Brian’s disappointment over the football was no longer the issue. This was a stinging and thoroughly unreasonable personal attack. The anger had gone. It was replaced by a sense of betrayal. The only person whose opinion he genuinely valued thought he was a selfish bastard.
Before Brian could come back, Tom continued his onslaught. ‘You shagged Anita and walked away without even kissing her goodbye in case she cost you a few gifts. Don’t tell me that wasn’t selfish. You even lied to her so you could go back for another session at a later date. Studying for exams my arse. You haven’t opened a text book since the day you got here.’
Brian fought back. ‘You might have kissed Sarah goodbye, but you still shagged her behind your girlfriend’s back. Just because you felt bad about cheating on Vicky, doesn’t make you a nice bloke. You still cheated on her. And you walked away from Sarah at the same speed I walked away from Anita. You’ve no intention of seeing Sarah again. At least I considered seeing Anita again, even if it was just for sex. Maybe that’s all she wants.’
Brian had the upper hand again and pressed his advantage. ‘And what about Vicky? You’ll probably tell her all about Sarah when she gets back and it will break her heart. And why tell her? I’ll tell you why … to ease your own guilt. Not to put her mind at ease, just for your own benefit; the warm glow of confession for Mr Superior Tom Hill. At least I’m honest with myself, even if that makes me selfish. You hide behind a mask of good intentions.’
‘So you’re honest with yourself Brian?’ Tom retaliated. ‘But that’s as far as it goes. What happened to your simple honesty when Black Lips invited you to meet her parents? You were too busy boozing with the football club to even take five minutes to phone her.’
Brian had no answer for that and thought he may do better by narrowing the scope of the argument. ‘Let’s just say we’re both out of order when it comes to girls. That’s not what this is about. This is about you and me. So who was the selfish brother when Vicky came along. We did everything together until you started seeing her, but did I complain? Not a bit of it. I was happy for you. And now you call me selfish.’
The blackness of the night filled the kitchen window. The rain had eased to drizzle. The wind had blown itself out. Both brothers had run out of steam. They sat side by side looking at the black window, their own reflections staring back at themselves. They said nothing for five minutes as the dust settled. They both felt bad. Suppressed tension had exploded and they had both said painful things, the truth, but painful nevertheless, to the person they loved the most.
Tom broke the silence. ‘Of course you’re right. We probably would have won if he hadn’t taken you off, but he’s the captain and we have to respect his judgement … even if he is wrong.’
Brian was calm now and appreciated that his brother was offering an olive branch. ‘I know. He did what he thought was best. Maybe I did give the ball away once too often, but he was wrong all the same. I had a goal left in me. The cup was ours.’
They stared at themselves a while longer in the black window.
Brian was starting to feel guilty. He had used his brother as a punch bag and taken his anger out on him. He turned to face his brother. ‘Okay Tom. I was out of order. I’m sorry. I said some nasty stuff.’
‘No need Brian. I did too and I’m sorry too.’
‘If I didn’t care about your opinions, I wouldn’t have defended myself so fiercely.’ He edged towards Tom and gave him a hug before adding. ‘Mind you. If anyone else had spoken to me like you did, I’d have decked them.’
Chapter 30
Making the cut
Two days later, April 13, 1984: In the days leading up to Brian Hill’s operation, he had successfully put thoughts of sharp knives and needles to the back of his mind, but as soon as he started walking through Southside towards the hospital with his overnight bag, he was gripped with fear. His whole body felt drained and weak. He consoled himself with the thought that it would be over in a matter of hours. All he had gathered from his fleeting moments with the doctor was that they would give him a general anaesthetic, cut him open and pull out a few surplus veins from his ball bag. Sounded awful. Sounded painful. In the days running up to the operation, he had been told a number of hospital horror stories.
Old George told him of operations done in field hospitals during the war with no anaesthetic other than a swig of brandy and a piece of wood to bite on. Rupert Eckhart had told him about a man who had woken up during an operation. He regained consciousness and all feeling, but couldn’t speak or move. He felt the pain and saw everything they did but couldn’t tell them he was awake.
