Tundra by Tim Stevens Page B

had just caught the mention of his name. ‘What?’
    ‘Care to talk to me a little about your work here at the station?’
    Keys looked at the others, as if soliciting help. Then he examined his nails, raised his eyebrows.
    ‘Why not.’
    *
    K eys’s office was through the small infirmary, which in turn was located in the western wing, the one containing the laboratories. The infirmary itself held six beds, a complicated piece of apparatus Purkiss recognised as an anaesthetic machine, and an array of monitors. The harsh ceiling lights and clinical smell lent the room the atmosphere of a morgue.
    Purkiss came in with the recording equipment he’d collected from his room. Through the open door of the office he saw the doctor leaning back in his swivel chair, his bulk compressing it, his thin legs outstretched. The office was a chaos of journals and books crammed haphazardly onto shelves. No family photos adorned the walls or the desk.
    Without being asked, Purkiss closed the door behind him and sat across the desk. ‘It’ll help with the recording. No echo from the infirmary this way.’
    Keys grunted, gazed at Purkiss through red-rimmed eyes. ‘So what do you want to know?’
    Purkiss took a deep breath, hesitated on the edge, plunged. ‘How long have you been using?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Heroin. How long have you been a heroin addict?’
    Purkiss hadn’t until that moment fully grasped the meaning of the word aghast . Keys’s mouth dropped open, his eyes flaring. He remained pressed back in his chair, his feet pushing the wheels a few inches backwards across the floor.
    Purkiss tapped his own arm on the inside, near the elbow. ‘Track marks. I saw them when you were examining me earlier. You’d rolled your sleeves up a bit too far.’
    Keys swallowed, his eyes never leaving Purkiss’s. ‘I’m diabetic.’
    ‘You might be, or you might not. Either way, it’s a cover. You use it to explain to the others your sweating and irritability, your needles, your tendency to disappear every now and again.’ Purkiss nodded at Keys’s arm. ‘Those were IV tracks. Not the way insulin is administered.’
    While the doctor continued to stare at him, a sheen appearing once more on his forehead, Purkiss looked around the office. ‘Where do you keep your stash? Hidden in here? In your bedroom? Or, I’ll bet, disguised among the other medications out there in the infirmary.’
    ‘Who are you?’ It was a whispered rasp.
    ‘A journalist,’ said Purkiss affably. ‘This is what we do. Sniff out facts.’
    For a few seconds both men were silent, and Purkiss felt Keys teeter on the cusp of brazening it out.
    Then he sank forward in his chair, the hydraulics wheezing beneath his weight, and pressed his hands over his mouth. His eyes flicked back and forth across the desk.
    ‘My God,’ he muttered behind his hands. ‘My God.’
    Purkiss sat back and watched him.
    Without meeting Purkiss’s eye, the doctor said, ‘How much?’
    ‘Say again?’
    ‘How much do you want?’ Keys’s voice was steadier now, the level monotone of a man who’d rehearsed the question before. Or perhaps even asked it.
    ‘I’m not blackmailing you,’ said Purkiss.
    ‘I can make some calls,’ Keys went on in the same dead tone. ‘Have it deposited –’
    ‘I said, I’m not blackmailing you.’
    Purkiss sat up straight, watched Keys recoil in his chair. ‘Look, Keys. I understand what it means for you if this gets out. You’ll be struck off the register. Prosecuted, probably. You’ll lose your pension. All this hanging on you’ve been doing for the last few years, keeping things together just long enough until you retire... it’ll have been for nothing. I’ve no interest in destroying someone like that. So I’ll keep your secret.’
    The shock in Keys’s eyes had been replaced by wariness. He was breathing heavily, his white face blotched unevenly.
    ‘But I need you to tell me who else knows about you. About your habit.’
    The