“Yah,” said Barnabas, yawning ostentatiously and pouring himself another large glass of Chablis from the fridge. “Sorry, don’t mind if I do? Rather a hair of the dog—I was at a Serpentine party last night, and goodness, you know how they are.”

Cormac very much did not and smiled awkwardly.

“So,” said Barnabas, leading him through to the sitting area. It had windows on three sides, two balconies, and a vast gray modular sofa; a huge flat-screen television hung on the wall. Cormac didn’t know many junkies who had those either. “You’re a very rugged young man. One of our Celtic cousins?”

“Scottish,” said Cormac shortly.

“Ooh, lovely. Although I do miss busy Lissa . . . Is she well?”

Cormac shrugged. “Never met her.”

“Oh, that is such a shame. Seriously, my tastes are”—he gave Cormac a long-lashed look—“very broad, but she is sweet as a peach.”

He sighed and sat down. Cormac frowned. This man didn’t seem terribly ill at all.

“Sorry, but . . . why isn’t this being handled by your GP?”

Barnabas sighed. “Oh yes . . . we had a little bit of a rumpus . . .” He smiled at the memory. “Goodness me, she was quite the . . . well. Mustn’t be disrespectful.”

“Did you get struck off the list?” said Cormac, amazed.

“Oh, darling, we both got struck off,” said Barnabas, smiling cruelly. “Ho hum. And I’m banned from Bupa. Hence the riffraff like you, darling.” He lifted up his glass. “Are you sure you don’t want a little glass of this? Just emptying Daddy’s cellar . . . It’s quite tremendous.”

“No, thank you,” said Cormac. “In fact, I’ve got lots of—”

“Yes, yes, more patients, I know.”

Barnabas stood up and unbuckled his trousers. He was wearing Calvin Klein underpants, and although too thin, he was in beautiful shape: a narrow waist, long legs, a broad back. He looked like a statue on the beautiful sofa and gave a “I just can’t help being so gorgeous” look directly at Cormac.

“Aye, aye,” said Cormac. His attention focused on a small lump on the side of Barnabas’s underpants, and he put on gloves to take a look at it. He had a good idea what it was, but he was utterly horrified when he finally unwrapped the bandage. Suddenly it became clear why Barnabas needed so much aftershave.

What was revealed wasn’t merely a wound.

It was a hole, directly into his groin. Even Cormac, who had seen a few things—a man gored by a stag for starters; a tankful of soldiers picked off by snipers—had never seen anything quite like this.

“I know,” said Barnabas, continuing to drawl. “A little dramatic. Although it’s quite the party piece.”

The thing was vicious, infected, oozing, incredibly deep.

“Why aren’t you in hospital?!”

Barnabas rolled his eyes. “They won’t give me the good stuff and they time everything.”

“You need a skin graft!”