Louise Welsh - A Lovely Way to Burn

‘Of course I did.’ Melvin Summers’ eyes had lost their glassy sheen, as if talking about his daughter’s case had sobered him. ‘It didn’t matter to me that the treatment was expensive. I didn’t care about that, neither did Carol, but I wanted to be convinced that it had a better-than-average chance of being effective. Joy had been through a lot and this was an invasive procedure.’ Django returned and set a pint next to the dentist’s elbow, but Melvin Summers ignored it. He leant forward, his eyes on Stevie’s. ‘You meet parents who would do anything in the hope of making an improvement to their child’s condition, however slight, even if it involves putting the child through more suffering. I didn’t want that.’ Summers lifted his pint and took a long deep swallow that left a foam moustache on his top lip. ‘Carol said she felt the same way.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘She did feel the same way. But the heart and the head don’t always agree. My wife would have done anything for Joy. She wanted to rush into the treatment, but I insisted on time to research it. I read everything available – the prognosis was amazingly good.’ He looked at Django. ‘What is it they say? If it sounds too good to be true then it probably is.’

The other man nodded. ‘So you reckon it was like some Nigerian prince wanting to share his fortune with you. All you need to do is give him details of your bank account and he’ll make you a millionaire.’

Summers said, ‘Substitute sick kid for bank account and you’ve got it in one.’

Stevie wished Django would go away and leave them to talk in peace. She touched his arm, hoping he would take the hint and keep quiet. ‘You think the doctors deliberately went out to con you?’

The dentist grinned and she saw the reckless gleam in his eyes again. It made him look like a pirate, or a murderer. He said, ‘Let me ask you a question. What do you do for a living?’

‘I sell stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Various things.’

‘Various things.’ Melvin Summers raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, maybe selling various things is an honest profession, but I’ve been a dentist for almost twenty years, and I can tell you, dentistry has its share of crooks. There’s money to be made from medicine and, as far as I’m concerned, wherever you find an opportunity to make money you’ll find villains. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.’

Stevie smiled to soften the sting of what she was about to say. ‘The doctors who founded Fibrosyop tried to get their treatment licensed for use by the National Health Service. They didn’t turn to the private sector until after the NHS rejected it.’

‘I’m not saying they planned it. But mistakes happen and sometimes they work to people’s benefit. By the time Joy was undergoing treatment, those doctors were making so much money I reckon they didn’t want to stop, even if they knew their miracle cure was a piece of painful and expensive shit.’

Stevie said, ‘Did you take your suspicions to the authorities?’

Summers’ voice was boozy with contempt.

‘They’re all in league with each other. I needed numbers if I was going to get anywhere. The website was just the first move. My plan was to rally as many parents as possible and then get the media on our side. One fucked-up dentist wouldn’t convince anyone, but a group of parents with media interest would have a chance.’ The dentist looked at her. ‘What’s the fucking point?’ He put his pint to his mouth and took three deep swallows. The liquid was low in the glass and Stevie wondered if he was about to finish it and leave. ‘I’ve told you what I know. If you don’t believe me, you can fuck off.’

Django leant forward. ‘Stephanie only wants to know what makes you so certain.’

Summers ran his fingers over his skull, roughly kneading his head. It was a long time since the dentist had had a haircut and his hair was thick and coarse, like an animal’s winter pelt.

‘After Joy’s death, one of the doctors came to see Carol and me in the hospital, to give us his condolences. I saw his face.’ He shook his head. ‘That doctor knew the treatment was a crock of shit and he was ashamed.’

Stevie said, ‘He told you?’

‘No, but it was written all over him.’

Summers looked straight at Stevie, challenging her to disbelieve him.

She asked, ‘Did you say anything to him?’

‘Not then. Carol was with me and she’d been through enough. I tried to tell myself how hard it must be for a doctor to lose a patient, especially a young patient. But I knew it was more than that and it ate at me. Every time I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep, I’d see that doctor’s face, the shame on it. Other children were being subjected to the same useless procedure, and other parents were lying awake in their beds, praying that everything would work out, when what they should have been doing was enjoying the child they still had.’ He lifted his pint and emptied the last of the dregs from his glass. ‘I knew there was no point in trying to make an appointment to see him. He’d just find reasons not to meet me. So I staked out the hospital.’

Django pulled a bottle of beer from his pocket and struck its cap against the edge of the table. A slice of cheap veneer splintered from the tabletop and the metal cap bounced on to the carpet. He handed the frothing bottle to the dentist. ‘What happened?’

‘I saw him swanking across the foyer with another couple of doctors, all white coats and stethoscopes. I didn’t say anything, just walked up and stood in front of them. He recognised me straight away. It was obvious I’d been waiting for him, but he was smooth. You don’t get to that level without being smooth. He actually seemed pleased to run into me.’ The dentist grinned again and tilted the bottle to his mouth. ‘Looking back, I can see he was desperate to get me out of the building in case I’d come to make some kind of public scene. A brouhaha . He suggested we went for a drink.’ Summers flicked a fingernail against the rim of the beer bottle and it made a small ping . ‘I guess he got my measure pretty quickly. I seem to remember that I drank three malt whiskeys and he had one beer which, now that I look back, might have been non-alcoholic.’ Summers smiled at Django. ‘Never trust a man who drinks non-alcoholic beer.’

‘Unless he’s operating on a sick kid the next day,’ Django replied softly.

‘God forbid.’ Melvin Summers spat on the carpet. ‘I laid it all out in front of him. My observations, the way the research and the reality didn’t stack up, and he listened patiently.’

Summers paused again and Stevie said, ‘I’m sensing a “but”.’

‘There was no “but”. Not straight away. He was tight-lipped, but you’d expect that. Britain’s becoming as litigious as the US. No one admits to anything unless they’re forced to. The doctor told me he was just one of a small team who made up Fibrosyop and that as far as he knew the trials were watertight. Nevertheless, he said, he took my concerns seriously and would initiate a review of the treatment’s results.’

Django said, ‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘I thought it sounded like a pile of shit, and I was right.’ Melvin Summers grinned, like a man about to lay his trump card on the table. ‘That evening two police officers came to my house. They told me that the doctor had been clear that he didn’t want to file an official complaint because of my “obvious and understandable distress at my recent bereavement”, but if I persisted in harassing him, he would seek an injunction. It was all rather gentle.’ He shook his head. ‘They were your typical coppers, big guys. The kind you suspect might have turned to crime if they hadn’t joined the force, but it was like a little bit of Dr Sharkey was in the room with us. Apparently he had called in at the station personally to make sure there were no mix-ups. He’d obviously impressed them.’