The Word Cloud

 

Chapter 13

 

 

Arid. I held her face, I let my fingers rasp their way through her spiky hair. I so wanted to want her, to need her, to lust after her. Our mouths were dry when they met, my hands didn’t welcome her touch. At best I felt mild agitation. Was I just chasing the dragon? Pursuing that incredible emotional high – the excitement went two hearts meet?

 

We’d made love twice in the month following our meeting. Cognitively we felt the same. I wanted to be around her and she assured me she wanted to be near me. I wanted to feel the way I felt on that day when we really met, when we really made love and where we whispered our hopes and dreams and desires.

 

It had been like the last flare of a fire, of a sun where it ultimately collapses in on itself and dies. Had we just used up all of our emotions?

 

“Just tell me to fuck off,” we were sitting on the edge of her bed, each of us lost in our inner world – an inner world that screamed there is nothing left.

 

But we’d only just started. We’d only just met each other.

 

“No Barney, if you want to leave, just tell me,”

 

I stood up. I looked out the window. The sun was shining, the sky was blue. It was a lovely sunny day and yet the modern buildings and carefully crafted parks stood in stark contrast to what the world had intended.

 

“Why don’t we re-enact that first time when we…?”

 

“What, in Pilots world?”

 

“Why not? What’s to stop us?”

 

“Well I haven’t got my floppy bob,” she smiled, shaking her head to demonstrate.

 

“Couldn’t you stick one on?”

 

“I guess I could…”

 

“Is that a date?”

 

“What will you wear?”

 

“A gormless expression and the statutory social work attire?”

 

“Perfect – but no sandals, ok?”

 

I pulled a pained expression, “Ok.”

 

****

 

“You’re not getting this – I can’t feel. I know I love her…I know I loved her…it’s just that now there’s nothing…no stomach lurch…no heavy breathing…no stonking great hard-on…”

 

“Maybe that’s just a world that doesn’t exist now,” again the lovely Ralph was mentally caressing me, “What about friendship? What about companionship? Those are both expressions of love…”

 

“Companionship! Fuck Ralph, when I think of companionship I think of two elderly women whose idea of a good time is getting out a candle and half a pound of Lurpak every Christmas…”

 

“You…you’re not saying…?”

 

I grinned, “Look, I’m sorry, it’s the first image that jumped into my mind,”

 

“You bastard…that image will stay with me…you’re horrible,”

 

“Ok, how about…?”

 

“Stop you disgusting man. So, you and Chris are going to rekindle something that you had in a past life by dressing up…?”

 

“It does sound just a little bit shit when you put it that way…”

 

“What way? That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

 

“Ralph, have I ever told you – you’re a soulless bastard?”

 

“Most days…”

 

****

 

That night, I lay in bed in despair – I should have been lying in bed in terror but my emotions just couldn’t be arsed. Despair was the best I had. What happens if I never feel properly again? What happens if I just drift along with everyone else in this loveless, hateless mediocre fucking pit for the rest of my life – this fucking endless life…

 

“Ralph…Ralph…wake up…” he hadn’t responded to the gentle nudge, so I was now shaking him vigorously.

 

“Barney…what the fuck…?”

 

“Ralph, you know how Pilots has been dismantled?”

 

He rubbed his face and peered at me through half-shut eyes, “Yeah…?”

 

“Is there any of it left? You know, the odd casket here and there for the purposes of research or something…?”

 

He rolled round and sat on the edge of his bed, “I just need to…” he nodded towards his en-suite.

 

“Sure, sure…go ahead…”

 

From behind the door I could hear running water combined with, “Oh,” and, “Aah,” punctuated with a, “Oh for fuck’s sake…”

 

Ralph came out, his face dripping water, looking significantly more awake, “This couldn’t wait?” he scowled as he dried his face on his duvet.

 

I felt like an eight year old child, if there was such a thing, “No, not really…” I looked at my feet.

 

“Ok…there are still bits of Pilots kicking about the place…What about Gordon and Frank? Aren’t they still kicking against the system?”

 

“I guess…” I just wanted to feel alive.

 

“I can see where you’re heading with this…you want to go off on some kind of jolly to make you feel alive while you’re still with Chris?”

 

“Yes…” that way it would all be a bit more bearable.

 

“Do we have to keep going over this…? Look at you – there’s still no sign of Barney – you honestly think that going back and experiencing God knows what will help you?”

 

“I could go back as an insect – you said yourself I’d found it exhilarating – surely that wouldn’t take away any more of Barney…? And anyway, I thought you said John was like Barney…?

 

“You’re the same person…sort of…an insect…? Can I think on that…? What I mean is, can I have some sleep and then, in the morning I’ll feel more able to tell you to fuck off…?” he smiled as he gently pushed my face.

 

****

 

“Gordon? Gordon…?”

 

His creased face appeared on the screen, “What?”

 

I felt agitated…I had a mental itch that I couldn’t quite… “Are you and Frank still running Mini-Pilots?”

 

“Barney…I’ve got a brilliant idea,”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Fuck off – call me, meet me, write to me…but do it when I’m awake – Fuck off, there’s a good chap,”

 

“Not quite the response I was looking for, especially after all I’ve done for you…” I gave him just long enough to consider this – he needed enough time to reflect on the fact that he and I had been friends for years and that there must have been something that I’d done for him…but not enough time to realise there wasn’t.

 

“What?” more gentle now.

 

“I need something more than this. I need to live again…”

 

“What about Chris? I thought you were living again with her…?”

 

“I thought I was…but…”

 

“Dragonfly…”

 

“What?”

 

“Call me at a proper time and we’ll talk about it…but remember ‘Dragonfly’ – I know I’m going to wake up in the morning and think I’ve had a crazy dream about some lunatic phoning me in the middle of the night,”

 

His image vanished from the screen.

 

The sad thing about Gordon is that he thinks he’s being interesting. He thinks I’m going to lie back on my bed and wonder what he means by ‘Dragonfly’. Having experienced the delight of living the life of this majestic insect in the past, I know that he thinks zipping off every so often will do me the power of good and keep me rooted in the here and now…or something.

 

Just as I was dozing off I had a niggling doubt…maybe he’s developed something altogether more entertaining and called it ‘Project Dragonfly’…there again, this was Gordon we were talking about… he’d call any new idea of his ‘Project X’ or something equally nebulous…

 

Shit, this was useless; maybe I should try counting sheep. Were there any sheep? Were there any animals? There were definitely birds – I’d heard them and I was sure I’d seen them. That said, maybe birdsong was all part of the great government conspiracy to keep us quietly contented…

 

“Barney! Wake up you indolent bastard!”

 

I leapt out of bed and was half way to the door when Ralph said, “Where are your pyjama bottoms?”

 

Confused, I stopped and looked down to authenticate Ralph’s observation. Why, oh why does the male of the species wake up with his protuberance standing up and ready for action?

 

“I thought you said you didn’t feel anything?” eyebrows raised.

 

I grabbed my gaudy dressing gown from the back of the door and covered myself up, “You bastard…”

 

“Well, if you insist on waking me up in the middle of the night…”

 

I stomped off to the loo. For eons man has tried to get rid of his early morning unwanted hard-on and failed. I was just the most recent in this merry band – my bladder was bursting so I tried the old stand back from the bog and work out the exact arc required to…

 

“Oh shit…”

 

…and invariably pissed everywhere except the loo. I tried to stop it all mid flow with limited success…I made a mental note that must remember to wash my hands…I tried to bend it…God knows why – for years I’d tried to bend it and well, it doesn’t…the shower…I could piss in the shower and clean up the whole bathroom at the same time…I got in the shower, finally realised that the best way to get rid of the erect member was to go with it…to turn into the skid as it were…and then I thought of Colin. That did the job.

 

I was finding it difficult to remember him as he was and not as some corpse in a casket. I could remember events with him in them, but I couldn’t quite see his face. Maybe my mind hadn’t quite finished with the murder scene. As I finally finished the long-awaited piss, I remembered two things. Colin had looked contented…despite his wounds and the fact that most of his blood had gathered in the bottom of the casket, he’d almost looked happy. The other thing…I might be imagining it…he had been looking up to his right hand…the hand which I’m sure he’d have been holding the knife in.

 

He’d left us a clue. He’d wanted us to know that he’d killed himself. The best way he knew was to be looking at the knife. He must have thought that either one of us could have…should have deduced this from this one simple act.

 

Instead, in our panic we’d decided he’d been murdered…what if he’d left other clues? Na, that was just crazy thinking. I finished my shower, cleaned up the bathroom, put on my flowery bathrobe and joined Ralph on the sofa for a steamy coffee.

 

Ralph opened his mouth to speak but I intercepted him, “How did you work out that Colin had killed himself…? Try to think of everything,”

 

“I…er,” he’d clearly prepared himself for another conversation altogether, “I…we found the knife in his hand…er, it was held in such a way that it looked like the last thing he did was cut his own throat,”

 

“Do you remember anything else? Any more clues?” I had no idea what I was looking for.

 

“There was loads of blood – more blood than I’d ever seen – all contained in the casket…He was looking up at the hand with the knife in it…He looked kind of contented…almost happy…but that’s corpses for you…ever relaxed…What are you looking for Barney?”

 

I scratched my head and took a sip of coffee, “Nothing I guess…I don’t know…I just wanted more…the thing is, there isn’t any more, is there? That’s the problem with real death…it’s absolute. Any questions…anything we wanted to say to that person will be left unasked and unsaid…”

 

“What would you have said?”

 

I thought of all those adult offspring I’d seen at funerals cursing and wishing they could just have a little more time with their dead parent. They wished they’d had just a few more moments with their mum or, usually, their dad so they could have told him that they loved him. I was hit with that pang of regret. I guess with Colin though he must have known that he was special to me…

 

“Nothing…” I smiled into my drink, “Nothing…”

 

Ralph sat quietly for a few moments – possibly waiting for me to say some more on the topic of Colin.

 

“Are you ok?” he said quietly.

 

“Yeah…yeah,” I looked up at him with a forced grin.

 

“Great – I want to talk about your nocturnal visitation…” he must have seen the look of surprise on my face as he tempered his enthusiasm with, “…er, if that’s ok?”

 

I was obviously the emotional one in this relationship, “Yeah Ralph, that’s just dandy,”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure…”

 

“Ok…there are some caskets left over…I think you might have something with the going back as an insect thing…”

 

“You think…?” was he actually agreeing with me?

 

“Yeah – the times you’d zipped off as an insect before – your mood was always high – almost euphoric when you came back…”

 

“And I hadn’t lost any me-ness?”

 

“No…no, you were still a hundred percent Barney…just a bit more vital…I’m not sure if vital’s the word…you were more alive…”

 

“So you think this is a good idea?”

 

“What?”

 

“Me supplementing this life with little bits of something else to keep me going? Gordon thought that a dragonfly…”

 

“You’ve spoken to Gordon about this?”

 

“Sure…” alarmed at his defensiveness, “…is that ok?”

 

He paused then allowed himself a little snigger, “Yeah…yeah, of course it’s ok…I think I was a little jealous there…that’s all,”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, really…you’ll do what you need to do,”

 

“So can we set me up for a little jaunt…?”

 

“Give me a couple of days,”

 

“Sure.”

 

****

 

“Maybe you weren’t being kick-ass enough,” I was lying next to Chris in her bed. She was still wearing her very authentic blond wig combined with a tight fitting t-shirt emblazoned with the simple instruction ‘FUCK’.

 

“Maybe you weren’t naïve and hapless enough…” she came back clearly hurt.

 

We’d failed in our little attempt to relive our past life. We’d set it up beautifully in her kitchen-lounge. She’d even feigned fatigue and had delivered the line, “…why don’t we just go back to my place and fuck?” so well.

 

She was gorgeous. She looked gorgeous. Even without the silly wig she was lovely. This was Chris…this was Jen and yet something was missing. Whatever was missing from her was equally missing from me.

 

“Fancy a game of Subutteo?” an attempt to lighten the fractious atmosphere.

 

She smiled and pulled off her wig, “I really do love you, Barney,”

 

We cuddled up. God, there was something there, but it wasn’t lustful or carnal in any way. It was companionship. It was love in its dotage. Fuck, this was the same way I felt about Ralph. No…that was wrong…I didn’t have sexual reminiscences about Ralph. I never once thought…

 

“I got a hard-on the other day!”

 

“So, what did you do with it?” still holding me tight.

 

“Well…nothing…I thought about Colin and…”

 

“Do you miss it all?” she interrupted.

 

“What?”

 

“That life – for you…those lives…?”

 

“Yes,” I didn’t have to think about it – I yearned for those lives.

 

“Me too…me too…”

 

“Had you done that kind of thing before?”

 

“What?”

 

“You know, gone back to retrieve folk…and got your jollies?”

 

“Several times…” she looked like she was struggling momentarily, “The thing is, I went back to do a job that could have been done in seconds…and yet…”

 

“Go on…”

 

“I’d managed to shroud it in mystery – so that I had time to explore – to feel…”

 

“You stayed longer so you could shag more men?”

 

“Not just men…” she laughed, “I actually went back as a man a few times…but it wasn’t just the sex…”

 

I knew that. I held her tightly to me.

 

“It was the sky…the trees…the wonderful chaos of it all. Not knowing what was over that next hill. I did a few extreme sports while I was there…” it sounded like she was describing a package tour to Turkey.

 

The thing was I knew what she meant – I just wished I’d gone a few more of the rides.  

 

“I’ve been talking to the lovely Ralph…”

 

“Oh yes?” she leant her head on her hand as she gently pulled herself away to look at me.

“There were times when I’d gone back as an insect…he said I’d come back more alive than I’d been…”

 

“So you’re planning to do that to supplement this life?” she sounded as flat as I felt.

 

I’d be entering into some contract with the Devil. I’d be addicted forever. What would happen if something came up that meant I couldn’t do it? I felt the lurch of loss as I saw my empty never-ending life spanning out before me.

 

“Yes…” quietly. It’s not as if I had an alternative.

 

****

 

It had been a life without judgement. A life without question or guilt. It had been a life without decision. As a dragonfly, I just was. Surely if I could have learned anything from this journey that would have been it? Not how to crave. Not how to lust and desire. Not how to kill without remorse…in that small insects brain I had learned something that I had found impossible as a human.

 

Self-acceptance.

 

“How was that?” Ralph was standing over me, concerned as ever.

 

My heart was still pounding at the absolute roller-coaster ride of it all. I had needed – I had taken. I had feared – I had fled. I had hungered – I had devoured. All with no thought, no anger, no malice, no love…

 

“Fantastic!” I breathed giddily.

 

“Tell me,” Ralph was helping me out of the casket, “all about it,”

 

My head was spinning…already that life, that wonderful exhilarating fucking thrill of a life was being relegated to a dreamlike memory.

 

“Compound eyes are a bit shit…” the first of many dream-destroying judgements.

 

“Are you ok?” Ralph looked worried now.

 

“I need to see Chris now.”

 

I arrived at her apartment half an hour later. I was still dazed from waking up from my wonderful slumber.

 

“Barney…what is it?” Chris supported me as I staggered through her door.

 

“Let’s go to bed…” I managed to whisper.

 

Naked now I pulled her to me. She held me so tight. So very tight. It was beautiful – so beautiful I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t.

 

“Do you want to…?” her hand found its way to my cock. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

 

“No…” I smiled, “I don’t know what I expected – I thought somehow I could wrap up my feelings as a dragonfly and bring them here…I don’t even know what those feelings were…”

 

“It’s ok Barney, it’s ok – we’ll work this out…”

 

I closed my eyes tightly, “That’s just it – we won’t though – we’ll never get it back will we?”

 

“What, the life we had as John and Jen?” she let out a long sigh,  “No Barney – what we have is this – surely we can make this work – I love you…”

 

“I love you too – but now I don’t even know what that is…is it love, or is it the memory of love?”

 

She rolled away and lay on her back, “I don’t know – I just don’t know,”

 

After a time she embraced me again, “I know I want to be with you – I know I feel more content and comfortable in myself when you’re here – I know this feels right…”

 

“Even though I had no real notion of what I was under the water – as a dragonfly larvae I could eat other living creatures with no qualms whatsoever – I had no notion of what they were…only now I can look back with my human knowledge and know that I wreaked carnage in that world…”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“Without knowing what I was doing, I eventually came out of the water – I inflated my wings – I flew as freely in the air as I’d stalked under water…”

 

“Barney…?”

 

“I’m sure I caught other creatures in flight – feeding my hunger. I mated – I mated just once,” I closed my eyes and smelled the air, “I chased the pheromones to find a mate – I didn’t worry about her prospects, her breeding, whether or not she had a good sense of humour…”

 

“Barney, what are you telling me?”

 

“What I’m saying is – it was just a ride – like being John was just a ride. All we have is this life. That’s it. That’s all…”

 

Chris held me for hours. We fell asleep entwined. I awoke to find her face inches from mine. I ran the backs of my fingers over her soft cheek. Could this ever be enough?

 

“Hi,” she smiled sleepily as I stroked her face.

“Hi,” I whispered.

 

“Are you ok?”

 

“No…no, I don’t know what to do…” too afraid to live…terrified to die.

 

“Have you seen much of Gordon after Colin died?”

 

“No…why?”

 

“I don’t know…he was close to both of you. Don’t you want to talk about him?”

 

I could feel myself struggling, “I know…I know he was my friend here – but I only knew him as George…you know, really knew him as George…that crazy, warm, compassionate man…there was only a ghost of that in Colin…That’s why he killed himself,”

 

“Why don’t you go and see Gordon?”

 

To see Gordon would to be reminded of something I found almost unbearable. It wasn’t just that though – I knew he’d collude with me in my ‘Colin left us clues’ fantasy. Before we knew it we’d be…

 

“You’re right…why not?” even if it was a waste of time talking to Gordon about all my stuff and nonsense – time was something I had plenty of.

 

****

 

“How have things been?” I’d decided not to drink the strange purple elixir from the Golden Jug– that was a bit of Barney I was more than happy to leave in the past – and had opted for something altogether more cider-like.

 

“With Brendan? With Frank? It’s been a fucking hoot…” Gordon smiled as he chinked his glass with mine.

 

“Ok, I’m not going to beat about the bush – are you still running Mini-Pilots?”

 

“Well, er… yeah, I guess – by that I mean we’ve still got the caskets – after all that happened folk have been a little reluctant…”

 

“Yeah, I can imagine…Listen, I’ve got this nagging thought…”

 

“Oh God…that’s all I need – one of your bloody nagging thoughts…”

 

I chose to ignore that caustic comment, “I think Colin left us some clues that we ignored…”

 

“Oh God…” Gordon grabbed his nearly full pint of mildly alcoholic beverage and downed it in one.

 

“No, hear me out…” I went on to tell him about the knife and the contented look on his face.

 

“I need another,” he said indicating his empty glass, “d’you want one?”

 

“Nah, I’m fine…” I watched as Gordon exchanged pleasantries with the barmaid-operative person, take his newly poured drink and then wander back to me.

 

“The wire…” he said as he sat down.

 

“What wire? What about it?”

 

“You remember we found the casket closed and we couldn’t open it?”

 

“Yeah…the wire had been burnt through by something…”

 

“Yes…a slow acting acid…I guess I’d decided it had been either accidentally spilled there or had been used deliberately by the powers that be to… I dunno…bugger things up…”

 

“How do you know it was slow acting?”

 

“Curiosity – I took a sample from the wire – well, when I say I took a sample from the wire, I had to break it down and work out what…”

 

“How slow is slow?”

 

“Well it took a little over eighteen minutes for it to burn through a piece of the same wire…”

 

“Which would have given Colin plenty of time…?”

 

“He’s Piloted somewhere, hasn’t he?”

 

“I think he has…why cut the wire though?”

 

“If that’s what he’s done then he would have known our caskets were a bit more primitive than, you know…”

 

“What does that mean, Gordon?”

 

“Well, our systems were reliant on having power at all times – if the power was cut there would be no way of locating where and when the Pilot was…”

 

“Are you telling me that when I was off wandering about in Colin’s head…if there’d been a power cut…if someone had tripped over the lead…?”

 

“But it didn’t happen, did it? We’re not talking about you though, are we? If Colin did this, he’s Piloted off somewhere and he’s completely untraceable…fucking genius!”

 

He sat back and stroked his hair, “Fucking genius…”

 

****

 

“Do you love me?” I was sitting next to a somewhat perplexed Chris on her sofa, holding her hands and sounding terribly intense.

 

“I…er…you know I do…I do,” it wasn’t quite the ringing endorsement I had been hoping for.

 

“What is it that you love…?”

 

“I don’t know…your mindless enthusiasm? Your childlike naivety? Subutteo finger?” she smiled, “That lurch I used to feel when I saw you as John – that same one I got when I saw you for the first time here…”

 

“No…no…what am I? What is that thing that you love? Is it the solid form that is me…that’s John…that’s Barney or is it…? I dunno, what is it?”

 

“Are you trying to get me to say it’s that little bunch of subatomic particles that float around in your head that claim to be your conscious mind?”

 

“Yes…yes, that would do it for me…”

 

“So…?”

 

“What would you say if I said Colin was still alive?”

 

“I’d say it was time for your special tablets and your afternoon nap…”

 

“Well…he isn’t…but he was…he lived again…he didn’t…”

 

“You make a very compelling argument…”

 

“Colin killed himself here in our space and our time…”

 

“Yes he did…”

 

“But before that he managed to bugger off to Pilot some sentient being before he died…”

 

“How? How do you know that?”

 

“We don’t know…but everything points to it…he covered his tracks…”

 

“How…?”

 

“Well, he killed himself for a start…and he burned through the power cable to his casket…”

 

“Which means…?”

 

“If you cut off the power supply to our caskets there is no way of tracing where that Pilot went. Colin has left…and he’s untraceable…isn’t that fantastic?”

 

“Is it? It means when he dies…when he died…he’d really be dead, gone forever…”

 

“But he would have lived! He’d have lived a real life…He would have laughed and cried…What’s more he wouldn’t have been driven by Novikov’s principle…”

 

She paused for thought for a second, “You’re right – if he had no link to here and now – then he could have done anything whether or not he had an effect on the future…because this future doesn’t have to be his future…with all the ties cut, he can live any life…”

 

“That’s it…Gordon reckons that this could still be one of his futures…he started talking about the Many-Worlds interpretation…”

 

“Of course…when he was tied to this future and this future only – Novikov’s principle would have applied…but now…with every change of course he takes Colin’ll create a new future…but we’re not talking about Colin, are we?”

 

“No…no we’re not…”

 

“Shit Barney, this is a huge ask…that’s if you’re saying what I think you’re saying?”

 

“Yes…I think I am…I know I have no right to ask…but Chris…come with me…”

 

“Fuck… I know the future here’s…at best grey…but it’s certain…it’s safe…and it’s indefinite…possibly infinite…who knows?”

 

“I know I have no right to ask you…”

 

“Fucking right! You’ve got no right – just because you’ve lost all sense of what this is…what this world, this life is…”

 

“I think I’ve been here long enough to work it out…it’s a cul-de-sac…an infinite cul-de-sac…”

 

She stood up. She motioned to say something, and then didn’t. She walked to the window. She gazed out on the world for an age until I joined her.

 

“We don’t even know if Colin went back in time…he could have gone into the future…”

 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I conceded, “But if I were him…I think I’d have gone back to a point before we locked ourselves into this…”

 

“When would that be? Pre Iron Age? Pre Mendel? Pre Industrial Revolution? What…when?”

