Dr Muk

Dr Muk asked me whether I’d heard any more news about the Algerian hostage crisis. Had the number of hostages killed been announced yet, for example? ‘I simply don’t understand these Islamist terrorists,’ he added, sadly. ‘They seem absolutely crazy to me. They are brainwashed, I suppose.’ I hadn’t listened to the radio so far today, I said, so I wasn’t up to date. But if you asked me, I said, they quite possibly have a point. Maybe our secular, materialist society is as contemptible as they claim it is. ‘Mm. Mm,’ agreed Dr Muk with surprising readiness.

I was lying on my back and he was slicing open my upper chest with a scalpel. The local area was anaesthetised, so I couldn’t feel a thing. The last time I was under his knife, six months ago, he’d failed to remove the corruption entirely. He’d missed a bit. So here I was again and he was unzipping the scars and ranging wider and deeper with his sharp instruments.