Tales fae Dr Makadoork's case book The feckin dalek!

A Strange Tale From Doctor Festing Makadoork’s Casebook.

I’m a psychologist of the far-fae-normal and through the years I have met with many strange people. Here is a case that at the outset seemed to be beyond my understanding. 

 It was in the summer of 1958 and I was in my surgery above the chip shop having just seen off another patient with a course of antibiotics. That had been the thirtieth prescription I’d handed out that morning. This was at the time before I specialised as a practitioner of the ‘Far-fae-normal’ but experimented in a new phenomena called the placebo effect and loads of antibiotics. If a patient had any psychological problems I’d prescribe antibiotics and the suggestion they get a bottle of whisky and get boiled. If someone had eating disorders I’d prescribe them antibiotics and suggest they visit Toni’s chip shop below for a greasy pie supper, a pickled egg with plenty salt and brown sauce and visit the off licence for a bottle of whisky. Incidentally back then salt was good for you and so was smoking. (How I well remember the adverts in my dirty magaz- - - I mean Medical Anatomy Journals, how the scantily clad erotic female with a glass of champers in one hand and a cigarette in the other stating to the world that she only smoked Dr Benson’s health cigarettes.)

 
As a doctor I found out early the power of the white coat I always wore to give the ambiance of professionalism and back up the placebo effect that they all without one distension carried out my advice to the letter. Remember this was back in the day when antibiotics cured everything.

 
Miss Jolly my receptionist came in with my elevenses, a cup of tea and some Abernethy biscuits. Miss Jolly sounds as if she were young and pretty with a happy smiling face? Wrong! 

She was old and had the sourest expression I have ever seen on a person. But she was a bloody good receptionist and could handle any unruly dockers, seamen and whores who made up my clientèle with one glower from above her half lens glasses and if that didn’t work she could eject them from the premises and onto the street like a bosun’s mate clearing the decks of an H.M. ship of unruly coolies rioting against British Imperialism on the China station. 

The unruly and often drunk sailors and dockers would be shown the egress by her fingers up their nostrils of one hand while the other hand grabbed their scrotums in her fist of iron and fling them from the top of the stairs to the street in one screaming heave. The women fared no better and were given the self same treatment. And although minus a scrotum for her to grab onto Miss Jolly being a rather inventive soul applied a similar technique with exactly the same results of them laying on the street moaning and cursing her.

 When I’d applied for a receptionist just after the war Miss Jolly’s references had stood out from the other one. She had a lot of glowing references from naval officers, bosuns, bosun’s mates, leading hands etc and each and every one committing to paper that she was extremely efficient at her job. I didn’t ask her what job that might’ve been? And after employing her and seeing how well she could handle herself I thought it prudent not to ask such a fool question. But through the gun decks she surely had been! In fact by her age she might have serviced seamen back in the day of the Kaiser’s war or even before? With her brows down she said “There’s one last patient to see you doctor.” I could see a wee touch of distaste pass across her distasteful face. I’m glad I caught it. It must have been the sunlight coming through the window that did it? Normally on such a distasteful face you wouldn’t normally see another even more distasteful look sweep across the distasteful face you were used to seeing as her normal everyday distasteful face.

 “Shall I send him in?” she asked with a sour distasteful look that soured the very milk in my tea. I swear the globules of of rancid fat floated to the surface of my cup. I nodded pushing the soured tea aside picking up a biscuit but changed my mind when I saw the very butter on them had turned to rotten globules.

 She left and in a few moments the patient knocked on the door. I waited a moment for effect, put on my caring face and requested the patient to enter. 

 A man of perhaps middle height running a little to fat came in. I could see he was nervous so I motioned to the chair. He sat rather forward and ill at ease. I’d read that in the US psychologists waited for their clients to speak first thus triggering feelings of control in their clients. This was a perfect opportunity for me. I just sat looking at him and such a strange ‘looking at’ it was. 

Perhaps age-wyes he would’ve been in his late thirties early forties. His physiognomy was roundish and his features rather indistinct and unremarkable. The most remarkable thing about his face would’ve been the eyes. They were cruel in the extreme and flashed pure malice somewhat like a strobe light. That reminded me on the Japanese officer during the war that had came at me out of the jungle with a samurai sword screaming BANZI! He had had the self same cruel eyes but the thirty six rounds from my bren had put that particular pair of cruel eyes off to look at his ancestors.