“I don’t know…”

 

“So you’re asking me to kill myself…and you have no notion as to where or when we’re going?”

 

“I should go…”

 

“No…don’t leave it like this…not like this…”

 

I stroked her face. She was so lovely, “I should talk this through with Ralph…don’t worry, I won’t do anything rash…”

 

“I’ll talk it through with the big hairy lummox,” she smiled indicating the room where her poor flatmate had to vanish every time I appeared, “He’s known me forever…he’ll help…”

 

I held her face and she held mine. I kissed her eyes then her mouth. We held each other so close.

 

****

 

“No, no, no…fucking no…” Ralph appeared to be taking this rather well I thought.

 

“All I want…”

 

“All you want…all you want is for me…me, your oldest friend to assist you in some convoluted suicide?”

 

“Yes…that’s what I’m asking…”

 

“I fucking knew it!” he spat, “I fucking knew if you hung about with these fucking arseholes…”

 

“It’s not those arseholes - it’s me – whatever me is…”

 

“Will you stop with the self-pitying, self-justifying shit? You know who you are – sure you can’t remember most of your life as Barney – but you know who you are – with all the time we’ve got this’ll just be a glitch – you’ll learn to be Barney again…”

 

“…And then we’ll just go round in this fucking great circle again?”

 

“I don’t know what to do…I want to help you…but do you know what that means?”

 

“It means helping your oldest friend to do what he needs to do…”

 

“It means losing you. Look around Barney, people don’t die here – Colin’s death will be news for centuries…we don’t do death…we don’t do grief…what will I do?”

 

I felt that horrible lurch. I loved him. I had no idea what to do. Following Colin’s example felt so right. I remembered the sense of relief, the sense of joy I felt for Colin when I realised what he’d done. I felt horribly sad for that light that had been taken out of my life. There was so much I wanted to ask him – he’d done what he’d needed to do. He must have been taking my feelings into account when he met up with me in the park. 

 

What if this was a mistake? There would be no going back. That was both the beauty and the terror of it. I would have no memory of any of this – of my life as Barney, of my life as John.

 

“What happens if you go back to some time or other with Chris, and you never find each other? This love…this whatever it is you have with her…do you honestly think that fate will lend a hand…?”

 

“You’re right – what a wonderful irony – the very fate that I’m hoping to avoid is the same fate that I’m relying on to bring us together…”

 

“That’s just fucking crazy…”

 

“But it’s not just that, is it Ralph? I want to live a proper life. The one I had was stolen…cut off before I could properly…”

 

“…What? Get into it? You were a third through your life and you were still living with your mum. What happens if you enter your next life with the same conservative residuals that you’ve got in this one…?”

 

“Don’t you mean the conservative residual I had? I’m different…” I laughed, “I’m certainly a bit more reckless…”

 

“Why don’t you ask Gordon to this? He’s got the equipment, the knowledge…I dare say he’s every bit as crazy as you…”

 

“You know why…”

 

“No…no I don’t…tell me…”

 

“I love you, you big tit,”

 

“But not enough to stay…?”

 

“No,”

 

“What about Chris – has she agreed to this?”

 

“No, she’s off having a chat with the big hairy behemoth…”

 

Ralph held up his hands, “Ok, ok…if I were to help you with this…what would you need me to do?”

 

“I guess I’d need you to be there to pull the plug…”

 

“…And to kill you…that shouldn’t be too much of a problem, you fucking arse…” he smiled.

 

“Is there a tablet…you know…something to ease the way?”

 

“Officially no – but – you know I can get my hands on anything…”

 

“It would have to be in Mini-Pilots – with proper Pilots I’d be traceable even after you’d pulled the plug…”

 

“…That and the fact that the authorities might have my arse – with the population gradually dripping away they wouldn’t be overjoyed at me helping you to…Untraceable suits me…”

 

“So you’ll do it?”

 

“I never had any fucking choice, did I?”

 

****

 

I was lying on my back in a casket looking at the scabby ceiling of Mini-Pilots. Chris lay in the casket next to me. We’d said all our good-byes. We’d hugged, we’d kissed, we’d promised undying love – we hadn’t managed another fuck though.

 

She’d struggled with the certainty of it all. She, like me, though had decided on the really living side of the coin. Together we’d chosen the time and the place. Together we’d put in the co-ordinates…

 

“Better to have lived one day as a tiger than a thousand years as a sheep…” were the last words I heard her say.

 

Ralph, as was his way, had taken control of the situation. Ultimately, he trusted only one person, and that was Ralph. He was to be the administrator of lethal drugs and the puller of the plug.

 

Gordon stood and watched. He’d been crying since we’d arrived. He hadn’t said anything coherent – he just kept on hugging me. He even hugged Chris.

 

Chris’s big hairy man leant against the wall as far away from the caskets as he could – it was like he wanted to be there and not there all at the same time.

 

Ralph leant over me, “Here’s the pill. It’ll take about ten minutes to act,” his tears fell on me as he stroked my face, “I’ll pull the plug after you’ve gone…”

 

Thankfully I resisted the ridiculous urge to shout, “Chocks away!” choosing instead to lie back and relax. I looked up at Ralph for the cue to take the pill. He nodded and closed the two caskets together.

 

The world went black as I felt my subatomic form fall into the abyss.

 

****

 

The Spring sun shone warmly on the pebbly beach of the lake. The waves caused from the wake of a passing cruiser licked the shore. The young boy fled in the opposite direction for fear of getting his new sandals wet. His mother sat on a blanket on the grass just off the beach enjoying the impromptu picnic they’d cobbled together.

 

“Typical!” she laughed as he ran towards her without looking back.

 

The small girl though stood resolutely as the water lapped her feet. She was there to skim stones and that’s exactly what she was going to do.

 

“She’ll look after him…she always does…” her friend smiled as she looked proudly on at her tomboy daughter.

 

The boy threw himself into his mothers lap and cuddled into her. She stroked his tousled mess of hair.

 

Eventually the girl came back and, without a word, took the boys hand and led him to the small jetty that reached into the water. She sat him down on the edge and took off his sandals and socks.

 

From where they were sitting, the young mothers watched as she directed him to dip his toes in the cold water. They laughed at the inevitable scream.

 

The girl had busied herself collecting the best stones to skim in a small flowery bag while he’d been snivelling on his mum’s knee. She emptied the stones just behind them – their little bums just touching as their feet dangled.

 

Skilfully she took stone after stone, skimming them anything up to ten times with a flick of her wrist.

 

He opted out of that particular competition, choosing instead to lob his rocks into the air – enjoying the silence of the arc before its passage was punctuated with a satisfying ‘bloop’ as it vanished into the water.

 

The girl put her hand gently on his back as he giggled at the sheer joy of it all. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

She stands gazing out into the ocean. The precipitous cliff falls away just inches from her feet, the waves crashing angrily onto the rocks a hundred feet below. She feels no fear, simply the exhilaration of the leap that was yet to come. The cool sea air embraces her naked body. She inhales its welcome purity. She bathes in it. Without a care in the world, she dives into the abyss.

 

The clues were always there and yet we chose to ignore them. In the mid-nineteenth century Darwin stood in the teeth of the gale that was religious doctrine. His barely heard voice screamed ‘Evolution’, the word that would change humankinds’ perspective on the world forever.

 

As years passed his word was accepted, but all too soon it was distorted by the clerics, the medics, the economists, the educationalists, the social engineers, the politicians – damn, even the philosophers.

 

Evolution was the answer, but no-one, simply no-one could remember the question. So the question evolved out of complacency and arrogance.

 

The question became, “How did we get here?”

 

The cold and hopeless conclusion was that we had arrived. There was nowhere else to go. We were at the peak, the apex the absolute pinnacle of evolution. We were, after all, in Gods’ image. Everything else around us was there to serve. Everything else was less evolved.

 

Everything else, though, was part of the real question, “Where are we going?”

 

By the beginning of the twentieth century the eugenicists had the answer. The middle class intellectuals were the peak of humanity. The indolent, pond scum that were the working classes were there because of poor breeding. It was time to stop them from reproducing. The world could do without them.

 

Hitler caught on to this wonderful zeitgeist, but he took it further. It was time to destroy the impure and the different. It was time to ethnically cleanse humanity. The world fought bitter battles to defeat this most inhuman of monsters. Who was he to say that blond and blue-eyed was the purest form of us?

 

The victory for the world in 1945 was a victory for all – from the richest to the poorest, for the whites and for the blacks, for the Chinese, the Japanese, the Asians, the Aborigines, for the able bodied for the disabled, for the sane and the mad, for the religiously devout and for the zealots.

 

Everybody won.

 

And yet.

 

And yet the scientists were dissatisfied. If the scientists were dissatisfied it wouldn’t be long until the politicians were dissatisfied and then the masses and then…

 

Gregor Mendel started it. He found that if he bred different types of pea plants with other types of pea plants he’d end up with the pea plants he wanted. This was manipulated evolution. Or was it?

 

Slightly over a hundred years later, the human genome was unravelled. Now we could see all the impurities in our species. The genetic diseases that caused imperfections could now be identified pre-birth. These flawed humans could be destroyed before they were born. A silent genocide. It was controlled evolution that allowed the survival of the fittest by eliminating the weakest.

 

But it wasn’t evolution, controlled or otherwise. In 1859 Charles Darwin told the world about evolution in his oft quoted tome, “On the origin of Species.” By the end of the twentieth century, science had stopped human evolution in its tracks.

 

And yet the clues were always there. We just chose to ignore them. And we were punished. Punished by a future of homogeneity, a future of mediocrity.

 

Down and down she plummets parallel to the cliff, her mane of brown hair rippling behind her. She shrieks at the sheer joy of the moment as, with a flick of her wrists and an arch in her back, her wings unfurl as she darts away from the cliff to skim the waves. Her fingers trail in the water before she soars up and up fuelled with the momentum of her fall.

 

Driven purely by her love of life, she laughs as her flight stalls allowing her to turn in mid air to plunge into the welcoming ocean below. Her gills activate, replacing her lungs as second eyelids protect her vulnerable eyes from the salt. She is as at one with the sea as she is with the air as she is with the land. The subtle webbing on her fingers and toes give her a gymnastic manoeuvrability under the water.

 

She has evolved.

 

While our ancestors stifled our growth through the abject terror of change and of difference, hers set her free with three simple words, “Let it be.”

 

Where we manufactured longevity through the destruction of viruses and bacteria, through fear and mistrust of our world, she gradually developed the lifespan of the giant redwood by adopting some of its finer attributes over time.

 

Where we could keep ourselves well through medicine and surgery, she developed the immune system that could match her environment, and a physiology that could replace broken limbs and organs.

 

We only had to wait.

 

Where we now live in sanitised corridors, fearful of any infection breaching our manmade defences, she can swim and fly and run, living wherever she chooses with a freedom of which we could only dream. 

 

Where our antecedents had chosen to live vicariously through computer games and simulations, through Pilots, through their chosen sports stars and through anyone who actually lived rather than tasting life for themselves, hers had simply lived.

 

“We’re being set up,” Frank concluded as the three of us clattered into his apartment.

 

I was still finding it difficult to put any words or thoughts together after seeing Colin’s carved up form. When he and I had co-hosted in George, death hadn’t mattered – if George had been killed it would have been ok, we could just go back and get a new one. He was properly dead though…

 

“What, the fact that he was found in one of our time-machines, with our DNA all over the place…?” Gordon’s eyes fell on me.

 

“I guess it’s my DNA on the casket,” I whispered.

 

“Who else knew about mini-pilots?” Frank barked.

 

“I think we’ve established that it’s my fault,” I held up my hands in resignation.

 

“No-one from me,” Gordon spoke flatly.

 

“Same,” Frank finished the little confessional.

 

“Ralph or Chris then?” Gordon started.

 

“I, I dunno – I’ve seen Chris’s ruthless side…”

 

“Maybe Ralph’s just more quietly efficient?” if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Frank was enjoying this.

 

“I don’t think so…” I stumbled.

 

“What do you know? You can’t even remember who you are!” Frank snapped at me.

 

“Whoa there,” Gordon jumped in, “the last thing we need to do here is fight amongst ourselves. What we need is a plan of action,”

 

“Do you honestly think I’d have lived with Ralph all these years in the knowledge that he was capable of this?” Ralph just didn’t look like a murderer.

 

“Who knows?” Frank growled, “For all we know…”

 

“For all we know Barney and Ralph lived together happily exchanging little bits of information in wonderful symbiosis…?” Gordon stood between us, facing up to Frank.

 

“So it’s Chris then?”

“I suppose…but killing someone in Pilots is different…” I began.

 

“How’s it different? She still killed a human being – a person who she’d…” Frank had nudged past Gordon again.

 

“Who she’d shagged? Who she loved?” my voice was raised now.

 

Gordon put his hand on my shoulder, “Doesn’t look good, does it mate?”

 

“No…no it doesn’t…you’re right…how long have we got?” I felt resigned.

 

“To do what? Cover her tracks? Dispose of the body? Hide the caskets? Relocate mini-pilots…”

 

“Look you greasy little shit,” I grabbed Frank by the shirt, “I’m trying to think of ways to get you two out of this…”

 

Once again Gordon dived in, “We’re in this up to the neck…there is no way out…”

 

I looked down at Frank – he looked scared – I pushed him away, “How would it be if I took all the blame – it’ll be my fingerprints they find on the casket…I could say it was just me…”

 

“That’s ridiculous – they know we’re involved…” Frank came back angrily again.

 

“What more do they want?” I spoke slowly, “They’ve got a body and a guy saying he did it…? If they wanted to scare us…if they wanted to fuck up the whole of mini-pilots…they’ve managed it…I’m handing myself in – I am, after all, the guy who’s nuts…”

 

I felt strangely calm as Gordon drove me back to my apartment. I decided I would go in, go to bed and then confess all to Ralph first thing. We’d left Frank back at his apartment since I’d punched him…and when the conversation deteriorates to that level…well…

 

“Is there anything…you know?” Gordon shook my hand in the car park.

 

“I don’t think so…will you guys be able to restart your little revolution again?”

 

“Yeah, we’ll just wait a couple of hundred years for the heat to die down…”

 

“What will they do with me?” bit late to ask really.

 

“Given your er, mental problems, they’ll probably keep you in the long stay part of the clinic…”

 

“Oh that’s not so bad…Dr Pope’ll keep me entertained.

 

“…pending…”

 

“Pending what?” I suddenly found it hard to breathe.

 

“Well that’s it, I guess. I don’t know – I don’t ever remember there being a murder. I don’t know what they’d do if…”

 

“Promise you’ll visit me…you know, while they’re deciding…”

 

Gordon pulled me to him, “Of course, of course…”

 

“And leave the greasy twat at home…” I grinned menacingly.

 

“I don’t think he’ll want to come…that’s a fine right hook you’ve got…” he jabbed the air.

 

“I feel sick about Colin…” I suddenly felt devastated thinking of him. What the fuck had they done to him? He wouldn’t have put up any fight…fucking bastards.

 

“Me too – it must be worse for you though – you were in his head for a while…”

 

“Yes…d’you know I don’t think I’ve ever felt closer to another person?” I hadn’t.

 

“Of course…what about the people who did it? What do we do about them?”

 

“Chris? Fuck, Gordon, I don’t know…I thought…I think I love…I don’t know…”

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

“Do I really have any choice? Those are my fingerprints…I’m tired, you know Gordon? I’m tired – I want out of this – to be honest I don’t care what happens to me…”

 

“Hey…come on…there are people who love you…” four out of ten for conviction, bless him.

 

“I know…I’m going up now – take care of yourself…and don’t forget to slap Frank everyday…he needs it…”

 

I walked into the semi-darkness of the flat. What the fuck was I doing? Did I really not care? I thought about Chris…fuck, if she had had anything to do with this…How could I have any feelings for her, after all she’d done…No, nothing mattered now. I lay fully clothed on my bed and waited for the first light of dawn.

 

****

 

“You did what?” it was hard to work out if Ralph was angry or just incredulous.

 

“I killed Colin…” I wasn’t sure how to behave in circumstances such as these, so I remained calm and factual. The cold-blooded killer. I guess if I’d been ranting and raving I could be the psychotic killer…?

 

“Why? What was your motive…?” Ralph was crying.

 

“I’m not sure…we started arguing about something and nothing…he said something about shagging my mum and I just flipped…”

 

“Where’d you get the knife?”

 

“I…er it was just lying on the shelf nearby – it was impulsive, you know…it was there…?”

 

“So where did you stab him…?”

 

“In the wrists and on the neck…”

 

“The wrists and neck?”

 

“He was kind of protecting himself with his hands…and I stabbed his wrists…”

 

Ralph closed his eyes, “Ok,” he opened them again, “I’m going to get you admitted to the clinic…I’m going to be so close to this fucking case…”

 

“Ok…”

 

“We’d just been talking about how it all worked. How it all came together. Why would you do this? In all the years I’ve known you…”

 

“Don’t…” I held up my hands, “Please don’t…”

 

****

 

“You tell me this man was your friend?” Dr Pope spoke quietly, her voice calm and steady.

 

“Yes…” she fucking knows.

 

“What would drive you to do such a thing…?”

 

“I’m not sure, maybe I still had residuals from my time as an insect – they kill without feeling – without judgement…” all the time I kept my tone flat.

 

“Tell me about your anger…”

 

“What do you want to know?”

 

“What had you been talking about?”

 

“My mother – he told me how he’d had sex with my mother…”

 

“But you said he was in a relationship with her…?” why is she pissing around, she knows?

 

“Yes…I couldn’t stand the thought of it. I loved her…it was me she loved…” yep, that was sounding proper crazy now.

 

Her composure wavered for just a second, “Er…tell me about…mini-pilots, is that what you called it?”

 

“I stole the technology…”

 

“How? It must have been difficult logistically moving those caskets…?”

 

“It was…Colin had a van…?” fuck.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes…” I couldn’t actually recall ever seeing a van in this world.

 

“Thank you, that will be all,” she stood up and walked out.

 

I was back in my clinic room – or one that looked damned like it. I wondered how long it would be before I started to crack.

 

****

 

Days blended into more days. I hated the synthetic light. I had no idea how long I’d been in there. At least Gordon and Frank would be able to start up again – at least there was a future where someone was kicking against…

 

“Hi Barney…” Ralph smiled as he walked in – he shook my hand warmly with both of his.

 

He sat down next to me on the sofa, “How have you been?” he grinned in an over friendly manner.

 

“I…er fine…the food’s a bit…”

 

“Do you know what this is?” he grinned, slightly maniacally, as he pulled an object from his bag that looked not unlike the product of a cross between a remote control and a potato peeler.

 

“I, er…I can’t say I do…”

 

“I call it my sonic fucker…”

 

Before I could only imagine what he was going to do with me he started to walk around the room, “Watch…” he smiled, eyebrows arched.

 

There was a high-pitched, almost imperceptible whine as he held his gizmo up to the corner of the room next to bathroom. There was a small explosion as the bits of a previously invisible thing cascaded to the floor.

 

“Bugs! Don’t you just hate them?” he laughed as he wandered around the room systematically destroying all the listening devices.

 

“But won’t they…?” I tried to protest in amongst the chaos.

 

“You don’t need to worry about them…” with a flourish he turned the sonic fucker on the back wall.

 

The wall exploded dramatically. It was one-way glass – they’d been observing my every movement – the three men in white coats who were suddenly revealed scurried for the door at the back of their small room.

 

“Fucking voyeurs…” Ralph shouted after them in a most un-Ralphlike way.

 

Slowly he turned and sat down next to me again, “Ok Barney, there are no listening or video devices – there is me and there is you – talk,”

 

“I…er…”I was terrified, “What do you want me to talk about…?”

 

“Tell me again how you killed Colin,” hand on chin, looking terribly interested.

 

“I stabbed him…”

 

“On the wrists and the neck…”

 

“…more slashes really…”

 

“…slashes…hmmm?” he looked thoughtful.

 

“Slashes, yeah…”

 

“…and where did you stab him?”

 

“In, the…er…middle room?”

 

“And what did you do with the knife afterwards?”

 

“I must have thrown it away when I ran…”

 

“Ok Barney,” Ralph smiled warmly at me again, “Let me help you out here…First of all – you didn’t stab him in the middle room…did you?”

“I…Ralph…”

 

“All…and I mean all of the blood that was spilled from Colin was found either on him or in the bottom of the casket. What do you think that means?”

 

“He was stabbed in the casket…?”

 

“But he wasn’t stabbed, was he?”

 

“Well, more slashed…”

 

“…yes, slashed, but not by you…”

 

“What?”

 

“Colin killed himself…if you’d looked closer when you found him in the box you’d have seen the bloody, pun intended, murder weapon in his right hand…”

 

“Ralph, I really must protest,” Dr Pope pushed her way into the room with two men in black uniform in hot pursuit.

 

Ralph ignored her and instead looked at the men chasing her, “Will you get this fucking woman out of here?”

 

They duly dragged her off amid rants that she would complain to the government.

 

Ralph smiled at me, “Barney, it’s me, Ralph…your friend…you didn’t kill Colin – say it,”

 

“I didn’t kill Colin…”

 

“Then why did you say you did?”

 

“I thought Chris had killed him – I’d only told two people about mini-pilots and I thought…well I thought it couldn’t be you…”

 

“What was his mood like when you saw him?”

 

“He was flat…down…sad…”

 

“Why, why do you think that was?” quietly, soothing.

 

“He loved my mum…he’d lived a life with her…he…”

 

“…couldn’t bear a life without her?”

 

“I wonder…”

 

“Barney, Colin killed himself – I think it was kind of symbolic for him that he did it in the casket – you know, that’s what brought him to this point – something like that…”

 

“Really?”

 

“We’re certain he killed himself – ultimately we can only guess at the whys of it all…”

 

“Ralph?”

“Barney?”

 

“Why all the explosions and destruction? What have you done with Dr Pope?”

 

“Our problem was that we were pulled in by Novokov’s principle…”

 

“Who’s we?”

 

“We – the government – thought that Pilots was the answer to everything…”

 

“The answer to what?”

 

“The boredom…the sameness…the homogeneity…you were right all along…this is all too safe…”

 

“What about Pilots then?”

 

“We’ve closed it down…”

 

“Why? I thought so many people got so much out of it…?”

 

“Too much…”

 

“Too much?”

 

“Barney, there’s hundreds of people like you. The thing is, a lot of them have taken their own lives. They’ve seen what life can be like and they can’t reconcile that to here and now,”

 

“And they forget…”

 

“Yes, they forget – they can’t remember their friends – their lives – their world – they just want to go back and keep going back…”

 

“And Dr Pope?”

 

“She was using pseudo science to keep it going – by pathologising the poor sods who’d used Pilots she was actually keeping Pilots in the clear…”

 

“She was saying we were sick – when it was Pilots all along?”

 

“Yeah,”

 

“Nasty cow…I never liked her…”

 

“Have you seen Colin?” Gordon’s face on the screen next to my bed looked terribly concerned.

 

“What? Gordon…do you know what time it is?” this was a trick question – I had no idea what the time was. I’d gone for the early night option following my particularly heavy conversation with Ralph.

 

“It’s about two…he was supposed to meet us for a drink last night…”

 

“Why wasn’t I invited?” I was so easily wounded.

 

“Er…I…Oh I don’t know…” he sounded a little vexed.

