The Good Doctor by Paul Butler

is pushed into one of the high lockers. None of these have locks—personal effects are acceptable, provided they are not too personal and there is no sense of privacy around them.
    Last night’s transformation came from an incomplete darkness. Always the young doctor has had some sense that the light of providence flickered close to his shoulder. This, he realizes, must be the reason he never gives up even when a cause seems lost. Like a gas jet in a windy alleyway, the flame of hope ducks, disappearing for stretches of time, only to reappear when the breeze calms. His life so far has been dotted with such signs.
    And providence shows in other ways, too. He has certain talents, the uses of which unfold only when they are most needed. He can, for instance, hold the shape of another’s handwriting in his eye and replicate the loop of a j and the cross of an x so well that even the writer himself might have trouble distinguishing the hand of an imposter from his own. He refined these skills at school. When, at half- and full-term breaks, he beheld the tweed-clad mothers with picnic baskets and outstretched arms; when he saw the complacent fathers ruffling the hair of his classmates and talking airily about the navy or foreign office “possibilities”—and there was usually a cousin or an in-law who would be only too glad to “help”—he knew he would have to claw his way through the world with more determination than his peers. Seldom did he see his own uncle and knew his guardian’s sense of obligation would cease once his foot touched the bottom rung of whatever profession he chose.
    So he nurtured his inner calligrapher and learned how to pick locks—at first the simple padlocks used on school lockers, but in time the more challenging keyholes that guarded storerooms and larders. The task before him now—the unseen delivery of a forged missive—is very low on the scheme of illegal acts for which he is qualified, more of a prank than crime if brought before the eyes of a judge. But it terrifies, as well as excites, him.
    As physically brave men are said to fear ghosts, the young doctor trembles at the scene that dwells beyond his imagination. What will Nurse Mills make of such behaviour? Try as he might, he cannot arrange her features into a likely approximation of horror and disbelief. And yet the thing will surely happen—such new and dangerous ground!
    He takes the paper and folds it into the envelope, already addressed. He itches to glance one more time at the fateful handwriting but resists, lest the stroke of an apostrophe should seem too bold for Grenfell’s hand, a comma too lax, or full stop too cowering. He guards against anything that may ebb his resolve.
    Slipping the letter inside his jacket pocket, he finishes dressing and leaves for the clinic.
    ***
    The letter has been delivered . It tilts at an angle in the pigeonhole so as to be easily noticeable to anyone—including Nurse Mills—who walks through the clinic’s anteroom. The young doctor’s ears burn at each noise that might signal her arrival. Dr. Bleaker comes in first, whistling tunelessly as usual.
    â€œYou’re here early!” says Dr. Bleaker with a good deal of surprise. “And relabelling the test tube rack.”
    â€œThe words were becoming smudged, Doctor. I knew you were concerned about it.”
    â€œGood man,” he says in a tone that seems to better fit the words “good grief!”
    Soon after, he hears a shuffling, followed by a silence, followed by a sound of rustling paper. He hears a bag being slid into a locker, then the swift staccato beat of Nurse Mills’s shoes on the tiled floor. When he dares to turn, he sees a slight frown on her face.
    â€œGood morning, Dr. Bleaker,” she says.
    â€œGood morning,” he mumbles, peering into a microscope.
    She sways in the young doctor’s direction, gives a sardonic smile, and raises