“I don’t know Pavlov and I don’t know his dog,” I said, “but unless either of them has been stabbed in the balls with a syringe I don’t think they can have any idea what I’m feeling right now.”
“Fine,” said Dr. Dourish with a shrug. “Continue with your sordid fantasies. Live a life that is dominated by disgusting and immoral thoughts. Be an outcast from society for the rest of your days. It’s your choice. But remember, you came here for help and I am offering help. It’s up to you whether or not you accept it.”
I thought about this and as the pain subsided I slowly—very, very slowly—made my way back toward the bed and sat down, trembling and close to tears. I gripped the side of the bed and closed my eyes.
“Very good,” he said. “Now, let’s try again. Pope Paul VI.”
Nothing.
“Charles Laughton.”
Nothing.
“George Harrison.”
And if there were any patients awaiting their turn outside I daresay they turned on their heels and ran when they heard the sounds of my screams piercing the plasterwork and threatening to tear down the walls. When I stumbled out, half an hour later, barely able to walk and with tears rolling down my cheeks, the surgery was empty except for Dr. Dourish’s secretary, who was seated behind her desk, writing a receipt.
“That’ll be fifteen pence,” she said, handing the docket across, and I reached carefully—very, very carefully—into my pocket for the money. Before I could retrieve it, however, the door to the doctor’s office opened and, worried that he was going to come at me crying “Harold Macmillan! Adolf Hitler! Tony Curtis!” I wondered whether I should make for a run for it.
“An extra three pence for a syringe, Annie,” said Dr. Dourish. “Mr. Sadler is taking one with him.”
“Eighteen pence then,” she said, and I put the money on the table and limped out, glad to breathe the fresh air of Dundrum. Making my way down the street toward the shopping center I stopped at a bench and sat down, adjusting myself to find a comfortable position, and put my head in my hands. A young couple, the wife showing early signs of pregnancy, stopped when they saw me and asked whether I was all right, whether there was anything they could do for me.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you, though.”
“You don’t look all right,” said the woman.
“That’s because I’m not. I’ve just had a man stab a needle into my scrotum about twenty times over the course of an hour. And it hurts like hell.”
“I’d imagine it would,” said the man nonchalantly. “I hope you didn’t pay for that kind of treatment.”
“I paid eighteen pence,” I said.
“You could get a good night out on that if you were careful,” said the woman. “Do you need a doctor? There’s one down the road if—”
“It was the doctor who did it,” I said. “I just need a taxi, that’s all. I want to go home.”
“Helen,” said the man. “Keep an eye out for a taxi. The poor man can hardly stand.” And no sooner had she turned around and raised her hand in the air than one came our way and pulled in.
“Nothing is worth this kind of upset,” said the woman as I climbed into the backseat. She had a kindly face and there was a part of me that wanted to weep on her shoulder and tell her all my woes. “Whatever’s wrong with you, don’t worry. It’ll all come good in the end.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” I said, closing the door as the car pulled away.
Before the Whole Car Could Go Up in Flames
A few weeks later, the Minister was caught with his pants down.
A supposedly happily married man who dragged his wife and children to Mass with him every Sunday morning, he could usually be found standing in the church grounds afterward, regardless of the weather, shaking hands with his constituents and promising to see them all at the GAA match the following weekend. A country TD, he’d stayed in his Dublin flat at the weekend only to be discovered in the early hours of Sunday morning being sucked off in his car by a sixteen-year-old drug addict who had only been released from serving six months for public order offenses in the Finglas Child and Adolescent Center earlier that day. The Minister was arrested and brought to Pearse Street Garda Station, where he refused to give his name and did the usual routine of demanding all their badge numbers, insisting that none of them would have a job by the end of the day. When he tried to leave, he was bundled into a cell and left to stew.
It only took about an hour for someone to identify him. A junior Garda, tasked with bringing cups of tea to the residents of the drunk tank, took one look at the Minister’s fat, sweaty face, recognized him from the evening news and went outside to inform his sergeant who, no fan of the government of the day, made a couple of discreet phone calls to a journalist friend of his. By the time he had been processed, bailed and released, the scrum had formed outside and he emerged into the daylight to a barrage of questions, accusations and the endless click-clack of camera shutters.
When I arrived at the department the following morning, the media were parked outside on Marlborough Street and I made my way up to the office to find Miss Joyce, Miss Ambrosia and Mr. Denby-Denby at the heart of the drama.
“There you are, Mr. Avery,” said Miss Joyce as I put my bag down. “What kept you until this time?”
“It’s only just gone nine,” I said, glancing up at the clock. “Why, what’s happened?”
“Have you not heard?”
I shook my head and Miss Joyce did her best to explain, using every euphemism known to man to avoid saying the necessary words, but the more flustered she grew, the less sense she made and finally Mr. Denby-Denby threw his hands in the air in frustration and stepped in to make things clear.
“The Garda knocked on the window of his car,” he said, raising his voice so there could be no confusion over what had taken place, “and found the pair of them inside with their trousers around their ankles and the boy with the Minister’s cock in his mouth. There’ll be no way out of this one for him. It’s going to make a hell of a splash. No pun intended.”
I opened my mouth wide in a mixture of disbelief and amusement, and perhaps it was unfortunate that it was still open in the shape of an O when the Minister himself walked in, pale, perspiring and petulant. He pointed a finger at me and let out a roar.
“You!” he said. “What’s your name again?”
“Avery,” I told him. “Cyril Avery.”
“Are you trying to be funny, Avery?”
“No,” I said. “Sorry, sir.”
“Because I’ll tell you this, I’ve had enough jokes for one morning and I’m likely to punch the nose off the next man who makes any kind of crack. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, looking down at my shoes and trying not to laugh.
“Miss Joyce,” he said, turning to our supposed leader. “Where are we on this now? Have you put anything out yet? We have to get in front of this thing before it spirals out of control.”
“I’ve drafted something,” she said, reaching for a piece of paper on her desk. “But I wasn’t sure what line you wanted to take. And Miss Ambrosia has finished your wife’s statement.”