 

“Gordon…” I’d put on my special middle of the fucking night schoolmasters voice.

 

“We were going to talk about you with Frank…as it was…”

 

“You spent a whole evening on your own with Frank?”

 

“It wasn’t that bad…”

 

“Had he washed?”

 

“Barney! Colin’s missing – he never misses a night out at the Golden Jug – never…”

 

“Is he at home?”

 

“No…” that could have been met with so many levels of sarcasm – I was grateful for the straightforward reply.

 

“Where could he…”

 

“You were the last person to see him…” accusatory?

 

“Hey, now, come on…we met in the play park round the side of my apartment…Play park? Grown up swings and slides – who are they trying to kid?”

 

“He didn’t say where he was going?”

 

“No, I just assumed he…”

 

“What did you talk about?”

 

“I er…let’s think…he told me that you guys had kind of fallen out…”

 

“Fallen out?”

 

“Something like that – those weren’t his exact words – he told me that he’d decided never to do the co-hosting thing again…”

 

“That’s right – I don’t think you could call it an argument though…”

 

“Gordon – I’m not suggesting you’ve got anything to do with this…”

 

“With what?”

 

“His disappearance…”

 

“You’re saying he’s been disappeared?”

 

“Eh, no…I’m saying we don’t know where he is…you said he was missing,” I had no idea what I was nearly being accused of.

 

“What else?”

 

“What else, what?”

 

“What else did you talk about?” angry and a little desperate.

 

I told Gordon about Colin’s happy tales of his life with my mum, and how they’d lived a loving and fruitful life together…

 

“So he was happy when he left you?”

 

“Well no, no he wasn’t – he seemed pretty flat…”

 

“Fuck! I’ll meet you at the park…” with that his image vanished from my screen.

 

I had no idea what to do. Colin was a grown man… I wondered if I should wake Ralph – he’d have a sensible explanation. No, I couldn’t do that…Gordon was terrified of him – he’d never forgive me.

 

“Why here?” Gordon was sitting on the swing next to me, just as Colin had done only hours before.

 

“Two reasons – first of all, we’re only being monitored with video surveillance out here…”

 

“…and, since this is the last place I saw him…?”

 

“Exactly. Did anyone know you were meeting him here?”

 

“I er…” had I mentioned it to Ralph? Had I been monitored and followed? “I didn’t tell Ralph but they…” whoever the fuck they were, “…might have picked up that we were meeting in the park…”

 

“But what would they want with Colin?” Gordon looked blankly at the side of my building complex.

 

I felt a shiver go down my back. Weird, I wasn’t cold – more freaked out than anything. I was suddenly aware though that the temperature here and now in the middle of the night was about the same as it was during the day.

 

“Who would want him? Really, who would want to take this mild-mannered, quiet guy…?”

 

“It’s a shot across our bows!” Gordon exclaimed, “They’re scared of us…they’re warning us…”

 

“What…you really think that the powers that be would be bothered with a tiny band of minor subversives…”

 

“We’re not minor subversives…don’t you see? There are no other subversives – anyone rocking the boat would be seen as a major headache…”

 

“But why not take me? I seem to be the biggest pain in their collective arse…”

 

“You’ve got Ralph to speak up for you…it could have been me, or Frank…”

 

“Does Ralph know about mini-pilots?”

 

“I, shit, yes…yes he does…but I don’t think…surely you don’t think…”

 

“Come on Barney, he works for the fucking government…No matter what his loyalties are to you, sooner or later…”

 

He was right. Surely all those years ago when Ralph started to live with me there were ulterior motives bouncing all over the place. I needed him and he needed to keep an eye on me. We had become close friends – I still needed him – and, because he worked for the government, he had to keep throwing them some scraps. Perhaps Colin was one of these scraps?

 

“But we don’t even know if Colin’s missing yet…not for sure…”

 

“We have to assume they’ve got him…”

 

I thought about myself in a similar position. I’m sure I’d tell them everything if they employed dirty tactics like harsh questioning and threatening to ban me from the pub.

 

“What do you think he’ll tell them?”

 

“We have to assume he’ll spill everything. We need to get to mini-pilots now. I’ll call Frank on the way – we need to relocate…”

 

It felt hopeless as I looked at the passing city as the car trundled it’s way safely to our not-terribly-secret hideaway. I imagined the plot of ‘Bullitt’ with everyone adhering to the fucking Highway Code.

 

We met Frank outside. Sure enough the doors of our little travel-agents had been disturbed – they were still slightly ajar with a tiny sliver of light spilling into the street.

 

We stared helplessly at each other for a moment. It was Frank who burst into action. He opened the doors into what could laughingly be called the reception area. There was no sign of life as we walked towards the doors to the middle room of the complex. Gordon held up his hand – indicating we should stop and listen.

 

I could feel my heart pounding as I held my breath. Nothing, either there was nobody in there or they were very good at keeping quiet…I wasn’t made for this kind of thing.

 

Gordon opened the doors revealing nothing. There were the three plastic bucket seats; one had been toppled over. The door to the casket room was open. Whoever they were, they’d got through to the inner sanctum. To be fair it wasn’t exactly your Indiana Jones level of difficulty, all they’d had to do is walk through a couple of doors.

 

Both caskets were still there. One open and one closed.

 

“Who…?” I put my hand to my mouth. Goldilocks sprang to mind.

 

“Look,” Frank whispered pointing at the power lead connected to the closed casket. The wire had been corroded right through by some chemical that had been spilled on it.

 

“Should we…I mean can we open this up?” I tentatively pulled on the handle.

 

“I, er, it should be ok – we just need to get the power back to it…” Gordon pulled out a little pocket tool thing and set to work rejoining the two ends of the cable.

 

“Is there someone in there?” I turned to Frank who was standing open-mouthed watching his friend at work.

 

We both squinted at the translucent cover – it was hard to tell. Suddenly the light within flickered on.

 

“Open it,” Gordon hissed.

 

“Who me?” I was suddenly aware I was the guy with his fingers on the handle.

 

“Yes…” they spoke in unison.

 

I pulled the handle – there was a hiss as the lid came up. Colin was inside. He was clearly dead. His eyes were very slightly open and his lips were blue. His face was tilted slightly to the right. Both his wrists had been cut – as had his throat. All three cuts were deep – whoever had done this wasn’t taking any chances. A large amount of blood had pooled at the bottom of what was now his coffin.

 

“So, have there been any change since the last time?”

 

Even following my very recent sexual encounter, Dr Pope failed to fire any testostoronic synapses in my atrophied mind.

 

“No, not really – that said, some of my friends think that I’m behaving in a distinctly Barneyesque way…”

 

“Which friends?” she was like a praying mantis poised to devour it’s victim.

 

“I’m, er not at liberty to say…” I suddenly felt in a position of power. I had something she wanted…

 

“No matter, I can get that information from the sound and video feeds around your apartment,”

 

“Oh,” that told her. I still wasn’t going to tell her.

 

“What have you been up to since I last saw you?”

 

“What kind of therapy is this?”

 

“Does that matter?”

 

“Well, if it’s psychotherapy shouldn’t we be sitting in silence until my poor mind can take no more and I feel obliged to start spouting out any kind of…”

 

“It’s more about information gathering,”

 

“For you? For me? What?”

 

“Ultimately it’s for you…”

 

Why could I hear my mum saying, “This hurts me more than it hurts you,” whilst smacking my bare arse?

 

“For me?”

 

“Yes, of course, we want to help you reintegrate into society…”

 

“Two questions there,” I interrupted, “Who’s we?”

 

She opened her arms wide in some expansive gesture of family, of community of…God knows what, “We are the people of the clinic and of the Government – it suits us if you are a fully functioning member of society…”

 

“And secondly, what exactly is this society? Who does it serve? What does it do?”

 

She raised her eyebrows, “Two questions?”

 

“The others were sub-questions…”

 

“Society is this safe and caring world you have all around you. A world where all your needs are catered for – everyone has sufficient food, water, shelter – education is readily accessible to all as is healthcare – we have…” she oozed.

“Friends? Family? Relationships? Sexual-fucking-intercourse?”

 

Her eyes flashed momentarily – I knew I’d hit a nerve, “Pilots was a recognition that perhaps some of our more primal needs were not being met…”

 

“…so we’d go off and shag, fight, pillage, whatever elsewhere? Isn’t this taking the concept of ‘Not in my back garden’ to the extreme?”

 

“All these things have already happened. Individuals in Pilots fully feel and believe they have choice and self-determination – Novokov in his self-consistency principle…”

 

“I know, I know…he believes that we can’t do things in the past that would be inconsistent with the future…er, that’s already happened…or something…” I really thought I’d grasped this.

 

“Yes, yes, something like that. Where did you find all this out?”

 

“I can read,”

 

“Did Ralph tell you?”

 

“No,”

 

“Anyone else?”

 

“No…is this therapy?”

 

“No…as I said, this is mutually beneficial fact finding…”

 

“Mutually beneficial for who?”

 

“We can have you detained again…” not a terribly guarded threat.

 

“What because I’m a danger to myself? To others? Or is it just that I’m pissing you off? Why do you talk about ‘we’ detaining me? It’s you, isn’t it? I piss you off and you detain me – it really is that simple, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?”

 

She sat back in her seat, “It’s tremendous to see you release some of your inner anger. From what I understand, Barney was terribly angry at society…this shows that you must be some way to reconnecting with the real you…”

 

“This is bollocks. On one hand you want me to blend into the big homogenised lump that humanity has become…on the other, you want me to show my anger and frustration…why would that be?”

 

“I want you to remember who you are – to be who you really are…”

 

“What happens when people get angry?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“When people get angry they’re more likely to make mistakes. You thought that by firing me up you’d get me to spout out something I hadn’t planned to…”

 

“I’m sorry you feel like that…”

 

Brilliant, turn it back on the punter. Never take responsibility, “Me too,”

 

“I think we can call it a day there,” she got up to leave.

 

“Wasn’t that a little…short?”

 

“No, no,” she smiled brightly, “Let’s not get caught up in arbitrarily predefined things such as how long a session should be…”

 

“No, let’s not…”

 

****

 

“She makes my fucking skin crawl!” I barked at the ever-patient Ralph as, once again, I ranted about the creepy Dr Pope.

 

“I know she does…didn’t you have something terribly exciting to tell me?”

 

“I thought that Chris was a man – and she isn’t – she’s a woman…”

 

“I knew that,” calm as ever, watching the streets go by out of the car window.

 

“She looks different…but she’s the same…I just know she’s the same person…”

 

“Yes, yes…” Ralph smiled.

 

Once again I found myself using Ralph as my confidante, my best friend, my sounding board as I spewed all there was to know about what had happened in Chris’s apartment.

 

“Well that all sounds jolly lovely!” he smiled at me, with only a hint of irony, when I finished my story back in our flat. 

 

“But terribly fatalistic, don’t you think?”

 

Ralph smiled and looked into the middle distance.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Novokov isn’t the only kid in town – do you know that?”

 

“Well…er…I dunno, tell me,”

 

“With Novokov – everything’s so certain isn’t it?”

 

“I guess,”

 

“So tidy…”

 

“You don’t believe it do you?”

 

“Not one bit of it. It suits Pilots because to believe otherwise would lead to absolute chaos – as every person went back in time a new future would be created – and God only knows where they’d be when they got back…”

 

“So…”

 

“So, when you go back in time to find yourself located in some poor individual’s mind – you’ve been reduced to, I dunno, a handful of tachyons…”

 

“Tachyons? What like in Star Trek?”

 

“What?”

 

“No, nothing, you wouldn’t understand…”

 

“Tachyons are your sub atomic particles that can whiz about the place in all four dimensions…”

 

“Where time is the fourth…?”

 

“Lovely, yes. This is where it all gets potentially confusing. Have you ever heard of Schrodinger’s cat?”

 

“Yes – didn’t he…?” I could feel myself immediately trailing off.

 

“Do you know?”

 

“Pppppfff!”

 

“I’ll take that as a no – Schrodinger made up a situation where a cat was put in a box with, say, a vial of poison,”

 

“Ok – not a real cat…?”

 

“You’re right, a theoretical cat – in this box is a radioactive something or other which randomly emits radioactive particles…”

 

“Soooo…?”

 

“So, if this radioactive thingy fires off a radioactive particle – this will activate a mechanism which will cause a big hammer to hit the vial of poison which in turn kills the cat…”

“But that’s random – so it might not fire off a radioactive particle and the cat might be ok?”

 

“Perfect…that’s exactly it. The box is closed and the experimenter can’t see inside – so, given the random chance of the radioactive particle being emitted, from the experimenter’s perspective the cat is both alive and dead…”

 

“You what…?”

 

“It doesn’t actually become one or the other until the box is opened and it’s observed…”

 

“So you’re saying that, inside this box, the cat is both alive and dead…?” me lost? Absolutely.

 

“No, it is one or the other – this experiment was a kind of metaphor for quantum physics…”

 

“La, la, la, la…la, la, la…”

 

“As far as science is concerned, something doesn’t exist until it’s observed…” tetchy(on).

 

“No, I think I’ve got this – as far as the scientist knows, that cat is either in one state – alive – or another – dead – he doesn’t know until he looks at it?”

 

“That’s it. The same goes for subatomic particles…”

 

“Which grow up into atomic particles…which grow up into us…or anything…?”

 

“Yes – subatomic particles can exist in many forms…”

 

“Oh God…”

 

“No, stay with me here…do you want to live in a fatalistic universe?”

 

“No…”

 

“Well listen then…let’s go back…imagine that the cat is the particle…”

 

“Yes – particle, cat…got it…”

 

“It can be in two states – alive or dead…?”

 

“Cool, got that,” I’m fucking Albert Einstein, me…

 

“So if it’s alive…it can’t be dead…”

 

“Could it be ill?”

 

“Shut up. If it’s alive, it can’t be dead, ok?”

 

“Fine,”

 

“Back in your day, a guy called Everett said that these two events were decoherent…they cannot exist together…”

 

“Sure…I’m happy with that…”

 

“Here’s the leap – when you observe the cat in its living state you become entangled with that reality…”

 

“Entangled?”

 

“Yes – entangled – so you then exist with that reality…”

 

“Ok…”

 

“Everett argued the case for a many-world interpretation of reality…”

 

“What the fuck…?” I’m now Albert Grimsdale…

 

“Any and all states that can exist do exist – so, with the cat, by observing it dead…you enter that world where the cat is dead – equally, there is a world where you opened the box and found the cat to be alive – these two things can’t coexist so you’re split into different universes…”

 

“But that means there could be zillions of universes and dimensions whatever you want to call them…”

 

“Possibly and probably…”

 

“So anywhere where there is a chance for something to happen that may physically contradict another…you say the universe splits?”

 

“He called it his ‘Many-Worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics’,”

 

“No shit…”

 

“I like it more than Novokov…it’s less restrictive, don’t you think?”

 

“But with Pilots, we appear to come back here and nothing’s changed…”

 

“Yeah, it’s almost like we’re locked in somehow…”

 

“Because we’re linked to this future…er possibly?”

 

“Yes…yes…that would explain why we keep coming back…”

 

“So everyone’s right? Isn’t science wonderful?”

“Well, yes…Novokov is right as long as we’re linked to this future…”

 

“Fancy a coffee? My head hurts…”

 

We sat in silence while we stared absently into our drinks.

 

“Ok…here’s the final word…”

 

Ralph looked up and smiled, “The final word?”

 

“Yes,” definite.

 

“Ok, go on then…”

 

“When we go back to float about in other people’s heads we’re linked to now by something…?”

 

“Yes…it’s a kind of bio/ tachyon mix…”

 

“Don’t start!” I wagged my finger.

 

“Sorry…” comedically chastised.

 

“So as long as we’re linked to now, Novokov is right and the point up until now is down to fate…and then your multi-world theory takes over again…”

 

“Unless of course we’re being Piloted by our future selves…?” he always had to have the last word.

 

“So, even though we’re tied into this fatalistic…er…thing…there is still hope that chance and variation and deviation and change are out there somewhere?”

 

“Yes…yes, that about covers it…”

 

She was standing looking out of the window at the back of the room. She didn’t turn around as I came in.

 

The big guy squeezed my shoulder, “I’ll be in my room if…”

 

Chris raised her hand as she continued to look out on the world.

 

The window filled the back of the room – I could easily have stood next to her without touching.

 

“How’s it going?” I almost whispered as my shoulder just brushed hers.

 

The world outside continued in its contrived way – empty, barren, clean and hollow.

 

She appeared to stop breathing. A precursor to speech? After a few seconds she just let it go.

 

“Chris?” I looked at her. She was slight, a few inches shorter than me, her head was shaved…

 

I put my hand on her shoulder. Her right hand came up to meet mine, but still she continued to look out of the window.

 

I could see she wore no makeup – her dark eyes appeared large on her thin face.

 

She wore light, almost cream, trousers and a grey shirt.

 

Androgynous was obviously the dress code in government.

 

“Chris?” I tried again.

 

She turned to face me, she placed her hand flat on my chest, “Barney…” her voice cracked.

 

“Why don’t we sit down?” I whispered, turning to fully appreciate the large retro sofa that was remarkably similar to mine. Marvellous, even originality was homogenous.

 

“Why are you here?” she managed to say.

 

I ignored the question, “I thought that hairy guy was you…I was just getting my head around love conquering all…”

 

“Is that what this is?” she intercepted.

 

“Let’s see… heart pounding, a sheen of sweat forming all over my body, short rapid breaths, I’d bet anything that my pupils have dilated to their max, a feeling of ludicrous yet unfounded optimism…”

 

“That’s lust…”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I grinned, “The last time I felt this nauseous I had gastroenteritis…”

 

She reached out and squeezed my hands.

 

“Who’s the big hairy guy?”

 

“Alan? We’ve lived together for as long as I can remember,”

 

“Is he you’re…”

 

“No…we worked together for a bit…no…we’re well and truly mates…and anyway…”

 

“…people don’t do that kind of thing in this day and age…?”

 

She laughed, “No…no we don’t…”

 

“So what happened?”

 

She looked up at the ceiling.

 

“Are we being…?” I was all too aware of this surveillance for our own good society that we lived in.

 

“No…Alan’s put it on a loop of what we did yesterday…”

 

“Why would you do that?”

 

“I’m not sure…well, I guess…”

 

I held her face and kissed her gently on the mouth.

 

“Have my pupils dilated?”

 

She put her fingers to her lips, she looked deep in thought as she struggled to remember something that had lain dormant for centuries, “Yes, yes they have…” she smiled a beautiful and open smile.

 

“Yours have – you know – just in case you were wondering…”

 

Her eyes danced around my face, “This is intolerable!” suddenly sharp and angry, she got up and returned to her position staring out of the window.

 

“Intolerable?” I placed my hand on the nape of her neck, my fingers gently caressing the soft spikiness of her hair.

 

“There’s no place for this…don’t you see?”

 

“What? What don’t I see?”

“We’ve evolved…we’ve moved away from those primal urges…”

 

“What’s this then? What am I feeling? What are you feeling?”

 

“It’s just some remnant of our past physiology – something that was sparked when we went into Pilots,”

 

“Something that was sparked? Are you really telling me that when you were given this mission – whatever it was - you didn’t have some sense of ‘This is great – I can do what I want away from the prying eyes of…’?”

 

Once again she gazed out of the window, her fingers lightly touching the glass that separated her from the outside world. Absently her hand covered her mouth and then found its way around to the back of her head as she comforted herself with that gentle rasp of her fingers on the stubble there.

 

“If I’m honest…if I’m truly honest…”

 

“What…? If you’re truly honest…?” I could see the inner turmoil.

 

“I wanted the same as you…” her body appeared to relax once she’d allowed this terrible truth to squeeze its way out.

 

“And what’s that?” Gently coaxing and cajoling, it felt like I was holding something incredibly fragile in my hand…a butterfly that had been frozen in liquid nitrogen…compelling but brittle beyond belief.

 

“I wanted…” it was like she was no longer talking to me as she looked around her apartment for an answer, “I wanted life – I wanted to live…” she let out a tiny cry as both hands shot up to her face.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“I took things that weren’t mine to take. I persuaded myself that there was a scientific basis for everything I was doing…”

 

“Tell me…”

 

“I used Jen…I’d told myself that because of Novikov’s self-consistency principle I wouldn’t be able to do anything that hadn’t already happened…”

 

“I’m not sure I’m familiar with…”

 

“Novikov was the first person to argue that, with any kind of time travel, the probability of an event occurring that isn’t consistent with the future is zero…”

 

“So…so…what does that mean?”

 

“I guess what it means is we’ve convinced ourselves that we can go back in time, borrow other people’s lives, and generally do what the fuck we want with them because whatever we do has already happened – physics wouldn’t allow us to change the future…”

 

“So you could use Jen’s body as some kind of sexual bouncy castle safe in the knowledge that this had all already happened…?”

 

“Well yeah…that’s pretty much it…”

 

“Isn’t that all horribly fatalistic? Or even at best fucking convenient…?”

 

“Yes, yes it is…that’s really the premise behind Pilots,”

 

“What the fuck? So, you’re saying that people go back in time – they live a life that belongs to someone else in the belief that they are sentient independent and self determined critters when all the time that life has already happened and there’s no way of altering that…?”

 

I stormed around the apartment in some vague attempt to find the absolute meaning of life on a shelf, a sofa, in the kitchen…

 

“No…no, no, no that can’t be right. Look at us! We’re humans the pinnacle of evolution – we’ve got more potential neural connections in out brains than there are grains of sand on the beach…and here you are saying that that all means fuck all – that we are all being pulled along by some inevitable fucking master plan that’s been laid out for us…?”

 

“Yes…yes, that’s it,”

 

“So when you came back to collect me…you did it safe in the knowledge that it had already happened?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So you hedonistically launched into Jen’s life, getting shagged up the arse and God knows what else, happy that science wouldn’t allow it to happen if…”

 

“Can I just say that anal sex is fucking horrible?”

 

“I didn’t like to say...” I allowed myself a reflective grin in amongst my diatribe, “…do you see what I’m saying?”

 

“Yes…it sounds horrible but it’s true…yes,”

 

“What about now?”

 

“What do you mean ‘What about now?’?”

 

“I mean, can I just do what the fuck I want now safe in the knowledge that what will be will be? Good old science will look after me, my conscience, my criminal record because it’s preordained…?”

“That’s different…”

 

“How? How is now different from back in the day, back in nineteen fucking canteen where we feel we can romp about the place…”

 

“Because we are their future…”

 

“But surely in the great continuum – we’re our present, somebody’s future and somebody’s past…How do we know we’re not being Piloted by some future us…?”

 

“I guess we don’t really know…”

 

“Why doesn’t Pilots go into the future? Surely it would be just as easy to go forward as it is backwards? I mean, we go forward when we come back…don’t we?”

 

“As I recall – we didn’t want to look to the future partly because we didn’t know what was there. If we go too far into the future, there may be no humans to put ourselves in… I don’t think that was the main reason though. There were concerns about the deterministic nature of it all – that if we knew our future we’d become complacent and docile…just waiting for the inevitable…”

 

“Not much different from now then?”

 

“No…not much…hold me…”

 

I wrapped my arms around her small form, pulling her into my well-nourished body.

 

“So you’re saying we can’t do this whatever this may be? Why?”

 

“I’m not sure what I’m saying…” she looked confused, “I think I’m saying is that this is different from what we started with John and Jen…”

 

“You talk about them as if they were different people from us…?”

