The Clinic 5: Final Score

            “Do you want to head straight through to the waiting room?”

From first name terms to no names necessary. I wait a couple of minutes before the doctor arrives. She’s happy; she’s got a Christmas card.

            “One doesn’t get many. Oh Julie have we got his results scanned in?” The paper copy isn’t at hand. Probably in the same place they originally put the sample.

            “OK I just need to turn the computer on because I haven’t got the paper copy.”

            “So I gathered.”

            “Here we are. Yes it’s nice to get a Christmas card. OK let’s see. So it says it isn’t a malignant tumour. I wonder why they sent it to my work address, seems a little strange doesn’t it?”

            “Err, I guess. So anyway what does that mean? That it isn’t the early signs of cancer?”

            “That’s right; I suppose they haven’t got my home address.”

            “....”

            “Well, it’s from Janet and Dave, perhaps they got confused when we moved house. So, it is probably as I thought. You remember? The thing we already talked about?”

            “Right, only probably though? What else do the Bi-opsy results say?”

            “Nothing, well, it isn’t conclusive.”

“So we still don’t know?” A fine result after five appointments. Still dermatology is what it is; an enormous game of Guess Who where no-one has bothered to pick the revealing character card before hand. Has the person got blond hair? Maybe. Have they got glasses? Possibly. Is it a man? That much we know. Is it wearing a hat? That might be the problem...

“It just says unidentified skin complaint. Shall we have a look at how it’s getting on?”

            “Why not eh?”

“Oh yes it is still looking very nice isn’t it?”

“Thanks”

“So I think what we can do is to give you some creams and you can then see how that goes. That should be enough to clear it up and then you can use cream again if ever you get another outbreak, OK?”

            “Brilliant.”

            “OK, have a good Christmas!”

            “.....”

I leave, wondering what I’ve been a part of; some cruel experiment or reality TV perhaps? One reserved Doctor’s revenge against those she deems to be sexually promiscuous. Feigning embarrassment she initially gives her victims the upper hand. Fumbling through an extended series of appointments she burns up their precious time just as they may have burned others in a more irresponsible manner. She cuts away and bottles pieces of their genitals, sending them to far off corners of the hospital from where the pieces may never return. She scares them and scars them for weeks to come, taking them out of action for long enough to force them to re-consider their very existence. It’s a sinister, under-hand sexual health crusade! Or, maybe she really is lonely and chronically undersexed. Maybe she really did spend too much time studying and no time socialising in her youth. And though the studying has still failed to bring her to a correct diagnosis, all the time spent intimately getting to know the same patients might bring her a few more Christmas cards at least. 

The Clinic 4: Lost and Found

                “The doctor’s just phoned, she’s going to be ten minutes late.”

I'm thinking this is perhaps the reason mobile phone’s are rarely allowed in waiting rooms, just as the infuriating monotony of a ticking clock is conspicuous only by its absence in this particular hive of inactivity and expressionless faces. To be fair to the doctor this early December day has seen the winter’s first snow of sorts, though it is hardly the sort to leave one lost or stranded, for that it could not be an excuse.

               
                On this my fourth visit, the doctor, when she does eventually arrive, is able to call me by my first name only. It’s a degree of friendly familiarity which will probably work in her favour as she begins to reveal the rather sorry facts.

    “OK, sorry I’m late, I’m ill you see. Now I’m not sure if they have your results.”

    “Oh.”

    “Just let me check, I’ll just turn the computer on, oh it’s not working. Hang on. Ah yes here we are, ‘No record of sample’ oh.”

    “Oh?”

                “Well that’s a little strange; perhaps it’s not on the system yet. I’ll call the nurse in here to try to find out.”

                “Yes, please do.”

She picks up the phone whilst I try to decide whether this is all good fun or whether I should be terrified by the idea of having another hole cut into my penis. As the fear builds in my head (ahem) I’m reminded of a phone conversation I had with the nurse in between these clinic appointments about bi-opsy after care;

                “Well, it looks OK. Should I be washing the area as normal now?”

                “Maybe leave it a day, what exactly did the doctor explain to you?”

                “Err, very little actually.”

                “OK. Right. Well what it is, you know those machines at the fairground?”

                “…”

                “You know, those grabber ones where you can win a soft toy?”

                “…”

                “Hello?”

                “Go on.”

                “Well what we do, after we’ve numbed the area, we reach down like one of those grabber arm thingies and basically tear a bit of the flesh out, just like it’s one of those machines.”

                “The ones that take all you money and never actually give you what you want?”

                “That’s right.”

The nurse enters the consultation room with huge stick of pink candy floss and a pocket full of arcade machine tokens. No soft toy though.

                “Hi nurse, the computer says there’s no record of the sample. Now I filled the form in. Did the sample go in the bag?”

                “Yes definitely, I remember.”

                “Hmm. Are you sure you labeled it.”

                “Yes positive, it can’t be my fault.”

                “Nor mine, I completed the form. Who else would have had it?”

                “The porter?”

                “Ah yes, it must be the porter’s fault.”

Unfortunately, apportioning blame does little to pin point the whereabouts of the piece of my penis which has gone missing, they currently appear oblivious to this fact. In desperation more than hope I employ the tactic developed by mothers everywhere in such situations, admittedly situations where the lost item is something a little less sensitive; logic and reason.

                “Where was it last seen? Surely it needs to be in a fridge of some kind?”

                “No it’s soaked in formaldehyde so it can’t ‘go off’ so to speak, though it seems to have done so. Ha.”

I decide to change tack.

    “Maybe someone stole it for sausage meat what with soaring pork prices.”

    “…”

    “…” 

    “Nurse, do you know the number for the department in charge of the tests and readings, we could try ringing them directly couldn’t we?”

                “...”

                “Ask them what they had for tea last night.”

    “Hi I’m phoning regarding sample number 58546…….OK…….You have no record of ever receiving it?!......Right.”

                “?!”

