Bertie and the Kinky Politician (24 page)

‘God's trousers!' exclaimed Hugo, profoundly shocked, his brows shooting up his expansive forehead like a pair of furry express elevators. She wriggled provocatively and patted the bed beside her, but Hugo remained rooted to the oatmeal Wilton, eyes bulging.

Unfortunately, they were the only part of him that did!

Always keen to try something new, tonight's theme was Anatolian allure. Dressed as a Turkish belly dancer, Maureen was enveloped in the finest translucent pale blue silk shot through with sequins and silver thread. Harem pants lay low on her hips, sheathing her legs before gathering in at the ankles. A diaphanous blouse was cropped to just beneath her breasts, the short sleeves and plunging neckline trimmed with gold lace. Bangles clattered around her wrists, and numerous ankle chains glittered in the light. She had painted her finger and toe nails blood red, rouged her nipples, and trimmed her Epping Forest into a masterpiece of minimalistic pubic topiary. A large iridescent jewel surrounded by gold sun rays sat glued into her navel. The elusive scent of jasmine filled the air.

‘Do you like it?' she husked in her best Greta Garbo voice. A golden tiara slipped over one eye.

‘For heaven's sake, Maureen, what has got into you?' he complained.

She sensed his familiar response and took determined steps to avoid the inevitable consequences. ‘Come here, my little Valentino, I want you tonight!'

Hugo edged closer with no little caution. He had to admit she looked divinely attractive. It seemed a cruel twist of fate that before his inconvenient problem the most alluring item in her tallboy had been sweet but shapeless cotton pyjamas. However, with the advent of their difficulties her wardrobe soon became stuffed with filmy scanties, sheer stockings with lacy frills, and delicate strappy things daringly cut at front, back, and other strategic places. The satin French maid's outfit once managed to raise more than a smile for an hour or so but was ultimately unsuccessful. The polished rubber frogman's suit still hung at the back of the wardrobe, unused, and the melted chocolate approach suggested by Cosmo merely resulted in a huge cleaning bill.

Still, perseverance was one of Maureen's great gifts. She grabbed his wrist and dragged him onto the bed. ‘I want you to take me!' she murmured salaciously. Maureen was fifty-nine and to an outsider the scenario might have seemed comical, but to Hugo she was still the bright-eyed nineteen-year-old student he fell in love with back in the seventies. One by one, the pyjama buttons were plucked open, revealing the pudgy expanse of his grey-haired chest. ‘Come on, Hugo, relax,' she urged gently, but try as he might he could not capture the mood. It was impossible. Too many worries crowded in to divert his attention. Hugo had lost the ability to divorce his mind from work and although he tried to concentrate on Maureen, all he could think of was that wretched parrot.

Desperate for at least some form of gratification, she decided to take the upper hand. ‘What …' spluttered Hugo as his pyjama trousers were ripped away, leaving him naked. His lack of rigidity became painfully visible to them both. Mister Stiffy was definitely not at home.

‘Lie still!' It was an order. Maureen handed him a glass of water and an immediately identifiable blue pill. ‘Here, take this.'

‘But I haven't got a headache.'

‘It's not for a headache, silly. You know very well it's to help you down there.' She nodded at his no-go area. Hugo swallowed the pill. She scrambled off the bed and swaying like a siren, danced on tip-toe, stroking herself as she spun around the room. He followed her slightly unsteady progress, thankful for the short respite. She became engrossed in her own sensual performance, hoping her arousal would reach out to him, but Hugo just lay there, genitally inactive, until she flopped onto the bed again, threw a wispy leg over his thigh and nipped at his neck with sharp teeth. Her manual dexterity should have produced the desired effect – it always had done so in the past, but success was far more elusive nowadays. She gripped, coaxed, stroked, kissed and sucked, all to no avail.

‘It's no good,' sighed Hugo, slightly alarmed at his increasing soreness and chaffing. ‘I suspect these pills are over-rated. Perhaps tomorrow night.'