 

“Weren’t they?”

 

It was my turn to disengage, “Fuck, I dunno? If it was all preordained then what the fuck do I know? I can’t say – I can’t remember my now me, all I have is John – from what I’ve heard from other folk there are a lot of similarities between John and me…if we can’t change the future, why would that be?”

 

“I don’t know – I guess it’s because there’s a lot of leeway before you start changing the future…?”

 

“No, that can’t be true, I’d guess that even the most miniscule change in the past would evolve into huge changes in the distant future…”

 

“You’re right…you’re right – scratch that. That would have been convenient though, don’t you think?”

 

Round and round in circles we went. Each of us looking for a get out clause – something that would rescue us from this horrible sense of inevitability.

 

“I suppose a fuck’s out of the question?” to Hell with science and all its ludicrous complications. Chris and I were both feeling feelings, if it was meant to be, it was meant to be – what could we do about it? It wasn’t as if I was invading Poland…

 

“I think that might be acceptable…it’s been a while though…”

 

“Yeah, I guess anything longer than a thousand years could be considered a while…”

 

And there was that lovely smile kiss thing we did – as John, as George and now as Barney…There was more to this, but at the moment I couldn’t give a flying fuck – I was merely responding to the demands of the more primitive parts of my brain – what could I do?

 

This was the third time we’d done this and, once again, it was different. My body felt naive and hypersensitive. Even with all my accumulated knowledge…my accumulated knowledge that now felt abstract and academic…this was new to me. We were discovering each other for the first time. We both came alarmingly quickly.

 

“You know, when I was John I had a method to prevent this happening…”

 

“What?” Chris snuggled into me.

 

“This er, premature fruition…as it were…”

 

“Didn’t you enjoy it?” Hurt or just exploring the facts?

 

“No, I mean yes, it was delicious – you’re delicious – but when I was John I’d think of scary looking made up women to prevent…you know…”

 

“Why? What’s the purpose of that?”

 

“I, er…I dunno – to keep things going longer – so that we’d both get the most out of…”

 

“So thinking about these scary women…?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Did you like doing that?”

 

“Well, not like exactly…it’s more like…” what in the name of God was I talking about? Why did I do this? I knew full well why I’d done it in the past…but why would I do it now when we were inventing ourselves?

 

“Why can’t you just be?”

 

I remembered my chats about being an insect and the simplicity of it all. Insects just are. They don’t question what it is to be an insect. They don’t judge themselves for their behaviour. Could life really be that simple?

 

“You’re right…let’s just be…” I closed my eyes with a wonderful contentment I hadn’t felt in…

 

“Jesus Christ!!”

 

“What is it?” Chris was clearly alarmed at my outburst.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“I don’t know – nearly two…”

 

“I’ve got my appointment with Dr Pope in half an hour…” romantically, I leapt from the bed and started to put my clothes on, “…and I’ve got to catch up with Ralph…he’s got my security bangle thing…and then he’s got to take me there…oh fuck…?”

 

Chris’s eyes sparkled as she lay there laughing at me, “You know Barney, for a rebel you’re terribly conformist…”

 

I hopped out of the door putting my shoe on, “I love you Chris, we have to see each other again…”

 

She kissed me on my cheek, “Yes Barney, you’ve definitely got something there…”

 

“Please be in Ralph, please be in Ralph…” I murmured as my car went at exactly the right speed back to my apartment.

 

“Ralph, you’re here,” I panted histrionically as I fell in the door.

 

He was sitting quietly reading his PDA. He looked up, mildly surprised, “Where else would I be?”

 

“I, er…I need the bangle – I’ve got to see Dr Pope... Can you come with me?”

 

“Yes, thanks Barney, I’m fine, how are you…?”

 

I laughed back at him, “I’ve got so much to tell you – but we have to go now!”

This was fucking weird, but I was beginning to get the hang of it.

 

“Well?” Gordon asked expectantly. He, Frank and I were sitting next to the caskets enjoying the acrid taste and the pungent aroma of his coffee.

 

I looked from Gordon to Frank, then back to Gordon. Where should I start?

 

“First of all, you’re going to have to revise your belief that Colin here is prepared to receive visitors…”

 

“How do you mean?” Gordon was first to the question with Frank close behind.

 

“Think nature – nurture…”

 

I was met with blank gazes so I carried on, “He may have believed in his heart of hearts that the folk visiting him in his head were from here and now – but there’s a whole world, led by psychiatry, that says ‘Voices in your head that don’t belong to you clearly means you’re nuts’,”

 

“But surely he must know he’s right?” Frank was having difficulty with the notion that his little plan had fallen on its arse.

 

“Come on Frank! You must know that when there are enough folk telling you you’re wrong, or you’re mad, you begin to believe them…it’s all about conformity…”

 

It was my turn to shut up. We weren’t conformists. We were anything but.

 

I told them how Colin had screamed when I’d first entered his head…and then I told them everything else; it just cascaded out in a whole ‘what I did on my holidays’ kind of a way.

 

“So you’ve got her name?” Gordon enthused.

 

“Yes…but only a first name…”

 

“That should be enough for Ralph to find out the rest, don’t you think?” I could tell Frank wanted to be supportive, but it was clear he shared my doubts.

 

“Hmmm…listen, I have to go – I want to see Ralph. Could you get Colin to contact me when he finishes up here?”

 

“Of course, anything,” I think Frank was beginning to warm to me.

 

****

 

“Chris you say?” Ralph looked thoughtful.

 

“Yeah – sorry I’ve only got the first name…”

“That should be enough…I’ve a feeling I know who that is…” he smiled enigmatically.

 

“How will you…?”

 

“I’ll have to go into, er, work – I’ll have to see them face to face – I won’t be taking any chances,”

 

“Are you going to be ok?”

 

He gave me the slightest glimpse of a smile and said, “Yeah, I should be ok…”

 

I watched as Ralph left the flat. Even now I doubted him. I’d given him, possibly, the identity of a government agent who was using the system to live a little. The conservative powers that be were most unlikely to see this type of behaviour in a favourable light.

 

It was mid-afternoon and I was knackered. Piloting, albeit for a short time, was exhausting. Manfully, I took to my bed. I was so close…so close. So close to what? Finding the only woman I’ve ever felt this way about? What if she isn’t all she seems? What if I’m a shallow bastard and looks are everything? Maybe it’s not just me – maybe that’s how we all choose our mates – we just pretend it’s otherwise because that would be shallow. No, that’s how we get to know folk in the first place – we’re attracted to them – then we move onto the more emotional and cerebral phase. I’d fancied hundreds of women in my time – I’d only ever felt that connection with Jen…er, Chris…

 

I was woken up by the interminable ringing of that bloody thing next to my bed. No matter how long I tried to hang onto sleep, it just kept on ringing…

 

“What?” I barked, poking the screen.

 

“Hi, er, Barney, it’s me, Colin… George… I was wondering if we could meet up…?”

 

“I…er…what?” then as it gradually came back to me, “Colin! George!! It would be great…where do you want to meet?”

 

“There’s a children’s play park just around the corner from you – no-one ever goes there, I’ll meet you there if that’s ok?”

 

“Sure…when?”

 

“How does now sound?”

 

“Perfect, I’m on my way…”

 

I sat in the sunlight on one of the swings – it was amazing – nobody, absolutely nobody was around. I breathed in deeply. The air outside was astonishingly similar to that inside – processed and fucking homogenised – I’m sure it was good for me.

 

“Colin? Hi…” I stretched out my hand and wobbled on the swing at the same time.

 

The shortish, roundish completely bald Colin to my hand in both of his and shook it warmly, “Barney – it’s a pleasure…”

 

He sat on the swing next to mine, “You know,” he smiled, “if I hadn’t just been in a life where I’d grown up with swings, I’d have no idea what to do with this,”

 

“No…but there again, we haven’t got any children – there haven’t been any children for hundreds of years…”

 

“…and that’s why all the swings and stuff are adult sized – of course…”

 

“Colin?”

 

“Yes Barney?”

 

“Are you ok? I mean do you remember who you are and what this place is?”

 

“I’m fine…I’m fine…I remember everything from being George – fuck, that was some roller coaster ride…!”

 

“Did you get any visitors after I’d left?”

 

“No, thankfully…” he looked down at his feet, “You know Barney, for most of George’s life I really thought I was mad – I don’t think co-hosting’s a good idea…”

 

“But you don’t feel any amnesia – I mean, this is all familiar to you?”

 

“Yes, yes it is…If I’m honest though, I just feel incredibly sad…”

 

“Sad? Why?”

 

Without looking up he sighed a big sigh, “I just feel I’ve lost someone really close to me…I’ll get over it…”

 

“No, tell me, what do you mean? Did you meet up with Jen again? Did you see my mum? What happened?”

 

“The Jen you knew left shortly after you died…”

 

“What? How do you know?”

 

“I tried talking to her – she genuinely had no idea who I was or who you were…”

 

“So she…the real Jen…must have spent all that time bound and gagged at the back of her mind?”

 

“Yeah, she must have – from what I could make out she knew nothing about that particularly dark period of her life…”

“So this Chris who I’m looking for – as well as coming back to get me – chose to use Jen’s life as some kind of theme park?”

 

“Well, yeah, I guess…”

 

“So Jen…the real Jen…has no idea what happened to her over those months?”

 

“No…”

 

“Fucking Hell – that’s outrageous!” I was fuming.

 

“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about though…” Quietly and firmly.

 

“It’s not?” It fucking should be.

 

“No, after all this had died down I went back to see your mum…”

 

“You did?”

 

“She really was beautiful…”

 

The skin prickled on the back of my neck, “She was? Yes, she was…”

 

Colin smiled a sad smile and told me how she and he had started going out together. How he’d eventually moved in, and how they enjoyed a beautiful, normal, life. I laughed as he recalled the first time he saw her. I’d taken scant notice of him in the refectory that day – I only had eyes for her. Seemingly he’d felt exactly the same way. They lived and loved right up until he died in his late eighties.

 

I was crying unashamedly – so was he – we both remembered how beautiful and wonderful life could really be.

 

“That’s really all I wanted to tell you,” he sniffed, “I told Frank and Gordon that I couldn’t do that again,”

 

“No…no, I understand,” I felt so happy and sad all at the same time. I was delighted to hear that mum hadn’t been alone for the rest of her life. On top of that though, I was overjoyed to know that it had been with this lovely, warm and affectionate man.

 

 “Barney, I think I know why you kept going back for more…”

 

“Yeah, I know, but you said you’re not…”

 

“No – I don’t think I can…I mean, I don’t want to…”

 

“Colin, are you ok? Is there anything I can do?”

 

“No…nothing I can think of…” after all he’d told me about his wonderful life with my mum he sounded so flat.

 

“You realise you’ve given me more here than I had ever hoped for? I mean – fuck – to hear that mum had had this life – this life with someone like you – Colin, I can’t thank you enough…”

 

“Sure,” he flashed me a quick smile, “It was fantastic – you know how to get in touch with me…”

 

He stretched out his hand for me to shake it. I hopped off the swing and gave him a full life-depends-on-it hug.

 

Wow! Wow! I hadn’t expected that. I watched his lonely, slightly hunched figure walk off and out of sight.

 

****

 

I had a definite swing in my step when I walked back into the apartment. I was met with Ralph and a squintish smile dancing around his lips.

 

“You first,” he nodded seeing my ludicrously happy gait.

 

I spilled everything Colin had told me.

 

“Hmmm…you know something Barney?” he was nibbling his bottom lip.

 

“No, tell me…”

 

“This living thing might have something to it…”

 

“You know Ralph, you could be right…”

 

“Far be it for me to lower the happy ambience…”

 

“Oh, you didn’t find out anything?”

 

“Indeed I did – here’s the name and address of the person of your dreams…”

 

“What really?” I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was so excited. I held the piece of paper with her name and address in front of me as if I could somehow will myself there.

 

“Really, be careful what you wish for…” were the words I hardly heard as I sped out of the door.  

 

I jumped in the car and spoke the address. It thundered into life. The journey time, it told me, would be just over half an hour. Fuck, can’t this thing go any faster? I looked around frantically for a button that said ‘Go Faster’ but it didn’t exist.

 

“Go faster,” I shouted.

 

The car proceeded to torture me with a long boring tale about how it travelled at the optimum speed for my safety, the safety of pedestrians and the safety of the environment.

 

It obviously hadn’t fully taken into account my safety since when it finally finished its monotonous diatribe I was quite ready to kill myself.

 

The door was opened by a tall, dark curly-haired, bearded man.

 

“Chris?”

 

 My mind did cartwheels as I tried to come to terms with it all.

 

We – as in the bit of us that exists as consciousness are subatomic particles. As such it stands to reason that we must, in essence, be asexual. OK, ok, come on John… this was looking good on paper, but did I really believe it?

 

There was this guy at school, Paul, who, if the circumstances had been different may have been the object of my desire. When I was talking to him in the sixth form common room he’d repeatedly undo and redo my school tie. I really liked the attention. It would have been one easy step to…

 

But we didn’t. I got my jollies from women. They looked lovely with their feminine faces and womanly ways… But what was that? What was a feminine face? Surely there was a continuum somewhere of the masculine through to the feminine appearance? There were men who appeared on the feminine side and there were women who appeared on the…

 

What about the Ladycocks of Bangboy??? If I was completely honest I wouldn’t have minded doing a few rounds with any of them. But that was because they looked feminine – they were supposed to look like girls.

 

Nature or nurture?

 

I don’t fucking know. I remember mum ensured that I played with dolls when I was little – I had some vague recollection of slipping into a frock when I was eight…

 

What about internet porn and what I got up to in the privacy of my own computer pornworld?

 

Does love truly transcend all?

 

That fucking beard would have to go though…

 

“Chris? No, she’s through here,” the big hairy man smiled as he guided me through to the lounge.  

 

xxxxwarning adult themes and that kind of stuff - don't read this bit if you're mary woodhouse... er...whitehouse xxxxx

Pilots - the rest of chapter 10

 

“Technically, I think you could call this stalking,” George whispered somewhere back in my, er his, head.

 

“Technically I think you’ll find that after I’m long gone, it’ll be you and you’re body picking up any tab for crimes of harassment if we get caught,”

 

“Perhaps I should be taking a little more control here then…”

 

“There again?”

 

“Ok, but don’t do anything really stupid – remember, I have to live this life after you’ve buggered off again…”

 

We were nonchalantly sitting on a small brick wall on the corner of Jen’s street. We had no idea whether or not she was in her flat. We hadn’t come prepared – we weren’t sitting at a bus-stop, we weren’t reading a newspaper, or a book – George didn’t have a mobile phone that we could pretend to be on for hours…

 

“What about neighbourhood watch?” I whispered.

 

“What about them?” slightly anxious.

 

“This is curtain twitchin’ country if I’m not mistaken…”

 

“Hmm? And your point is?”

 

“We can’t just sit here all night…”

 

“It’s you that’s sitting here…”

 

“Hmm – you’re right – fair point, well made,”

 

“Why don’t you go and knock on her door?”

 

“And say what exactly? No, I need to get a boiler suit from somewhere…”

 

“What? What are you going to do with a boiler suit?”

 

“Well, I thought we could knock on the door and be generic workman talking about a general utilities problem…”

 

“That’s shit – that really is shit…”

 

“I’ve seen it in loads of cop shows – the bad guy gains access to the home of the unsuspecting and vulnerable…”

 

“For fuck’s sake – that isn’t going to work – she’s some kind of agent from the future – she just isn’t going to fall for something quite so…”

 

“Stupid?” I offered.

 

“I didn’t like to say…”

 

A light went on in her flat. It was getting dark and Mrs Do The Right Thing of twenty-seven Acacia Avenue was poised over her phone ready to report the strange man sitting on her wall.

 

I got up and started walking towards Jen’s flat.

 

“What are you doing? What’s the plan?”

 

“I’m going to tell her who I am…”

 

“You’re what…Are you insane? Hey I kinda liked saying that about someone else, I’ll try that again – are you insane?”

 

“Listen George, I don’t know how long I’ve got – just let me do this…”

 

Silence.

 

“George? George, are you still there?” Panicked.

 

“Where else would I be? I was just thinking – ok – do this, but if things start to go tits up, I’m taking over – ok?”

 

“Sure, sure…that’s fine…”

 

To any other person wandering the earth the idea of an ex-lover knocking on their door dressed as…er…someone else would be somewhat disconcerting. Surely though, to Jen, or whoever she was, this would be run of the mill…well, not exactly run of the mill…perhaps more run of the…

 

“Hello?” her eyes peered around the corner of the front door in response to my jaunty knock. The chain was firmly in place.

 

“Hi Jen, it’s me…”

 

She rubbed her eyes as if this might help her to work out who the middle aged guy was standing at her door, “Who’s me?”

 

“John – er – Barney – you know me, er intimately…”

 

“I don’t know any John or Barney,” she moved to shut the door.

 

“You asked me to fuck you up the arse on our first date!” I hissed through the rapidly decreasing crack in the door.

 

She paused.

 

“Ok, wait there a second…”

 

She vanished for a moment, then came back and undid the chain. The door swung open, “In you come,” she half-smiled.

 

I took one step over the doorway and was met with a comedy clang. My legs gave way as everything went black.

 

*****

 

I awoke to find myself at the back of George’s mind. We were tied to a kitchen chair – well, more taped – and gagged.

 

“Let me take control again – I need to talk to her…”

 

George made a few unsuccessful attempts to reply but, given the gag, his words came out in snottery grunts. Finally he yielded and gave me control of the mother ship again so that he could tell me what was on his mind.

 

“Yes of course, let’s give you control again – I mean, you really slipped under her radar there, didn’t you? I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to tell her who you were…Even the boiler suit would have been better than this…Did she really ask for anal sex…?”

 

I’d seen a lot of movies where the protagonist had been rendered impotent with the use of tape and a chair. Quite frankly, I didn’t believe it. So, while George was rambling on I took matters into my own hands and went for the jumping about wriggle approach. This was met with limited success in that I, we, George fell over and smacked our collective head off the bottom of the table.

 

“You really are a fucking cock, aren’t you?” I wasn’t sure if that voice had come from my own internal dialogue or George as he wittered on in the background.

 

Things were made only slightly worse when Jen used the frying pan that she’d presumably utilised earlier in our interaction to smack me on the elbow.

 

“Jesus Christ!” we were certainly in agreement there.

 

I looked at Jen. She was still beautiful, but she’d taken on a more sinister persona as she stalked around me looking for a protruding bit of George to practice her very accomplished forehand on.

 

“Tell me, Barney, John and…?”

 

“Gmmmf!” I said helpfully.

 

“…and Gumf…what exactly are you up to?”

 

“Mmmf…uuummm…ffffff…” I rolled my eyes for effect.

 

Jen wandered around her kitchen for a second and returned brandishing a knife with what looked like a four-inch blade.

 

“Fuck!” George barked silently.

 

She grabbed George’s hair and pushed his head forward aggressively. Shit, were we just going to be executed back to our own time? I was suddenly aware that death no longer held the fear that it had for me. Sure, a stab to the back of the head was going to hurt more than a little – but we could be back again, buggering about in no time…

 

I felt the point of the knife in the nape of my neck. I closed my eyes tight and awaited the inevitable. With a flick of her wrist, the knife sliced through the tea towel she’d used to gag us – she pulled it away with a magicians’ flourish.

 

“Talk – who’s this?”

 

“George, he’s…” my mouth felt sticky and dry.

 

“Unimportant…”

 

I winced at her callousness.

 

“Jen, I…”

 

“Stop. All I need to know is how you got back here. It wasn’t through Pilots, was it?” she stroked her hair back from her face.

 

This was ludicrous – in spite of my somewhat precarious predicament, one look at her and my heart was pounding. My face flushed and my mouth moved involuntarily. Even in George’s body I felt horny as Hell. Lust or love? Lust or love? It was hard to tell.

 

“Just talk…” was that a flash in her eyes? A smile playing around her lips?

 

I thought about George. He was handsome in the same way that mum was pretty. He looked young for his years – he’d obviously preserved himself well in his miniature rainforest. Certainly on the Dawson – Cluney scale (Where Dawson is Les Dawson and Cluny is of the George variety) George scored somewhere between an eight and a nine. As John, I guess I was a five and as Barney…fuck, as Barney I didn’t feel like a sexual creature at all.

 

“Fucking talk!” George prompted from somewhere.

 

“Jen, I…er…” my mouth felt out of my control.

 

“Talk – let’s just start with something simple shall we…? What are you doing here?”

 

Again I looked at her – she was still in control but less distant and austere. What had happened in the hospital? We’d kissed. It had been the most wonderful experience of my life.

 

I started to cry.

 

“C’mon Barney, it’s ok…it’ll be ok,” George whispered.

 

I cried harder – uncontrollably.

 

“I told you about my Subutteo finger,” I wailed.

 

Thankfully I had – with all this pissing about with time, there was I chance I hadn’t…

 

“Sshh John,” she knelt down beside me and stroked my face, “It’ll be ok – everything’s going to be ok…”

 

I was struck with how pathetic I was. Even in someone else’s body I was ridiculous. I cried more and more – I just wanted my mum.

 

“Hey, hey, c’mon now…” Jen was suddenly cutting me loose, her eyes had welled up too.

 

Once she’d finally cut all the ties I lay face down and cried with my face buried in my arms. I didn’t want anyone to look at me or touch me. I didn’t want this – any of it – this life or my other one.

 

“Barney, it’s ok…” George coaxed quietly, “She’s untied us – I can overpower her and…”

 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” I bellowed, “Don’t you fucking touch her…”

 

Jen jumped back, alarmed at my outburst.

 

I pulled myself to my feet – I felt useless, “Don’t touch her…” I whispered.

 

“Ok, ok Barney – this is yours…” I could feel George backing away further.

 

I gave Jen an awkward smile. I felt limp.

           

Jen stared into my eyes. I could concern in hers. Her head was tilted slightly as she returned my cock-eyed grin.

 

“Oh John,” she reached out and held my face with her right hand. I grasped her wrist and pushed my cheek onto her palm.

 

My breath was still shuddering from the tears.

 

She stepped forward and pulled me to her. I held her tightly as nuzzled her hair. I felt her hands on my back – her fingers digging into me. I pulled away and held her face in my hands.

 

“Oh God…” she frowned at me.

 

“Oh God…what?”

 

“Oh God…this…” she stood up on her tip-toes and kissed me gently on the corner of my mouth. I was suddenly aware that George was taller than me.

 

I kissed her hair and pulled her into me again.

 

She led me over to her sofa and we sat down staring at each other. She leant over and kissed my neck. I gently pulled her hair – turning her face to mine. We kissed so gently, our lips and tongues just brushing and caressing. She pulled my hair, firmer now, and with some urgency she forced her tongue deep into my mouth. I kissed her cheeks and worked my way down to her neck – nibbling softly as she gasped.

 

She pulled my face back up to meet hers and bombarded me with small kisses. Her hand reached down and rubbed my thigh – her nails tracing a line to my…

 

I grabbed her wrist, “No…I…this isn’t just….”

 

“I know…I know,” she placed my hand on her chest – I could feel her heart thudding underneath.

 

“Good God!” I laughed.

 

“Let’s go to bed…”

 

“Doesn’t this break your rule…?”

“Well,” she shrugged, “Technically no, you’re in a different body…”

 

“Don’t mind me…” was George panting?

 

“Haven’t you got some meditation you could be doing…?” I whispered.