Between them these two departments have managed to lose a piece of my penis, and how is this delicate news confirmed to me? By allowing me to over-hear the doctor, with no more gravitas than a mild annoyance in her voice, repeating the fact to a presumably very sheepish colleague. On noting my brow has become as creased as other parts of my anatomy which she now knows more intimately, she decides to raise her tone slightly against her assailant;

    “Look this was a penal bi-opsy. I don’t think we want to have to do this whole process again!” God forbid if she has to do it again. “OK yes, please try to find it.”

She returns to me. My smile shows signs of finding amusement in the situation; however my eyes, vacant and staring straight out towards the rain sodden tarmac of the staff car park, belie the true state of my nerves.

                “Well perhaps for now if you’d like to come behind the screen I can examine how the healing process has progressed. Oh excuse me a minute.”

I allow her time to sneeze, as I wait with my pants around my ankles. I fidget with the ‘dignity paper’ making sure I’m properly covered as she splutters another cough. Finally I sit bolt up right as I hear her violently wretch on the other side of the thin curtain. Resisting the temptation to enquire as to what she may be choking on, I instead lie back and try to remain calm. She tries to help this process, by telling me to remain calm. In fact, I’m relieved to hear her praise my penis, or is it her own work?

                “Oh yes, that’s lovely.”

                “Thank you.”

We sit back down at her desk and she begins to explain the same thing she explained when I sat down at her desk the last time I was here; that we could use creams, or do a bi-opsy if the sample from the last one isn’t found.

                “Would you like the creams?”

                “Well why bother if we still aren’t sure of the problem? That was the whole point of the excruciating pain you put me through right?”

                “Well exactly I understand your point which is why maybe you’d like to take the creams?”

                “Isn’t that the exact opposite of my point doctor?”

The phone rings. She mutters a few words down the line before turning to me.

                “They’ve found the sample!”

                “Great, how was it?”

                “They didn’t say. So if you’d like to make an appointment for next week on your way out, I’ll see you then.”

The Clinic 3: Make do and Mend

I’m pretty well accustomed to all this by now. I approach the waiting room anticipating which copy of National Geographic I shall use to distract my mind from that which lies in wait. Though that isn’t too difficult as I’m really not sure exactly what is going to happen once I’ve joined the good doctor and her chuckling side-kicks. Perhaps I’ll be treated to blow-ups of the portrait photos taken on my last visit. That in mind I begin to flick through pictures of fungus forests and dolphins riddled with scar-tissue, best to ready myself.

Today the doctor herself comes to call me into her consultation room. She mumbles my name and I follow her down the same old new corridors without a word. My mind casts back to my first visit and her refusal to make eye contact, however what with me walking a pace or two behind her strident march I can forgive her this time, until she asks me to take a seat and I do so obligingly; my head is firmly behind her computer screen. She begins to talk through what stage we’re currently at, however addressing my knees isn’t getting the message across and so I poke my head round the screen and into view in order to ask a question which has been on my mind over the last few days between appointments.

                “So am I not going to be able to have sex for a while?”

                “Oh no! Of course not! I thought you would know that!”

Suddenly she’s making eye contact. Three weeks ago sex was truly a taboo subject for this GUM clinic doctor, however she’s all too happy to be informing me of my enforced abstinence over the coming weeks.

                “Oh no. They’ll be no sex for a few weeks for you.” And then on remembering our previous conversations; “Of any kind.”

                “Right. But you’re sure the Bi-opsy is absolutely necessary?”

                “Well I think I might know what you’re suffering from. I forgot about it last time,”

                “You forgot?”

“Yes I didn’t think of it but I think I know what it is now.”

I’m inclined to assume she put the photos up on Flickr and someone chirped up with a likely diagnosis.

                “So what exactly does it involve, this bi-opsy, how is the anesthetic administered?”

                “With a needle.”

                “Down the urethra?”

                “No. What we will do is we will inject it into the end of the err, of the penis, then we will cut a piece out and send it away to test it.”

                “An IQ test?”

                “…”

                “Is it going to hurt?”

“Yes. But still I think we should go ahead with the Bi-opsy because then we can eliminate more serious things like cancer.”

                “Cancer?”

                “Right exactly. The problem right now though is that we are just waiting for the right equipment. Some of the things we need are missing from the kit you see. Would you like to go back to the waiting room and I’ll come and call you again?”

                “What so I can go sit on my own and think about cancer for a bit?”

                “Oh actually maybe I can call the nurse. Oh look here she is. Have we got it? OK good let’s get started.”

                “!?!”

So I’m pulling my pants down for this woman for the third time in as many weeks. Pleasingly there’s still no blood on the new room’s ceiling, however I feel there will be very soon as she begins to violently clean the infected area. Having trouble with the gloves the doctor takes time to explain everything;

                “OK I’m just putting some gloves on, OK no, they’re inside out, I shall need some other ones, I won’t touch the other side though. OK there we go. Now where’s that needle?”

                “Erm I think that’s the wrong one doctor!”

                “Oh yes, so it is, thank you nurse.”

                “Yeah, thank you nurse!?!”

Then I’m in more pain than I’m ever likely to feel unless I come back as a sea horse, excruciating. The nurse thankfully is the reassuring sort. I like a Scottish accent.

                “Try to concentrate on your breathing lovey, that’s it. In….and out…”

I’ve never been so grateful of someone explaining the finer points of taking a breath to me. She compares the feeling to child birth. Like I said; she’s the kind, reassuring, lying type.  

                “Is that it?!”

                “Well I’m afraid I’m going to have to do that again as I hit a blood vessel. Do you know nurse he wasn’t going to have the bi-opsy when he found out he couldn’t have sex?”

                “Well it wasn’t quite like tha…ARGH fuck!”

I’m now sure of her attitude towards copulation. And even more sure that in her mind it is merely an abstract idea, something that exists on the outskirts of society, huddling under bridges with degenerate gamblers, violent psychopaths and the boy who tried to kiss her hand without asking when she was fourteen.                

“OK, can you feel this?” I can’t. Fortunately, as she’s probably pinching it between thumb and forefinger. She continues largely uneventfully, though her phone rings half way through. The caller is informed that the doctor is busy; at this at least I manage to raise a chuckle. “Is he hysterical?” After what seems like an age of applying pressure a bandage is brought out.

