Bertie and the Kinky Politician (25 page)

Slowly, the gallantly cheerful but hopelessly overworked staff made gradual inroads into their distressed flock. Those honoured with selection shuffled off through a doorway to clinical Nirvana beyond. Hugo watched them go, desperately hoping he would be next. Axe Man finally got the call and made towards the inner sanctum, ducking to ensure the hatchet handle did not hit the door lintel. Eventually, Hugo was summoned. He left his corner with alacrity and fairly sped through, following a nurse to the X-ray suite and then an inner waiting room. His shoulders slumped at the thought of further delays, but at least this one had a seat.

‘What's up with you?' asked his neighbour to the left, a huge man sitting very gingerly and wincing with pain. Hugo's own generous girth and the size of the ridiculously inadequate chairs meant the two were cosying up rather more than he would have liked. This seemed particularly perilous considering the highly noticeable activity in his happy regions.

‘I'd rather not talk about it,' muttered Hugo, hoping his lack of interest would discourage further conversation. An overwhelming aroma of stale beer hung around the man like a dank miasma.

‘Suit yourself. Only trying to be polite.'

The conversation faltered, much to Hugo's relief. The man was obviously much the worse for drink. There was something so, so – well, common about getting drunk on beer. It was a pastime the working class engaged in because they were too stupid to appreciate fine wines or a really good liqueur. Beer, in Hugo's opinion, produced an offensive drunk, a violent drunk, an anti-social drunk. Unfortunately, it also produced a garrulous drunk.

‘So, I'm Brendan,' the inebriate announced suddenly, determined to return to their conversation and blissfully oblivious to Hugo's cross-armed, blank-eyed apathy. ‘Want to know what I'm here for?' he slurred conspiratorially.

‘Not really.' Hugo's incuriosity made no impact.

‘Went out with the lads on a bender. Went pole dancin', we did.'

‘You, in hot pants?'

‘Not us, yer prat. We went to a club. Me an' Four Balls an' Morocco Joe.'

‘Four Balls!'

‘Thassright. Had to have two vastec – vastretch – snips. Firss one didn't work.'

‘Lovely image.'

‘Speckt they're still at the club shoving tenners down gussets. I'd be there too but …' and here he dissolved into a fit of the giggles.

Hugo sighed. He was going to get the story whether he liked it or not. ‘But what?' he asked dutifully.

‘But I was ʼaving a dump when I dropped me brandy an' me ciggy. I've burnt me chuckles something wicked!'

‘Oh, sweet mother of Moses, please rescue me.'

Hugo's prayers were answered. A doctor appeared. The man wore his white coat casually unbuttoned at the front with a stethoscope draped around his neck and a reflex hammer jutting from his breast pocket. His badges of office. He peered down the line of expectant patients over a pair of tinted John Lennon glasses perched on the end of his nose.

‘Hands up which one of you has swallowed something nasty!' he called out. Hugo promptly stuck up his arm, desperate to get away from his pyrotechnically inept acquaintance. Everyone stared, much to Hugo's embarrassment. Necks craned, and there was a subdued, ‘Oooh!' of interest from the walking wounded. This was obviously part of the doctor's intent – it seemed ritual humiliation was an important element in the prevention of further mishaps.

‘Ah, yes, you must be the druid.'

‘Are you people fixated on paganism?' Hugo snapped acidly. He had the feeling he was getting caught up in something surreally bizarre. The other waiting patients merely nodded sagely.

‘Definitely,' murmured one.

‘Always so keen to deny it,' whispered another.

‘Yer didn't tell me you was a bleedin' druid. No wonder you're ʼere,' observed Brendan, nudging Hugo in the ribs and grinning slyly.

‘Is there something going on around here I don't know about?'

‘Of course not, sir,' replied the doctor, using an identical tone of voice as that employed by the receptionist outside. ‘We're not here to judge. Please follow me.' At last Hugo experienced a little privacy, even if it was just an alcove to one side of the bustling treatment room. The doctor indicated a chair. ‘Please sit down, Mr – ah, Chaplain. I'm Doctor Linden. So it's a jewel this time.'

‘What do you mean, “this time?” There hasn't been a previous time. Ever! And there won't be a time after this, either,' said Hugo with some heat. He wriggled in his seat as if he had ants in his pants and a hand strayed towards his bulging crotch, only to be snatched back. The doctor glanced down for a moment, then stared at Hugo over his glasses, regarding him with droll, professional coolness, his only reaction a slight sardonic raising of an eyebrow. ‘Don't even think about it,' ground out Hugo, reddening badly.

