Andrew Grant - Even

She held the device up to Cyril’s face and made a show of opening and closing its jaws. She snapped them open easily enough, but made a real play of squeezing the handles together again. Strain lined her face and sharp tendons bulged in her wrist. Then she winked at him. His eyes started to roll back in their sockets.

“Look, he’s getting the idea,” she said, smiling and turning to point the thing at me. “Ever seen one of these before?”

“Frequently,” I said. “All the ambassadors have them. Standard government issue.”

“This one’s for rams. Perfect for humans, too. Used to have one for lambs, but it didn’t work too well. Sometimes one ball would survive. Had to come back later and finish it off. Couldn’t get the pressure. Handles were too short. Not a problem with this one. But you know the best thing about it?”

I said nothing.

“The noise it makes. When it crushes the little tubes. Like biting into a stick of fresh celery.”

“Means nothing to me. I eat nothing green.”

“Then I guess my special toy would be wasted on you,” she said, and turned to tuck the device back into its space. “This your first time?”

I didn’t answer.

“Then cutting would be better anyway. Get to see right inside. It’ll change your life, believe me.”

Lesley pushed the end two chairs out of the way and reached over to the hinged flap in the tabletop. She scrabbled to get a grip on it for a moment, then pulled it right over on itself until it was lying horizontally along the wooden surface. There was a strip of black, brushlike material about half an inch wide fixed to the long edge, opposite the hinges. It would be to let cables run through when the flap was closed, but in that position the ends of the bristles finished exactly level with the edge of the table.

Unlike the rest of the wood, the underside of the flap was not polished. It wasn’t finished at all. Instead, it was covered in brown stains, the color of old blood. There were dozens of patches. Many were overlapping. I doubt there’d been huge volumes, but it had soaked well into the grain. There would be no chance of removing it now. It had formed an indelible pattern, a little like those inkblot pictures that psychiatrists show you.

Lesley stepped aside, and the tall guy levered himself away from the wall. He came over and pushed the trolley forward so that Cyril’s groin was pressing into the edge of the tabletop. He peered around the front and checked that the underneath of Cyril’s scrotum was hanging down far enough to rest on the surface of the flap. The tall guy didn’t touch it-he just looked. Satisfied, he locked the brakes on the trolley’s rear wheels and went back to his place by the door.

Lesley slipped her jacket off and hung it on the back of the nearest chair. She took the surgeon’s gloves from the roll of tools and snapped them on. A small cloud of talc puffed out from around each wrist. It smelled vaguely of lavender. Then she picked up two of the long copper needles. She gripped them carefully between her left thumb and index finger to avoid snagging the gloves and held them out for Cyril to see.

He started to wail.

Lesley picked up the hammer and stepped across, next to Cyril. His wailing grew louder and he began to thrash about, desperately straining against the leather straps. Lesley held one of the needles between her lips and reached down toward the table with the other. Before the tip had even touched him Cyril’s wailing had grown into a shrill, piercing howl. A trace of blood appeared as Lesley passed the needle through the left-hand side of his scrotum and gently tapped it into the underside of the wooden flap. The blood bubbled up around the stem of the needle for a moment, then streamed away across Cyril’s skin. Some got caught up in the blond hairs, but most made it down onto the rough, pitted surface. It pooled for several seconds before gradually being absorbed, adding a new, darker stain of its own.

Lesley tapped the second needle through the other side of Cyril’s scrotum, took a good pinch of skin, and tugged. The needles held firm. Then she swapped the hammer for a scalpel. Her left hand kept the skin taut while she made two cuts from just below the base of his penis in a kind of upside-down V-shape, away from his body and out toward his thighs. Blood oozed over the steel blade and the tips of her gloves as she calmly worked her way down. When she finished cutting she took the remaining copper needles and tacked the flap of skin down tight, forming a neat triangular hole.

I couldn’t help but stare through it at the gray, fibrous membrane inside. Lesley took the scalpel and sliced straight down the middle, leaving a single incision an inch and a quarter long. She took the forceps and guided the tip through the hole she’d made. She angled them to Cyril’s left and delicately probed the inside of his scrotum. Her hand moved in tiny, unhurried circles. After ten seconds she suddenly stopped and squeezed the handles together until the latches clicked into place. She cautiously drew the forceps back out. A loop of tubing, an eighth of an inch in diameter, was squashed flat in their jaws.

“Here comes the first little guy,” she said.

Cyril was silent now, and completely still. He was gawping down at himself, fascinated, not believing what he was seeing. Lesley pulled her hand back a fraction further, took out the scissors, and lined them up on the tube just above where the forceps were gripping it. Then she stopped and put the scissors down on the table.

“What am I doing?” she said. “Planned to go with the burdizzo. Forgot to get their new home ready.”

Lesley went over to the cupboard where the trolley had been stored and returned with a glass jar in one hand and a stainless steel flask in the other. The jar was five inches tall and three inches across, and had a matching lid with a spherical grip. The glass was slightly cloudy as if it had been repeatedly scoured by a machine, making it look aged, like a remnant from some ancient school laboratory.

“The little guys will be safe in here,” she said to Cyril. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of them, and you can come visit any time you like.”

Lesley eased the lid off the jar and filled it with clear liquid from the flask. She didn’t replace the lid, and after a moment an unmistakable stench caught in the back of my throat. Formaldehyde. Like in an old mortuary.

“Shall I write a label?” she said. “Or will you recognize them on your own? Got quite a collection going back there…”

Cyril didn’t answer. I don’t think he’d even seen the jar. He was still staring down at his groin, completely mesmerized. Lesley shrugged and screwed the cap back onto the steel flask. She picked the scissors up again, but before she used them she turned to look at me.

“You Brits appreciate irony,” she said. “So how do you like this? A squirrel with no nuts.”

Twelve people dropped out before the end of my training program.

Seven quit during the physical endurance phase. Two during weapons assessment. And three during unarmed combat. There was no shame attached to any of them. They all walked away with their heads held high. Because in the navy, it’s better to give 100 percent and come up short than never to try anything new. As long as you give it your best shot, you earn respect.

If you get kicked out, that’s another story altogether. Fortunately, in my class it only happened to one recruit. And not because of his performance. It’s up to the instructors to fix that. The problem was his attitude. Specifically, one question he couldn’t help but ask.

I was surprised at first. Because generally, the navy encourages questions. Have you got the right resources for the job? Could you achieve your objective more quickly? More safely? More effectively? But eventually I understood what he’d done wrong. It was actually pretty simple. I realized that once you’ve accepted an assignment, there’s really only one thing you can’t question.