                “Just a wee one.” The nurse informs me. I look down. You know those dogs that leave veterinary surgeries with plastic cones to stop themselves scratching? With forlorn puppy eyes I look to the nurse for some support. “Make do and mend.” She offers. I stand up, having left behind an almightily disgusting pool of sweat. All the swagger of my earlier appointments drained out onto the operating bed. The doctor knows it, I feel like she’s drunk up all my salty confidence.

                “So you can make an appointment for next week on your way out.”

                “So if you think you have a diagnosis, what exactly causes that?”

                “We’ll talk about that next time.”

                “Oh. OK.”

                “Goodbye, and remember; no sex, of any kind.”

The Clinic part 2: Diagnosis Murder?

I was sitting in the waiting room, no form this time; one missed appointment and one attempted consultation with a Doctor had seen me sent straight back to the skin specialist I’d encountered on my first visit to the clinic. A perfect scenario for everyone in between who therefore didn’t have to deal with my problem, examining my genitals it seems was not the reason they chose a career in medicine over a fulfilling social life. Still this is the nature of their work, something they’re accustomed to surely? I searched possible reasons for shirking the duty; perhaps the current bureaucracy’s love of figures and fixed targets could have made tricky cases the scourge of the NHS system? Non-uniform growths and irritating rashes left to be passed around between departments, never settling anywhere long enough to be classified or to permanently scar anybodies figures. Looking around at the waiting room amongst my fellow infected I decided to pick up a magazine rather than make any attempt to share my witless irony.

The National Geographic in hand told me scientific tales of the revolutionary evolution of evolutionary theory. My mood was changing; from vaguely sarcastic I was becoming more suitably scared. Evolution, it seems, doesn’t have to progress slowly over thousands of years. I began to fret, perhaps my ailments are in fact evolution in reverse; something never to be cured, nature successfully removing me from the potential gene pool of the next generation by swathing my member with an arbitrary vague redness, a redness that terrifies the life out of both potential mates and target ticking hospital administrators everywhere. My face was growing long as I sat and worried, turning the page I tried to lift my mood by taking in the stupendous photography offered up by the magazine in question, the head of a North American mustang met my eyes.

The next eyes I looked up to see were those of a nurse I’d met the last time I was here, nice to see a familiar face, I begin to wonder what she must think of familiar faces at this clinic. Anyway she leads me through the corridors of the newly opened, barely completed building to the consultation room where the Doctor is waiting. Along with a third member of staff, she’s training, will be there to watch, to learn. Her first lesson concerns the layout of doctor’s surgeries and particularly examination tables as she turns round to face more of me than she might have hoped at this stage of proceedings.

                “Maybe the table needs to be in a different place” pipes up the doctor with her first moment of real insight into the whole situation. With this the three of them come closer to examine me whilst I try to imagine how the fresh new ceiling will look after a few more episodes in this particular room.

                “OK so you can see the reddened areas here, this is what we’re looking at, oh we could take some pictures!”

                “What? Pictures, really?”

                “Yes, they can be very useful for medical students. Its OK there’s a consent form you can sign to specify where you want them to be shown.”

                “Can you promise you won’t tag me in any?”

                “…”

                “Nurse do you know where the camera is? OK thank you, she’s just getting the camera.”

Obviously its great to have the doctor explain exactly what’s going on to you but I thought this was perhaps a little far. Until she went further.

                “OK, so what I’m going to do is point the camera at err, at it, and take some photos OK?”

                “Err, yeah I guess.”

                “OK I just need to turn the camera on, that’s it, OK now I need a special mode.”

                “Not the zoom I hope?”

It’s now becoming clear that it is the role of nurses to provide a little relief giving laughter, the good doctor remains focused on the task before her, a task which appears hugely challenging, even for a PHD graduate to whom I have entrusted the well being of this oh so delicate area of my body.

                “I need to find that little flower. Where’s the flower option?”

                “Macro mode? Blimey, detail.”

                “OK got it. Now I’m going to turn this light off because we don’t want it glaring at the camera do we?”

                “I’ll make it sure it isn’t.”

                “…”

The doctor’s getting snap happy, the trainee however has a far more interesting role. Namely ensuring my cock is presented in a variety of different poses, ‘Yes the artistic direction is superb, just look at this one Jennifer, it screams tired dejection yet the eye appears full of insight into a woman’s inner workings’.

                “OK and one more, make it face me, that’s it. Lovely.” Indeed. “OK get dressed and come and have a seat.”

Returning to my seat we discuss potential creams before settling on a bi-opsy. Which will involve a piece of my penis being plucked away.

                “OK so make an appointment on your way out and I’ll see you next week.”

                “Right. And what about those happy snaps you’ve just taken, who’ll see those?”

                “Oh yes the consent form. Now let me see, you said you be happy for them to be used for medical purposes yes? Good, I’ll just tick that. And for the general public you said no.”

                “Right.”

                “So that’s OK?”

                “No!”

                “Oh right, but in text books yes? On medical display boards, yes? On the internet?”

                “Will there be any in National Geographic?”

                “...OK I’ve put yes, just sign here.”

I duly sign. Feeling I’ve somehow lost round two. The doctor is less timid, less judgemental than on my last visit, yet she’s still unable to communicate effectively. I leave thinking that this is perhaps all an act, an elaborate ploy. After all, I’ve signed myself up to bi-opsy that I know very little about and may in fact only help her own research and teaching rather than my ailing member, and sold the photographic rights for, well, for nothing. I resolve to discover more on my next visit. Which piece exactly will she remove? How will she accomplish such a feat without causing me immense pain? Will I be able to enjoy sex again any time soon? And, merely as a simple after thought, is she actually any closer to a diagnosis?!

The Clinic

Generally a visit to the GUM clinic can be a nerve racking experience, particularly if you have reason to expect bad news of some kind. A routine check-up however, can be a much more casual affair, assuming of course, that the doctor will take his or her work, and indeed, your genitals, in their stride. Presumably it is safe to assume that they do this work regularly. They work in a GUM clinic, in a small town in the North West of England. There’s not a lot else to do here.