 

“What?” she looked at me quizzically.

 

“Well, technically this is a threesome…er,”

 

“Really, I’m off, I’m out of here – just tell me if you had a nice time…” with that, George vanished

 

We undressed gazing at each other. I was scrutinizing me too. George was a fine specimen in most ways.

 

We dived under her duvet giggling like idiots. Her hand wandered between my legs as we kissed. She cupped my balls and gently ran her fingernail up the length of my erect cock.

 

I kissed her neck and gently pushed my index finger into her.

 

“You’re soaking,” I grinned.

 

“No shit – can’t imagine why,” she laughed as she pulled my foreskin right back.

 

“Mmmmmmmaaaaarrrrggggghhhh!” I groaned with the delight of her touch, “I have to kiss you…”

 

I dived between her legs and opened my mouth wide over her cunt. She was still shaved and I bathed in her rapture as she squealed and arched as my tongue found it’s way around her lips. I squeezed her arse and pushed my tongue deeper into her…

 

“Give me that cock…” she moaned so softly as she leant over and took me in her mouth. I pulled her hair as pushed myself up to meet her. She gently worked her tongue all around my knob.

 

“Stop! I can’t concentrate if you do that…” I yelped.

 

“But it’s soooo nice,” she grinned back at me.

 

I found her clit with my tongue, sucked it, and began to gently circle it.

 

“Aaaaahhh – you bastard!” she laughed, “That’s too fucking good…where’d you learn to do that?”

 

“I had a pretty good – albeit directive – tutor,” I smiled as I resurfaced.

 

“Don’t stop on my account,” she pulled my hair gently as she rose to meet my mouth.

 

This was gorgeous. This was what it was all about. I wet my finger and softly rubbed her hard clit as she licked and sucked my balls.

 

“No, no, no… this is no good – I want to be inside you…”

 

“There’s a happy coincidence,” we smile-kissed as she climbed on top of me, easing my cock into her.

 

“Oh my God…” I threw my head back into the pillows as she began to ride me.

 

She came down to meet me and we smothered each other in kisses – inhaling this wonderful moment in time.

 

“Do you like this…?” she grinned fiendishly as she clenched her cunt around my cock.

 

“Do I? Do I? I’m not sure if I could sustain too much of that though…”

 

“Don’t worry…just let yourself go…”

 

“Can you come like this though?” ever the gentleman.

 

“Oh yes, all I have to do is this…” she pushed herself down onto me, rubbing her clit against the base of my cock, “…and that…fuck…should do the job…”

 

“Oh my…fucking Hell Jen…” I grabbed her arse as I thrust harder and faster into her.

 

I had just the most fleeting dalliance with my Russian Peasant farmers before Jen stared at me and whispered, “I’m coming…mmmmyaaahh…oh fuck…oh…”

 

I thought it would be rude not to join her in what was clearly quite an enjoyable experience and exploded, erupted and ejaculated inside her.

 

She collapsed on top of me, laying her head on my chest, kissing the hair that hadn’t previously been there.

 

“That was rather nice,” she whispered as she circled my nipple with her index finger.

 

“Yes…yes…it was…”

 

“Yes…yes…it was…”

 

“Jen, I…”

 

“I know, I know…sshh now…”

 

“I want to know who you really are…”

 

“You can’t John…”

 

“It’s Barney…my name’s Barney…”

 

“Why do you have to spoil this? Can’t you just accept this as a…as a holiday romance?”

 

“No…no I bloody can’t…don’t you see…it’s you I love – no matter who I’m wrapped up in – no matter who you’re wrapped up in – I love you…”

 

“You don’t know me – you’ve no idea who I am or what I do…” she rolled off and lay next to me as we both stared at the ceiling.

 

“Don’t you get it? This is you. I’m the same guy – Barney or John – we’re the same,”

 

“No…no…that’s not right. I came back here to do a job – I’m doing it – then I’ll go back…that’s it – we’ve got separate lives,”

 

“It doesn’t have to be that way…”

 

“It can’t be any other way,”

 

“Why not? Why can’t we have a shot at living happily ever after?”

 

“You’ve seen the future John…Barney…fuck…this kind of thing doesn’t happen,”

 

“What, what are you talking about?”

 

“People don’t do this – there’s no need – there’s no…impulse…”

 

I thought about that for a moment. She was right – I hadn’t met many women there but…she was right…Instead of playing through my usual sexual fantasies there’d been nothing. That was quite understandable with Dr Pope the androgynous beast – but what about the girl in the bar? What about freedom fighter woman? I’d have normally entertained a little something about them. But there had been nothing. Oh shit. Maybe future Jen and me could meet up and hang out together. We could go and watch the H-Surfers together…

 

“Fuck – you’re right – there’s nothing. No wonder I kept on coming back. I must have been looking for something…”

 

“Sex?”

 

“No…no… I was looking for this…this whatever it is you and I have at this very moment,”

 

“When you boil it all down – it’s sex – isn’t it? Feelings come and go…don’t they…”

 

“You don’t believe that, do you? Sure, when you got here you fucked everything that moved…you got your jollies – but that wasn’t it…was it?”

 

“I’m not sure…”

 

 

“Come on Jen. You tried everything – some of it good some of it bad – you’re like me – you just want to experience life. You’re just doing it under another guise. You pretend to be working for the authorities – whoever they may be – and yet all you’re doing is the same as me – you just want to live!”

 

“I’m not like you – you’re some poor guy who became ill because a desire to be someone else…you’ve lost yourself. You don’t know who you are or what you want…”

 

“Jesus Jen, you’re just not being honest with yourself. What’s there in the future? I’ll tell you – a whole population too scared to live and fucking terrified to die. A whole world full of people suffering from Subutteo finger. It’s nothing…fuck it, I’m getting up.”

 

We both got dressed in silence.

 

I got to the kitchen first, “D’you want a drink?” I grunted.

 

“Yeah, tea please…” she whispered sadly.

 

I stood at the kitchen counter and said, “Tea please,”

 

When nothing happened, I raised my voice, “Tea please,”

 

Again nothing happened – I began to jump about, “Where’s my synthetic nutritionally balanced fucking tea? I know you’re in there somewhere you bastard! Give me my fucking tea or…”

 

“It’s in the cupboard…”

 

“I know it’s in the cupboard…I was making a point…”

 

“What point were you making?” still quietly.

 

“That here...here in your very kitchen I have the right to make a cup of tea where I’ll be at risk of burning myself – I’ll be at risk of drinking a nutritionally unbalanced drink – fuck, I could even use milk that’s slightly off if I wanted to…”

 

“You could…” she smiled

 

“I could even do it in the nude, whilst fondling your lovely bazonkas, thus putting us both horrifically at risk…”

 

“My name’s Chris…”

 

“Wha…?”

 

And with that I was gone.

A few folk have asked where they can get all of this - instead of mucking about with the blogs - here it all is up to and including the start of chapter 10. I haven't chapterised this yet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
This work is very sexually explicit from the start - it does calm itself down after the first few thousand words or so - but please, consider yourself warned.

Thanks - enjoy

Cheers

Inzie

Pilots

 

Chapter 1

 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

 

To be fair, I was finding it a little difficult to hear what she was saying due to the somewhat uncompromising situation I now found myself in.

 

“Do you know what a clitoris is?” her tone was definitely a little tetchy.

 

Of course I knew what a fucking clitoris was. My mind meandered back to GCSE Human Biology where I had come top in the class for naming the bits of the, er, fanny. Not a massive claim to fame – but a claim to fame nonetheless. The thing that had always troubled me whilst gazing at the artistic impressions of all the male and female giblets – both internal and external – was that they never looked the way they were supposed to. 

 

Which kind of brings me to the matter in hand – so to speak. Well, more the matter sort of sitting on my face and wriggling about in a frustrated manner that I’d only previously seen in my cat, Jake, when he’d had worms – so to speak.

 

My problem was that I found it very difficult, at this very close range, to discern the difference between one part of the female frippery from another. As such, I was, I felt, more than making up for my lack of technical know-how with an enthusiastic, albeit orally cramping, random and far reaching tongue waggle and thrust combo.

 

Previous conquests had been more than happy with my input. Previous conquests probably felt sorry for me, faked their orgasm and rolled over cursing the day when the batteries ran out on their vibrator leading me to be the ‘any port’ in this particular storm. The thing was with these fine women is that they didn’t complain. They clearly saw that I was doing my best, chose not to say anything about it at the time, and refused any offers of hanky and indeed panky in the future.

 

Jen, much to my dismay, was not one of these women. Was she doing a service to all those women that lay before me, or was she was just hedonistically wanting me to get it right for her? At this moment? Right now!

 

I suspect it was the latter.

 

“Just up a bit…” her demands were slightly muffled by her thighs.

 

“Not that far…” she stopped short of calling me names, but I knew what was on her mind.

 

“There! Fucking there! Now just do that and don’t fucking move!”

 

 Suddenly it felt like I was in a bank raid. Do that – but don’t move. What was I supposed to do? My tongue was really aching after all it’s earlier exaggerated movements. I prayed that I’d be able to keep going for just a little longer…

 

This was our first date. Jen was a nurse on one of the wards where I’d been social workering. She’d caught my eye and, hey, you know the rest… Well, in reality, she’d obviously seen me as some kind of interesting specimen upon which to experiment and had asked me out.

 

“D’you fancy going out for a drink?” she’d smiled whilst holding my gaze just long enough for me to engage the fight or flight response.

 

“Sure,” I began kind of nonchalantly, any thoughts of Mr. Galbraith, the elderly client who I’d come to visit just dribbled away – in a very similar manner to the rest of my response which kind of went, “weeaaargghh…” a sort of gentle, drooling sound that didn’t really mean terribly much.

 

Ignoring my obvious mental seizure, Jen carried on, “What about tonight? I finish up about 6, I could meet you in the Black Bull around 7?”

 

Given my earlier failure to produce any coherent noises, I nodded meaningfully and manfully, turned quickly and clattered into a drip stand that was attached to some unfortunate individual who was talking to his relatives on the hospital payphone. He screamed, a little ostentatiously if you ask me, as the needle that attached him to his drip was torn out of his arm. I smiled meekly at Jen and then scurried off down the corridor before I could wreak any more havoc.

 

****

 

 

‘Disinterested’ is probably the best word to describe Jen’s demeanour as she sat nursing her gin and tonic in the bar of the Black Bull. I had been terribly excited and had led the conversation on everything from Mr. Galbraith’s massive hernia to the distressing news that West Brom had just been knocked out of the cup by Burnley.

I knew it wasn’t going well when she looked up at me with a bored expression. That caused me to babble more and faster.

 

“Listen John, I’ve had a hard day at work and I’m really tired…”

 

Fuck, I thought, and it had all looked so promising…

 

“I’m not up to all this small talk – so can we just go back to my place and fuck?”

 

So that’s what we did. Well, that was partly what we did. The rest of it was a kind of journey through every pornographic fantasy I’d ever had – and several pornographic fantasies I hadn’t.

 

What is the social etiquette when a woman you’ve only recently met manages to take the whole of your erect penis in her mouth? Thankfully I managed to stifle my first urge, which was to clap, replacing it with an equally embarrassing response which was to say, “Well done!” slightly more enthusiastically than I’d have liked.

 

I was genuinely amazed. Sure, I’m not endowed with the biggest cobblers in town, but I couldn’t help but think about the sword swallowers who’d appeared on a variety of shit magic shows in my youth. I wasn’t terribly sure if I found this erotic. It was definitely a neat trick and, if much of the internet porn I’d waded through in my time was anything to go by, it was what guys really loved. For me though – well, I could have done with just a little more kissing.

 

She came on, er in my mouth with celebratory cries and yells that were only slightly less ambivalent than her demeanour had been in the pub. She looked at me scornfully with a look that implied, “Thank fuck for that…”

 

I wasn’t done yet. Oh no, not by a long stretch of the imagination.

 

“Do you want to fuck me up the arse?” she still sounded slightly aggressive and almost businesslike. I wondered where we might go with the next suggestion if I refused. Again, shagging someone – ideally female – up the arse was something I felt I really should be terribly enthusiastic about. I’d never done that kind of thing before – and had never been in a position where I felt safe enough or even interested enough to suggest it.

 

“I, er…” I rubbed the short hairs on the back of my neck as I looked down at the floor – avoiding eye contact at all costs.

 

“Go on,” she enthused, playfully tweaking my hard nipples that acted like mini loudspeakers, declaring, “This poor, inexperienced and naïve fool is willing to try anything you come up with…”

 

She rifled through several drawers in the Ikea cabinet next to her bed. With a satisfied sigh she pulled out a plastic bottle with the word “JOY” emblazoned on the side of it in jagged yellow letters.

 

Then she assumed the position. You know, the ‘anal sex’ position - well, the doggie-style position with which I had some level of familiarity.  She used the handy pump dispenser on the bottle to squirt the viscous gel-like substance over her arse-hole. Her, erm, chocolate starfish. It glistened as she fingered the lubricant in.

 

My heart was pounding. Not out of rampant male arousal – more out of anxiety and fear. Fear of losing my anal-sex virginity during an unexpected liaison with a nurse that I didn’t know terribly well. Fear of doing something that I wasn’t terribly sure that I wanted to do. Fear of all these thoughts getting in the way of my performance and my cock going all flobbery under the psychological pressure.

 

I could hide nothing from my penis.

 

   Usually I think of Russian tractors to ensure the longevity of my performance. If I really focused I could see the hairy faces and warts on the faces of the peasant women collecting the harvested potatoes – this could keep my coming to fruition at bay for ages.

 

Inexplicably and somewhat excruciatingly, I found myself not only struggling with the rights and wrongs of sticking my willie up someone’s bum, I was also doing this under the impassive gaze of the horny handed mothers of toil. My brain had engaged a kind of Pavlovian response – we’re in bed with a woman of the opposite sex, so to prolong the pleasure/ agony/ suspense, call it what you will, we have to think about these gnarled lovelies.

 

Flaccido Domingo springs to mind.

 

My internal dialogue suggested that if I were to do the deed, then we might have to mentally introduce some more attractive guests to the forefront of my mind. I flicked through the readily available images I’d prepared earlier. Suddenly I could see a couple of women with whom I’d had the pleasure in the past doing all the lovely kissy, sucky, licky things that I’d particularly enjoyed. Their hair cascading over my cock as they gave it their full, undivided attention.

 

That did the job. I knew that this psychological tussle would continue for a while yet and that this would have a profound effect on my knob. As such, I seized the moment and stuck my cock straight up Jens’ arse.

 

She made a strange pain/ pleasure kind of sound as I began to thrust and er, unthrust in the statutory shagging motion.

 

It felt odd. Whereas the front bottom of your average lady friend is lined with a mucusy tube of tissue and muscle that welcomes the sword of love in a similar way to peristalsis welcoming a sausage, for example, at the other end. The arse, conversely, has none of these accoutrements. It has a tight elastic sphincter that provides limited friction and rubbage to one’s ning nong. I felt that I’d pushed my cock into a tight hole only to find a large underground cavern on the other side. Had I been a pot-holer, I’d have been delighted.

 

However…

 

After a minute or two of thrust and counter thrust I decided that this really wasn’t my cup of tea and withdrew. I hoped that Jen would have further plans for my journey.

 

Unsurprisingly, she did. Wahay! She decided that enthusiastic oral attention would be what I required. I was carried away in a wonderful fugue state of ecstasy as I watched her blonde bob going up and down on me. This was going to be quick.

 

I could feel the point of no return come and go. I was just about to…

 

Suddenly, she stopped sucking and clenched her hand hard around my cock in what could only be described as a vice-like grip.

 

‘Preventative’ is a word that applies well here. She held me like that for 30 seconds, a minute, a week, four years… who knows? Her grip yielded and she wanked and sucked me until I ejaculated in her mouth.

 

I’ve always had a bit of a problem with the word, ‘ejaculate’. I feel that, if the word hadn’t been made up by a man, then it was surely a man who had first applied it in this sort of situation.

 

Ejaculation to me implies an explosion of stuff, of fluid, of passion – similar to the water gushing out of a fire hydrant after being knocked over by an out of control police car. The disappointing grunt and subsequent or, indeed co-ordinated, grunt and squirt that at the very most produces a teaspoon of sperm and semen, does not, to my mind, constitute an ejaculation.

 

Now, I’ve got to say that I’m with my male counterparts that live in internet pornland in that I find doing the old grunt ‘n’ squirt into a woman’s mouth terribly horny.

 

Why?

 

Why would that be remotely sexy? Why is it sexy when some guy on the net does this to some woman floating around in the same digital ether?

 

Am I some misogynist monster, dominating and claiming my woman by marking my territory?

 

Am I gay? I mean, watching some guy splodge onto some woman’s face… If it had been custard that he’d squirted into her mouth that wouldn’t be anywhere near as arousing. There is something about it having to be the male lovejuice…

 

Ok, if it was just a guy having a wank and spunking off into space, would that turn me on?

 

Oh fuck, maybe I am gay?

 

It’s displacement. I’m not looking at that guy per se, I’m imagining it’s me doing the squirty love thing. So when I’m imagining a guy having a wank, am I thinking about me having a wank?

 

Fuck, I think I’ll file this under, “Things not to discuss with your friends.”

 

“Cup of tea?” I hadn’t even noticed Jen get up, let alone leave the room.

 

“Er, yeah, thanks,” I was amazed that we could still speak to each other as humans after what had gone on.

 

“Sugar?”

 

“Yes, Honey?” I’m fucking funny, I am.

 

“I mean, do you take sugar?” she snarled

 

“I’m sweet enough?” I offered.

 

“Is that a ‘Yes’ then?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I took the tea to mean that I wouldn’t be having a sleepover at Jen’s. So, gone was the need for the “How do you like your eggs in the morning – unfertilized” gag.

 

Ambivalence had given way to a cold indifference. Even with my clumsy, uninsightful and manly ways, I could tell I was no longer welcome here. I drank back the scalding tea so quickly it tore away the inside of my mouth. Ok, I drank the hot tea and it hurt a bit.

 

“I’ll be off then, Jen,” I said, ambling towards the front door.

 

“Great, see you then,” she barely looked up from whatever deed that suddenly required her urgent attention in the kitchen/ diner.

 

“I’ll see myself out…”

 

It had to be raining. An apt obituary to the night. Fuck, how odd was that?

 

***

 

“John?” it was Jen, I didn’t know she had my work number.

 

“D’you fancy going out tonight?”

 

It had been three days since I’d heard from her. I’d tried to contact her at work and at home, but without any joy. I hadn’t been playing hard to get.

 

“Hi Jen, I thought you’d…” What? Died? Fled the country? Decided that you never wanted to see me again?

 

“…I thought you’d, er, lost my er, number…”

 

“What? What are you talking about?”

 

“Nothing, I er…” there was no way of getting out of this without sounding completely pathetic.

 

“I thought we could go to Scorpion tonight.”

 

My heart sank. Throbbing music and lasers. Probably pole dancers. Fuck, probably dancing. I hate fucking dancing. I feel so bloody self-conscious. What does it mean? What’s the purpose of it?

 

“You do like a bit of a boogy, dontcha?” she coaxed. Shit, I could imagine her doing a little demonstrative shimmy as she said it.

 

“But it’s a school night…” It was. It was a bloody Wednesday. What kind of lunatic goes out in the middle of the week? Well, sure I’d done it as a student, but that was in pursuit of extended drinking hours. That, and the prospect of bagging off with some inebriated soul who should know better. The thing was, you couldn’t hear what people were saying. God, you couldn’t hear yourself think.

 

“I’m not working tomorrow,” she insisted, “C’mon, I’ll have you in bed before 2…”

 

“Yeah, I know, and if not you’ll make sure I go home…”

 

“Is that a ‘yes’, then?”

 

“Ok…” Fuck. Shit and fuck. Assert yourself, John!

 

“Great, I’ll pick you up at 9?”

 

“Er, where?”

 

“Your house. Oh, one thing – I haven’t got any money. I don’t get paid until the weekend. You don’t mind subbing me a few quid?”

 

Fuck. Dancing, going out to play on a week night, and now I’m paying for someone else…

 

“Ok…” I wonder if she’ll kiss me tonight, “You don’t mind if we finish up kind of early tonight?”

 

“Absolutely fine – it’ll be a quiet night – seriously.”

 

***

 

When Jen turned up that evening her appearance, and general demeanour come to that, didn’t exactly scream ‘quiet night out’.

 

Her freshly washed blonde hair was tied up in floppy ‘shag me now’ bunches. She wore almost no make-up except for a very ripe and shiny red lipstick. I remember reading that red lips were a sign that a woman was in oestrus. That’s why lipstick came into being – to make women more attractive to men by indicating that they were more, er, receptive.

 

As I stood gazing upon the deliciously sexy form that was Jen, my mind drifted to the events of that night. All the sexual gymnastics mixed in with lipstick into a great erotic splurge.

 

This was all brought to a sudden handbrake halt when I thought of rimming - the act of licking someone else’s bum bit – tied in with Rimmel, that famous manufacturer of lipstick… What does it all mean?

 

What about Red ring showers?

 

On her tee shirt, as a kind of homage to a famous high street brand, the word ‘Fuck’ was printed across her breasts. Less of an invitation, more of a demand.

 

Oh God.

 

“You look…” Nice? Shaggable? Like the woman I want to spend the rest of my life/ evening/ next twenty minutes with?

 

She smiled her smile and I was carried off to Scorpion.

 

As expected, it was shit. There were lasers and smoke and an astonishingly loud pulsating fucking racket.

 

“I’ve made a policy with myself never to sleep with anyone twice…” she bellowed at me over the sticky glass table.

 

“What never?” I may have sounded crushingly disappointed.

 

“Not at the moment anyway,” she grinned as she flicked my nose and vanished off to the dance floor.

 

I’d read somewhere that dancing was a kind of elaborate foreplay – or perhaps a display of property – or availability – or physical prowess. Whatever I’d read, didn’t to my mind, mean I’d ever have to actually do it.

 

So that was my evening. I sat and watched Jen dancing – for whatever reason – as the sound and lights gradually melted my brain. Occasionally she’d skip back, grinning so happily, flattering me with her presence – a bit like a daughter chatting to her old dad – until I gave her some more money for a drink, and then off she’d go again.

 

I drank too many expensive bottled -  ‘I can’t believe it’s not chemicals’ – ciders. I looked around at all the dancing folk. What were they getting out of this that I couldn’t even begin to see? I looked at some blondesque women, who, to the casual observer, had stripy hair. Why was stripy hair supposed to be attractive? What bloody maniac decided that stripy hair was going to be the next big thing?

 

Jen was dancing with two men in tight white shirts and significant hair product. They appeared to be playing some kind of sexual ping-pong with her as she laughed and whirled between them.

 

By the time she came back to the table I was astonishingly drunk and not a little maudlin.

 

“I’m going back to Steve’s tonight,” she yelled at me, “He and Mark are having a bit of a – er – party…”

 

My face felt several sizes too big as I managed to drool, “All I want is a girl with stripy hair…”

 

Jen afforded me a patronising, “Aww…” before she rubbed my head and vanished off with fucking bastard Mark and Steve.

 

Aside from its wonderful self-marketing properties, alcohol has a number of other fantastic intrinsic talents when blended with the human grey-matter. In this case it was the sudden, almost compulsive, desire to return home. It didn’t matter if the drink was half-finished. It didn’t matter if I hadn’t bagged off. Home and bed were all that mattered.