 The client had still never spoken so I used the time productively. He smelled of very expensive cigars and I’m sure he wore woman’s scent. Not the usual smells I normally got from my clients. They usually smelled of body sweat, rollups, woodbines and often much worse things. On his left lapel he wore a white carnation and on the opposite one he had some little expensive looking badges, some in the shape of set squares, grains of sand and such like. The suit was of a very expensive cut and was obviously from Savile Row. The tailor had done a very good job of disguising his slightly deformed frame. Even the pinstripes had been adjusted like an optical illusion to look straight. To the general public he would’ve look fine but to my expert eye the deformation was obvious. I could see he was getting a little more pensive and was breathing as if he was about to speak so I just waited.
Eventually after what seemed an age he blurted out 

“I am a Feckin Dalek!” 

His voice was tinny as if spoken through a bean can with static electricity and delivered in a monotone with no inflexion in his voice whatever. I thought that ‘feckin dalek’ was a mispronunciation of an unknown medical condition. To me it must’ve been because there was indeed something far far wrong with his voice. So I asked-”What does ‘feckin dalek’ mean?” He told me in his strange voice that he was a ‘Feckin Dalek’ from the other side of the galaxy and sent with his friends to conquer earth. He went on to tell me that at the beginning the ‘Feckin Daleks’ were just blobs like big slugs and used to move about in little tank like vehicles with a viewfinder on the end of a tube and little lights that lit up as they spoke. In the middle was a death ray that made enemies dissolve into the quantum level of existence. That was before they the ‘Feckin Daleks’were genetically modified to look much more humanoid. I tried to remain calm. My hand moved towards the intercom. One press of the panic button and Miss Jolly would be through in an instant and in the next instant the ‘Feckin Dalek’ bastard would be on the street pronto screaming in his monotone static electrical bean can voice. But I desisted and removed my hand from the button and instead lit a senior service cigarette. I offered the ‘Feckin Dalek’ one but he refused preferring one of his cigars. Soon we were both sitting relaxed and in friendly companionship as we puffed on our respective addictive delivery systems. Afterwards though it was back to business as doctor and client.

 
As by way of conversation I asked him what he did for a living? But he seemed reluctant to say and tried to fog the issue by remarking on the beautiful weather we were having in Aberdeen for a change. So I changed tack a little by asking him what he thought of the National Health Service. His eyes grew cruel and he started 

“I am a Feckin Dalek---exterminate---exterminate!” 

I then asked about all the poor people who before the N.H.S. couldn’t afford medical treatment. And what else could we do for them? “I am a Feckin Dalek----exterminate---exterminate!” 

George Orwell? 

“I am a Feckin Dalek- - - exterminate- - - exterminate!” 

Adolf Hitler? “I am a Feckin Dalek- - - lick his arse- - - lick his arse.” 

By this time his eyes were bulging and white foam had gathered at the side of his mouth. “Oh Jesus ! I groaned We’ve a right one here! The last question I asked was the only real question that would prove to me how ill this person was. “What do you think of Aberdonians?” At this he just lost it completely and crashing backwards in the chair onto the floor holding one arm out from the front of his brow and the other from his waist he lay shouting through the bean can 

“I am a Feckin Dalek!- - -greedy bastards - - - exterminate- - - exterminate- - - exterminate!” The pitch did change though and got higher and higher till Miss Jolly came in with her equaliser in her fist. She’d told me it was a belaying pin that a sailor on Victory had once given her. (What bloody age was she?) A swift application onto the ‘Feckin Dalek’s’ cranium soon put a stop to that. I just sat there shaking my head and looking up at Miss Jolly said “A terminal case of anti Aberdonius here. Prepare room 101 Miss Jolly!” Ten minutes later the ‘Feckin Dalek’ was seated in the little annex room cowering away from Miss Jolly. Miss Jolly stood at his side her face as sour as I’d ever seen it before with the belaying pin gripped so tightly in her fist the knuckles were snow white. I noticed the bag of salt placed and ready at the far corner of the room and gave her a reassuring nod. I placed a bottle of whisky on the table in front of the ‘Feckin Dalek’ and my old army revolver with one bullet in the chamber beside it. 

“Do the proper thing old chap!” “You have ten minutes to decide." 

Nodding towards Miss Jolly. "If not Miss Jolly here will see to you with her belaying pin!” 

As I turned to leave the ‘Feckin Dalek’ went into complete static overload. The bean can voice almost ruptured. Turning back to Miss Jolly I reminded her to use plenty of salt to dissolve the body.

End.

 

copyright © Patrick Hutchison