Waiting room, nothing unusual, receptionist is comfortable, if anything slightly flirtatious (I guess I’m at least getting whatever it is checked out..?!). I tick the no symptoms box, a minor lie. Long term symptoms hardly seem worth mentioning right? Into the Nurse, she’s young, not unattractive, but this is the GUM clinic, her questions are straight forward. Then I mention the long term symptoms which have actually been diagnosed previously. It’ll need examining again, there’s no examination area in here so I’ll have to go next door to see the Doctor. OK fine, I await the Doctor.

The Doctor is another woman, slightly older, probably for the best. She’ll be calmer. She takes my urine sample off me and gets the nurse sitting in there with us to take a blood sample for HIV and syphilis. Which she felt the need to ask me if I thought I should have. Yes please.

Then she starts to whisper.

            “Do you erm…check yourself regularly?”

            “Check myself you say? My balls you mean? Yes.”

            “…ok. And when was the last time you had sexual intercourse.”

            “Erm, probably ten days ago”

            “Right. Was that with your regular partner? Or something more casual.”

            “Erm, that’s complicated! Ha!”

            “……”

            “Erm, an ex.”

            “So long term? OK I’ll just write that down.”

            “Well, no not since a few years ago. Put casual”

She looks at me, from the corner of her eye only, before explaining to me that she won’t be able to look directly at me whilst asking the questions. I thought this due to irrational fear produced by the ‘re-branding’ of STDs to STeyes, put she suggests its actually because she needs to input the data onto the computer in front of her.

“Ok. And have you slept with anyone else in the last three months?”

            “Yes…”

            “And the last one, was that vaginal sex?”

            “Er yes.”

            “And…erm.. oral?”

            “Err, not for me! Ha”

            “So no then.”

            “Well hang on, I think I gave…”

            “Oh….err….ok..”

            “And what about anal?”

            “Errr yes.”

            “Right. So have you slept with anyone in the last three months who was gay or bisexual, who would have slept with anyone who may have slept with someone of the same sex in the last three months?” At this stage I warm to it. I consider tailoring my responses to further embarrass her, before remembering it is my safety, or indeed the potential non-existence of my future children that we’re discussing.

            “Yes”

            “..Oh ok. So did you do anal?”

            “Yes”

            “Giving and receiving?”

            “Oh hang on. No. It was a girl.”

            “Oh! OK. Erm. So you didn’t do erm, anal.”

            “No I said we did.”

As we go on to repeat the process for any partners over the last three months, I become increasingly aware that the poor Doctor had lead a massively under privileged life when it comes to the bedroom. Lots of studying for medical exams I guess.

            “Oh! Ok. And what about in the last six months.”

            “Six?! Oh blimey, erm.”

            “OK never mind. Have you slept with anyone from outside of the UK?”

            “Yes. Australia, Argentina..”

            “Argentina? Ok, but they’re all white there aren’t they?”

            “?!?! Erm, no!! But she was.”

            “Good that’s OK then”

I’m assuming this is due to average numbers of people of different ethnic backgrounds having certain STIs rather than anything to do with Doctor Patek’s personal opinions, but I stick with my assumption rather than asking.

“If you’d like to get behind the screen and we’ll have a look at the symptoms you spoke about. When did they first appear?”

            “..Around two and a half years ago”

At this stage she looks me in the eye for the first time. Before realising her mistake and quickly removing her shocked and disgusted face from view.

I stand up and walk around the other side of the screen, all potential embarrassment washed away by the Doctor’s timid and trembling questioning. The nurse gives me a paper towel to ‘cover myself’ with and asks me to slip my trousers down. The very thing, of course, that had gotten me into this situation in the first place. The Doctor appears, gloves on;

            “So you’ve been in South America? Where did you go exactly?”

I can’t help but think it’s an odd moment for this sort of chit chat. Surely you should be asking me about my reddened penis?

            “Err Peru, Colombia, and a few other places.”

            “Right…” Now mumbling she removes the paper towels and gingerly takes hold of my forlorn member.

“Peru. I see. There must be erm… a lot of….caves, in Peru.”

Caves!?! Why is it that caves have come to her mind when she’s looking at my penis? Has it shrivelled with this experience so much that it has become concave in shape?! Peru isn’t even famous for caves! Something the nurse was obviously aware of too, at least I assume that’s the reason she’s burst out laughing from the other side of the screen. After probably 3 seconds the Doctor has decided she’s had enough and is already walking away.

            “Hang on. Whilst you’re here can you have a look at this as well please?”

Being so focused on not having to actually spend anytime examining a penis the Doctor manages to block out my question. Thankfully the nurse intervenes, probably for her own amusement as much as concern for my sexual health. It took another 3 seconds to examine the second issue and we’re done.

On returning to her desk the good Doctor loaded me up with creams.

            “Use them all. Thoroughly, you must be very thorough. It says to use it for a week, OK? If after a week the problem persists, use them for another week. That way you won’t have to come back here and see me again.”

            “Right. That’s a relief, eh?” 

Male On Sunday

            -Tea Dear?

-Shouldn’t say no.

-Have you got your mug out there dear?

-I gave it to you half hour ago.

-Oh yes, so you did dear. Cake dear?

-Has it got that coconut in it?

-Only a little.

-I won’t bother then. Thanks.

I don’t know why she always has to slip a bit o’ bloody coconut in there. What’s wrong with ordinary bloody fruit cake? Coconut, she’s been reading those bloody Asian cookin’ ideas books our Charlotte got for her birthday. Knew it spelt trouble soon as she un-wrapped the bloody thing. Didn’t say anything, Charlotte would-a-been straight onto me if I had. Just kept my nose in the paper. Good job I did an all, that’s the same day I saw the first warning signs. Charlotte told me not to worry. Worry? It’s them that’s gonna be bloody worried if they try that shit with me I told her.

            -Here you are dear, that enough milk?

            -…

Last few months since then have been different along the water-ways. Atmosphere’s changed; more guarded. People say this part ‘o the world has been on the up, up the shitter more like. Used to be that people would stop to have a chat, at least say hello as they passed. These days they keep their heads down, straight at the ground, lookin’ out for dog shit. If only they’d notice the real bloody shite before their eyes, ha. I’ve seen ‘em all come past here over the years, all types. They all admired the boat, asked about her name, asked about the life. Nosey buggers. Still, I didn’t mind it; we could stay moored in the same spot for weeks. Beautiful it was. I miss it, but still, good job I was reading that bloody paper on her birthday is all I’m sayin’.