 

“Hi!” suddenly a pretty woman clattered through my malaise.

 

I squinted at her in a vain attempt to focus. She appeared to pulsate. Through the fog though I could see she had shoulder length stripy hair.

 

“Jen sent me over…” she smiled.

 

“Hi,” I grinned, “stay here, I just have to go to the loo…”

 

With the music from Mission Impossible one, two and three playing loudly in my subconscious I sped to the bog. If I allowed myself to metabolise any more of that chemical cider nonsense, I’d be incoherently pickled.

 

“I must puke, I must puke…” went the inner mantra.

 

I did, indeed, vomit. A golden waterfall of apples and bile. It wasn’t exactly an advert for shampoo, but it was wonderfully purging.

 

But no-one’s going to snog you with a mouthful of fetid flotsam and jetsam, are they? That’s why God invented the handy, buy in the bog and stick them in your gob, chewable toothbrushes.

 

I piled four into my mouth and chewed and crunched and licked but the taste of the lining of my stomach wouldn’t go away. I looked at the condom machine. Ribbed, flavoured, fuck, you could even buy ones with a little vibrator on the end…

 

Flavoured!

 

Ok, they were whiskey flavoured, but well worth a try. I pumped in my money, got myself four flavoured condoms and quietly secreted myself in one of the cubicles. I opened all the wrappers and, without a moments thought, stuck them all in my mouth and chewed vigorously.

 

Flavoured my fucking arse! They all tasted like rubber with a hint of God knows what. I momentarily panicked as I thought, “Rubber breath” but really, I was too pissed to care.

 

I got back to the table to find stripy haired lady waiting for me. How lovely. It was time for the smoochy dances and we found ourselves draped languidly all over each other…

 

Then I woke up.

 

This wasn’t my bed. This wasn’t my bedroom. This wasn’t my house. I have a friend, Gordon, a chemical engineer who travels around the world, who, when he finds himself in predicaments such as this, looks at the ceiling and returns to his default setting which is the Hotel Moskva in Moscow. So, if he’s not at home, and he’s got no idea where he is – he’s usually there.

 

I, unfortunately, had no such default setting. If I wasn’t in my own bed I’d usually close my eyes, think, “There’s no place like home” three times, and then find myself… well, in the same place really.

 

I looked around for clues. In the darkness I could make out the gently snoring form of stripy haired woman.

 

That wasn’t good enough for me. I needed more. Where did she live? Was it near me – if it was then that was a good thing because I had to get changed out of my vomit spattered clothes –

 

Oh Jesus, had I really chewed on condoms?

 

I also needed my car for work. What kind of moron goes out drinking on a school night?

 

Oh bloody fucking shit.

 

I didn’t even know stripy haired woman’s name. I’d actually done talks on sensible sexual behaviour among teenagers, and now here I was. Well, here I was. At least if I knew her name, I wouldn’t feel… well, I wouldn’t feel such a tart.

 

I could make out the shape of her bag on the floor next to the bed. If I could find her purse, there must be something in there, like a driving licence, an identity badge of some sort to tell me what her name was.

 

I quietly rolled out of my side of the bed, round to her side where the bag was. I gently opened it and looked inside – a veritable Aladdin’s cave of womanly accessories.

 

I reached inside and quietly lifted out her purse/ wallet thing. It opened out into three sections. There was an NHS card in one of the transparent windows. K. Wilson it said underneath a ridiculously unflattering photo. I decided I couldn’t call her Ms Wilson for the rest of the morning, and so I dug deeper in my search for her identity.

 

God, she had loads of credit and store cards. I spread them out across the bottom of the bed as I went. I could just read them in the half-light. Many of them didn’t give me any further information – until I got to her bankcard – her name was Kate.

 

But was she a ‘Kate’, or a ‘Katy’ or a ‘Kitty’ or..? I emptied all the contents of her purse on the floor. Surely there must be something?

 

“What are you doing?” Kate, Katy, Kitty sounded kind of drowsy, but a little angry too.

 

“I was just…” and then I looked at the fruits of my labour. The open, rummaged through bag, the empty purse with all the credit and debit cards lined up across the foot of the bed, and the little pile of money and bits of paper on the floor between my legs…

 

“I know what this looks like…” but what? Go on John, impress her. But what? You were rifling through all of her personal possessions, because?

 

“I’m phoning the police,” she looked at me defiantly as she pressed 999 on her phone.

 

“I, er…” I had nothing to say. Should I run away?

 

“Police please,” she almost spat.

 

“Can’t we...?” What? What could we do? Dance? There’s a great idea. Talk? Yeah, we could talk – ‘So, how often do you have guys home who help themselves to your things?’

 

Calmly, she gave her name and address. The good news was that she lived just round the corner from where I stayed. I could have gone home and had a shower, got changed and picked up my car. However, things were now looking altogether less certain.

 

She explained how she’d invited me home – paused while she was admonished by the voice on the phone – defended herself by saying I was a friend of a friend, and then explained how she found me emptying her bag and wallet.

 

She was succinct and factual. I thought she did rather well in the circumstances.

 

She put the phone down.

 

“They’ll be here within an hour…” she sat on her bed, folded her arms and stared at me, daring me to make a false move…

 

“Will I just pop your things back in your bag?” I offered brightly.

 

“That’s evidence – a crime scene,” she snarled.

 

I nodded in agreement and sat like a naughty primary school child awaiting the headmaster.

 

We sat there for the full hour. I didn’t want to leave because I thought that would make me look even more guilty in the circumstances. I thought I’d be able to talk to whatever police officer who arrived and explain away this whole unfortunate affair. Goodness, how we’d laugh.

 

Bad cop, bad cop finally arrived in the shape of PC Berryman and WPC Salisbury. He was tall and slim with a slightly pointy nose and piercing grey eyes. She was about a foot shorter, quite Mediterranean looking. I imagined her taking her hat off as her glossy auburn hair cascaded down her back, her lips pouting in wet anticipation…

 

Kate, Katy, Kitty explained what had happened. I nodded enthusiastically in agreement at all the bits I could remember.

 

“Did we really not have sex?”

 

She rolled her eyes and blushed slightly, “You fell asleep and started snoring before your head it the pillow…”

 

“Oh…did we kiss at all?”

 

“Once – your mouth tasted disgusting,” she shuddered at the memory.

 

“You’ll have to come back to the station,” said WPC miserable.

 

“Fine, I understand, it would be more than your paperwork could stand to have a section that said, ‘Misunderstanding – no further action’ in it, would it?”

 

“It wasn’t a fucking misunderstanding, you were going through my bag while I was asleep…”

 

“…and I told you that I was just looking for something with your name on it,”

 

“You could have asked me when I woke up…” she did have a point.

 

“We’ll have to handcuff you, sir,” PC Berryman had got right into his role.

 

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’, my name’s John. And you don’t have to handcuff me  - I’ll come quietly…”

“Sorry sir, health and safety. If you refuse, we could call for backup,” PC Berryman would have made a great straight man for someone. He’d even have made a good straight man for many of the straight men I’d seen.

 

“Health and safety!? Health…” I was stammering with incredulity, “She,” I said pointing at WPC Salisbury, “Would have no difficulty putting me in the back of the police car on her own. I’m a fucking social worker. I’m a lover, not a fighter…” God, did I really say that?

 

I put out my hands and PC Berryman cuffed me. I smiled a goodbye to Kate, Katy, Kitty as I was ushered out of the door. I was amazed by the amount of people out and about on the street. The whole world seemed to stop and watch me as I was escorted into the police car.

 

Chapter 2

 

It could have been worse. I could have been interviewed by police officers who were able to spell ‘fascist’, ‘oppressor’ and/ or ‘proletariat’.

 

Probably for the best. 

 

On reflection, it would have been good to have been arrested by police officers who had a pen that worked between them.

 

Or who hadn’t chucked me in with a variety of life’s waifs and strays for several hours while they decided what to do with me. The fear of being spotted as someone’s social worker was pretty intense.

 

I was finally decanted from the Robert Peel Home for the terminally deviant at lunchtime – just in time to have a very quick shower, a donor-kebab flavoured pot-noodle and to turn up four and a half hours late for work.

 

“You could have phoned…” Pauline, my senior, was terribly unimpressed at my tardiness.

 

“It wasn’t like ‘Police-Stop-Shoot-Action-Camera-Slow-Motion-Action-Replay-Just-In-Case-You-Missed-The-Poor-Sod-Getting-Beaten-Unconscious-In-The-First-Place…”

 

“What?” she stared at me through her social work issue, oval (ish) frameless glasses. Everything about this woman screamed androgyny. The sensible short back and sides. The white shirt and grey trouser combo. I fucking hated her.

 

“I didn’t get a phone call. Or a lawyer. That said, I didn’t get a large, latex covered hand shoved up my arse either…”

 

“Were you charged?”

 

“Well, yes…”

 

“So should you be here?”

 

“I think the phrase you’re searching for here is, ‘innocent until proven guilty’, aren’t you?”

 

“Are you innocent?”

 

“Until proven guilty, yes.”

 

“John, you know what I mean. Is there anything that you’ve done that would prevent you practicing as a social worker?”

 

“Well, no, not really…”

 

“What do you mean ‘not really’?” she was clearly somewhat narked, “Are you innocent?”

 

“Innocent…ish?” more of a question than an answer.

 

“Ok, that’s fine,” she turned back to her desk, “you’re on duty this afternoon.”

 

“But I was supposed to be on duty this morning…”

 

“You weren’t here though, were you?” she stated each word slowly and clearly to demonstrate just how under control her anger was.

 

I don’t like being shouted at so I beat a hasty retreat.

 

Being on duty at Wellspring House Social work centre meant being the unfortunate recipient of a large basket of papers that described a variety of crazy situations that folk found themselves in.

 

Some tragic, some bizarre, some downright comedic.

 

Thankfully Pauline had put them in some order of priority for me – so thought wasn’t really essential at this stage.

 

The lovely thing about a big pile of papers that had been haphazardly placed in a basket was that they were soft and bouncy to the touch. They were ideal for resting my somewhat weary and traumatised head upon.

 

Pauline must have heard me snoring.

 

“John!” she exclaimed angrily.

 

I was slightly concerned to find that my sleep-drool had glued my left cheek to Agnes Taylor’s file. Pauline wore her well practiced, less than impressed, expression as I gently peeled my face from her papers.

 

“I forgot my contact lenses,” a brilliant response to being found with my face in such close proximity to the duty basket.

 

She mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “Do you normally wear them in your ears?” but that would have been way too funny for her.

 

“We’ve just had an emergency call from housing,” Pauline handed me more papers. With the advent of computers we were supposed to be working in a paperless office. I’m sure that, as an office, we’re responsible for the death of the polar bears and most of the other sundry cuddly critters around the world.

 

“Why didn’t the call come through to me?”

 

“It did.”

 

I momentarily wondered what Pauline would have looked like had she let her hair grow long – styling into a long, sultry bob-thing. She had a lovely mouth – some nice Rimmel would have set it off nicely, I felt.

 

“I was probably so engrossed…”

 

“Are you taking the piss?”

 

“Er… sorry, not any more. I’m all ears,” I self-consciously stroked the spittle on my cheek.

 

“You’ll need to go out and see this man now.”

 

I glanced over the referral – a -something man living in a tenement in one of the less salubrious parts of Edinburgh – he has long-standing schizo-affective disorder – his downstairs neighbour was complaining about water and assorted cracks coming through her ceiling.

 

“How about a plumber?” I’m here to help.

 

“Housing can’t gain access to his flat…”

 

Gain access? Gain access? No-one speaks like that…

 

“How about the police?” Was I passing the buck?

 

“John – just remind me what your job entails?”

 

“To be honest, loyal, trustworthy and brave…or is that something else?”

 

“Check his computer records and go and see him – you can tell me all about it when you get back.”

 

Driving my left-hand-drive and ancient Saab 96 on the way to see Mr. Stuart, my mind meandered around in its usual Rorschach inkblot sort of a way. Sex played a central theme, as did the fear of being caught with alcohol still coursing through my veins, as did the fear of losing my job due to over zealous policing…

 

I pulled up outside the flat. Mr. Stuart lived on the third floor. His records stated that he’d been sectioned a few times in his mid-thirties following a few intense episodes of his illness. He’d been decanted out of Gogar Brae, a Victorian institution that he’d lived in since he was 10, when the community care Act had come into being. He’d been given support for a number of years since then – both from social work and community psychiatry.

 

Thankfully, he had no history of violence. Well, he had no recorded history of violence.

 

I’d heard that one before.

 

“Mr Stuart?” I bellowed. The doorbell was clearly out of commission, so I chose to communicate with my would-be client through the medium of battering shit out of his door. I opened the letter-box to shout through and was struck by the pungent aroma of… what? Soggy foliage sprang to mind, not unlike the smell I remembered exuding from the jungle hot-house at the Botanic gardens.

 

“Mr…” I started to yell, only to be confronted by Colin Stuart’s genitals dangling casually just before my face.

 

This was a fucking stupid job.

 

“Hello?” Opening the door, he greeted me warmly, shaking my hand as he ushered me inside. He made absolutely no reference to the fact that he was stark and, indeed, bollock naked.

 

I made a move to wave my City of Edinburgh, “I’m a social worker, honest” badge in front of him.

 

“Please, sit down,” he said indicating a dilapidated sofa that had a shit brown colour and condition that made it a perfect match for my somewhat unloved motor. I could see them on ebay now, matching sofa and Saab set, free to a good home.

 

I had an unwritten rule regarding sitting on the sofas of unknown clients. I would politely decline the offer of a seat if it looked like I was going to stick to it. By the looks of Mr Stuarts flat, my adhesion to his furniture would be the least of his worries.

 

The situation was very odd. I had adopted my social work “nothing surprises me” demeanour as I scanned his living room.

 

Colour television? Check.

 

Coffee table? Check.

 

Gaudy seventies curtains? Check – sort of.

 

There was, of course, an elephant in the room. Not Mr Stuarts nakedness – I’d seen far worse in my time as a social worker, let me tell you…

No, the elephant in this case was a fucking great tree – possibly an oak, but don’t quote me – growing on the floor, well, out of the floor of his flat. Its upper branches were squashed up against the ceiling in a way that made me think of Alice in Wonderland.

 

Perched in the tree were at least three exotic and colourful birds that would not have been out of place in the Amazon.

 

Just in case I hadn’t quite grasped the ambient mood Mr. Stuart was trying to set here, his stereo was blasting out the sounds of cicadas, whooping monkey things and some creatures I couldn’t quite place.

 

The scene was completed by a stifling heat and humidity that I’d only previously experienced in a sauna in Leith.

 

I put my hand over my mouth in a futile attempt to stop myself from laughing. Every time I took my hand away my resolve was thwarted by a snort or a blurt of mirth.

 

Mr Stuart gazed humorously at me, his dark eyes sparkling.

 

“I will stop laughing in a second,” I grinned holding up my hand in an attempt to fend off the external world.

 

“Fine,” he smiled right back at me.

 

After a full fifteen minutes of gradually settling myself back into some semblance of professionalism I said, “Right, I’m fine… let’s talk.”

 

“Coffee?”

 

That sent me right back into hysterics – my mind flooded with tropical Kenco ads with terribly English men dressed in khaki shorts telling anyone who was willing to listen that they used exactly the same beans in their real and instant beverages.

 

Slowly, and with great determination, I quietly talked myself down. Only once did I laugh out loud – but that was when I thought of him scalding his nads whilst making me a drink.

 

“Housing got in touch with us because they were a bit worried about you…”

 

“Were they?” he nodded sagely, reflectively, his eyes darted from me, to his tree, to his birds. He turned off his jungle soundtrack.

 

“Start at the beginning,” I watched as he sat in a battered armchair opposite me.

 

He stroked the day old stubble on his chin, “I’m fucking crackers,” he said. A blunt statement of fact.

 

Had I been a lesser social worker, I’d have blabbed a plethora of meaningless platitudes like, “Don’t be silly,” and “Look what society’s done to you…”

 

Instead I said, “Go on.”

 

“I can’t live on my own.”

 

“You’ve been doing it for the last 10 years…”

 

“I’ve been growing a fucking tree in my living room for the last 10 years,” he smiled laconically at the behemoth before him.

 

“Fair point, well made,” I smiled back.

 

“My friends and family are shit scared of me…” he began quietly, “Friends? Fucking friends, I haven’t seen any of them for years…” exasperated suddenly.

 

“Did any of them see the, er…” I nodded at the tree.

 

“Yeah, that probably did it.”

 

“How do you get food in?”

 

“Tescos – I buy on line – I use their bags to chuck my stuff away down the rubbish chute outside…”

 

“You never go out?”

 

“Why should I?” his arms spread out indicating his small world, “I’ve got all I’ll ever need here…” a hollow ring of irony.

 

I was suddenly struck by a scary thought, “Mr Stuart, how heavy do you think that tree is?”

 

His eyes widened, it was like he’d never considered it, “I, er… shit, I dunno – about a tonne – or so? – I dunno…”

 

The good news, as far as I was concerned, was that it hadn’t fallen through the floor on top of Mrs. X while she was watching a rerun of Dempsy and Makepeace.

 

It was only a matter of time though.

 

“Would you allow some folk into your flat to assess the weight of the tree – more to the point, would you allow some folk into your flat to assess the likelihood of the tree falling through the floor and killing someone?”

 

“Er, yeah – would they, like, strengthen the floorboards – something like that?”

 

“Yeah, something like that,” I lied. I knew the tree would be dismembered and taken off to that great Ikea in the sky faster than I could say, “I’m a lumberjack and I’m ok…”

 

“Would that be housing, then?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll give them a ring when I get back to the office – you might want to put some clothes on for when they visit,” I smiled.

 

“I don’t have any clothes,” Deadpan – fact.

 

“I, er, could get someone to contact you who could kit you out…”

 

“In dead men’s clothes?”

 

I grinned, “Probably…”

 

“I don’t need clothes – I never go out…” obstinate teenager?

 

“But they might think…”

 

“Doesn’t matter what they might think,” he spat angrily, “This is my house, my home – I can wear what I want…”

 

“What did you do at Gogar Brae?”

 

“I, er, I just wandered about the place.”

 

“In the countryside?”

 

“No, in the gardens – they were massive,” he had a bit of a far off look in his eye.

 

“Did you wear clothes then?”

 

“Yeah, jeans ‘n’ that…I didn’t want to frighten anyone,” he smiled a huge, warm smile.

 

“So if you didn’t want to frighten anyone there…” I said, clearly leading the witness.

 

“No… this is my home, I can do what I want…”

 

That, as they say, was that.

 

Changing tack, I asked, “How are you managing your illness in here on your own?”

 

“I do fine,”

 

“Are you up to date with your meds – injections and the like..?”

 

Mr Stuart stared at me, thinking, for some time before answering.

 

“Listen son,” he was speaking quietly, almost conspiratorially, in case someone could hear.

 

“John, my name’s John.”

 

“Listen John, this schizophrenia, it isn’t an illness… it’s a gift.” He leaned forward, his face in his hands – his gaze intense – he meant what he said.

 

That hung in the air for hours until I managed to say, “A gift?”

 

“Yes – it’s fantastic, marvellous – all you could ever dream for – and more…”

 

“I, er, what do you mean exactly?”

 

“Everyone with schizophrenia can communicate with everyone else with schizophrenia using telepathy – we talk to each other through the TV as well.”

 

Before I could get any handle on that, he went on, “John, come here,” we walked to the window, he pointed, “Do you see it?”

 

The sky? The bit of waste ground with a burnt out sofa lying in the middle of it? What?

 

“The Evil Eye, John, The Evil Eye…” 

 

I found myself looking into the sky – was I really looking for the Evil Eye?

 

“Er, no Stuart, I don’t see the Evil Eye…”

 

“It’s only a few of us that can, John. But we can warn you… Tell you what its plans are for you…”

 

“For me?”

 

“Yes – coz right now it’s looking down at you…”

 

“It is? Is it? Er… ok, Mr Stuart – let’s get a few things straight…”

 

“You don’t see it?”

 

“No, I don’t see it…” I was always amazed by mental illness – how it seemed to transport a seemingly lucid guy, Mr Stuart, from speaking about day to day things – like trees (albeit in his living room), clothes and strengthening the floor so his tree didn’t kill old Mrs Wotsername downstairs, into someone who talked about scary eyes in the sky. 

 

I took out a large pad of paper from my bag. I drew a large circle on the front page then tore it off – I then drew a large circle on the second page, and tore that off. This was a little trick I used from time to time, with mixed success – but I thought in this instance it was worth giving it a shot.

 

“Ok Mr Stuart,” I began by writing his name on the top of one circle, and mine at the top of the other, “This,” I said pointing at my circle, “represents my reality, and this,” I said pointing at his…

 

“Represents my reality,” he interrupted.

 

“Yes – they’re different – I’m not saying mine is right and yours is wrong – I’m just saying they are different…”

 

I wrote a few words in my circle – “tree falling through floor”, “Mental illness”, “Clothing”, “No such thing as telepathy”, “The only people who communicate through the TV are the BBC”, “Mr Stuart hates living alone”.

 

I wrote a few words in his circle – “The Evil Eye”, “Telepathy”, “Tree falling through the floor”…

 

“There are a few areas where our realities overlap,” I explained as I drew 2 overlapping circles on a new piece of paper, “So – in this overlapping bit, I can put...?”

 

“Tree – and tree falling through the floor – and clothing…and that I can’t live on my own,” Mr Stuart joined in.

 

“And that’s where we can work together – does that sound ok?”

 

Mr Stuart smiled his smile – “Yeah, I can do that… I can do that.”

 

We chatted for a little while longer – small talk mainly – I was delighted that we’d appeared to have some connection. Not telepathic – just a working relationship that could be developed.

 

As I got up to leave, I decided to ask the question that I’d been avoiding throughout, “Mr. Stuart – the tree?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Did you plant it deliberately to show folk that you couldn’t live on your own?”

 

He said nothing – he just smiled and saw me to the door. He shook my hand warmly before closing the door behind me.

 

I felt just the smallest of shivers go down my spine. I’d encountered the Evil Eye thing a number of times now – but never had I had it pointed at me…

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

“I’m never going to sleep with one man again,” hardly tactful, I thought, given the circumstances.

Jen dragged me into one of the side rooms on the ward, babbling excitedly about her night out with Steve and Mark.

 

I think I stopped listening when she said ‘spit-roasted’. I had an image of her being slowly rotated, her skin oiled, and instead of a bright red apple in her mouth she had a…

 

“John, are you listening to me?”

 

“Yes… but can’t I tell you about some of my stuff?”

 

“Yeah, in a minute, just let me finish…”

 

And on she went in astonishingly graphic detail. I got lost a couple of times when it sounded like Mark had three arms and four testicles – but I did my best to keep up.

 

We both looked a little flushed when she finished her monologue. I felt a sudden urge to start smoking.

 

“Are you seeing them again?” I felt deflated having to ask – how could I ever hope to compete against two young, lithe… fuck, I fancied them myself.

 

“Bloody right I am!” she exclaimed, slightly too enthusiastically for my liking.

 

“What about your rule where you said you wouldn’t go out with the same guy more than once?”

 

“Rules, dear John, were meant to be broken,” she stroked my face in a ‘patting my head’ kind of style. I felt thoroughly patronised.

