He frowned. 'I need a doctor.'

'There are none here.'

'What?'

'Nurses do as they're told,' she said. 'Doctors think they know it all. Crazy ideas about freedom to prescribe. Anyone would think they'd taken some sort of oath. Working 'til all hours... Sit over there.'

She eyed him coldly, like the SMERSH operative who sent 005 to an early grave. 'What?' Behind her a sign flashed: 'Patient satisfaction 100 per cent!'

'I have the poison spine of an Indonesian shark urchin in my left buttock and I feel sick. I don't think I can sit.'

She shrugged. 'You're only allowed one problem, and the nurse doesn't do poisoned spines. It's against health and safety.'

Bond leaned against the counter. 'What about the medical assistant?'

'She's only started today. It's part of her community service.'

'Perhaps I should go straight to hospital.'

'We don't do referrals. This is an NHS polyclinic. We deal with everything.'

'But you're not dealing with anything.'

'We're meeting all our targets,' she said. 'I've triaged you already. In three minutes. Here, fill this out. It's electronic.'

Bond sat with the clipboard. 'Patient satisfaction survey', it said.

Beneath him the sharks circled. Every so often a clipboard-equipped patient gave the wrong answer and shot silently down through a trapdoor in the floor. For 'access' he ticked 'very satisfied'.

He noticed a scruffy, stained card half-hidden under his chair. 'Unhappy?' it asked. 'Destroy after reading... We don't believe patient satisfaction surveys and walk-in access tell the whole story. See a GP. Get what you need, not what they think you want.'

Bond had heard of these illegal doctors, outside the mainframe, operating at the edge of society. It was subversive, risked the Darzi Police, but the hell with it. He needed a doctor who would give it to him straight. He got up to leave.

The blonde took the clipboard as he left. 'Have a nice day,' she said.

Dr Selby is a GP from Suffolk. Email her at GPcolumnists@haymarket.com