***

            -I thought we could perhaps stop off somewhere for a sandwich at lunch time dear?

Look at her, clueless. Has she no idea of what’s going on? She’s losing it I swear; a sandwich?!

            -Why would we want to do that? Have we got no bread on board? There’ll be some of that potted meat left from yesterday an all.

            -I just thought it might be nice dear, help you relax. There’s a wide berth down by the King’s Head, lots of space, you needn’t worry about strangers wanting to come aboard there.

Has she not heard that it’s spreading? Not just the narrow channels where it’s not safe. Reports of hostages being taken all over the shop now, only yesterday they took twelve Germans; must have been tourists. How many do they have to get before someone acts? People don’t like to stare at the shit that confronts them round here; they’d rather step round it. Bollocks to that; stamp on it, stamp it right out then deal with the consequences I say, scrape it off later. I’ve tried to help, tried to share what I know, point out the bleeding obvious. What’s the point though with these numptys? Local radio cut me off when I tried to warn them on air, do they not read the nationals? They’ll be coming over snake-pass guns blazin’ screaming blue bloody murder by the time them soddin’ White Nancy worshippin’ liberals sit-up and take notice. We’ll never be able to rest-up again, constantly be on the move, constantly in fear of them catching us and making their demands, squeezing every inch of life out what we’ve got left. They're not gonna catch us though, oh no. No-one knows these waters like I do, no bloody idiot has got a clue. Aye, they won’t catch me, filthy fuckers.

            -Dear…?

-Keeping moving keeps me relaxed, you know that.

            -OK dear, I’m just not sure we can do it for much longer.

            -We’ll do it for as long as we have to, and right now, we most certainly have to

-...OK dear.

So long as there’s a threat, so long as there’s other boats getting court, other ransom’s being demanded. Pirates they are, nothing but soddin’ pirates.

***

            -Morning skipper, how’s things? Still keeping moving?

Great, just what I need, a conversation with Jonny B. Good.

            -No sense keeping still in these times mate. Not seen the papers again this morning?

            -Not worrying about that still are you?

Worried! I keep tellin’ ‘em; not me that should be worried. So long as I keep moving, they’ll never catch me. Besides, I’m protected and ready to protect if need be.

            -Well I don’t suppose them Germans were worried much either, you seen what happened to them?

            -Well I…

            -Jumped aboard they did. Russian bloody assault rifles and grenade launchers at the ready. Made all sorts of demands.

            -I think there’s were slightly different circumstances.

            -Maybe so, but you obviously haven’t been reading the latest, extending beyond their original hunting grounds it says, they’ll be here soon, you mark my words son. The preparation’s started; they’re expecting attacks on passenger ships anytime now. Thank God for our Royal Navy I say, but you can never be too sure, that’s why I’ve got my own protection. And if they come near me, well I wouldn’t like to say what might happen. But I’ll tell you what’ll happen, there’ll be some sorry lookin’ pirates I’m telling you son. I’ll show how we soddin’ well do things in our waters, proud sea-faring nation that we are. Sir Francis Drake wouldn’t have stood for any of these soddin’ pirates that’s for sure.

            -OK well you take care of yourself now Jim.

            -Oh I will, don’t you worry about me son, don’t you worry.

Lilly-livered idiot. Just sits by his boat thinking these things can’t happen to him, bloody Guardian types, won’t see the dangers before it’s too late, before they’ve got him, before they’ve got us all. Someone’s going to have to take the lead, someone’s going to have to do something.

***

            -So how many are you expecting dear?

            -Hard to say, so many of these boating types are wet-behind-the-ears. Won’t see the danger. Anyone who wants to save their skins against these bloody pirates will turn up though. We’re gonna need a concerted effort from as many as possible, a plan of action for when they get here, a concrete defence for when it starts.

            -…….

            -…….

            -Where did you put the posters up dear? Do you think enough people saw them?

            -Course they did, there’s one on every bridge between the 43^rd at Lyme Green and the 16^th way over in Sandbach. People will come, if they understand the dangers, they have to come.

That’s the problem though, no-one understands. They will eventually, I’ll bloody highjack their boats myself if I have to. Just to shock ‘em, just to give the ignorant twits a warning, show how easy it’ll be for the pirates once they get here.

-Hullo. Is this the canal resident’s special meeting?

Ha, I knew they’d come. Knew I wasn’t alone in all this.

-That’s right Brian, come in, sit down. This is my wife Susan.

-Hullo Susan.

-Hello dear, would you like a cup of tea?

Christ woman, always with the tea. This is a serious meeting; the members have no time for cups of soddin' tea.

-Ooh go on then, 2 sugars.

-What about you dear?

-I’d rather get down to business; we’ve no time for trivialities. Though I suppose if you’re making one anyway, and you’d better bring us those digestives an all.

-Not a very big turn out Jim?

-Not important, if it’s only us that wants to save our skins then so be it. Small group will be easier to protect any-how.

-So you’re familiar with the problem Brian?

-Which problem’s that Jim?

-These bloody pirates, Christ alive does no-one read the bloody news anymore. Anyway, they’re expanding their areas of patrol, got what they’re calling mother ships, floating mother ships. All they’ve gotta do is park one up round here and they can launch attacks from it. Got a boat full of Germans just the other day.

-Wasn’t that near that Somaland?

-Not important, all water-folks are in this together, One Nation, we’re all in danger. If they’re doing it over there it won’t be long before it spreads. With all these immigrants over here, all it’ll take is one of these pirates to come over on holiday, maybe see a family member who’s already snuck in, an NHS tourist most bloody likely, they’ll see our lack of security on the canal and BANG. We’ll be had, held to ransom, ransacked, and pillaged and, dare I say it, our woman, Susan cover your ears...

-What dear?

-Never mind. I’m sure you understand what I’m getting at Brian?

-Well, I was more worried about the increase in mooring charges to be honest.

