The cat’s eyes that lined the slowly winding road streaked under the car’s bonnet as I cruised cautiously along the meandering tarmac. The clock on the dashboard glowed five-past midnight at me, late, or early, I couldn’t decide. Either way I had to force my tired eyes to focus on the trail of tiny mirrors that glowered back at me, and I felt I could almost see malice in those false eyes as I followed the glinting path to Dementia.
A forename given in a time where wealthy showbiz mothers named their daughters Champagne, Calypso, Peaches and Mercedes, Dementia was a brand burned on her person by her grief-stricken father, a widower who found it hard to refrain from blaming his daughter for his lost wife, who died during childbirth. That was the tale whispered on winter’s nights in dim, smoke-filled rooms. But I had known and treated Dementia’s father up to his death nine years ago, and he had always appeared a man of sound mind and sharp intellect. It has never escaped my thoughts that the curious label he bestowed upon his daughter was simply his way of mocking his contemporaries.