Ivory

Dr. Adrian Clark sat with the stillness of a man who had long since mastered the art of waiting. His elbows rested lightly upon the edge of his desk, fingers steepled to a deliberate point before his mouth. His frame, gaunt and sharp-edged, seemed almost to fold in on itself beneath the thin fabric of his suit. His face sagged in places where gravity had long since claimed its victory, the skin hanging loose in soft folds that made him appear as though he were slowly melting beneath the low amber glow of his brass desk lamp.

When he finally spoke, his voice arrived slow and deliberate, as though each syllable required careful examination before it could be released into the air.

“Dr. Malone,” he intoned softly, enunciating each syllable with surgical precision. “Twice in one day. My dear… I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such an honour.”

He savoured the word . . . honour . . . pronouncing the silent ‘H’ with theatrical flourish, as though its presence alone elevated the room’s importance.

Elizabeth sat across from him, posture stiff, arms resting on the unyielding leather of the visitor’s chair. It was bolted to the floor, a detail she had discovered upon her first attempt to pull it forward.

Her gaze flicked toward the objects arranged on the surface before her. There was an old book, its cracked leather spine nearly black with age, illuminated by the golden pool of light cast by the lamp. A pair of large, brass calipers rested upon its open pages like some grotesque bookmark.

And then there was the head.

At first glance, she’d mistaken it for a defaced mannequin. A smooth, pale form marred by crude ink markings. But no, the lines were deliberate. Carved or perhaps etched into the surface, sectioning the head into labelled regions. Words scrawled in aged lettering:

Benevolence.

Combativeness.

Secretiveness.

Veneration.

It looked to be made from ivory… or possibly wood, polished to a bone-like finish..

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Dr. Clark’s lips curled, though his expression remained otherwise motionless . . . eyes half-lidded, unblinking.

“It’s called a Phrenology Head, Dr. Malone,” he remarked softly, as if introducing a pet. “A harmless indulgence… a fascination with the past. This book, in fact…”

He lifted one long finger, tapping the leather-bound volume with a dry knuckle.

“On the Faculties of Man. Printed over a century and a half ago. There are precious few copies left. This one… cost me rather more than I care to admit.”

Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, leaning back a fraction.

“You are, of course, aware,” she replied, her tone dry but controlled, “that the practice of reading the character of a man by feeling the shape of his skull… went out of fashion rather spectacularly. Roughly around the same time we stopped prescribing leeches to drain the humours.”

A flicker . . . barely there . . . a quiver of a thin lip. His fingers steepled higher, framing the lower half of his face.

“Of course,” he breathed, his voice no louder than a whisper.

“That is why it remains… only a hobby.”

With the sudden, fluid grace of something cold-blooded, he stood, sweeping the calipers from the desk in a motion that felt rehearsed. He circled to Elizabeth’s side, stopping just within her peripheral view, maintaining a deliberate, almost performative distance.

“I believe,” he murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly, “you’ve come because you think I have something you want.”

Before she could speak, he held up the calipers between thumb and forefinger. An elegant gesture, the way one might ask permission to light a cigarette.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he added softly.

Elizabeth turned slightly in her seat, forcing a polite smile.

“Ah… no, of course not,” she replied, the words catching slightly in her throat. “And… yes. I have come with a request.”

With a subtle flick of his wrist, the calipers sprang open with a sharp metallic click, the sound cutting through the quiet like the cocking of a small firearm.

“And I do hope I can be of service,” he replied, his voice smooth, almost affectionate.

“Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to assist a fellow professional in the pursuit of knowledge. Isolation, after all, is this institution’s most reliable contagion… wouldn’t you agree?”

Before she could answer, the cold touch of brass pressed gently against her scalp. His hands moved with unsettling precision . . . soft pressure, delicate adjustments . . . as the calipers traced arcs across the crown of her head. His movements were fluid, almost balletic, as though choreographed.

Elizabeth sat perfectly still, forcing herself to focus on a distant spot beyond his shoulder.

“This is… regarding the patient I saw this morning,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, more measured.

“He’s the reason I’ve come.”

The calipers paused, their weight resting just above her right brow.

Beyond Dr. Clark’s shoulder, the shadows shifted across the walls. Mounted frames displayed photographs, each one capturing a younger Dr. Clark standing beside the carcasses of fallen animals . . . elephants, giraffes, a lion. A safari hat rested on a nearby shelf beside several glassy-eyed taxidermy birds, their feathers frozen mid-motion. She felt her throat tighten slightly.

How many hobbies did this man have?

“Fascinating,” Dr. Clark breathed, snapping the calipers shut with another metallic click.

Elizabeth flinched at the sound.

“I’m afraid I’ve quite exhausted my supply of leeches today,” he added, his voice curling at the edges with faint amusement. “So we shall have to postpone any bloodletting for another occasion.”

Dr. Clark moved with unsettling grace back to his chair, lowering himself slowly as though gravity itself waited on his permission. He closed the aged book with reverent care, laying the calipers atop its cover like a priest placing a relic upon an altar.

His fingers steepled once more.

He released a long breath through his nose, the kind of exhale designed not to relieve tension, but to deepen it.