 

I took the opportunity to fill the momentary silence with all the shit that had happened to me since I’d seen her a couple of days ago.

 

“And now the fucking bastards have suspended me.” I concluded.

 

“Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven’… ”

 

“That’s exactly what I said – bastards. I’m suspended pending the outcome of the trial. Bastards…”

 

“Bastards!” she empathised.

 

“Cunts,” I agreed

 

“Fancy going out for a beer after I finish up here?” she asked in a matey sort of way.

 

My eyes widened – perhaps a sympathy fuck would be on offer here.

 

“Just as friends – is that ok?” she obviously saw the craven look in my eyes, and chose to spray as much cold water on the situation as she could.

“Yeah,” I rubbed the back of my neck and avoided eye contact at all costs, “Of course, that’s fine…”

 

And, somewhat strangely, it was fine. We met up time and again. We talked about everything. I tried to steer her away from the wide and varied sexual conquests she’d encountered in the previous week and I’m sure she tried to prevent me from feeling too sorry for myself. That was met with limited success though – I was still decidedly pissed off that I’d been suspended. I seemed to fill the empty hours contemplating my navel.

 

How could they do this to me?

 

What the Hell was I supposed to do with my time?

 

Why couldn’t the bloody union be more helpful? All they’d done is talk about ‘due process’.

 

They were useless bastards as well.

 

It turned out Jen knew my mum. Mum was a nurse as well, albeit in middle management now – so it wasn’t really a surprise when I found they’d known each other for ages.

 

After my first night with her, I’d hardly thought of her as the kind of girl I’d take home to meet my mum – but given the fact that she’d already met my mum…

 

My only hope was that Jen could manage to be discrete.

 

Jen discrete?

 

Does the Pope shit in the woods?

 

Oh God.

 

****

 

The wonderful thing about losing substantial amounts of weight is that it doesn’t half make your cobblers look big. As I bent over, looking over my shoulder into my mirrored wardrobe doors, I could see my cock swinging pendulously between my lithe thighs.

 

The interesting thing was that I’d done absolutely nothing to encourage this de-Mitchelinisation.

 

My exercise regime remained the same – five-a-side with my mates on Fridays followed by several lagers and a curry.

 

My diet remained the same – er, several lagers and a curry…

 

Not to worry, I was beginning to really enjoy the way I looked.

 

“Are you still losing weight?” Mum bustled into my bedroom, put some clean clothes on my bed and opened the curtains.

 

“Don’t you ever knock?” I scolded as I straightened up, covering my strategic bits with a nearby towel.

 

“Oh John, there’s nothing I haven’t seen before…” she chided.

 

“Yeah, but…” It didn’t feel like the strongest of arguments.

 

She plonked herself down on the bed next to me. She looked at me in that way that only mothers can – pride and love – and respect – and adoration – it was just that motherly gaze kind of a moment.

 

It made me feel happy, almost in a childlike way – a bit uncomfortable too – sure, I wanted to feel loved and cared for – but I wanted to show that I was independent too, and that I could take the world by the… by the bits that you can grab the world by, and get on with my life.

 

Living with my mum when I was thirty-something didn’t really scream independence though.

 

Dad had left before I was born and, from that moment on, it had been me and her against the world.

 

“I’m a bit worried about you,” she spoke gently as she stroked my face.

 

I looked at her. I couldn’t believe she was in her 50’s. Her complexion was fantastic – positively glowing – her shoulder length hair, as ever, looked beautifully conditioned – although there were a few hints of grey here and there now.

 

I remembered that, when I was a teenager, my mates had voted her ‘Most Shaggable Mum’ – I’d felt kind of proud and kind of disturbed all at the same time.

 

“Why?”

 

“You don’t seem yourself…” she began vaguely.

 

“How d’you mean?” I felt a little defensive.

 

“Well – with the court case coming up, and not working – you just seem a bit flat…”

 

“Yeah…” I nodded

 

“And you’ve lost quite a lot of weight – I’m worried that you might be a bit depressed.”

 

“Yeah…” I nodded – I felt quite disconnected. I found myself wondering what had become of the lovely Mr Stuart in my absence.

 

“How much weight have you lost?”

 

“I’m not sure – couple of stone maybe?” Funny, two stone didn’t sound that much until I actually said it out loud.

 

“I think you should go to the GP,” she repeated softly.

 

“Yeah…” I nodded.

 

The doorbell rang.

 

“That’ll be Jen,” Mum patted my knee, gave me that ‘my brave little soldier’ smile, and walked out.

 

Tea was a strange old affair

 

“Steve and Mark sound like such lovely boys…” Mum was a bit pissed – she’d downed the wine that had been intended for the risotto and was now making her way through my ‘Buy 4 for £5’ ciders. She put her hand on Jen’s and giggled.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you were no angel in your time…” Jen coaxed.

 

No, no, no, no, fucking no, no, no…

 

I was not going to sit at the dinner table with my mum and some woman who had used me and dumped me and listen to… Listen to what? Mum’s sexual conquests? Do I sit here and let it happen around me? I’m liberal minded – older people are allowed a sex life and a sexual history.

 

But she’s my mum!

 

It was strangely compelling though – not unlike a hanging.

 

It was all fairly Mills and Boone for much of the time as mum recounted how dad had swept her of her feet… how they’d gone to the pictures… how they’d baby sat together… All the action was implied, left to the reader to expand…

 

“Oh, come on Wendy! Dish the dirt – we’re all friends here…” they were holding hands across the table.

 

All I could see was two teenage girls – “And he was like –you know- and I said – oh my God – oh shut-up – oh my God, just shut up…”

 

“Do you remember Jonathan?” she was talking to me. Mum was actually talking to me about one of my friends.

 

“I, er, my friend Jonathan? Yeah…” Jonathan had been a man-child in our youth. While I’d been running around making stuff out of Lego, he’d been shaving. I hadn’t seen him since he was 18.

 

Mum and Jen looked across the table at each other and laughed uncontrollably.

 

“If anyone wants me, I’ll be upstairs killing myself,” that’ll teach them – I stormed off.

 

 

****

 

Dr Higson had been my GP forever. He’d dragged me into the world kicking and, eventually, screaming in mums’ bedroom. He’d even been around to clean up the mess. He’d given me every jab and inoculation I could ever need. And now, here he was being his same old methodical self as he tested my blood pressure, heart rate, peak flow – he looked down my throat, in my ears and sounded my chest.

 

He sat looking at me across his desk, his chin resting on his thumbs while he bounced his forefingers off his pursed lips.

 

“How’s your mood?” his voice was deep and manly. His brown eyes held their gaze with mine through is thick, black-rimmed spectacles. His dark-brown hair slicked back with Brylcreem – a homage to his younger days.

 

He always wore a cheap looking suit that only just managed to contain his expanding body. A tie and shirt combo that had invariably been bought matching.

 

He was dependable. Not flamboyant in any way. I knew I was in safe hands.

 

“It’s not bad…” the opening to the story of my suspension.

 

He said nothing throughout my diatribe. He nodded and smiled in all the right places.

 

“You don’t sound depressed.”

 

I don’t feel depressed…” I agreed, “More – pissed off than anything…”

 

He looked perplexed, “Any pain anywhere?”

 

“No.”

 

“Fatigue?”

 

“No.”

 

“And you say your appetite is the same as it’s ever been – and there’s been no change in your diet?”

 

“Yes – and er, none…”

He sighed heavily, “I’m going to take some blood and urine – if you’ve got any?”

 

“Sure, whatever you need,”

 

We finished up pretty quickly after the delivery of the fluids, “Don’t I normally come back for another appointment for the blood and urine stuff?”

 

“Well,” he smiled in a fatherly way, “The samples are all collected in an our or so, I thought it would be a shame to miss them.”

 

With that, he escorted me to the door with his hand on my shoulder, “I’ll see you soon…”

 

And there I was back in the waiting room. People looking at me – the solace and comfort I’d got from Dr Higsons’ friendly hand on my shoulder both dissipated rapidly – replaced immediately by fear and uncertainty.

 

****

 

A friendly hand on the shoulder? It would be ‘a shame’ to miss the test rather than go through the usual long-winded administration of the medical practice?

 

I was in the shit, and I knew it.

 

“Why haven’t you got a girlfriend?”  Jen asked in that equally friendly hand on the shoulder kind of way that drove fear into my very soul.

 

We had decanted into one of Edinburgh’s café society hostelries on Rose Street. A busy, buzzing pedestrian thoroughfare for the young upwardly, sidewardly and occasionally downwardly mobile folk of the city.

 

Do I tell her? What do I tell her? Do I feed her some elongated platitudinous nonsense about waiting for the right girl to descend into my life? Or do I tell her the truth?

 

“I suffer from a terrible condition.” There, that’s a start.

 

“You do? I thought you hadn’t got the test results back?” her face full of concern.

 

“I haven’t… I mean I don’t…I mean I don’t know – I suffer from an altogether different condition to this condition – that is if this is a condition…”

 

“What?” I might have lost her there…

 

“I suffer from ‘Subbuteo Finger’,” ok, it’s a made up condition, but it’s terribly real to me.

 

“What?” I felt like I’d dropped her down a deep well and she was falling in slow motion – further and further into the darkness…

 

“Subbuteo Finger…” I repeated with even less conviction than my earlier mumble, “Have you ever played Subbuteo?”

 

There was a pause while she looked at me with not a little incredulity.

 

“Don’t say ‘What’,” I pleaded a little more enthusiastically than I’d have liked.

 

“Subbuteo Finger,” she replied slowly – in the same way that one might speak to a child, or a dementing grandmother, or maybe an armed terrorist.

 

“Ok, do you remember, “My Perfect Cousin” by *****?”

 

“Yes…?”

 

“Do you remember the line, “He always beat me at Subbuteo, coz he flicked to kick, but I didn’t know”?”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

“That song really…really…you know…spoke to me…” Did I sound like a twat?

 

Jen ran her hand through her shiny hair and shook it completely unnecessarily, “John, what the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“We need to go to my house,” I concluded.

 

****

 

Thankfully, I still had my Subbuteo pitch nailed to an expanse of chipboard in the attic. Jen managed to persuade me that the floodlights and the little stand with all the fans sitting in it would not be required to enhance her Subbuteo playing experience.

 

She did concede, however, my need to have the little camera man on his little stand with his little camera sited just next to her goals.

 

“I don’t want the fans to miss any goalmouth action…” I was firm, yet crackers.

 

“It’s not a real camera,” Jen began, just in case I might have thought…

 

“I know it’s not real – but you’ve got to admit – it adds to the authenticity?” that hadn’t started life out as a question.

 

I chose the gold and blue of 1970’s Brazil, with the mighty Pele playing up front, sporting, not his name, but that number 10 that he’d made his own during that era.

 

Jen chose the yellow and red away strip of 1970’s Partick Thistle. She thought they looked, “Kind of pretty” – I’m sure they would be delighted.

 

“The ball’s bigger than the players,” Jen said flatly – I thought for a moment that my little plastic Pele could fit inside the ball, just like a hamster…

“It’s meant to be like that,” I said churlishly, “You couldn’t hit the ball otherwise…”

 

“Go on then… ‘My perfect cousin’?”

 

“Ok, watch,” I placed the ball between my two front men for kick off, flicked Pele with the index finger of my right hand and we were away!

 

“You just flicked the little man and he hit the ball?”

 

“Yes, that’s what you’re supposed to do…”

 

“Yes, I know that,” she began testily, “but the song says, ‘…he flicked to kick, but I didn’t know’…You just flicked to kick.”

 

“Ah yes, but watch…” I had been just a little over zealous in my opening play, and now I was going to have to swerve one of my players (A sundry Brazillian who wasn’t Pele) around one of Jens players to strike the ball, “It’s all well and good when it’s an easy shot but…”

 

I stood, my index finger poised behind the ‘little man’, memories of my youth flooding back.

 

“See?” I was straining – surely she could see my discomfort.

 

“See…what exactly?’

 

“My finger?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I can’t move it,” my finger was paralysed just as it had been all those years ago.

 

“Of course you can, look…” and Jen gratuitously flicked sundry Brazilian into oblivion with one smooth action.

 

“He’s supposed to hit the ball – you were supposed to make him swerve around that player to make him hit that ball…” I pointed aggressively at each of the objects of my statement.

 

“Does it really matter if you miss?”

 

Does it really matter if I miss? Should it really matter if I miss?

 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

 

What is worst thing that could happen? I snatched up the little sundry Brazilian from under the table.

 

“Ok,” I whispered, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

 

I placed him back to where he’d started before the journey through time and space that the evil Jen had sent him on. I stood, my index finger poised behind his base. All I had to do was swerve him around the Partick Thistle defender and I’d be on for a shot at goal.

 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

 

Paralysis.

 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

 

“John, just flick it!”

 

Jen should not have intervened.

 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhh!!!” I exulted as I smashed my hand down on my unsuspecting centre forward, “Cunting bastardly shitting fuck fuck – I can’t fucking flick it. That’s the fucking problem – I’ve got Subbuteo finger!”

 

I quietly collected up all the players, the ball, the goals and the little camera man and all his bits and pieces and put them all into their pristine boxes to be put away, back in the attic, forever.

 

Jen watched me in my little obsessive-compulsive world, open-mouthed until everything had been tidied away.

 

“John?” she spoke quietly, “What the fuck happened there?”

 

“Subbuteo Finger,” I seethed through clenched teeth.

 

“About 3 hours ago I asked you why you didn’t have a girlfriend,” still soothing and gentle, “What’s all this got to do with anything?”

 

“It’s a fucking metaphor!”

 

“What’s that? A metaphor for fucking? Because I certainly didn’t experience any paralysis…”

 

“Fuck off!” I intercepted.

 

“Tell me…” coaxing and gentle once more, “Come on, I want to hear.”

 

My heart was pounding. My palms sweaty. Most of all though, I felt a complete cock.

 

“Take your time…”

 

Gradually I could feel my body coming back in line. The fury I felt at myself subsiding as I slowly gathered my thoughts.

“You remember stripy haired woman?”

 

“Yes, you certainly won’t…”

 

My Paddington Bear hard stare was sufficient to stop her in her tracks, “…even with you… it was like taking the centre at the start of the game…”

 

“How?”

 

“It was an unmissable shot – it still mattered – but I couldn’t miss. Well, with stripy haired woman, it didn’t matter – but I still couldn’t miss – that made it even easier…You both asked me…”

 

I knew I was babbling.

 

“John, have you ever asked anyone out on a date before?”

 

She understood.

 

****

 

“I’d like you to see an oncologist,” Dr Higson spoke quietly.

 

I guess I’d been in denial. I hadn’t been thinking about this moment. I hadn’t been thinking about any of this.

 

What had I been thinking?

 

Why would I be losing weight if it wasn’t fucking cancer? I couldn’t think of any reason other than a disgusting, pulsating, hungry tumour lurking somewhere inside me.

 

“Shit…” I whispered, “Do you think it’s…”

 

He held his hands up, “I’m not sure – we just need to check it out just now…”

 

“When will I…”

 

“They’ll contact you soon…”

 

“Is that NHS ‘soon’ or real ‘soon’?” I still managed to smile

 

“Real soon,” he smiled warmly, taking my hands.

 

Fuck, this must be bad. My ordinarily restrained, no-nonsense GP is holding my hands. I’m fucking doomed!

 

“I feel great though…” was I pleading?

 

“Let’s see shall we?” and, once again he escorted me out into the harsh reality of the waiting room.

 

****

 

“Ask her over there…” Jen had taken on a somewhat directive approach to my Subbuteo Finger.

 

It was Friday night and we were sitting in the Black Bull watching all the potentially eligible women go by.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“She’ll think I’m taking the piss – she can see I’m with you…”

 

“But you’re not,”

 

“She doesn’t know that!”

 

“She,” Jen spoke slowly and purposefully, “might think you’re my brother…my friend…my workmate…”

 

“Come on Jen, it’s Friday night – who goes out with their sister or one workmate on a Friday evening?”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Jen stood up.

 

“Where are you going?” With Jen, any sudden movements made me nervous.

 

“I’m just going to the loo, ok?”

 

She was right to be pissed off. We’d been at this for the best part of 2 hours. I’d made prevarication into an art.

 

“She might have a boyfriend…”

 

“She might not like me…”

 

“She looks like a Conservative…”

 

had all been used to mentally fend off the need to approach potential suitors.

 

I saw Jen as she confidently strode across the bar with a wicked little smile dancing on her lips. She dropped herself dramatically into the sofa seat opposite me.

 

“Well,” she grinned, “She knows you’re not with me…”

 

“How…?”

 

“And, before you say, I know she isn’t gay…” she licked her lips provocatively.

 

“You didn’t?”

 

“Well, she might be a little ‘Bi-curious’ – but I think that would mean more work for me than it would for you…”

 

“You did, didn’t you?”

 

“Just a little  - she wasn’t terribly receptive to any tongue action though…”

 

“We’re leaving…”

 

“But why? I’ve just shown you that the door’s open,” she shrugged, “So to speak…”

 

I felt dizzy. I felt like I needed to vomit, “I can’t…”

 

“Can’t or won’t?”

 

“What do you think?” I said as I picked up my coat and walked out the door.

 

 

****

 

I knew the Eastern General in Edinburgh very well. I’d had a whole range of punters there who’d had a whole variety of ailments that effected their ability to look after themselves. I’d walked the corridors confidently, approaching ward staff and medics – attending ward rounds – fighting the corners of the frail and elderly to ensure they got the best deal possible from the social work department and the NHS. I felt big – I felt strong – I felt powerful…

 

Today though the hospital felt terribly big. The buildings higher – the corridors longer. I felt horribly on edge. Maybe it was just that I felt smaller – a child in a grown-up world.

 

Vulnerable and alone.

 

I could have asked mum to come along with me to the appointment with the oncologist, Dr Smith. But I didn’t. I’d have felt… Stupid.

 

I could have asked Jen. She knew about all this kind of stuff. But I hadn’t. Why hadn’t I? It wasn’t like it was a date or anything. I mean, a date to the oncology department – well, it’s different from going to the pictures.

 

Why hadn’t I asked Jen to come with me? Why couldn’t I ask Jen to come with me?

 

Subbuteo finger?

 

This was crazy.

 

Whenever any of my clients found themselves in this situation I always told them to make sure they had someone with them. Someone to be there for them. Someone to care for them. Someone who was able to listen carefully to what was said.

 

So often all patients heard was, “Blah blah blah – cancer – blah blah blah – Mrs Brown – Blah blah blah…”

 

Not terribly helpful really.

 

The corridor sloped down to a small reception area. It bottlenecked at a seemingly arbitrarily placed set of automatic doors. I watched as a young couple came through – she, I think, would have been ordinarily pretty – slimish, tallish with her light brown hair cascading in ringlets onto her shoulders. He – slightly taller and of a rugged appearance appeared to be supporting her as her face contorted and her body was wracked with grief. He whispered gently as he held her tightly to him.

 

In that wonderfully British way, they both dismissed their joint dismay as they smiled at me as I let them through the doors first.

 

Fuck.

 

Now, more than ever, I needed someone to carry me. My legs felt weak and I felt drenched in a cold sweat. Suddenly, I was that woman – that girl, God she could only have been in her early twenties.

 

What had she been told? How long did she have?

 

I remembered the dark humour that I’d been privy to when talking to the junior doctors in their private side rooms away from the wards.

 

“Well Mrs Brown,” Dr Gareth Jones had laughed as he portrayed an imaginary bedside scene, “my advice to you would be to avoid buying any long playing records…”

 

And it had been funny. I’d laughed. What a fucking hoot – the fictitious Mrs Brown wasn’t going to survive the length of a record. Ho-ho-ho.

 

Fuck.

 

Those same junior doctors had laughed their way through ‘The killing Season’ – the time when folk would die at the hands of inexperienced and occasionally incompetent medics who stood at the foot of the ladder of their heady career.

 

Death was an accepted occupational hazard.

 

“Hi, I’ve got an appointment to see Dr Smith,” it felt like someone else was speaking on my behalf.

 

“Are you taking any drugs, prescribed or otherwise?” smiled the bright young thing on the other side of the counter. Her suit, shirt an waistcoat had something of the fast food restaurant about it.

 

I was overwhelmed with a desire to say something ludicrous. Something that would break this horrible inner tension that I felt.

 

Instead of something dazzlingly witty or sharp, I said, “No – nothing…”

 

“Well, just take a seat, please and you’ll be called through.” She pointed in the general direction of the waiting room were a vast range of folk sat slouched in various stages of physical and emotional breakdown.

 

I joined them. I sat for what seemed like days staring at the huge sign behind reception that declared, “Oncology Department” and “Investors in People”.

 

What did that mean?

 

No matter, it was something to fix my gaze on. It was something that helped me to focus on nothing. Anything that meant not thinking about me or the rest of the ‘soon to be given bad news’ folk around me was a welcome respite.

 

Fast food woman appeared before me, “John? Dr Smith wants to see you now,”

 

I was startled by her appearance – as I snapped back into reality I could see all the other waiting-roomees smiling nervously at me…

 

We were all waiting at the gates of death and yet here, my little fucks- pax was the source of a ripple of merriment. Silly man hadn’t heard his name being called out.

 

What a shame.

 

“John? Take a seat…” we were all friends here – Dr Smith welcomed me in and pointed at the very nearly comfortable seat opposite his.

 

“This is Dr Patel, she’s…” fucking gorgeous, “…the senior Registrar with us at the moment.

 

This is what I hated. If I was social workering some poor innocent member of the community, I would write to them and then phone them beforehand to ensure it was ok for me to bring someone else with me to their particular party. It showed respect. What would happen if I didn’t want Dr Patel, beautiful though she was, present at this, the most traumatic moment of my entire life.

 

What if?

 

What if I actually said something that indicated my pissed-offedness?

 

No – best not. I don’t want to cause a fuss. I didn’t want to be seen as the ‘bad patient’. I didn’t want to…

Subbuteo finger?

 

No, not here, it couldn’t be.

 

No, the British don’t like to complain, therefore, I, being British, will not be complaining…

 

“You were referred to us by Dr Higson…”

 

and then it all went kind of blah, blah blah.

 

I might have heard the words, “Tests” but I’m not entirely sure.

 

I definitely heard, “So, we’ll see you in a week then?” as I got up to walk out the door.

 

“Is that it?” Mum was astonished at my lack of details.

 

“Er…”

 

“What tests?”

 

“Hmmm!” I said with little cohesion, raising my eyebrows.

 

“I’m coming with you next time…”

 

She should have come with me this time, then we wouldn’t be having this stupid conversation.

 

Weeks went by as I became a professional outpatient. Mum came with me every time I was scanned, screened and tested for every flavour of cancer known to human kind. I suffered the incredible claustrophobia of the bastard brother of the industrial tumble drier – the MRI scanner - as I was shoved in time and again, just in case they’d missed something.

 

They put a tap in my arm because they were taking so much blood for so many different tests…

 

The day of reckoning finally arrived. I was to meet with Dr Smith and possibly one of his minions to discuss the awful outcome of all this exploration.

 

I was now monitoring my weight a little more rigorously. I’d lost nearly a stone over the last four weeks. I’d gone from the boy who’d clearly eaten all the pies to my ideal weight. I looked fabulous, better than at any time since my teens. My moobs had been replaced by pecs, my one-pack had transformed into a four/ maybe a six pack. I was lithe and springy. My double chin had gone. My profile was magnificent.

 

I was fucking terrified.

