Balls

Balls

  By Tommy Dakar

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Trap-Door

  A World Apart and Other Stories

  For more information visit www.wix.com/tommydakar/tommydakar

  3

  ‘Cut his balls off!’

  ‘What?’

  Ronald stared at his brother in disbelief.

  ‘Cut his fucking balls off!’

  The waiting room at Burton General Hospital had no door so Daphne had mounted nervous guard. The coast was clear.

  ‘What the hell are you on about? Spit it out for Christ’s sake before somebody comes in,’

  then added under pressure from his wife’s angry glare

  ‘And mind your language.’

  Ken took a deep breath and started to tell the story in a slow, monotonous way as if he were reciting it for the hundredth time to an insistent detective.

  ‘He went into the hills three days ago. The police were alerted, a search mounted, but he wasn’t found. This morning he staggered into the doctor’s surgery in Nutswood and fainted. He’d lost a lot of blood, so they rushed him here where they discovered that, that he’d cut his ....... testicles off. That’s all I know.’

  They took it in turns to show their astonishment and anguish. Kenneth sat down, his mission completed, and waited for the couple to compose themselves. Ron ran his hands through his well-trimmed hair and sighed a lot, while Daphne, out of courtesy, decided to feign shock, though really she was not in the least surprised.

  ‘They’ve stitched him up and he’s out of danger. They’ll keep him in for observation, but he should be allowed out in a few days. They want him to see a psychiatrist. Or a psychologist. I don’t know.’

  Ron had got over the shock by now. He liked to think that he looked life full in the face and was capable of responsible action in the most adverse circumstances. He returned to his old self. He would need to know all the facts, and quickly, before he could decide how best to react.

  ‘How do you mean? Did he do it to himself? That’s impossible, isn’t it? I thought it was like trying to drown yourself. How did he do it? With a knife, a pair of scissors, a sharp stone? I wouldn’t put it past him, mad bastard’.

  ‘Ronald.’

  ‘Well he...’

  He was about to defend himself, but the memory of domestic punishment as relayed by his better half’s stern gaze pulled him up, and he had the good sense to stop and apologise.

  ‘Sheepshearers.’

  Explained Ken.

  ‘What sheepshearers for heaven’s sake’

  inquired Daphne.

  ‘What he used to lop them off with.’

  ‘Sheepshears. Not sheepshearers. Sheepshearers are the men who shear sheep. They use sheepshears.’

  She was a teacher.

  ‘Where on earth did he get hold of those? Really, it’s just too absurd .... Ken, he’s our kid brother,’

  Ron added illogically.

  Daphne was biting the inside of her lips, and her bag kept falling off her shoulder, requiring her constant attention.

  ‘Sit down, dear,’

  suggested Ron.

  ‘No thank you.’

  It was better not to insist.

  ‘What time did he do it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Well was it today or yesterday or what?’

  ‘I don’t know, today I suppose.’

  ‘”Today I suppose”. For heaven’s sake don’t you know anything? Poor little kid’s gone and, and mutilated himself and you know nothing. Didn’t you ask? Didn’t you think to...? Well, didn’t the police say anything, or the doctors?’

  Ken looked hard at his brother as if to say 'don’t start', so Ron stood up, smoothed down his suit and declared that if you wanted anything doing you’d best do it yourself, as usual, adding that he was the only one who did anything round there, and with a stoical sigh went off with his faithful assistant in search of more information. It wasn’t long before they were back.

  ‘Typical. The place is deserted. There’s some dozy receptionist whose job it is to know absolutely nothing, but apart from that the place is deserted. Which ward’s he in?’

  Ken couldn’t remember the technical term but he wasn’t going to let his brother see that.

  ‘It’s along the corridor, then first left. Carry on to the end, follow round a sort of curvy bit with lots of dirty laundry and you come to a flight of stairs. Go past those and it’s one of the doors along there. Swing doors, you can’t miss it.’

  It worked of course. Ron was a man who liked to think that he could memorise a secret message in a matter of seconds and then eat it. He was competent. But not stupid.

  ‘Aren’t you coming? I think it would be nice if we all went along together, don’t you dear?’

  A hospital is no place for high heels, and the rhythmic stomping of Daphne’s feet filled the corridor with a deafening clacking sound like somebody learning to type with two fingers while sitting in a large metal bucket. Ken slouched along looking bored, lost in his thoughts, while Ronald brought up the rear in a distinguished way he’d perfected over the years.

  On their left a pristine white wall studded with serious, clearly marked doors whose entry was strictly forbidden, on their right an abandoned interior patio which used to be where the patients would convalesce but was now a mass of dry weeds and forlorn stainless steel instruments of dubious function dulled by the rain, odd looking apparatus with handles and footplates and overhead frames thankfully fallen into disuse.