-Look these people are criminals, as yet there’s no mandate to shoot to kill, force has to be proportional they’re saying, but we can’t leave ourselves open. You understand?

-Erm, is that thing real Jim?

-Course it is; was my Grandfather’s, both barrels loaded and ready.

-Right...

-Right, exactly, that’s sorted then. Tomorrow we sail together, in convoy. We’ll head out first, we’ve got seven feet on you and we might need that room up front if things get hairy.

-Do you mind if I bring my puzzle book?

            -Here’s your tea gentlemen, ooh look Jim, your mug’s got a skull-and-cross bones on it, how nice.

***

            -You alright up front still Jim?

            -You worry about your end Brian, I’ll man the controls. You keep watch at the rear.

            -Yep, OK, though I have got a question Jim.

            -Go on.

            -Six down, ‘delusional fear’, it’s got eight letters, first letter ‘P’, any ideas?

            -……

It’s unnerving this; everything seems a bit too peaceful. Too many empty moorings, too few people out in their gardens. We did hear the usual gaggle of scruffy secondary students this morning under snake pass, passing cigarettes around between their spotty faces. We judged them to be a minor threat at best; they haven’t got the intelligence to work with these pirates. Something’s in the wind though, even the cows on Weaver’s Field seemed agitated, staring at us as we passed, as if wanting to warn us of something imminent.

            -Special alert Brian, we’ll be approaching the marina in two bridges’ time.

            -Will we stop for a chat Jim?

            -No no Brian, can’t be too sure about anyone round there, apparently these pirates harbour bases on land. Got a whole network of local villagers assisting their activities. We won’t be stopping to chat. Can you pass me that telescopic sight Susan? It’ll come in handy once the pass straightens out through the next bridge.

            -Hear you are dear.

Blimey, there’s an awful lot of activity up at the marina. Hope Brian’s going to be able to handle it if things’ get rough. He’s a good sort but I get the feeling he’s not ready for action. He’s not been building for this like I have, been awaiting a cause, awaiting a time and a reason to utilise my knowledge and talents. Natural leader of men they said and they knew a thing or two about that, those civil war reconstruction types. What the hell is goin’ on up there?

            -Anything going Jim?

            -Just stay low for now Brian. There’s an awful lot of people about, I can see a few fluorescent bibs an all.

Who the hell are those radioactive types? I knew something was up. Hang on; he’s just skipped between boats. Bugger me! It’s starting!

            -Brian, it’s them!

            -Who?

            -Them in the fluorescent jackets, they’re skippin' between boats! I knew they weren’t real boat men! What business have they got on other people's vessels?!

            -Couldn’t they be from the water trust dear?

            -Stay inside Susan, you’ll be safer there. In fact, tell Brian to get closer and skip across onto his barge. This is going to get ugly.

            -I don’t think that’ll be necessary dear.

            -Just do it Susan, no time to disobey orders, quickly!

Jesus they’ve spotted us, fifty feet……….forty-eight feet. We’re getting closer. Shit, where’s that shot gun. Best keep it close to hand.

           

***

            -Morning mate. Any reason you’re travelling in convoy? It’s not normally permitted to tie two barges together you know?

Oh yeah, trying to put the frighteners on, who do they think I am? Convoy’s aren’t normally permitted he’s right. But this is a time of crisis, can’t fall into his trap       

-I know your game.

-Excuse me?!

He doesn’t realise I’ve got him sussed. Probably thought his white skin would protect him, I’m not that bloody stupid. Got all sorts workin’ for ‘em it seems, even our own countrymen. False patriots, disgusts me, I’ll get him sent out to bloody Somalia if I get through this alive.

            -Sorry mate, I’m from the water trust, we’re out here talking to people today about any issues with the increased mooring charges.

            -Oh right yes I’ve a few questions actually.

            -Quiet Brian; stay back on your own barge. Water-trust my eye, there’s no trust here, I know what’s going on.

            -Sorry mate, I think you’re misunderstanding me, can I just jump aboard and we’ll have a chat, I can jump off again at the end of the marina.

That’s it, look straight into my eyes, and see what I’m about. You any idea what you’re getting into? I’ve read all about your types, claiming to be doing good for the water-ways around here, claiming it somehow benefits the local community.

            -Look mate, I’ve got to speak to everyone who passes through here this morning, if I could just come aboard for five minutes.

            -Oh let him on Jim, I’ll get Brian's kettle on.

            -Thanks misses, very kind.

            -What? No. What the hell have you said Susan. Back-off man, back right off. I’m warning you. This is my vessel, twenty-two years I’ve sailed down this canal, there’s no way your taking it off me you filthy bloody pirate, working for them foreign agents, you free-loader, pushing up my living costs, forcing me to live in fear. Get the hell off my barge!

            -Look mate, calm yourself.

Where’s that bloody shotgun.

            -I’ll show you bloody calm.

            -Whoa now Sir there’s no need for that, please! # Pete, we’ve got a situation down in the mariner, call the police. Repeat call the police immediately. #

Call the police! Dam right, be you they’ll be arresting though son. What have I done wrong, my castle might be a floater but I’ll still defend it like all Englishmen would their own.

            -Stay back. Brian, get up close. I might have to skip across to your vessel if he gets violent.

            -Look Sir, I’m certainly not going to get violent, like I said, we just need a chat.

            -A chat, ransom demands are not chats my son.

            -What?! Look, they’ll be police up ahead on the next bridge; I suggest you help yourself by putting that gun down.

Jesus he’s right, there’s half a dozen of ‘em, finally they’re taking me seriously. I knew it’d take an attempted bloody highjack before anyone listened to me.

            -You’re done-for now son, police round here won’t mess about like over in Somali-bloody-what’s-it. Have you straight in a cell.

            -Ok mate, whatever you say, just please, put that gun down.

            -Would the gentlemen on the boat please drop the weapon, repeat drop your weapon and no-one will be hurt.

What they on about? He’s not even brandished his weapon, unless there’s one behind his back.

            -Jim, put it down dear, the police don’t look too happy.

            -Its not me they’re talking to love.

            -Sir, put down the weapon and no-one will get hurt.

What and leave this guy to run amok on my barge?

            -Not with this scum aboard!