The doctor was completely impervious to his protestations. ‘How many times have I told you guys, Christianity is a much safer non-contact religion.'

‘Just get on with it. I want to be out of here as soon as possible.'

‘You're not going anywhere, my sword-swallowing friend, except upstairs to an operating theatre.'

‘What!' exploded Hugo.

The doctor rammed an X-ray film upwards into the clips of a viewing box. Hugo's innards stared out at them, all faint and tubular. In the centre of the film was a stark black silhouette, circular and rayed. To Hugo's anxious eyes the spikes took on the proportions of daggers. The jewel was enormous. ‘That's not going to come out easily,' murmured the doctor, peering closely at the film. ‘From either end,' he added pointedly. ‘Frankly, it's a bit of a miracle you didn't choke. Biggest I've ever seen, and I've seen a few, believe me!''

‘You can't pump it out or something?'

‘No. Can't risk lacerating your oesophagus. Besides, it might get stuck. Too dangerous. I've called one of our general surgeons and they're prepping the theatre now. A porter will be here shortly to take you up. Emergency keyhole surgery and a small scar. It's your lucky night!'

‘You call this luck? Let me tell you about luck …' spat Hugo, stabbing a plump finger at the doctor, but he never completed his sentence. A bell suddenly rang. It had that particular note of urgency which stops every conversation in mid-sentence and compels all within earshot to stare around in confusion. Hugo became aware of a commotion out in the waiting room. The doctor didn't bat an eyelid. ‘Excuse me for a moment,' he said pleasantly, stood up and strode away. Nurses congregated, worried expressions on their faces. Hugo wondered just how bad it had to be to worry these nurses. He didn't have long to find out.

An elderly man stood in the centre of the room, tall, dignified, well-dressed in a blue blazer and grey trousers. His bouffant hair was silver, his moustache clipped neatly, his complexion florid. He faced the doctor with the upright bearing of an old soldier. Hugo was close enough to bear witness to their conversation.

‘So, Squadron Leader Dandridge, can you please tell me again precisely what you've done,' asked the doctor, hands in pockets. Hugo suspected the man's nonchalance was for the benefit of his agitated staff – and to make himself look pretty damned cool. Some of the nurses stared at him with drooling adoration.

‘Certainly, old chap,' replied the officer in a clipped ex-RAF kind of fashion. ‘Nothing to tell really. Had piles for years. You know – haemorrhoids.'

‘I'm aware of the condition, yes.'

‘Damned nuisance, they are, always itching and getting in the way.'

‘That's frequently the nature of the complaint.'

‘Well, when they get really irksome, I grease up an old cannon shell and use it to poke the blighters back inside!'

‘A cannon shell!'

‘That's right. Can't use a bullet. Too small. Not enough pushing power. I know, I've tried. That's why I prefer the shell. It's got a much nicer taper on the nose. Just the ticket.'

‘This – er, utensil, is it by any chance a live round?'

‘Of course it is, old chap – what's the point in using a dud? Genuine World War Two RAF cannon shell. Used plenty in my Mosquito. That had four barrels. Pinky Moreton and I used to go hunting Messerschmitts. Jerries hated ʼem.'

‘And where is it now?'

This was a bit of a stupid question really. Everybody knew where it was. The hospital alarm bell should have been clue enough. Even Hugo, thoroughly untrained in the subtleties of gastro-intestinal medicine, even he knew where it was.

‘Ah, rather embarrassing actually. It's slipped inside.'

‘So you're walking around with a piece of live ammunition in your rectum.'

‘Er, quite.'

‘And this doesn't bother you?'

‘Not at all, dear boy, not at all,' beamed the old flyer. ‘It's quite safe.'

‘So why have you come here?'

‘The damned thing's been stuck fast for two days and I'm beginning to feel bloated. Thought you chaps would be able to help out. It's the least you youngsters can do for a chap who won the Distinguished Flying Cross beating up the Luftwaffe.' He proudly tapped at a medal pinned to his chest.

‘So you want us to rummage around inside your bottom with a pair of forceps and extract a live – and by now quite possibly unstable – piece of high explosive ordnance.'

‘If you'd be so kind.' There was no mistake, Squadron Leader Dandridge possessed two remarkable qualities, thought Hugo. The first was that he was impeccably polite, the second was a very distinct possibility not all his parsnips were evenly buttered. It seemed Linden had also come to the same conclusions.