  They knew when they had reached the stairs because there was a simplistic drawing which represented a flight of steps nailed to the wall. Its aim was to be helpful and unambiguous, but ended up by assuming that the illiterate and the foreign were simple-minded idiots who wouldn’t recognise a staircase if they saw one. Daphne, who had an eye for detail, noticed that it had been hung upside down. She was not surprised; it only helped confirm her theory that the vast majority of the human race was incompetent.

  There were three more beds in the room, and as they entered the patients and their respective relatives all stopped talking and looked round at them, anxious to catch a glimpse of the Mad Boy’s family. Ken, who had been through this before, pretended to take no notice and made straight for his brother’s bed. Ronald and Daphne, in an attempt at appearing unflustered, walked stiffly past the gawking onlookers as if there was no one there at all.

  ‘Good afternoon’

  came a voice from somewhere or other.

  ‘Afternoon,’

  coughed Ron in reply, without turning round.

  Paul was asleep. His skin was pale with a touch of yellowness about it, and there were dark smudges under his eyes as if his make-up had run.

  ‘I want him out of here and in a private room as soon as possible,’

  Ron hissed.

  ‘He’s asleep,’

  responded Ken, stating the obvious.

  ‘I can see that. He should be in a room on his own,’

  Daphne underlined.

  ‘Do they...?’

  Ron gestured to the other patients.

  ‘....know? Know that he...?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’

  ‘This is just, just.....Bloody hell!’

  Paul slept on.

  ‘Well, what are we going to do, then? Eh? He can’t stay here. Everybody will find out, and then what, eh? He can’t stay here.’

  Ron was beside himself.

  ‘Let’s talk to the doctors. Get him a room by himself. Poor boy.’

  She had never been able to sound very sincere.

  ‘Well, someone’s got to stay here for when he comes round. Why don’t you two do the string pulling and I’ll sit guard. OK?’

&nbs
p; ‘Good idea. Come on, Ronald, it’s obvious that we’ll have to do the sorting out or all hell will be let loose.’

  ‘You’re right. Wait here until we come back. Let’s see if we can’t at least get him out of here, away from all these nosey....’

  He trailed off to avoid the swear word.

  ‘Come on, we’ll start with the staff nurse or whatever she calls herself nowadays,’

  and they hurried off as fast as they could without giving the impression of haste..

  Back home Ken wondered how on earth he was going to explain it to Jill. Should he be nonchalant, ‘darling, he’s only castrated himself, nothing to worry about’, or let her have it bit by bit, going from badly scratched, through nastily cut, to amputation? And what about the kids, what could he possibly say to them? ‘He’s had an accident with his bike’? And Jill would quiz him, would want to know all the tiny details, everything he should have noticed but hadn’t, every exact word of every conversation he couldn’t remember. But the worst of it was that she would think it ran in the family, that the Kavanaghs were all just a bit odd, not quite right in the head. Nuts. Dad disappearing like that all those years ago. Ron with his airs and graces. And her husband, she would no doubt begin to ask herself? What did he hide under his overalls? If he wasn’t careful she’d start to think he’d passed it on to Robbie and Susan too!

  ‘Christ, what a mess.’

  Ken loved his younger brother albeit in a theoretical way, but at that moment he could have killed him.

  Jill came down with her ‘uniform’ on – a shabby track suit she refused to throw out because it was fine for indoors. It was now or never.

 

  ‘He’s gone and cut his balls off!’

  He almost burst into laughter, but managed to hold himself back. It certainly sounded like a joke. Jill stared back. Ken wasn’t famous for his sense of humour, but…

  ‘No, really, that’s why he’s in hospital. He did it. To himself. Snip. Lopped them off.’

  Jill continued stared back. She couldn't quite link his words with any suitable reaction. Her brown hair hung limp on either side of her plump cheeks, as if also lost for words.

  ‘Honest. It’s true, straight up. Don’t ask me why. But he’s alright, he’s going to be alright, he’s just lost loads of blood and so they had to stitch him up, but he’s alright, he’s going to be alright.’

  Jill was quickly coming back to her senses. She tucked her hair behind her ears and sniffed. Like Ron she would have to have all the details. Unfortunately that was an almost impossible task. The questions would now come thick and fast, and poor Ken just didn’t have the answers.

  ‘Is there any infection?’

  A shrug

  ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘With sheepshears’

  He was a quick learner.

  ‘How much blood has he lost? Who found him? Did they take him to the hospital in an ambulance, or in somebody’s car?’

  She stopped abruptly.

  ‘What did you say? Sheepshears? For heaven’s sake. Where did he get those from? What does Ron think of all this? Tell me exactly what he said? Can he walk?’