“Dr. Malone,” he began softly, “I know precisely what you do. And I know exactly who you’re here to discuss.”

Elizabeth felt the air shift.

His words landed with such certainty that it left no room for rebuttal.

“I suspect you have come,” he continued, leaning forward ever so slightly, “to request access to… shall we say… less cooperative subjects for your research.”

Elizabeth’s throat tightened. He had already leapt to the final page of the conversation. She had not yet made her case, but somehow, it had already been heard . . . and judged.

“…Yes,” she admitted cautiously. “That is… exactly my request.”

She sat up straighter, gathering what little ground she still held.

“My recent models have shown improved results when working with patients who…”

“Are completely and utterly fucked,” Dr. Clark interjected without a single shift in tone.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with the soft raise of his palm, his fingers trembling slightly, as though amused by the theatre of the interruption.

“There’s no need to dress it up, Doctor,” he murmured.

“We both understand the nature of the population in this facility. You are not here for mild phobias or garden-variety delusions.”

He slid open the bottom drawer of his desk with the lazy confidence of a man dealing from the bottom of the deck. With practised care, he withdrew a pair of stapled documents and placed them squarely between them. He pushed them forward with the tips of two long fingers, as though offering something both delicate and dangerous.

“That patient… and any future candidates you desire… as often as you require…”

He leaned back, folding his arms with catlike patience.

“…In exchange for your signature on that.”

Elizabeth leaned forward, pulling the document toward her with quiet suspicion.

Her eyes skimmed the title, then the first few lines.

Clinical Ethics Approval Request Form.

Her gaze lifted, narrowing slightly.

“This is…” she hesitated, reading the words again to be sure she had not misinterpreted.

“…an application for high-intensity electro-convulsive therapy.”

She did not attempt to conceal the edge in her voice.

Dr. Clark nodded, folding his hands as if she had finally caught up to where he’d been waiting all along.

“Yes,” he replied with tired finality. “And I have, of course, anticipated your immediate distaste.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a slow, coaxing hum.

“That is why I’ve decided to sweeten the offer.”

He tapped the corner of the document lightly with one finger.

“One visit with Victor Langley. Unconditional. No strings.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught subtly in her throat.

She had not come for Victor. But he was still a valuable prospect . . . a brilliant candidate in his own right.

She had the distinct impression that this meeting had already been played out without her. That her role had already been written. Clark was simply watching to see if she would perform on cue.

He spoke again, quieter this time, almost weary.

“Elizabeth… I do hope you don’t mind me calling you that.”

He didn’t wait for permission.

“I’m not the monster you imagine me to be,” he continued softly, as though confessing something private.

“You know as well as I do… most of these patients are not leaving this place alive. And those who do… are seldom whole when they go.”

His eyes dropped to the document, then back to her.

“I offer them something more than a padded cell and a slow, rotting end. A way out. A chance… however slim… to leave something better than a corpse behind.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough for it to sting.

“Today, one of our guests pressed his thumb through an orderly’s eye socket… straight into his brain.”

He leaned back again, tipping his head ever so slightly to one side.

“Tell me, Doctor… where exactly do you believe the scale tips in favour of doing nothing?”

Elizabeth inhaled slowly, steadying herself.

Her reply was measured, her voice low but unwavering.

“Torture,” she said, “does not become justifiable simply because it offers the illusion of progress.”

Dr. Clark sighed softly, as though her refusal had been scripted long before she arrived.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I rather thought you might say that.”

He rose slowly to his feet once more, smoothing his sleeves with detached precision.

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Malone.”

He gestured toward the door . . . a dismissal without urgency, but absolute in its finality.

Elizabeth stood, pulse thrumming hot behind her ribs. She turned on her heel, her face burning with indignation. She had nearly reached the door when his voice slid across the space between them like oil on glass.

“What time shall I have Victor Langley brought to your office?”

She stopped.

Her breath hitched softly in her throat.

She turned back slowly, unsure if she had imagined the words, but Clark was already seated again, flipping open his book as though the conversation had never happened.

“Go on,” he added without looking up.

“Take twenty minutes to prepare your little experiment. I’ll send him over when you’re ready.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard.

Anger swirled beneath her skin, hot and biting . . . but beneath it . . . something colder. Something harder to admit.

It wasn’t the patient she wanted.

And it likely never would be.

But she was walking away with a consolation prize, for a game she hadn’t realised she was playing.

Her fingers twitched at her side.

And then, without thinking, she spoke.

“…What did your calipers say about me?”

Dr. Clark lifted his gaze, his expression momentarily flickering with faint amusement, as though surprised she had lingered to ask.

“Oh, that,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair with the weight of a man already bored of the answer.

“They present ratios consistent with what I like to call… the dangerously sane.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed.

“And what, precisely, is dangerous about sanity?”

He smiled softly . . . though there was no warmth in it.

“It’s comforting to wrap yourself in a blanket when it’s cold,” he replied.

“But that doesn’t mean you’d like to be set on fire.”

He let the words settle, returning his gaze to the open pages before him.

“Good thing,” he whispered absently, “it’s only a hobby.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned a page, dismissing her, again, without a glance.

Elizabeth left.

She had 20 minutes to prepare.