But Maureen was now far too aroused to be so easily deflected. She wriggled up onto his shoulders and promptly sat on his face, determined to extract a little personal enjoyment from her efforts. Hugo struggled for air, his mouth full of clinging damp silk. Above him, Maureen rocked back and forth, raking herself over his features with eyes shut. She clutched his fringe of sparse hair with both hands and held him with an urgent, vice-like grip. Hugo flailed and flopped about on the bed like a landed grouper, gasping frantically for air before finally managing to dislodge her. Flushed and giddy, he surfaced, panting and perspiring, but this respite was short as powerful thighs clamped him back into position again. Hugo began to panic. Maureen mistook his stifled protestations for moans of pleasure and bore down harder, dropping her entire weight on his face. Sodden silk mashed over his nostrils. He couldn't breathe at all. A thin mist danced in front of his eyes as he fought for air. The prospect of imminent suffocation extinguished any last traces of ardour.

Pussied to death – just what he needed! He could imagine the titters echoing through the corridors of power and the headlines on the front page of the
London Evening Standard
.

Ministry Mandarin in Mysterious Muffing Mishap!

Great. Just dandy.

Desperate to avoid such an ignominious end, Hugo managed to dislodge Maureen with a final despairing wrench. His forehead raked up her belly and dislodged the sun disc in her navel. The paste gave out even as he took a huge, heaving breath and the jewel dropped into his open mouth.

Hugo felt something heavy rattle past his teeth and slide down his throat. Sharp metal raked his gullet and he swallowed convulsively, gagging, his face assuming the same delicate shade of blue as the silk adhering to his cheeks. Maureen's thrashing limbs and flushed features indicated her desperate desire for orgasm, whereas Hugo's thrashing limbs and flushed face indicated a desperate need for the Heimlich Manoeuvre. Sweat popped on his forehead. He gulped again, his throat spasming. An inarticulate gurgle escaped his lips as he choked, fish-eyed, swallowing convulsively until the obstruction slowly receded.

Downwards.

Maureen slumped sideways, only conscious of her failure to arouse Hugo and entirely unaware of his unexpected snack. She gathered herself with as much dignity as she could summon and quietly fled the room without a backward glance, tears starting in her eyes.

It broke Hugo's heart to see her so distressed, but what could he do? Resignation was the only course of action which would reverse the permanent dormancy in his joy department, yet that was not an option. Hugo was hopelessly addicted to the narcotic influence of power. To willingly walk away from such power was unthinkable. There was nothing he could do to comfort her and a few minutes later the front door slammed. Off to her sister's again, that ultimate refuge from the unpleasantness of reality.

He sighed and belched uncomfortably. The gas tasted sour and metallic. His abused throat burned from the scraping passage of the jewel and he knew his meal had only just begun its long and convoluted journey. He clambered off the bed, slipped into his dressing gown and picked up the phone.

Adrian Brighouse, unlike his colleagues, rather enjoyed being on call after-hours. Night problems were usually serious and those were the cases he liked the best; one can only stand so many fungoid feet, thrush infections and snivelling noses. He picked up the receiver before the second ring. ‘Chatham Crescent Surgery, Doctor Brighouse.'

‘Hello, Adrian. This is Hugo.'

Brighouse groaned mentally. At this time of night Chaplain could only be calling about his chronic impotence again. The attitude of the man exasperated him. It was almost as if he personally blamed Brighouse for his condition. The GP had investigated thoroughly, diagnosed a psychological problem and advised the services of a counsellor. ‘Yes, Hugo?'

‘It's a little embarrassing.'

‘For God's sake, Hugo, I'm your doctor.' Annoyance at being disturbed over such a trifling matter made Brighouse a little short. He had a reputation for being notoriously rude to patients who abused the emergency out-of-hours service provided by his practice. ‘I've probed and prodded my way around your body for the last ten years. There isn't a crevice of you or Maureen I wouldn't recognise with my eyes blindfolded. What could possibly embarrass me now?'

‘I've swallowed something.'

Hello, that was a new one. Brighouse bit his lip against the scathing retort he was about to launch down the phone line. ‘Poisonous?'

‘No. A jewel of some kind with pointed edges. Bloody well nearly choked me on the way down.' Hugo's voice still shook a little. ‘What shall I do?'

‘Will it flush though, do you think?' A jewel! What the hell had the old porker been up to now?

‘You're the doctor – you tell me.'

‘If it's big and has spikes it'll lacerate your gut and get stuck going around a corner. I don't want to worry you but that means emergency surgery. You'll have to go to A&E.'

