“I can find no trace of a nerve,” said Mr Easton as he
completed an examination of the molar cavity. “I’m sure I removed it all last
Tuesday, but root canal work can take some time to settle down, Mr Fellaway.
There is still Novocain in your system after the initial operation plus the
amount you’ve had today, so to avoid endangering your health, I’d like you to
take this packet of analgesic tablets home and if the pain persists take two
every four hours as instructed on the packet.”
Murmuring his thanks through deadened lips, Teddy Fellaway
took the packet and made his way home that evening to inform his partner, Ruth,
of the outcome.
“What you need is a strong cup of tea,” was the first thing
she said.
‘Christ, he’s pumped me so full of that bloody drug I’m
seeing double of everything,” Teddy mumbled miserably.
“I’ve got to say you look like something out of an old
Hammer film but I can’t put a name to it; Quasimodo, maybe,” giggled Ruth as
she put the kettle on. She turned suddenly serious and said, “It could be that
Novocain has a deeper affect upon you than it does other people.”
“I’m with you there,” grumbled Teddy as he sipped the hot
brew, favouring the sound side of his mouth. Settling for a light evening meal,
they tumbled into bed much earlier than usual with Teddy preparing himself for
another bad night. He must have got some sleep because it was ten past twelve
when he was awoken by unmerciful stabs of pain. Swallowing two of the analgesic
tablets, he drifted off into an unsettled sleep.
It was three in the morning when he surfaced again,
this time so muddled, he fell out of bed, and so as to not awaken Ruth, he
dragged on his dressing gown seeking the sanctuary of his lounge armchair.
Losing patience with rubbish TV programmes he turned the set off; slipping the
remote control into a pocket of his dressing gown. To keep the room steady, he
shut one eye, focusing the other on the ornate plaster rose in the ceiling,
forcing himself to think how fortunate they had been to find a well-cared for
nineteen thirties house such as this in Warminster. Far better than the thrown
up semi they’d just sold in Shepton Mallet.
About the author:
James Sainsbury, a former central heating quality
control inspector, began writing in 1990 after completing a correspondence
course had two articles and three short stories published. Upon retirement he
noticed his two little fingers were curling into the palms and was told he had
Dupuytren’s Contracture; a disease brought over by the Vikings, hence his
chosen pseudonym – The Viking – all five feet six inches of him; not your average
berserker.
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