‘Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but this is a just a tad beyond my remit. We'll need some expert advice on how to deal with your – um, your condition.'

‘I should say so. You seem a pleasant enough fellow and I say this with all respect, but you're a bit of a whipper-snapper – too young by far to know anything decent about handling aircraft ammunition.'

‘No offence taken, Squadron Leader.' Linden frowned in sudden irritation at the alarm. ‘Nurse Koliasnikoff, can you please turn off that noise and call the police.'

‘They are already on their way. With the bomb squad.' There were no flies on Tatiana Koliasnikoff. Not where explosives were concerned. She was from Russia. To the relief of all, the alarm subsided into a blessed silence.

‘Thank you. In the meantime, Squadron Leader, I think it would be best for all here if you just go outside and stand as far as possible from any people. And cars. And buildings. Actually, just stand as far away as possible from anything. Saves us having to evacuate the entire department.'

‘Certainly. Happy to oblige, old boy.' Dandridge reeled off a snappy salute, spun on his heel and marched outside. Now there was a military man who knew how to shock and awe!

‘Back to work, everyone,' called the doctor cheerfully. ‘Let's at least try and keep on top of it tonight.' He spoke briefly to the nurses in reassuring tones, got a laugh out of them and then rejoined Hugo. ‘Now, where were we? Oh, yes, your unusual diet.'

‘Do you get a lot of that?' asked Hugo querulously.

‘UTB incidents? Yes, we do, a surprising number.

‘UTB?'

‘Up The Bottom. Our nickname. Got to say, though, it's the first time I've ever seen anyone use ammunition. That's a new one even for me, but you'd be amazed what some people manage to lose inside themselves.' Linden favoured Hugo with a knowing look. A cheerful, dreadlocked, and eyebrow-ringed porter breezed in with a wheelchair. ‘Hi, doc. Hear you've had some excitement.'

‘Hello, Gordon. Yes, I'll be able to dine out on this one for months. You here for Mr Chaplain?'

‘Uh-huh. The druid.'

‘I am not a druid!' shrieked Hugo, suddenly very much overwhelmed by the events of the evening. ‘I never have been and never will be a druid, do you all understand?'

‘Well, OK,' said Gordon slowly and carefully, clearly taken aback by Hugo's splenetic outburst. ‘Anything you say. Wanna get in the chair. We're going straight to theatre.' He slapped an envelope of notes and X-rays against Hugo's chest. ‘Hold these.' Hugo did as he was told and was wheeled away. Gordon looked back over his shoulder at the doctor and mouthed ‘Druid' silently, at which Linden nodded in agreement.

Morosely, Hugo stared ahead along the corridor. It was so humiliating to be treated like an invalid. They passed a window and Gordon jerked the chair to a halt. ‘Whoa there, Trigger, let's see what's going on outside. Surgery can wait for a minute.'

The front of King's was a sea of flashing blue lights. The police had shepherded a few sparse bystanders back behind their cordon and Hugo could see an army truck parked on its own inside the tapes. Several squaddies were just finishing off the construction of a waist-high circular wall of sandbags. Protruding skywards from the centre of this temporary structure was the unmistakable silhouette of an up-ended bottom.

Naked. Pallid. Dandridge's.

An officer was physically pushed forward by some soldiers, his reluctance plain for all to see. Dressed in full bomb-disposal body armour, he looked for all the world like a chunky samurai warrior. He carried himself with the stolid unwillingness of a professional man who knew there was an unpleasant duty ahead and approached the bottom warily, as if unsure as to how to proceed. After examining it from every angle, he picked up a pair of formidable forceps in gloved hands, snapped them open and shut a few times, then leaned forward.

‘Time to go,' announced Gordon smartly. ‘That's a sight no man should ever have to see.'

‘I agree,' replied Hugo with equal feeling. ‘Lead on, MacDuff!' Gordon deposited Hugo and departed. He was stripped, washed and prepared before being whisked into the theatre ante-room, his stoutness tenting the green gown covering his body, but by now Hugo did not care any more. He just wanted this dreadful ordeal to be over as quickly as possible. A sniggering anaesthetist administered an injection and almost immediately Hugo began to drift away, smothered in a comforting warmth as if wrapped in cotton wool. ‘Got another druid for you, Jeremy,' he called over his shoulder to the surgeon.