Give The Devil His Due

by H G White

  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 stand
ing 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.’

  It was June again. She was looking even more flustered than she had a few moments earlier. ‘Sorry to bother you Doctor Sherry, but if you could come now? It's Mr Ashton. I think he's having a heart attack.’

  ‘OK June, I told you I'll be right there!’ With that June closed the door again.

  ‘That sounds serious,’ I said.

  ‘Oh Ashton. That whinger's always in here on the scrounge for sick notes. He really gets on my wick. I bet the old fucker's faking it – ‘cause we're running a bit late on appointment times today.’

  This was my cue to go. I stood up, said goodbye and thanked her for the appointment, closing the door behind me. I left Natalie still drinking her coffee.

  Waddling carefully through the corridor, trying my best not to create any more spillage, I entered the waiting room en route to the surgery front door. There was a man lying on the floor, his face blue and several surgery staff fussing around him. They were trying to get him to breathe through an oxygen mask.

  My guess was that this was none other than the bone-idle Oscar nominee, Mr Ashton. I resisted the temptation of telling him what a lazy fucker he was and to wait his turn for an appointment like everyone else. Me, I had more important fish to fry.

  I made my way out of the surgery and into the car park where my chariot awaited. Next stop was Tesco's pharmacy and frozen food department – a man, his prescription and a long-overdue liaison with a bag of frozen petit pois.

  Chapter 24

  The bad news: Tesco’s was packed and the queues at the checkouts were taking forever. The good news: they’d got the cream. The really good news: there were more packets of petit pois in their freezers than you could shake a newly-fisted arse at.

  I drove home, suffering but excited. Before very long I was going to become a cured man. As I turned into the street, there was a van outside my house. It belonged to a mate of mine, Gavin Gittings, full-time plumber, part-time rock star wannabe. I parked up and got out of the car, Gavin walked over. I greeted him. ‘Hi.’

  ‘How goes it friend?’

  ‘Not too bad Gavin.’

  ‘Doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing. You look like you’re in some pain my man.’

  ‘Oh that, yeah. I’ve just been to the doctor’s. Got a bit of a pile-thing, you know.’

  ‘No I don’t. Never had ‘em myself. I am, as they say, too healthy for my own good.’

  ‘Believe me you don’t want ‘em.’ We walked to the front door and went inside. Gavin got straight to the point.

  ‘So is it still happening then?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s really getting on my nerves, and if it’s getting on mine, it’ll be getting on his next door.’ I pointed at Dave’s house. The knocking of the pipes every time someone flushed the bog had become intolerable. I just hoped Gavin could fix it.

  Gavin went into the bathroom and flushed. It started again. He walked back down the stairs, waving his adjustable spanner in time with the knocking. He’d obviously gone into music-mode.

  ‘Kind of rhythmical, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not really Gav. It’s just a bloody racket. Is it fixable?’

  ‘Well, it’s not always that straightforward with these kinds of jobs.’ He was going from music-mode back into plumber-mode. I could feel a bit of upping-the-price coming on.

  ‘Look Gav, I’m going to have a lie-down for quarter of an hour. Can you do your best?’

  ‘Will my friend, I shall bring all my professional expertise to bear on the problem.’ By the sounds of that statement he was moving from plumber-mode into extremely-expensive-consultant-plumber-mode.

  Inside the bedroom, I closed the door and put the Tesco bag on the bed. I’d told a white lie to Gavin. I was going for a lie down; I just failed to tell him the frozen produce was joining me.

  As I lay there on my stomach I could hear Gav while he worked away. He was running in and out of the house, flushing the toilet, listening to banging pipes, running outside, adjusting the water pressure in the street, back into the house, flushing again. I could hear the tools clanking, more flushing and so it went on. After about half an hour it sounded like he’d sorted it.

  I got up. My arse was soaking and the frozen pois had defrosted. The bed was damp. I pulled my trousers on and went downstairs. Gavin was putting his tools away.

