I sighed. ‘I’m going to have to do it myself, aren’t I?’
‘There’s no way I’m letting an historian near a sharp implement in an enclosed space. Here we go.’
To begin with, it wasn’t too bad. I could feel something was happening, but so long as I didn’t actually look … I kept my eyes on the ceiling. The scorch mark was shaped like Australia. I could see Darwin.
‘Are we there yet?’
‘No.’
I turned my head away and counted the dents on the locker doors.
And then, suddenly, a nasty twinge. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to distract him.
‘Are you unconscious?’
‘I was keeping quiet out of consideration for you.’
‘I feel more reassured when you’re talking. I don’t actually listen to the words, but the drone of your voice, maundering on and on, is comforting.’
‘Would you like me to tell you a joke?
‘I’ve heard historian jokes. They’re either pathetic or so sick that only an historian would think they were funny. Do you actually know a joke that isn’t either historically based or revolting?’
‘Of course,’ I said, inaccurately, as a river of pain coursed up and down my arm.
He wiped the blood away and peered closely.
‘I can’t find it. Sometimes they … migrate.’
‘What, like geese?’
‘I’m going to make the incision a little larger.’
‘Did I see a bottle?’ I lifted my head and swallowed some brandy. ‘Yuk. I hate this stuff.’
He tried to take the bottle away but I wasn’t having any of that.
‘Off you go, then. Let’s hear this famous joke.’
‘Oh, OK. Well, there was this man … And he wakes up in hospital.’
‘A medical joke. Most appropriate. Continue.’
‘Nnng … this man … wakes up in hospital and the doctor says …’
I clenched my teeth. I really didn’t want to scream and put him off, so I gritted my teeth, thought of the Battle of Salamis, and had another mouthful. Yuk.
‘Is that it? Well, all right, I’ll grant you it wasn’t sick, but it wasn’t very funny, either.’
‘No,’ I said, appreciating his efforts to distract me. ‘There’s a bit more.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘This man wakes up in the hospital and the … doctor says … “ It’s all right, mate. You’ve been in an accident on the Great North Road, but … you’re all right now.”’
‘Ah! There is a happy ending. That’s nice. Not the usual historian style at all.’
‘No … Not finished yet. Just shut up, will you. Aagh.’
‘Please try and keep still.’
‘Sorry. It’s all the excitement …’
‘A common reaction among women whenever I’m near. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. Lousy joke, by the way.’
‘And the doctor says, “But sadly, in the accident, your todger fell off.”’
‘What? Is this is the historian definition of the words – happy ending? Your todger falls off?’
‘And the man says … “Oh no!” and the doctor says … Aren’t you finished yet?’
‘What? I’m confused now.’
‘You’re hacking your way through my blood vessels, muscles, capilliarilleries and God knows what else. You’d better not be bloody confused.’
‘Just get on with this painfully long and unfunny joke, will you?’
‘Yuk. Where was I?’
‘The poor bloke’s lost his todger. Not, if I might venture an opinion, a suitable subject for mirth, but I’m accustomed to you failing to meet my standards of propriety and decency.’
‘So the man says, “Oh no.” And the doctor – aaagh.’
‘Sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I can’t find it.’
‘Well, keep looking. Where’s it going to go, for crying out loud? And the doctor says, “ Don’t panic. We have the technology. We can rebuild you.” And the man says … “Thank goodness.”’
Silence. I kept my eyes on him, grim and focused. I didn’t dare look at what he was doing. Red-hot waves of pain ran up my arm with the occasional short, sharp, purple jab of agony. I took a couple of deep breaths and picked up the thread.
‘And the doctor says, “Yes, but to rebuild you will cost a thousand … pounds … a thousand … pounds … ”’
‘A thousand pounds what? Despite my repugnance for this sorry tale, I have to admit to a certain grisly interest in the outcome. A thousand pounds what?’
I said, through gritted teeth, ‘A thousand pounds an inch.’
‘What! Good job it’s not me we’re talking about. We’d need to take out a mortgage.’
‘Oh, please. I’m lying here … helpless and … having to listen … to … the male ego. Can it get any worse?’
Yes, was the answer to that one and for several red and purple moments, it did. I lost all interest in the joke, the tag, the pod, the world, everything.
‘Hey,’ he said, sharply. ‘Stay with me. What happens next? A thousand pounds an inch?’
‘And the man thinks … for a bit … and then smiles and says, “Oh. OK, then. Not a problem.”’