Rupert’s story played over and over in his mind as he walked through the arched entrance of the hospital and headed for reception.
‘Mr Hill did you say?’ asked a large nurse behind the counter. She smiled up at Brian.
‘Yes. Brian Hill.’
‘Ah yes. I have you here.’ She fingered through a list of papers. The formalities of filling out forms took Brian’s mind off Rupert’s story briefly. She then ushered him down the corridor to a room full of equally apprehensive patients. Many of them had family and friends to share their fears. Brian was alone. Tom had offered to go with him, but he didn’t want to look weak and had been too macho to accept. He could have done with him now. He must be only minutes away from being cut open.
A book or newspaper would have been a good distraction. Others were reading, some wore pyjamas, some wore hospital robes. Brian noticed a man’s bottom through the split at the back of his robe as he shuffled off to the toilet. The waiting room was about 30 feet by 20 feet with seats running all around the outside edge. A spiky haired boy of around seven years old ran from end to end pushing a large red truck. He made engine noises and allowed the truck to smash into furniture at the end of each run. If you run into my ankles, I’ll kick you into the next county, Brian unkindly thought to himself.
The clock on the wall told Brian he had only been in the waiting room five minutes. It seemed more like half an hour. A name was called by a nurse with a clipboard. The family of the truck-pushing child followed the nurse with their noisy child. Brian and all those around him breathed a sigh of relief. The man in the robe returned from the toilet, delighted to see the boy gone. He sat back down next to Brian and addressed anyone who was interested. ‘Little bugger. Needs a good smack. No discipline these days some parents.’
Nobody replied. Brian nodded in agreement but couldn’t manage a smile. Brian’s mind wandered back to Rupert’s story. He looked up at the clock almost every 30 seconds. His wait agonisingly stretched to half an hour before the nurse with the clipboard returned and called his name. He was taken to a desk in the corridor outside the waiting room. He could feel his heart race. People were talking but the words echoed around his head.
‘Have a seat Mr Hill.’ The nurse pointed to a hard plastic seat by the desk. He sat waiting while the nurses discussed their plans for the weekend and talked about their children. Brian thought the seat rather uncomfortable and wondered why he couldn’t have stayed in the soft chairs of the waiting room. After another five minutes, Brian was introduced to a young doctor who directed him to a small consulting room.
‘Good morning Brian. I’m the anaesthetist. I just need to fill this form in with you. It will help me with the anaesthetic.’ When the form was complete, the young doctor added, ‘You’re a lucky boy. You have the consultant today. He always does a very tidy job.’
Brian nodded nervously while wondering to himself whether one of the cleaners might have picked up the scalpel if the consultant hadn’t been available. What a strange thing to say. Surely whoever went near his balls with a sharp knife would be highly skilled and well trained. Brian was ushered back to the waiting room. Nobody looked up. Another 15 minutes later, Brian was called back to the desk in the corridor and handed a hospital robe. The nurse explained he must wear nothing underneath and the robe must be open at the back. She also gave him a bag for his belongings and
assured him it would find its way to a locker next to his hospital bed.
Then she handed him two disposable safety razors, pointed in the direction of the toilets and told him to remove his pubic hair on the left side of his groin.
‘What about my scrotum?’ Brian asked using the correct words. He didn’t want any risk of misunderstanding.
She assured him that wouldn’t be necessary and he went to the toilets wondering how the surgeon was going to remove veins from his ball bag by cutting into the bottom of his tummy. The hospital gown felt quite degrading and shaving your pubic hair in a public toilet with a dry disposable razor felt equally degrading.
The anaesthetist had drawn a black arrow on the left-hand side of his tummy, presumably to show the doctor where to cut. Brian studied the arrow, clumsily drawn and thought how basic it all seemed. He hoped the surgeon had a few more details about his case in addition to one hurriedly drawn arrow. He put his clothes in the bag and returned to the nurse, who directed him back to the waiting room where his gaze returned to the slow-moving clock.