            -Sir we will have no choice but to lower police Special Forces onto your barge unless you drop the weapon.

Blood and sand, they’re in league with the bloody pirates, part of the highjack! I can’t believe it! Inspector bloody knacker infiltrated by Somalians, Jesus the papers were bloody right.

            -Brian quick, I’m getting aboard yours, fire her up, mine will be over-run in seconds with these bent coppers.

            -Are you sure this is the right thing to do Jim?

            -There’s no time to debate Brian, I’ve told you, I’ve waited my life for this moment, I know exactly what to do. Susan, raise the flag, I’ll cut the rope to set us free, Brian turn her round and let's get out of here!

            -Charlie Tango, this is Charlie Tango. Calling all officers in the area we have suspected pirates on Macclesfield canal heading west towards Sutton. Pirates are armed, repeat, the pirates are armed, approach with extreme caution until the armed response unit arrives. Over.

The Visitors

            News of a sighting of a non-native species spread quickly through the jungle. It reached the Brazil nut trees which served to provide shelter and a pleasant dining area for a group of nature loving friends who had spent the last few months living in this particular enclave of the jungle. The isolated position, surrounded by rivers on three sides, meant the ecosystem remained largely unchanged from week to week, month to month. The rumours of newcomers to the area therefore, had brewed an excitable atmosphere amongst the friends as they chatted incessantly over their evening meal.

“Apparently they were spotted moving through the swamps not far from where the yucca plants grows” blurted Steve, through a mouthful of freshly picked fruit. In a manner synonymous of one who considers himself a leader of his peers, Tom began to loudly discuss how the group should go about tracking down and observing these beasts when the sun came up. However, as usual, he was quickly cut short by Rachel, the object of both his affections and focal point of his loathing and frustrations.

“Be quiet Tom. We all know you’re inept at tracking. Joshua, what do you think should be the plan of action?” Joshua the youngest of those present, was nonetheless both physically strong and mentally astute. However for now at least, he was far too playful to desire the status of alpha male. Even so Rachel’s beauty had not gone unnoticed to him and so he considered it prudent to respond.

“I suppose first and foremost we shall have to match the early start which I assume they will be making. Then work out roughly where they will eat and when. We should try and catch them at that moment, when they will perhaps be most content and relaxed.” Joshua was attempting to sound thoughtful, considered even. To his eminent surprise, it seemed to work. Confirming the success of Joshua’s aims, Caroline, by far the most intelligent, but least outspoken of the group, gave his ideas her blessing.

            “We should get an early night then”, she added as she finished grooming her neatly presented but by no means extravagant hair. The others agreed, Tom doing so with stoic silence and a frustrated attempt to throw the remains of the fruit he’d been nibbling in the general direction of his young adversary. For his part, pretending not to notice the pips and peel, Joshua cleared a path through the trees towards the camp where they usually rested for the night, allowing a branch to slap back and catch Tom on the forehead in the process.

            As they lay amongst the jungle fauna awaiting sleep to take hold, Rachel and Caroline could be heard to reflect on just how closely related their friends were to the species which they were intent on observing. The behaviour of the males of the group had been very primitive indeed they agreed. As they chatted, both secretly suspected the other of warming to a certain playful charm in it all, mirroring each of their own real feelings.

            A few kilometres away the newcomers were themselves settling down for the night. The day’s unspoken, silent squabbles were evidently lingering. Suspicious glances and shuffling of feet carried the males towards more favourable sleeping positions, alongside the females of the group. Like their potential trackers the group were five; two females and three males. Like the more intelligent jungle residents, inter-personal rivalries and battles for the attention of the minority females was fierce. Such tensions were heightened by an aching hunger which rumbled incessantly from belly to belly. The area, in which they had settled for the evening, was bereft of edible fauna. An area considered so uninhabitable by species with a greater knowledge of the land, that it lacked even the faintest hint of any other beasts. It was perhaps this vacancy which had attracted the fearful and naturally conservative group. They shut their eyes and thought of the fresh hope that the morning would bring, calming their bellies and dousing the hunger fuelled fire in their psyches.

           

The sun rose stealing the hiding places of formerly invisible bugs, piercing through gaps in the trees with its ferocious glare. The group of trackers were however, one step ahead of even the morning sun. Up before nature’s alarm clock, they skipped breakfast and headed off in search of their newest neighbours. They desired even the merest of glimpses in order to satisfy their excitement and justify the expedition. They walked along the jungle floor, through the trees and over marsh land towards where they hoped they may find their prize. However after less than an hour they were delayed by an unscheduled stop,

“I can’t just go on the trees like you males. I require a little more privacy!” Rachel was insisting on finding a more secluded area in which to do her business.

“OK, OK let her go.” Offered Tom in what he assumed to be authoritative tones. Rachel however had indeed already gone off to find a more comfortable spot, somewhere she could go about her business with more dignity. Joshua meanwhile filled the dormant time by demonstrating his agility and considerable skill in climbing trees to pick fruit. Four of the friends scoffed down plenty of deliciously ripe mangos. The ever jealous Tom meanwhile muttered about how the mini-feast was merely slowing the mission down further. He refused to take part. Instead he loudly and arrogantly resolved to out-do Joshua by finding a more wholesome meal for all five of them later in the day. And so with food in four of the five bellies the trackers moved along at a reasonable pace, all the while conscious of the sound they were making which could disturb and frighten their targets. As they got closer, their attempts at a concentrated silence intensified. Such stealth however, appeared beyond them.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you greedy fools slow us down by eating!” grunted Tom, firing a glare in Joshua’s direction, a real achievement for one with a stigmatism in both eyes.

“Actually old man, I’m sure it was my call of nature which really delayed us” piped in Rachel in direct defence of her young suitor. The suitor himself was busy rooting around in the nearby bushes. His response belied his lack of interest in the politics of the group, and keener desire to complete the more crucial task at hand; find the new arrivals.

“They were here for sure! Look, banana skins!”

Caroline rushed over to examine the evidence.

            “For a group of five adults this is a measly feast,” she reasoned. “My guess is they’ll have gone off to search for more food in another location.”

            “Brilliant, so what are you suggesting we do? Head to Monkey Mike’s Mini-Market?”

