Give The Devil His Due (30 page)

       ‘Well it's sort of a throb.’

       ‘In both?’

       ‘More in the left, I think.’

       She was now towel-drying her hands.

       ‘Right then Sport, let’s have a look; see what we've got here.’

       She walked over towards me, smiling. She stood by the side of the couch and gently cupped my left bollock in her right hand and vice versa. That wasn't too bad; quite pleasant really, I suppose.

       ‘Tell me Will, does this hurt?’ She gave my balls a sudden squeeze. I had a sharp involuntary intake of breath.

       ‘Ooofff …’ I nodded my head.

       ‘What about this?’ She gave my left one a
hard
squeeze.

       I didn't know what to say. ‘Oh god,’ was just about all I could manage (and I wasn't even religious!).

       ‘Now the right.’

       I felt a similar discomfort. ‘Shit.’ This was hurting.

       ‘Now, both.’ This time she increased the pressure, and gave out a little grunt as she spoke.

       ‘Now, what about ... this?’

       As her last word was uttered, through my haze of pain it suddenly dawned on me that Natalie was speaking with her teeth clenched.

       ‘Another one for ... luck.’

       ‘Christ, Natalie! Stop it, I can't take any more.’

       She released her grip. Walking away from the couch, she slapped her hands together, in opposite directions several times … rather, I imagine, like the way a wronged wife does when she’s just had her revenge by cutting up all your best clothes. I suppose it was some subconscious attempt by Natalie at signifying a job well done.

       With the force she'd used, she might as well have been smacking my sprouts with a meat tenderiser. As I lay there aching, trying to regain my breath and consciousness, Natalie decided to give her diagnosis.

       ‘Will, there's very little wrong with your pain receptors!’

       ‘So what
is
wrong then?’

       ‘Nothing, as far as I can see.’

       I couldn't believe what I'd just been through, to be told that. ‘But they hurt.’

       ‘Try wearing loose underpants. That should cure it.’

       ‘I
already
wear loose underpants.’

       ‘Oh, well try wearing tighter ones then. It's probably because your balls are clacking together while you walk that's causing the problem. A pair of tight briefs will sort it, believe me.’

       Believe her! She was making it up as she went along. Was this the way that health professionals now operated? I remembered leaving her surgery thinking
never again
. That was six months ago.

       It was now Monday and being the glutton for punishment that I've been for most of my adult life, I'd phoned Natalie the day before. I needed some
roid relief
and fast. I had asked her if she could just give me a prescription, but Natalie insisted an examination was necessary.

       ‘Will, as your GP, I wouldn't be doing my job properly if I didn't give you a thorough-going-over.’ This was what I was worried about.

       Sitting in the waiting room, contemplating my summons, I was once again filled with gruesome expectation. My piles were hurting but somehow the pain seemed almost an aside from what was about to happen to my fragile little body.

       The surgery had changed over the years. Gone were the days when, as one patient finished their consultation you would hear the doctor call out 'Next' from the other side of the examination room door. New-fangled wizardry had taken over. There was a PA system mounted into the waiting room ceiling. It allowed any of the doctors in the practice to order their individual patients to their respective rooms.

       At this particular moment in time though, it was being used for a much more sinister purpose: It was spewing out disgusting muzak, rather like someone exceedingly ill suffering from uncontrollable nausea.

       There was something odd about the muzak – all the tunes were played on pan flutes. As I listened to Acker Bilk's
Strangers on the Shore
being butchered by the evil pan flute king (for the second time), my audio living hell was, without warning, interrupted.

       I heard Natalie’s voice boom through the PA system: ‘Nobby Stiles to room four please, Nobby Stiles to room four.’

       The evil pan flute king, using his weapon of mass irritation against people far too sick to defend themselves, once more resumed his heinous crimes via the waiting room PA. Another interruption – it was Natalie’s voice again, only this time the tone was much more assertive. ‘NOBBY STILES TO ROOM FOUR PLEASE, NOBBY STILES TO ROOM FOUR.’