He waited another tense five minutes. He must be close now he thought. The clock had stopped. The nurse with the clipboard walked in again. She appeared to be moving in slow motion and her words were slow and drawn out as she looked in Brian’s direction. ‘Brian Hill please.’
She led him to another room, half the size of the waiting room. He entered through double doors at one end. Two other doors at the far end with round windows appeared to lead to, what Brian thought must be, the operating theatre. Brian had images in his head of his blood veins being cut and pulled from his body. In a short time, he would be lying naked on the operating table. The doctor would be stood over him with Brian’s dick in one hand and a very sharp knife in the other.
The nurse instructed him to place his footwear in the corner and lie on the trolley in the middle of the room. He also undid the opening at the back of the robe and lay on his back, making sure he wasn’t on top of the loose flaps of the robe. As the anaesthetist entered the room, Brian could feel every muscle in his body pulling hard.
He was told to relax, but that seemed the most unnatural thing to do in the circumstances. He concentrated on a roll of what appeared to be two foot wide toilet roll hanging on the far wall.
‘This won’t hurt a bit. You’re doing fine. Next thing you know, you’ll be a new man.’
A nurse held Brian’s hand as the anaesthetist did his job.
‘You’re a stupid son of a bitch. No balls and no brains.’ Brian thumped The Hard Man in the face, which imploded with surprising ease. Brian’s fist was sucked into the captain’s brain. He felt his hand tangle with eye balls, blood veins and fragments of skull. As he pulled away, the head sprang back to its original shape, like a rubber ball. But it was no longer the face of The Hard Man; it was Anita and she was crying.
Brian’s first thought wasn’t about the curious rubber qualities of the face, but why Anita was crying. Maybe she had lost a close relative or even a favourite pet. It didn’t occur to him that he might be the cause of her distress. While he considered the problem, a throbbing sensation, not quite pain, but still a little uncomfortable, distracted his attention. It came from his groin. Strange. There was bright light. He was in a well-lit room.
Brian opened his tired eyes. He was only semi-conscious and he couldn’t understand where he was or why he was there. He appeared to be in a large store cupboard, twice the size of the Dickens Court kitchen. He was lying on his side and he had no energy at all. It took him all his strength to lift his eyelids. He couldn’t possibly move anything else. The dull sensation from his groin returned. That must have something to do with his unusual circumstances he thought. He was on a narrow bed with chrome-plated bars running down each side to stop him rolling off.
Someone bumped into the end of his bed. The jolt cleared his mind a bit and when a nurse appeared, he remembered he was in Southside District Hospital.
‘Are you alright Brian? How are you feeling?’ The nurse smiled.
Brian felt like shit. ‘I’m fine thank-you. Were there any complications or was everything as it should be?’ The success of the operation was the first thing Brian could think of when he realised why his groin was throbbing.
‘The doctor will be able to tell you about that, but all’s well as far as I know.’
Brian slipped back into a light sleep. He woke a few moments later, or at least it seemed a few moments. His bed had wheels. A man was pushing him along the corridor followed by a nurse. He was wheeled into an extra-large lift, which went upwards, very slowly. He was pushed down more corridors and into a ward, where the side bars were dropped, the top portion of the bed lifted off like a stretcher and he was eased into a bed. The nurse gave Brian a couple of pain killing pills and left. He fell into a deep sleep.
When Brian next opened his eyes, Tom was beside him reading The Sun. Tom saw his brother wake up.
‘I’ve brought you your favourite paper Brian. Nice pair of tits today.’
‘Bastard. Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.’ Every word was hard work for Brian. Staying awake was exhausting. He thought this must be what it feels like when your 90 years old and tired.
‘I spoke to the nurse. She said it went well and you’ll feel great within a week.’
‘I don’t feel great now. I feel like I’ve been in a fight … and lost.’ Brian tried to sit up but it was too much. He gave in.
‘I wasn’t sure whether I should bring The Sun. I don’t want you to pull your stitches.’ Tom smiled warmly and looked around the ward.
