration could have doubled for the cover of a deranged science fiction collection. He read the listing slowly.

1. Wig. 2. Skull plate. 3. Skull plug. 4. Plastic cornea. 5. Plastic eye. 6. Contact lenses. 7. Spectacles. 8. Hearing aid. 9. False teeth. 10. Chin enlarger. 11. Artificial larynx, 12. Pacemaker. 13. Artificial breast. 14. Shoulder joint. 15. Artificial arm. 16. Synthetic artery. 17. Heart valves. 18. Elbow joint. 19. Synthetic vein. 20. Elbow cap. 21. Elbow hinge. 22. Abdominal patch. 23. Hip joint. 24. Testicle implants. 25. Artificial knee. 26. Femur. 27. Finger joints. 28. Knee joints. 29. Knee plate. 30. Shinbone.

Ballard turned the page and the next fantastic drawing was of an artificial hand with its “Arm socket, motor with amplifier and gears,” and its “Rechargeable battery pack.” Another page showed an X-ray, perhaps taken by one of Dr. Stuart’s assistants. The finger joints of stainless steel were already in position in a skeletal hand. Another page displayed the devilish and confusing diagram of a heart-lung machine. Below it was a pacemaker, looking something like a lighter except for the plastic tubing that was attached to it.

He worked on his review throughout the day, breaking only for brief meetings with a physiotherapist and a psychotherapist who had both just returned from holidays in Spain. Afterward, he found himself near the hospital pharmacy/lab. This time, the West Indian pharmacist wished him a cheery good afternoon.

Ballard made brief visits over the next few days to the more mundane outpatient department, admissions office, medical records, the hospital switchboard, and the supplies department. On his final rounds, he looked for Kate North in the staff lounge where he instead spotted Dr. Rollins, coming out of a back room with Lee, the Eurasian nurse from the Children’s Ward. Rollins shot him a quick, contemptuous look, then tried to smile. Lee looked away but he thought he’d glimpsed a slightly bruised lip.

In the cafeteria, Ballard asked Betty and Sharon where Kate might be. Sharon grinned and sent him on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. During his last days, Kate was never where she was supposed to be. He was starting to suspect a conspiracy. Eventually, he stood by her office for nearly an hour, looking periodically at a small notebook before, finally feeling foolish, deciding to give up.

Ballard knew that compiling the psychology of the future was the ultimate aim. The Board would be pleased to see that the inner migration continued unabated. There would always be the variants, the Dr. Craigs and the Dr. Rollinses. But as they were the first of the inevitable deviant behaviors that would erupt from time to time, they, too, would be studied and contained. Dr. Craig would have to go, of course, before he plotted some kind of insane takeover. Ballard had photographed the documents in his files that indicated this tendency. So far, Craig and Rollins had interfered only slightly with the psychic fulfillment that otherwise looked to be flourishing since the Board had put its systems into place. And there were a few others who needed further monitoring, but so far, showed no major glitches.

Ballard finished typing his report and placed the sheaf of papers in a white plastic case. He would present it to the Review Board the following week. On this, his last day, he had hoped to invite Kate to his favorite restaurant in Chelsea, but wondered again if she’d been avoiding him.

He left the hospital, left the grounds, and headed off down a busy city street. It started to rain heavily and he had not brought an umbrella.

He hurried along, looking through the blur of rain for a place to duck into. Shielding his face with the briefcase, he spotted the restaurant where he had eaten with Kate. An exquisite girl, decked out in an open black slicker and stiletto heels, stood under the awning at the entranceway, making him think of a Helmut Newton photograph.

Kate North smiled at him as he approached, now dripping wet. For the first time, she was wearing her hair down and no glasses. She wiped off his face and kissed his mouth, biting at his lip.

“I was just looking for you inside,” she whispered into his ear.

“Now, the real review will begin,” Ballard said, realizing his voice had dropped to a lower register.