  The interrogation had begun. What did the doctors say? What is the treatment? Has he got a change of clothes? What are the visiting times? How long will he have to stay in? Has he seen a psychiatrist? Ken would do his best, but he did not have the ability to remember whole conversations by heart, or to capture every minor detail in each separate scene. She realised she would have to go herself. Not out of nosiness, you understand, but rather as a fact finding mission.

  Ron sat at the steering wheel while Daphne stared out of the side window idly watching the town glide past. Which is how they saw their relationship – both going in the same direction but with their minds on different subjects. Ronald competent, concentrating on getting through the various hazards the road presented, Daphne more concerned with looking good, being carried in style, with time on her hands to idly watch the town glide past. They wouldn’t swap positions for the world.

  Daphne felt insulted by her brother-in-law’s lunacy. It was so selfish. How she hated selfish people. Didn’t they realise that their actions affected others, too? It’s all very well going around chopping off whatever you want, she supposed, though it was to her a strange way of calling attention to yourself, but why hadn’t he stopped for a moment to think how it would affect them? It’s like those stupid kids who put rings through their lips and heaven knows where else. Attention seeking, but how their poor mothers suffered. Of course, he never was right in the head. On drugs, I fear. Or maybe he was just born mad. Sheepshears! My God, the thought of it! If word of this ever gets out.....

  Ron seemed to have read her thoughts.

  ‘Not a word of this to anyone, Daphne. Not a word. Not a soul.’

  ‘What makes you think that I’d want to go round telling everybody that my dear brother-in-law has mutilated himself in such a way?’

  ‘I was thinking of your group.’

  ‘I haven’t got the slightest intention of letting them in on our sordid family secrets, believe me.’

  That hurt, but he decided not to respond, he didn’t feel up to a word fight with Daphne just now.

  They drove on in silence for a few miles, and it wasn’t until they were drawing near to home that Daphne, who had been imagining the worst, advised

  ‘You’d better phone Kenneth when you get in. It’s just like him to go blabbing about it in the pub, you know what he’s like.’

  Another insult to his family. He swallowed it, too, because in reality he agreed with her. Paul was a weirdo and Ken couldn’t keep his mouth shut about anything. Neither could Jill, come to that. What a pair!

  ‘As soon as we get in.’

  ‘Poor Jill,’

  sighed Daphne, though she couldn’t stand her. Ron smiled. At least he could count on his wife to keep up appearances if nothing else. And unless he was very much mistaken discretion at this point was vital.

  Once inside Ron helped himself to a double whisky despite Daphne’s frown. Today of all days he felt justified. Picking up on his exceptionally rebellious attitude she refrained from making a comment, limiting herself to raising her eyebrows towards the phone. Ron nodded, took a sip and wondered why he’d poured himself so much – he’d have to finish it all now or lose face. It would probably make him sleepy and sluggish in thought, apart from burning a tunnel deep down into his stomach. Stupid bloody kid.

  ‘Jill? It’s me, Ronald.’

  ‘Out of danger according to Dr. Milton, and he should know, apart from being one of our very good friends he’s one of the best....’

  He trailed off, unsure what Dr. Milton’s speciality was.

  ‘Yes, I know, well I don’t think it matters much, he was unconscious anyway.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I’m not sure, but we’ll try, after lunch is always tricky for us, as you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Yes, put him on, thanks.’

  ‘At home. No, just to remind you that this should remain between us, you know, a family affair.’

  He thought he heard Daphne snort behind him.

  ‘No, of course not, come on, you know me. It’s just.....’

  ‘Alright, alright. Tomorrow. But not a word, eh.’

  He turned slightly towards Daphne and she spotted it.

  ‘No, don’t be silly. Do you think we want the whole world to know?’

  ‘Christ, I hope not! You don’t think....’

  This time he turned round and stared at his wife pleadingly.

  ‘No, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe one of us should stay with him all night in case he comes round.’

  ‘I’d love to, but how can I? Can’t Jill?’

  ‘I’ll phone you back in, say, half an hour. I hope you’re wrong.’

  And he hung up dramatically as if he’d already read the script.

  ‘Well?’

  He took another obliga
tory swig.

  ‘Ken reckons that if word gets round the village where he was found it’ll make its way into the local paper, and from there... who knows?’

  Daphne hadn’t thought of that either, but she liked to give the impression that nothing took her by surprise. So she said coolly.

  ‘Logical, it’s not every day somebody castrates himself without anaesthetic before staggering into town. It’ll get into the papers unless...’

  ‘Unless what?’

  He was anxious, but she didn’t have the answer, so she added

  ‘Exactly. Unless what?’

  Thereby returning the ball to his side of the court, which is where it belonged after all. Wasn’t he the driver?