Six beds filled the room, three on either side. One was empty, but the others were occupied by a wide selection of patients. Opposite Brian was a man of around 50, surrounded by bickering members of his family. One woman of similar age, probably his wife, had a deeply furrowed brow, which showed great distress. Tom listened to their conversation. It wasn’t difficult. The discussion was heated and the level of consideration for other patients was low. Her concern, expressed to a pale-faced girl in her mid twenties, had nothing to do with the bed-ridden man’s double hernia operation. Pale Face had an equally furrowed brow although the lines were not as deep as the older woman but ran in the same direction. Presumably she was the daughter.
The subject was decoration and refurbishment. Another man, also in his mid-twenties, contributed nothing to the debate. He had an unfortunate nervous twitch. His head appeared to be nodding agreement every few seconds. Tom thought, at first, that he was agreeing with the others all the time, but when the nodding continued during a pause in the row, it became clear that it had nothing to do with what was being said.
From what Tom could gather, Pale Face and Nodder had just bought a flat, which needed a great deal of modernisation and improvement. Their plans had been put on ice when Pale Face’s father had been rushed to hospital for his operation. Solving the problem of replacing the father, who had been due to carry out all the work on the flat, was the subject of the heated debate. The father was clearly delighted to have escaped a lot of work and his cheerful smile had sparked the exchange.
In the next bed, a thin-faced man in his late thirties, possibly early forties, read a paperback. He looked the picture of health. Tom wondered what was wrong with him. The third bed on the opposite side of the room was occupied by an elderly grey-haired man. He had no cards, flowers or gifts. There were no visitors around his bed and he was fast asleep. Tom couldn’t see any movement at all and wondered if he was dead.
Brian’s immediate neighbour was the only other patient in the ward. He was asleep but snored a little. Tom turned back to Brian. He was asleep again.
When Tom returned the next day, Brian was sat up in bed reading The Sun.
‘You look a lot better today Brian.’
‘I am. I can even walk to the toilet myself, but it takes a while.’
‘Good. They said you can come home tomorrow, but you need a week in bed, then back to have your stitches out.’
‘
I haven’t got stitches,’ Brian corrected him. ‘I’ve got clips holding me together, and they’re not in my ball bag.’
‘Where then?’
‘My tummy, where my pubic hair used to be before they made me shave it off.’
‘I thought it was veins in your sack though.’ Tom looked puzzled.
‘It was, but they cut my tummy open, grabbed the right vein and pulled it up from my bag.’
‘Have you got loads of bandages like a nappy?’
‘No bandages.’
‘How come?’
‘No dressing at all.’ Brian pulled back the covers and pulled down his pyjamas to show Tom the wound.
Tom, slightly embarrassed, took a quick look around the room, but nobody had taken much interest, so he leant forward for a closer look. The surgeon had cut a tidy straight line, almost two inches long. It ran diagonally from Brian’s hip to his crotch. It ran parallel with the natural creases of the body. Tom was impressed with the tidy work. Very few signs of blood at all. Four large clips, which looked like staples, straddled the scar.
‘Don’t those staples hurt?’ Tom found himself pointing.
‘I can feel them. They don’t hurt, but they itch like a scab that needs picking.’
As he pulled the covers back, a scruffy elderly man walked into the ward. When he saw Brian and Tom a warm fatherly grin spread across his face.
‘How’s it hanging?’ shouted Old George as he headed in their direction.
Brian waited until he was a little closer. He didn’t have the strength to shout back. ‘Mustn’t grumble thanks. How are you?’
‘Here you go. This should take your mind off your pain.’ George handed Brian a brown paper bag. Brian peered into the bag without taking out what was in it. It was a dog-eared girly magazine.
‘What’s up with you both? I’ve had my sack cut open and you bring me pictures of tits.’ Brian said with good humour. It was nice to see his old friend.
‘You’re probably feeling the same age as me right now,’ said George as he pulled up a chair.
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