‘Can't you help?' pleaded Hugo, unwilling to involve any strangers.

‘Not a chance. You'll need an X-ray whatever happens, and that crappy little private hospital you're so keen on won't be interested in this one, believe me.'

‘But Adrian, I –'

‘No, Hugo. It's too big for me to do here. I could attempt to pump you out if it was a dire emergency to save your life, but you'll be OK for an hour or two so let the experts take care of it. They've had plenty of experience removing all manner of foreign objects. Shouldn't be too busy at this time of night,' lied Brighouse. He replaced the receiver before Hugo could reply and stared at the phone. ‘Bloody druids!' he muttered angrily.

Hugo took a taxi to King's College Hospital. King's was a little removed from the city centre and so he figured there was less chance of being recognised there than at any of more well-known establishments closer to Whitehall – places regularly frequented by the more clumsy of Her Majesty's Members of Parliament. He made his way into the Accident and Emergency Department and groaned at the sight that met him. The place heaved, even though it was now the early hours of the morning. He cursed Brighouse roundly and barged his way through aimless, milling crowds to the reception desk. A woman dealt with the steady stream of arrivals, demonstrating a peerless competence in coping with the pressures of her position whilst still maintaining a sunny smile of welcome. How wonderful, it seemed to Hugo in a fleeting moment of abstraction, that English social etiquette still required a courteous welcome, even to an A & E department! She addressed Hugo in a business-like but kindly manner.

‘Good evening, sir. How can we help?'

Hugo hesitated – but already the beginnings of a queue were forming behind him. ‘I've swallowed a metallic object.' Might as well get on with it as quickly as possible. This was a place, he decided, where it was probably best to put delicacies to one side.

‘Have you, now. Dear me. Name?' She did not seem at all surprised at Hugo's discomfiture. Probably seen a lot weirder in her time.

‘Chaplain. Hugo Anthony Chaplain.'

‘National Insurance number?'

‘Haven't the foggiest.'

‘OK. We have more than one Chaplain here.' She peered at her screen.

‘I live in Carsington Mews.'

‘Got you. Right. What is it you've swallowed?'

‘A jewel. It lacerated my throat on the way down. I'm not coughing up blood, nor do I have stomach cramps.'

‘Is it large?'

‘Large enough. It has spikes around it to represent the rays of the sun.'

‘Ah, another druid.'

‘Certainly not, madam. I'm Church of England,' he replied with no small amount of ruffled indignation.

The receptionist curled a lip at him knowingly. ‘Sure you are,' she said in a tone which expressed total disbelief in his statement. ‘Well now, Mr Chaplain, please take a seat. You're in no immediate danger of choking so you'll be a little while, but hopefully not too long. Fortunately, we're having a quiet evening.'

Hugo could not tell if she was being sarcastic or simply stating the truth. Having never visited such a place before he had no previous experience upon which to judge her assessment, but it seemed to him the reception area closely resembled a war zone. Seats were filled with subdued and anxious-looking people who either appeared externally intact, but very worried, or who were obviously injured – and extremely worried. Everyone kept glancing surreptitiously in wide-eyed concern at a man sitting quietly reading a magazine with a hatchet wedged in the top of his skull. The sight was horrifying but he appeared to be in no discomfort and thumbed the pages casually, a great wad of gauze wrapped around the protruding blade.

Hugo loitered, trying not to show his dismay. He made a promise to vastly increase the cover of his private medical insurance. Exposure to ordinary people always made him feel uncomfortable and, as for the humiliation of actually having to stand there amongst them, well, it was simply too much to bear. In addition, to his intense mortification, he felt an entirely unsolicited turgidity begin to fret against his trousers.

Maureen's pesky little pill had kicked in at last!

Hugo tried to adjust himself with discretion but all the wriggling in the world wasn't going to make him comfortable. His chemically induced and entirely unwanted erection continued to grow, tenting outwards. A woman cradling a sick child in her arms glared at him disapprovingly and moved away, her unspoken accusation making Hugo cringe. All he could do was stand there and force himself to think of dirty frying pans and smelly socks and Queen Victoria and rancid drains and Birmingham and every other image of a sexually inhibiting nature.