The Very Best

By Colin Payton

Bruno was listening to the 8AM BBC News as he drove along. The main news item over the past few weeks had been about the disappearance of Josh O’Connor, a violent, career criminal awaiting trial on multiple charges. He had disappeared without a trace, without sightings at airports, train stations, ferry terminals, despite leaving behind his passport and driving licence and all his possessions. He’d vanished without apparently even packing a bag.  Even now there was no sign of him. 

‘Hope that’s the end of that jerk,’ said the boss, Michael Capaldi, from the back seat.

Bruno knew differently. ‘Nice one, Josh,’ he thought. Him and Josh were doing some clever but risky business together, which he was keeping to himself.

The rain was hammering down so hard, that, even with the wipers on full speed in the new V8 Land Range Rover, Bruno was having difficulty seeing where he was going. The ‘limo black’ tinted windows didn’t help, and the muddy, pot-holed, little country lane made it even worse. He had been fiddling with the climate control set on 21.5 degrees. He turned it up to 22 because he didn’t like fractions and he didn’t like odd numbers, never had, but it was too hot now. He kept scratching at his collar, which felt too tight but, ‘collar and tie, arsehole,’ the boss had told him, and he was a man who didn’t like to have to repeat himself. At least he’d given Bruno the evening off yesterday and he hadn’t said he couldn’t go out for a drink, but he still expected him to be suited and booted and be ready with his car at 7am. If only it had been just one drink. He was so close to throwing up, his mouth felt like it was full of sand, and his tongue was sticking to his cheek. Then, here they were. Thank Christ.  

He rolled the Range Rover into the car park, crunching over the smart gravel, pulling up outside the glass fronted entrance. 

He glanced up at the sign, ‘Excellence Aesthetics, The very best in beauty treatments and plastic surgery,’ and the glossy photos of the ordinary people who had apparently been transformed to beautiful, handsome idols by the skilled, committed clinic staff.

‘Umbrella, Bruno,’ shouted the boss. 

‘Coming right up, boss,’ 

‘But don’t call me boss, here, okay? Makes me sound like some sort of devious gangster.’

‘What will I call you then, boss?’

‘Sir, just call me sir, if that’s not too difficult for you, knob head. Jesus!’ 

Bruno had to fight off a strong urge to give the boss a good kicking, to leave him bleeding on the tarmac. But that wouldn’t do. There was a much better plan in the offing.

 ‘Sir? Sir?’ he thought, ‘the jumped-up old tosser’s forgetting where he came from, and what he does for a living.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, outwardly meek and obedient. 

Two more blacked-out Range Rovers arrived and parked up just behind, and four men just as uncomfortable in their suits and ties as Bruno, stepped out, looking all around them. They were all big, heavy, ugly men and all with ill-disguised bulges under their smart grey jackets. 

Once they were satisfied, the main man, Sammy, banged on the back of Bruno’s car. ‘Okay, Bruno,’ he shouted, and Bruno got out. 

He banged the car again, ‘okay, boss.’

Bruno sucked his cheeks in and shook his head. He put his finger to his lips.

Too late, the boss was out of the car.

‘Don’t call me boss! You moron.’

Sammy looked at him without changing his expression and said nothing. He’d save it for later.

Inside, there was a reception committee for him.

‘Please come this way, Mr Capaldi’ said Angelique, the nurse manager, with just a hint of a French accent and a barely polite smile and escorted him to the chief surgeon’s office. Mr Fotherby stood up to greet him but did not offer his hand as Angelique guided him to an expensive-looking leather chair in front of the desk. 

‘Thank you, Angelique, that’ll be all,’ said Mr Fotherby without so much as a glance at her. 

‘So, Mr Fotherby, we meet at last,’ said the man, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you and I’ve done my research, so I take it you know what I want.’

‘I do indeed. You want to disappear.’

The man half sniggered half snorted, impressed that the surgeon was so sharp and had summed it all up so succinctly. 

‘And then to reappear,’ he added.

‘As someone else?’

‘Exactly.’

‘We can offer an extensive, programme of treatment, which includes some surgery but also a new, exciting process we call plasticisation. The programme will completely change your facial features, your fingerprints and your DNA. You will be untraceable. There are risks, which I will explain to you in detail. The terms are payment in full in advance.

Capaldi tilted his head and looked at Mr Fotherby through narrowed eyes. 

‘My terms, doctor, are cash on delivery, subject to the success of your work, which I’m sure will be satisfactory. Of course, if it’s not, I expect that you appreciate that that might be a problem for you,’ he said.

Mr Fotherby laughed without saying a word. Eventually, he shook his head and looked at him with an expression almost of pity.

‘Firstly, Mr Capaldi,’ he said, ‘do you really think I trust you? Given your line of business. People like you are my clients. If you keep up with current events you may be aware of a recent successful case. Maybe someone you know, or to be precise, you used to know. I do business with your type but only on my terms.’

‘And secondly?’ Capaldi asked.