            “That’s not helpful Tom” warned Steve being as contrary as he’d ever managed in all the years since joining the group from the local sanctuary just up river towards the big city. “There’s a well known spot by the water, maybe a mile and a half from here. Plenty of fruit grows there and of course there’s fish. If indeed they are capable of making a catch.”

            “I wouldn’t bet on it,” offered Rachel “most reports I’ve heard have painted them as pretty simple creatures, even if they are closely related to our selves.”

            “Well I can sure as hell fish baby, and I’m hungry. Let’s head to this spot and try our luck.” The chance to impress had restored Tom’s bravado and off he went towards the supposedly fruitful location. The others followed suit, chirping away happily as they went.

            In fact the tracked beasts were nothing like as jungle-savvy as their would-be observers, instead they had headed north towards the base of the mountains, the very same mountain base from which the trackers had set off, before sunrise. The two groups were inadvertently sharing the same space, but hours apart. In doing so, one of the newcomers unwittingly stumbled across Rachel’s natural deposit when searching the bushes for anything edible. The plainly stupid mammal was confused by its stiff, hard form, not to mention the now acute hunger which continued to haunt its belly. The faeces were held up to the scorching sun in order to examine there potential as a food source. He looked across at his companions only to see them jumping around in delight at his foolish mistake. The shit-picker quickly became shit-flinger, hurling the offending cylinder towards the others in embarrassed rage. Unimpressed by such immature actions, the other males grabbed makeshift weapons of broken branches, small stones and rotted fruit, launching four of the group into a minor scuffle. Head’s were cracked and friendships forgotten until the only non-combatant, the most delicate of the females, bent over to pluck an exotic flower from its stalk. Her raised behind caught the eyes of all three males and helped to channel their aggression in another direction. Weapons were quickly downed and instead the fruitless search for fruit continued in the hope of winning the flower lover’s heart, or other rewards, through satisfying her more essential hunger.

            As they got closer to the river the trackers had more or less given up hope of spotting those whom they stalked. Along the route they’d seen no obvious signs of their presence and had resolved instead to ensure that they themselves ate well and enjoyed the time they had down by the river. True to his word, within minutes of trying, Tom had pulled several small fish from the water. However the genuine gratitude of the other four made him feel rather hollow and stupid for his anticipatory gloating earlier in the day. The five companions sat under the shade of the plants and habitually shared the fish around whilst accompanying their meal with another gift from the surrounding jungle, yucca.

            Meanwhile, at the foot of the Andean mountain range, such indulgence could not seem a more distant dream. Instead, minds and stomachs alike burnt with the intense heat of the day’s struggles and strife. The group skulked around under the lengthening shadow of the imposing range, each lost in their own private argument which, with the help of the persistent humidity, had swamped all logical thought. Happily, the beginnings of an answer to the increasingly dominant problem of hunger presented itself, without the need for intellectual nous, in the shape of the fruity remains which littered the fertile jungle floor. However nature’s hint was insufficient for the exhausted beasts to cut through the dense cloud which hazed their outlook. Instead of relief, the sighting of the nearby food source led to arguing over exactly where the rotted fruit had come from, and indeed, which of them should go and look for it. Within two spiteful glares the three males once more slipped effortlessly into a violent confrontation; bodies flew at each other, sticks were brandished and blows dealt, energy wasted and time consumed. Still the humidity thickened the air, and still they were no closer to a meal.

Of course, all this action would have been of enormous interest to Tom and friends but their only concern as the day drew to a close was to enjoy their final moments amongst the yucca trees, before retiring to the mountain side to rest. It went unsaid but remained understood that they wouldn’t worry over their apparent failure to observe the newcomers, tomorrow was a new day, when they would happily start over.

            An altogether different anticipation was lodged in the thick, sticky air as the fighting five sat awaiting sunset. Still hungry, an ever darkening jungle was no place to be. Battered, bruised and bitter, the three males sat far apart and facing away from one another. The two females, having not been physically involved in the earlier skirmish, sat closer together in a less hostile silence. As the mountains bathed in the cooling dark skies, the sound of no-one talking was broken by a rustling amongst the trees, putting the group on alert. However their dulled senses made it difficult to detect from which direction the sound came and indeed before any of the group could identify the source of the cracking branches and rustling leaves, they them themselves had been spotted.

Joshua stopped dead. He beckoned to the others to approach more quietly. The visitors had landed right where the group’s own mission had begun, in their own back yard. What luck! They stared, motionless, in awe of the primitive beasts with their sullen expressions and peculiar appearance. As if sensing being watched, the nearest of the beasts raised his head, his eyes pointing directly at Joshua’s. The two mammals held each other’s gaze for mere seconds that nonetheless seemed to stretch out and bridge the evolutionary gap. Joshua began to well-up at the beauty and magnitude of the moment. His opposite number continued to hold his gaze but reached down to raise a long, straight branch from the jungle floor. Something about the branch further mesmerised Joshua, it seemed to catch the few remaining rays of sun light, sparkling as it was raised to eye level. What was the meaning of such an act? There were no olives in this part of the jungle, but surely the gesture was equally symbolic?

Click, BOOM! A brilliant flash of light startled Rachel who stood a few feet to the left of Joshua and had been equally entranced. The branch now appeared to be smoking and had been raised into the air. She looked across to Joshua but saw only his body, his head having fallen 15ft down to the jungle floor. Aghast she looked to the others, all she could see was the merest glimpse of their behinds as they fled, swinging through the trees at the sort of mind-less speed only possible in moments of utter panic. Rachel however remained frozen. The branch was lowered once more, another click and BOOM! Rachel felt her chest pierced by smouldering lead.

The beast approached and stooped down to raise the two bodies off of the jungle floor. Looking up into the trees from where they had fallen, he slung the bodies over his shoulder and returned, triumphantly, to his companions. The mood of the hungry visitors began to significantly improve as they feasted on the bush meat. Still ignorant of the ways of the jungle, they drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the damning evidence of simian bones. They lay out in the open, exposed to nature, unaware of three pairs of vengeful eyes watching them, waiting patiently for the complete darkness of night time in the jungle.