       Fuck! It was Natalie having a laugh. The apprehension, and my morbid fear of the peril that was about to befall me, had numbed my appreciation of Natalie's wit. I got up and gingerly walked towards the corridor that would lead me to room four and a fate worse than death – my haemorrhoid examination!

       I had made a point of wearing a pair of black tracksuit trousers on this particular occasion. The reason: during the nad nightmare six months earlier, the tight jeans around my ankles had precluded the chance of any evasive manoeuvre. It had left me feeling exceptionally vulnerable. I wasn't prepared to put myself through a repeat performance of that débâcle.

       I entered the chamber of horrors
aka
consulting room number four, and was greeted by none other than the head torturer herself, Dr Natalie Sherry. Standing before me, dressed in business attire, her outstretched right hand (the instrument of torture) awaited mine for a jolly good shaking.

       In the past I’d heard tales of woe from punters in my taxi (fellow pile-sufferers), who had also received a thorough-going-over. Hearing of my trepidation about venturing into the unknown world of haemorrhoidal examinations, the doom-and-gloomers had imparted their words of wisdom to me. They spoke of anything and everything from the quack taking a quick peek between a pair of parted buttcheeks to a fully trained medical team of anal potholers donning safety helmets, flashlights, ropes
et al
– a prelude to their descent into the dark abyss.

       Their mission: the discovery of ancient, untold haemorrhoidal secrets. This bid to further medical science and roidal understanding was probably a walk in the park for the examiner, but for the examinee it was a violation of the highest order. As I stood before Natalie, I was gripped by terror once again.

       ‘Up on the couch then please, Will.’

       Natalie removed her jacket. Underneath she was wearing a short sleeve blouse. My balls instantly started to ache (there was a bit of testicular
déjà vu
going on). I almost felt like telling them
It's OK, don't be afraid balls, she's not going to hurt you, it's the arse that should be worrying –
but thought better of it.

       ‘Right; trousers and pants down, nice and relaxed. Lie down on your left side and bring your knees up towards your chest.’

       Natalie was putting a pair of latex gloves on. I looked at them. They were longer than the type I kept in the car for changing wheels. Extended at the base, they came half way up her wrists. It suddenly struck me that for a woman, Natalie had exceptionally thick wrists. They had a similar girth to fucking drainpipes!

       ‘Do we really need to do this Natalie?’

       ‘Relax Will. I can't examine you if you don't relax.’

       I tried to relax.

       ‘I want you to look away from me and focus your eyes on that corner up there.’ Natalie motioned at the ceiling. I was for a second distracted, but a second was all it took.

       ‘UGHHUHH, YES! I'm in.’ Oh god! She was.

       The doom-and-gloomers were right. Natalie had taken our doctor/patient relationship to a whole new and very disturbing level.

       I lay there with Natalie rummaging around up my backside. I now understood why Pugsley looked at me with absolute distrust and hatred every time I took him to the vet’s so that he could have his anal glands emptied.

       As Natalie continued the probing I began to feel quite faint. This examination seemed to be going on longer than was absolutely necessary. Natalie now started to hum
Another One Bites The Dust
by Queen.

       I made a mental note: must bin the two Queen CDs in my collection ASAP. My enjoyment of Freddie Mercury's singing in any way, shape or form was without doubt no longer possible.

       I made another mental note: don't ever become a drugs mule or make any smart-alec quips to Customs and Excise officers while travelling through airports.

       Finally, Natalie pronounced the examination over. ‘There we are, all done!’ As she withdrew the offending limb, she gave me the benefit of her findings.

       ‘Will, you'll be pleased to know your arse is in good shape!’

       Pardon? 'Is'? Didn't she mean 'was'?

       My arse might have once been in good shape, but things had changed now that Natalie had rammed her bloody arm up it. I was now trying to retain any microscopic shred of dignity that might have been left, slowly and feebly pulling my underpants and tracksuit trousers back up.

       ‘So what have you been putting on the grapes then?’

       ‘Grapes?’

       ‘The Grapes of Wrath! Your piles, you bloody idiot!’

       ‘Oh, this,’ I said meekly.

       I pulled out the tube of cream I had in my pocket and showed it to Natalie.