  ‘How much do I owe you Gav?’ Gavin was moving his head from side to side and mouthing silently pretending to calculate some sort of figure.

  ‘Eighty quid.’

  ‘EIGHTY QUID? That’s a bit bloody steep Gav.’

  ‘All right, seeing as it’s you. We’ll call it seventy, but don’t tell anyone.’

  Seventy quid was still pretty heavy as far as I was concerned, but he had turned up when I called and he had fixed the problem, so I got the money out. If I didn’t pay him what he asked, he might not turn up next time I called him and what if I had a burst pipe? I handed him the notes.

  ‘Thanks mate. Oh, before I go, I want to show you something.’ He took his tools out to his van and came back with a long plastic case. We went into the lounge.

  ‘Take a look at this.’ He put the case down on the floor beside a chair, and opened it, then carefully and lovingly lifted its occupant up for me to see. Like a gushing father holding a new-born baby for the first time, he stood there, electric guitar in hand. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Nice.’ I wasn't really much up on electric guitars. If it had been a keyboard or a piano I'd have stood a fighting chance of identifying it. ‘What is it?’ I asked in ignorance.

  ‘This, my soon-to-be-informed friend, is a 1961 Gibson Firebird III.’ I was still none the wiser. ‘Cost me three and a half grand.’

  Oh well, at least now I knew how much he'd paid for it. I made a mental note: must check on what other plumbers in the local area were charging. He then lifted the guitar up to his face and started making very fast clitoral-licking movements with his tongue towards the instrument. ‘You’re pleased with it then,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it is an example of the finest craftsmanship; a thing of rare beauty indeed and together we shall … kick some fucking arse!’

  Gav put the strap over his head, bent his knees and pointed the sharp end at me. He put the bass of the guitar on to his crotch, making Pete Townshend-type windmill swings with his right arm.

  Engrossed in his utopian guitar world, he was now holding the business end using his right hand while simulating guitar neck masturbation with his left. He turned to me. ‘Listen, my band's got a gig two weeks Wednesday. Fancy coming along?’

  ‘I don't know. I might be working.’

  ‘Go on, you’ll enjoy it. I'll be putting this little baby through her paces.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He was now looking at a photo of Tegan I’d framed and put up on the mantelpiece. ‘Bring your woman; let
her see what a real man in action looks like.’ He gave a salacious lick of his lips while grinning at me.

  ‘I'll try, as long as you don't make any jokes about me through the mic.’

  ‘Would I do that to you?’ He would, and he had – during the last gig I made the mistake of going to. I looked at Gavin, who was now slowly but lovingly stroking his new guitar. He started putting it away in the same careful manner that he’d taken it out.

  ‘So you’re going to come then?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Nice one!’ He’d obviously taken that as a yes. I walked him to his van. He shoved a flyer in my hand advertising his gig. I had to admit I was tempted to go and listen to his three and half grand axe; well at least, to the seventy quid I’d just contributed towards it.

  Wednesday Evening, South Wales

  Tegan seemed to be feeling better, having got over the initial shock of her impending unemployment. She’d started to see the positives. John had been down to visit the day before and that’d given her spirits a lift.

  My roids were feeling a lot better, the only downside being I'd had to commandeer a drawer in Tegan's freezer for my petit pois. She wouldn't let the packet sit next to anything else. She also insisted on sticking a Post-it note to the packet with DO NOT EAT scrawled all over it. The pois, working in conjunction with Natalie’s wonder cream, seemed to be doing the trick, so perhaps she wasn't such a bad girl after all.

  Preparations for the operation were going OK. Neil had broached the subject of dog-doping with Denise, and she’d agreed to help. Phil informed us that he'd completed the stick-on boat transfers and would be joining Peachy and Vaughan as third crew member at the weekend.

  I couldn't arrange a van until we had a concrete idea of when they would all arrive near Shoreborough. We assumed it would be in about ten days, but until I got the phone call from Peach telling me they were within a day or so of the destination, I didn't want to throw good money away hiring something we weren't yet ready to use. If I had to be honest, things were going more or less to plan.