‘ Secondly,’ replied Mr Fotherby, leaning forward and banging a clenched fist on his desk, ‘Don’t you dare threaten me. Remember I will be the only person in the world who will be able to identify you, I will keep detailed, secure records hidden, and we have procedures to release these to the authorities, should anything happen to me or my staff.’

Michael Capaldi was a thug and a criminal, but he was not stupid. The surgeon was clearly experienced in dealing with people like him and he wasn’t going to get the treatment unless he agreed to the terms, at least for now.

‘I’ll arrange payment. In crytocurrency. No banks.’

‘Alright, we’ll admit you to start treatment next week. You’ll be with us for around two weeks, and you’ll need four weeks’ recuperation.’

‘Four weeks to recuperate? You can let me worry about that, doc.’

They planned to start with facial surgery to change the structure of his nose and cheekbones, performed through his mouth to minimise scarring. They wheeled him into the operating theatre. It was a smaller, more cramped room than he had expected and there were no windows. He hadn’t realised that he’d still be awake at this point. He was sweating, and his hands were trembling. A disinterested anaesthetist gave him an injection through the plastic cannula in his arm.

‘This’ll make you feel like you’ve drunk three bottles of white wine.’ He paused, ‘Maybe a sauvignon blanc,’ smirking and thinking he was funny.

‘I mean what… you see…’ mumbled Capaldi, drifting into unconsciousness.

During the operation they injected an inactivated virus carrying modified DNA into his liver. Eventually this would alter the DNA in all the cells in his body. 

A week later they carried out the plasticisation procedures, firstly on his hands, to change his fingerprints which was pretty straightforward, then on his face. The medication caused the skin and muscles on his face to melt, like soft warm wax. It was essential that he kept still during the procedure and the only way to achieve this was to restrain him by strapping his arms and legs down and fastening a rigid plastic helmet to his head and neck. They put a cold, rigid pad under his neck, pushed his head hard back and fixed the helmet to the couch. They pressed a gag deep into his mouth to prevent him from trying to talk or move his jaw. It made him feel he was going to choke. Then they forced the mould onto his melted skin and pushed down hard. Eyes bulging, he pulled at his straps, strained to try and move his head to ease the agonising pain in his neck, whimpered a muffled scream through his gag, and cried. It lasted almost an hour until eventually they sedated him and released him. 

When he woke up in the morning, every movement was agony. His body was covered in bruises; his remodelled hands were red and swollen. His head and neck were rigid with stiffness and cramp. He could hardly see through his swollen, puffy eyelids. A nurse came in with some water and a straw and held the glass while he glugged it, coughing at every gulp.

‘Is it finished, nurse? Is it finished?’ he said.

‘Yes sir, the procedures are now complete, but you must rest and recover. Your hands and your face will take time to heal.’

There was no mirror in the room.

‘Can I see my face?’

‘Not yet. Your face is very swollen. You wouldn’t want to see it just now.’

‘Jesus, let me see my face. Give me a mirror.’

‘No, not yet, and there’s no need for that sort of behaviour, sir. We’re just providing the treatment you asked for.’ She stood up abruptly and left. The door locked behind her.

It was two weeks before Mr Fotherby came to see him. Bruno and Sammy and another man came in with him.

‘Hello, Michael,’ said the man.

‘Who the hell are you?’

The man smiled. ‘Don’t you recognise me, Michael? I’m Josh. Josh O’Connor. Or, should I say, I was Josh O’Connor before I disappeared, with Mr Fotherby’s help of course.’

Capaldi stared open-mouthed. It was Josh’s voice, but the face was unrecognisable.

‘God,’ he said quietly. ‘You had the treatment too?’

‘Yeah. Good, innit? Police were looking for me, but they’re looking for someone else now. Someone with my face.’

By now Bruno and Sammy were laughing. Capaldi turned to Mr Fotherby, 

‘What’s going on? I want to see my face. My new face. Let me see it. Now!’

‘Before we do that, Mr Capaldi,’ said Mr Fotherby, ‘I need to advise you we decided to change your treatment programme.’

‘Change it? How? Why?’

‘Why? Because Mr O’Connor and his associates here, asked us to and they are men of considerable means.’

Without another word Mr Fotherby handed him a mirror. Capaldi stared at his new reflection wanting to scream but barely able to breathe. Josh O’Connor’s face stared back. 

Colin Payton is an emerging short story writer and journalist. He has written medical and research articles and has contributed stories about life as a doctor to a column in a medical newspaper.

After completing an Oxford University course on creative writing in 2024, his work has appeared in the Open Arts Forum , ‘Camel’ https://openartsforum.com/camel/, in the All Your Stories Anthologies, ‘Rethink Mental Illness,’ an in ‘Discretionary Love, ’ ‘Clean Lives’ https://www.discretionarylove.com/clean-lives/

He is the co-ordinator of a creative writing group, ‘Friday Writers’ in Bradford on Avon in the UK.