       She took a look. ‘That stuff's crap Will. This’ll be far more effective.’ She started writing out a prescription.

       ‘If you want a top tip from your doctor, always keep an unopened packet of peas in the freezer. When the piles start hurting, you can wedge the packet up your crack. Helps shrink the little buggers down you see. In fact, scrub the peas, make it petit pois. They're smaller you'll get better roid coverage with the petit-pois. They'll mould to the contours of your freckle with a much greater accuracy.’

       ‘Are you going to give me a prescription for them as well?’ Natalie looked over the top of her glasses at me in a don't-try-and-be-funny sort of way.

       ‘There you go,’ she said, handing me the prescription. ‘How do you feel now?’

       ‘Well, you've put me off becoming gay.’

       ‘I'm glad to hear it.’ She winked at me. ‘What you've got to remember is that when you visit your doctor, it's important that you come away feeling like you've had your money's worth. You've got to feel like you've been to the doctor. Do you feel like you've been?’

       ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

       ‘Ripper! Right, all that examining has given me a thirst. Do you fancy a coffee?’

       ‘Haven't you got more patients to see?’

       ‘Fuck ‘em! They've waited three weeks for an appointment. Another twenty minutes isn't going to kill them. Besides every working girl deserves her elevenses.’

       ‘OK then.’

       ‘Milk and sugar?’

       ‘Yeah, not too milky though.’ My request noted; Natalie used her intercom to ask one of the girls on reception to bring through some coffees. In what seemed like a very short time there was a knock at the door.

       ‘Come.’ It struck me that doctors always had a very authoritarian way of doing things.

       ‘Thanks Jenny, just put the tray over there.’ Natalie gesticulated towards a table that had some papers and different bottles containing all sorts of medicines on its surface. ‘We'll help ourselves.’

       Jenny made herself scarce, closing the door behind her. As I got up from my chair in order to take charge of the cup that awaited me on the side table my heart fell through the floor. Someone up there had it in for me!

       On top of the seat I'd been occupying was a large damp stain, obviously fresh by the amount of moisture it contained. ‘Shit, look what I've done. I'm really sorry Natalie.’

       ‘Oh, that probably wasn't you. There,’ She pointed upwards. ‘the ceiling tile's loose. It's probably a drip from the water pipes.’

       It was very commendable that she was trying to save my blushes by offering an alternative explanation for the stain, but both she and I knew where the mark had originated: my newly-stretched arse!

       If my arse had once resembled a keyhole, Natalie's thorough examination had turned it into a porthole. Now, with absolute depression and coffee cup in hand, I sat back down on top of the stain while I drank my coffee. At least that way I wouldn't have to look at it.

       Natalie remained very upbeat. ‘So how’s your love-life these days then Will?’

       ‘Oh, you know I’m so busy, don’t have time for any of that.’ I didn’t mention Tegan in case Natalie decided to put the gloves back on.

       ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

       Suddenly there was a knock at the door, slightly frantic in its nature. ‘Come.’

       A different receptionist from the one who’d made the coffee was standing in the consultation room doorway, abject worry on her face. ‘Doctor Sherry, it's Mr Ashton. He's collapsed in the waiting room!’

       ‘OK June, I'll be right out.’ The receptionist left, hurriedly shutting the door.

       Natalie turned, staring intensively. ‘I’ve taken up Feng Shui. It’s been working wonders for me, and for those in my inner-most friendship circle. I could pop round your house one night this week and we could rearrange some of your furniture. I’m sure you’ll see a huge change in your life.’

       ‘I don't know Natalie, I’ve got a lot of work on lately, especially the evenings.’

       ‘Go on, you know you want to. It’ll be just like old times. I'll even show you how to use a crystal sphere. We can get your chi activated.’

       A crystal sphere, and getting my chi activated? After what she’d just put me through, I didn’t fancy Natalie activating anything.

       Natalie was now up and out of her chair, standing behind me. Without warning she started rubbing my shoulders.

       ‘You really need to loosen up Will. You’re way too tense.’ Suddenly there was another knock at the door, more frenzied than the last. ‘Come.’