The Dentist Pt1

Malcolm Severin stared morosely through the car windscreen at the group of men gathered about a hundred yards away, just outside the front door of his dental practice. He'd had a rough idea it might come to this. Of the four figures, he only knew one of them, Eddie Darling. Darling was an intense, stocky little man who could gut your soul with a single glance. Malcolm had met Eddie at a dinner party held by a local artist friend about a month earlier and after getting a little wasted he had foolishly agreed to head away from the wives and lady friends and play poker in a spare room with some of the chaps. A few good hands and a few lines of coke had raised his confidence to ludicrous levels. By about 1am, the softly spoken 'local businessman' in the casual pinstripe suit and white loafers had cleaned him out. Two hours later he was a good 3 grand in hock . As things wound down at around 4am, Darling announced that he would play Malcolm at one last game to let him clear his slate. The forfeit for Malcolm if he lost was that he had to provide Darling with free dental treatment. A quick visit to the bank on Monday morning would have seen to his debt, but the temptation was too much. What were a few free fillings to a man of his standing?

The other three men were unfamiliar to Malcolm. Two of them were standard issue hardmen, all leather jackets and buzzcuts, built like tanks and exuding even at a distance, an aura of deep unpleasantness. Malcolm was reminded of the words from an old Jam song.............

They Smelled of pubs, and Wormwood Scrubs, and too many right wing meetings

They were obviously there to ensure that a certain up and coming young 'gob doctor' did as he was told. Malcolm had been told by his friends exactly who and what Mr Darling was. He was, despite having an eye for the odd obscure impressionist canvas, resolutely not a patron of the arts. Mr Darling's art was something altogether less appealing.

The fourth horseman of Malcolm Severin's personal apocalypse was an older man, very much smaller than his companions and dressed from head to toe in faded denim. He looked like an escaped Staus Quo roadie, the sort of old scrote you would find drinking Guinness and watching the footie scores in some backstreet pub on a saturday afternoon. Quite what his purpose was in the whole affair intrigued Malcolm. Was he there to bite his ankles? Maybe he'd bore him to death with detailed descriptions of the indian ink tattoos that undoubtedly covered his scrawny little frame. Maybe he was just an old harry ramp trying to cadge some loose change or sell a big issue................

Malcolm took one last, long draw of his cigarette and flicked it out of the open driver window. It bounced into a nearby puddle and fizzed out. The thought of putting the car into first and flooring the accelerator was overwhelming. He realised this was a non starter though. They'd hear and see him before he got near them. He also considered doing a runner but his conscience stopped him before he got anywhere near mentally boarding the next flight out of London. He had staff, he had a wife and family. They didn't deserve to pay in any way for his stupidity.

He opened the door with the heaviest of hearts and made his way up the street towards the welcoming committee. He had taken only a few paces away from the car when they turned as one towards him and watched him progress up the short incline to the surgery. He knew that they knew he had been sitting in the car for the last half hour shitting himself and wondering what to do. He was Eddie Darling's plaything now and he didn't have the stomach to do anything other than comply with their demands.

(Happy Birthday Billy!)