 

None of my clothes fitted. Mum had gone shopping on my behalf – coming home with sundry jeans, shirts, tee-shirts and wot-not that she thought I’d like. I stopped looking in the mirror now. What started off as an episode of self-adoration had rapidly turned into an image of sand running through an hour-glass.

 

For mum it must have been the reverse of my teenage years. A time where I’d grow 6 inches in as many months. I remember how she’d struggle to clothe me, “You’ll grow into that…” and, “Ooooh you’ve got a few weeks left in them yet…” were common currency then.

 

But now nothing was said. She’d come in with a seemingly endless stream of stuff for me. Tops and trousers would appear in my wardrobe. Nothing was said in case we acknowledged this strange and unknown predator that was slowly devouring me.

 

It was all well and good having this endless supply of new and fashionable clothing, but I never went anywhere with it. I’d stopped going out. I couldn’t let people see me like this. Well, it wasn’t my physical me I couldn’t let folk see – it was the mental me. I was in a state of almost permanent trauma. Only daytime television could save me.

 

I hungrily sought any reality TV chat shows where some poor cunt was worse off than me. That said, if they were being strong, achieving great things in the face of adversity, I’d quickly switch over. I was languishing in my misery – I didn’t need some born-again fucking marathon runner who’d saved an orphanage to make me feel guilty as well.

 

We didn’t talk over breakfast. I had my usual – everything in the house – eggs, bacon, toast, beans, cereal, M & M’s, anything that came within arms reach.

 

I read the ingredients on any packaging in front of me. Any distraction was welcome.

 

I knew why mum wasn’t talking – partly the stress of the situation – but mainly because I’d become an obnoxious twat. I didn’t want her compassion or her care. I didn’t want her support with anything – any act of kindness, intentional or otherwise was met with an adolescent recalcitrant glare, grunt or slam of the door.

 

Mum was less vibrant now. Conversations were practical and polite…

 

“Would you like a...?”

 

“What’s this you’re watching?”

 

“Have you heard anything from..?”

Jen had mysteriously vanished from my life as suddenly as she’d crashed into it. My phone calls were unanswered – I even popped onto her ward a couple of times to be met with, “She’s busy,” or “She’s not in today,”

 

True, I hadn’t been terribly diligent in my pursuit of her. But you’d think…

 

“Are you ready to go?” mum asked quietly as she put the last of the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

 

“I guess…” this felt huge. The tension was unbearable.

 

The old, ‘I saw my life pass before my eyes’ adage is supremely overused – but sitting next to mum, as she drove me to the hospital I thought about all my places, the things I’d done, the things I hadn’t, my work, my university years all culminating in this.

 

My so-called fucking life.

 

The world seemed so vibrant – so stark – so loud – I was hypersensitive to the minutiae of everything. Mum over-revving the car at traffic lights – the blueness of the sky – just the act of physically being was tortuous.

 

Mum looked forward at all times. There was no idle chat. No laughing. No touching. She was on automatic pilot. We were floating in our little bubbles – separate lives inextricably linked.

 

“There’s a parking space there!” An angry explosion rather than a friendly direction. Why was I like this? Why was I barking orders at my poor mother?

 

“Where?” soft and gentle as ever.

 

“There… there, next to the…Fuck!” as a Ford Fiesta stole our place.

 

I was still seething about the Ford Fiesta fiasco as I slumped down into one of the comfy sofas in the Oncology outpatient’s waiting room.

 

Mum picked up a six-month old copy of Homes and Gardens. She was instantly absorbed by the hot tips for everyday living that lay within.

 

My anger dribbled away gradually only to be replaced with the guilt caused by my obnoxious behaviour.

 

We hurt the ones we love the most. Oh really?

 

I put my hand on her leg, “Mum, I’m sorry…I…”

 

Her hand appeared on mine, “I know John. It’s ok,”

 

And that’s how we sat for the next ten or fifteen minutes – my hand on her leg – her hand on mine.

 

“That’s us…” Mum stood instantly as my name was announced over the tannoy.

I stood outside Doctor Smith’s office. What had I done last time? Did I just walk in? Did I knock? Did I just materialise in front of him?

 

My heart pounded as I stood paralysed, rooted to the spot.

 

“C’mon John,” Mum almost whispered as she opened the door.

 

Doctor Smith was alone. He was a slim man in his mid fifties – maybe even late fifties. He had a tanned face that suggested he was always ready to smile – his blue eyes twinkled – the corners of his mouth tilted slightly upwards – his shock of grey hair, a stark contrast to his tanned face, looked like it had been tousled by his proud Mum as she saw him out the door…

 

“John, please take a seat,” he shook my hand as I sat down. Was his tone matter of fact? Was it informal? Jovial? Was it good news? How long did I have? Fuck, why wasn’t he talking?

 

He nodded, and smiled openly to my mum as she shook his hand and sat next to me on an orange bucket seat. Didn’t they expect supporting friends and family? I got a comfy seat and she got something that would elicit bedsores if she sat on it for longer than five minutes.

 

My eyes scanned the room. On the wall was a posed photograph. Him, some ageless woman and three grinning children. Was this his wife? Maybe it was his daughter? Maybe her husband had died from some particularly nasty strain of cancer and he, as the doting granddad had taken them all on. If that were the case, where was his wife…?

 

“John, I’ll cut to the chase as quickly as I can,” he took a breath, but didn’t pause long enough for me to start asking the thousand questions running through my head, “You don’t have cancer…”

 

I collapsed back into my seat with relief – only to be bounced back into the stressed position as I was hit with the question – what the fuck have I got?

 

Mum squeezed my leg.

 

Sensing my ping-pong response, Doctor Smith held up his hand, “This amount of weight loss would suggest that something’s going on – it just isn’t a cancer…”

 

“But that’s good news though, isn’t it? I haven’t got cancer?” hey, I liked the sound of that, I’ll say it again, “I haven’t got cancer? So what have I got?”

 

“We don’t know? I’ve spoken to a colleague of mine, Doctor Asanovic, he’s an endocrinologist.”

 

As with so many words in common usage in the hospital, ‘endocrinologist’ rang a dim and distant bell from my ‘O’ level in Human Biology. As with so many words like this, I came to a mental dead end.

 

“What does an endocrinologist do exactly?” Don’t say it…don’t say it…

 

“He looks at your endocrine system,” he said it.

 

“Which is what…exactly?”

 

Doctor Smith allowed himself a little smile, perhaps acknowledging that he’d been a bit of a knob, “It’s the system that looks after your hormones – they’re basically the chemicals that tell your body to do stuff – like grow, break down sugar, lactate… you know?”

 

“Vaguely,” it kind of made sense, “So you think my problem is to do with that?”

 

“Possibly, I’m just not sure – Doctor Asanovic had hoped to be here to meet you and answer any questions you might have, but he’s been called away just now,”

 

“Ok, so do we wait for him? What should I do?” I felt myself falling into the patient trap – absolve myself of all responsibility – I will do what the doctor tells me.

 

“He shouldn’t be long… I’ll probably have to go, but he can see you here, in my office if you like…”

 

I smiled vacantly. So I just wait here, in Doctor Smith’s office, until Doctor Asanovic arrives?

 

Mum got up to leave.

 

“What are you doing?” I blurted.

 

“We’re going to the waiting room – to wait for Doctor Asanovic?”

 

Of course…of course, we couldn’t just sit around in…what had I been thinking? Jesus, what was happening to me?

 

“Ok,” as I stood up Doctor Smith came round to my side of the desk and shook my hand.

 

“Good luck,” he said warmly.

 

The word ‘luck’ rang in my head as I walked out holding mum’s hand, what good was luck going to do me?

 

We sat and waited in silence. What an anti-climax! Here I was thinking that Doctor Smith was going to tell me if I was going to live or die… and now? Nothing…just nothing.

 

I tried to read the magazines – everything from ‘Peoples Friend’ to ‘Horse and Hound’ but nothing was going in.

 

“Do you want a coffee?”

 

Mum’s voice came as such a shock I nearly leapt out of my seat, “What?”

 

“Coffee? There’s a wee café just round the corner – d’you want a latte?”

 

Why was everything taking so long to process? It felt that mums words were being delivered on a slowly running stream of treacle.

 

“Coffee?” even my own voice sounded unfamiliar.

 

“Yes John,” she smiled, stroking my face, “Y’know, that hot beverage made from squashed up beans and milk?”

 

“I’d love a coffee – thanks mum – I’ll wait here though…”

 

“Of course, of course… I’ll be back in a couple of minutes…”

 

It was good that she had something to do. She liked to be busy. All this sitting around must have been doing her head in.

 

As she walked out she passed a tall guy with blond hair and sharp features. He wore a dark Armani suit and walked with an heir of confidence I could only dream of now. The reason I knew from such a distance that it was an Armani suit is that this tall, well presented fellow was an ex-colleague of mine – Claus Hansen - the worlds best dressed social worker.

 

He flitted from potential punter to potential punter until he spotted me. What does one say in situations such as these?

 

“Hi John,” Claus shook my hand in a friendly way, “how’s it going?”

 

My mind flooded. What do I say? What should I say? I’m a social worker, after all – I’m not a client. I’m not like these people – I’m a helper, not the helped.

 

“I’m here with my mum…” empty trail off to allow him space to fill in the gaps.

 

“Is she ok? I mean, obviously not if…” was Claus the unflappable actually blushing?

 

“Yeah, I’m sure she will be…” use the silence John. Use the silence.

 

“Listen, here’s one of my cards…” He has a business card?! “I’m the palliative care social worker – it doesn’t mean I just work with folk who are dying – I work with the rest of the team looking at support – pain control – talking to their families – and professionals for that matter…”

 

“Thanks Claus, I’ll give it to her.”

 

“Yeah, well, anyway John – take care…” and with that he wandered off sprinkling his business cards amongst his flock. Fuck – I can’t believe he’s got business cards.

 

“Who was that?” Mum plonked herself down next to me – sounding a little lusty for my liking.

 

She handed me my coffee as I explained who he was.

 

“That sounds great – why don’t you go and see him?”

 

Why don’t I go and see him? Because he’s a bloody social worker, that’s why. I’m not going to talk to a guy who’s been a colleague about all my hopes and fears now that I’ve got God knows what. I’m not the kind of guy who needs help.

 

“I, er, I told him that I’d think about it…”

 

We sat in silence again. This time I didn’t make any pretence of reading – I stared at my cardboard coffee cup praying for Doctor Asanovic to make an appearance so I could go home.

 

“John?” well bugger me if it wasn’t Mr. Hansen coming to distribute more of his good cheer, “This must be your mum…she doesn’t look old enough…”

 

Fuck off!

 

“I’ve made sure she’s had a particularly easy life,” I meant to grin – but it came out more as a grimace.

 

Mum, predictably, melted on the spot. To be fair, he was rather lovely.

 

“I was very young…” she giggled.

 

“You still look very young…” he oozed, “The reason I came back was I forgot to mention that we have a social group for folk who attend outpatients like this…”

 

He was talking directly at mum.

 

“For carers?” she looked puzzled.

 

I closed my eyes tightly. This wasn’t really happening.

 

“No,” now he sounded puzzled, “it’s for folk who are receiving support from the oncology department or the palliative care team.”

 

“What do you think, John?” she nudged me into opening my eyes, “That would get you out of the house.”

 

Sprung.

 

“Get you out of the house? I thought you said it was your mum who…”

 

“I’ve taken one of your cards – I’ll give you a ring,” I snarled.

 

“Ok,” he smiled quickly at mum who gave him a ‘I don’t know what’s going on either’ kind of a look, then he walked off.

 

“John?” she squeezed my hand.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” end of.

 

After an hour and a half of sitting in the subsequent silence, looking into the middle distance, my name was called out.

 

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Mum, determined in her support.

 

“Yes – bloody right I do!” the closest I’d been to declaring my undying love for my mum in ages.

 

With the Doctor Smith door incident in such recent memory I was able to enter the office unaided.

 

Mentally I hadn’t yet associated Doctor Asanovic with the gift of life and death. He was just another in a long line of folk who’d recently come into my life. As such, I wasn’t preoccupied with what was wrong with me when I set eyes on him. I was gobsmacked – he must have been nearly 7 foot.

 

“Dr Asanovic,” he stated has he shook my relatively tiny hand in his. Then, possibly by way of explanation, he said,  “I’m Serbian.”

 

“I’m John and this is my mum, I’m…” what? The king of the little people? Shorter than you? “…pleased to meet you.”

 

He sat down and was still slightly taller than me, “Please…” he indicated the seats – we sat obediently, “You spoke to Dr Smith earlier?”

 

We both nodded.

 

“He told you that you didn’t have a cancer?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“He told you that I was an endocrinologist?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who specialises in endocrinology?” A slight smile played around his lips.

 

“Yes.”

 

“He came to me because he thought there maybe something going on with your hormones…”

 

“Yes…” I felt like a nodding dog in the back of someone’s car.

 

“And, to be frank, there is something going on with your hormones.”

 

It felt like he was talking about someone else. Hormones were something that weren’t that important – you grew, you ate, you had sexual urges…

 

He pointed at a picture of the brain on the wall, “Just here, hidden away is a very important gland. It’s the master gland. The pituitary.”

 

“Ok,” I nodded as ‘O’ level Human Biology kicked in.

 

“This gland tells the other glands what to do…”

 

“Yes,” I smiled, “I remember this from school…” 

 

“Unfortunately, your pituitary has decided to tell your glands what not to do…”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It would appear that it is producing some manner of hormone that is… er… shutting you down.”

 

Whoa! Rewind. Dr Tall Guy who has a slightly comedic appearance, who sounds not dissimilar to Dracula in a Hammer House of Horror rerun, is telling me that… is telling me I’m…

 

“What does that mean?” suddenly my heart felt like it was beating in my throat. I felt terribly far away. My legs felt damp, my scalp prickly.

 

“At the moment, it would appear that your body is slowly, er, I mean gradually, coming to a halt…”

 

“Which means?” Mum butted in as I tried to assimilate this seemingly simple piece of information.

 

“If this continued without our input, you would probably die within a few months…”

 

He always seemed to stop when he had more to say. He definitely said ‘die’. The doctors that I worked with never said ‘die’. They would always say things like ‘they were doing everything in their power to…’ and ‘don’t go buying any long-playing records…’

 

“But it’s treatable?” I coaxed.

 

“Everything’s treatable,” he enthused, lightening my mental load for the briefest of moments, “It’s just about finding the right treatment for your condition…”

 

“And that treatment would be…er…what exactly?” mum jumped in again.

 

“Well, first of all we have to stop the pituitary doing what it’s doing. And then we have to tell all your glands and organs to get back to business as before.”

 

“And you’re how close are you to doing this?”

 

“We’re working on it just now. Come in next week at this time and we’ll talk about your treatment.”

 

We got up to walk out. I shook his massive hand again, “Thanks,” I spoke quietly but it felt with some determination.

 

“See you next week,” he smiled.

 

We walked out into the cold glare of the outpatients waiting room again.

 

I turned around, opened the door and walked up to the desk where Dr Asanovic had started writing up his notes, “Am I going to die?”

 

“Not if I can help it,” he held my gaze for the few seconds it took me to think about this.

 

“Thanks,” I said as I turned and walked out the door.

 

****

 

On getting home, I retired to my room and lay on my bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. As I was growing up I always imagined the ninety-degree angles in the cracks were waterfalls cascading and crashing on their way to the sea. There was something inevitable about rivers and waterfalls that I loved. You just knew where you were with them. I’d always thought of my life as a river, meandering it’s way fatalistically towards my eventual demise.

 

But this all felt a bit soon. I was still at that carelessly winding stage of riverdom before it gradually straightens out into that wide, slow moving old man…

 

The words that had stood out for me today were ‘I don’t have cancer’, ‘die’ and ‘not if I can help it’.

 

I can’t believe I lied to Claus. What an arse. Anyone can get ill. Anyone. I was forever telling my punters, ‘There but for the grace of God’. Strange given my atheism – but I was sure it was a sentiment I really believed. And now, here I was – Gamekeeper turned Poacher and… what?

 

I didn’t like it.

 

I decided to call Claus tomorrow. All this introspection was doing my fucking head in. Maybe a bit of socialising was just what I needed.

 

I came downstairs early the following day, motivated by the fact that I’d made a decision. Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes red and wet in her sadness. For the first time in years I was seeing her without makeup. She looked older in a way, but at the same time she had more character in her face, like she’d become a real person – not just a mum.

 

“Are you ok?”

 

She looked up as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She moved to stand up, “John...I…you’re not usually up at this time,” her voice shaking through the tears.

 

I rushed to her side, “Mum, it’s ok…it’s ok,” I pulled her head towards me as she wept into my stomach.

 

I stroked her hair, quietly soothing her, “It’s going to be ok… everything’ll be fine…sshhh now, shhh now…”

 

Eventually she stopped crying and looked up at me with a wet snottery smile, “I love you John…”

 

“I know mum, I love you right back,” I tousled her hair as I pulled her towards me again.

 

“I’m going to phone Claus today. You’re right, I could do with getting out of the house.”

 

I knelt down next to her and looked into her lovely face. She grabbed my head and kissed my cheeks and my forehead. She left the kitchen and went up the stairs.

 

“Claus? Hi, it’s John,”

 

Claus responded warmly as ever, “Sorry about yesterday mate, I didn’t know what was going on,”

 

“Don’t worry, that was my fault entirely – I don’t know what I was thinking,”

 

“Ok – what can I do for you?”

 

“Well I was wondering about the social thing you were talking about yesterday.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I was hoping to join,”

 

“John, you need to know…”

 

“What?”

 

“These guys are terminally ill with cancer,”

 

“I thought so,”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“I haven’t got cancer, but I might be terminally ill…” Jesus fucking Christ – this was the first time I’d ever said it to myself or otherwise. The tears began to flow freely.

 

“Do you want to come into the office? It’s better than doing this over the phone.”

 

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

 

Just before I left mum reappeared, fully made-up and mother-looking once again. I held my hand to her face, “Are you ok?”

 

“Don’t make my mascara run,” she laughed, sniffing back the tears.

 

“I’m going along to the hospital now to see Claus.”

 

“What about the famous social work waiting list?”

 

“There’s got to be some perks to this bloody job,” I smiled as I walked out.

 

Claus and I talked at length about what had been going on for me. Everything from being suspended, the pending court case and this mysterious illness.

 

“As I mentioned earlier John, the folk in the social group are terminally ill with cancer,”

 

“Ok? Does that mean I can’t come and play?”

 

“The stuff we do is partly funded by the cancer charities - although the social work department does chuck some cash our way from time to time,”

 

“That’s fine – I’ll pay my way,”

 

“You don’t have to,” he grinned, “Mates rates, ok?”

 

“Ok.”

 

It just so happened that the next social outing was something that I’d been promising to take myself along to for years. Go-kart racing in a funky indoor arena. It had a ‘Grand Prix’ with Champagne and (plastic) laurel leaves and the smell of oil, and the screech of rubber and fireproof suits and, and… a bunch of guys wearing NHS wigs.

 

“I’m Jim,” smiled the tallest of three guys in the small group. He wore an ill-fitting tope wig with no discernable parting. He had no eyebrows or eyelashes. He looked youthful, surprised and burnt all at the same time.

 

He shook my hand vigorously.

“We’re the Ball-Boys,” he laughed as he introduced me to the other two guys who looked remarkably similar to him.

 

“The Ball-Boys?” I smiled as I shook their hands in turn.

 

“”Testicular cancer,” he whispered as if he were letting me in on some gang secret.

 

“Of course,” I smiled back.

 

He told me the names of the other two, but their names didn’t really matter. They were the Ball-Boys and that’s how I would remember them.

 

 We went through all the safety stuff associated with hurling oneself three inches above the track at seventy five miles an hour in a hundred cc racing car. We were told all about the dangers of bad cornering, of crashing and of the petrol tank catching fire and killing you to death.

 

“If I see you driving dangerously, I’ll wave the yellow flag at you. If you do it twice, you’ll get a black flag. If you do it three times – or if you do something really stupid, it’s the red flag, ok?”

 

Geoff, the master of the track, held our attention with consummate ease.

 

There were twelve of us in all. I watched as the NHS wigs bobbed up and down to show their agreement.

 

“Hey John,” whispered one of the Ball-Boys conspiratorially, “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Fuck-all. I’m a social worker – I couldn’t resist the offer of free go-karting,” I kind of winked at him. I’ve never winked at anyone in my life.

 

He looked at me as if he momentarily believed me, “Haaa!” he laughed as he pushed me hard on the shoulder, “Funny cunt.”

 

We all lined up for our fireproof clothing with full-face helmets and manly leather gloves combo.

 

I’d automatically asked for the extra large suit. I knew there was something wrong as I was putting it on. By the time I’d finished pulling up all the zips and assorted fastenings I knew that I looked like a ten-year-old who’d pinched his dads biker leathers.

 

“You look like a prick,” Jim giggled supportively.

 

At least I’ve got my own hair… Best left unsaid, “Cheers,” I smiled lamely.

 

Geoff came to my rescue. He sounded ex-forces as he spoke in his matter of fact way, telling me about the pitfalls of having an ill-fitting outfit.

 

“Blah, blah, blah…fire…blah, blah, blah, horrific burns… blah, blah, blah… death,” I think he said.

 

There is nothing more exhilarating than lining up in your first proper go-karting race. Nothing. We’d had the practice laps. We’d had the qualifying laps. And now… This was the big one.

 

We’d been split into two semi-finals of six. I’d qualified in the middle of the pack. Perfect. I could watch my adversaries, their techniques, their cornering as I carved my way through the field. To be fair, I didn’t have to do much carving. I only had to come third to get myself into the final for a chance for the cup, the Champagne and associated glory.

 

All thoughts of my ridiculous illness had gone. All that mattered now was qualification. I was disappointed to find that the three Ball-Boys, of whom I’d become strangely fond just by virtue of the ridiculous label they’d given themselves, were racing in the other semi-final.

 

My race was wholly uneventful. The three folk behind me found themselves locked in a comedy pile-up that meant I could romp home, still in third, waving to my adoring fans as I crossed the line.

 

“You were magnificent,” Claus smiled at me as I pulled myself out of my car.

 

“You didn’t fancy a bit of petrol head action yourself?” I asked, looking at my astonishingly well turned out ex-workmate.

 

“In these shoes?” he laughed.

 

“No, maybe you’re right,” As the laughter subsided I became all too aware that, from here on in, I was the client.

 

I watched the second semi-final, impressed at how the Ball-Boys worked as a team to support each other around the track doing everything in their power to ensure the success of their team-mates. Even if it meant using sneaky blocking techniques. The crafty blighters. This is what I was going to be up against in the final.

 

The track, being indoors, was pretty bendy to accommodate a reasonable distance for each lap. There was only one place, at the end of the long straight at the end of the lap, where courage would come in handy. If I could brake later than the opposition then I could take them on the tight curve at the end. Obviously, if I went too fast, or braked too late then I’d make a complete arse of myself by crashing into the tyres.

 

My heart was in my mouth at the start. I couldn’t believe that my waving to the adoring fans had cost me valuable time which meant I’d found myself in last place on the grid. Never mind, I had a cunning plan that would demonstrate my superiority over my fellow drivers.

 

Stay close, brake late on the last straight, overtake just before the last tight bend – job done. The final was ten laps long, so I’d have plenty of chances.

Quite surprisingly for any plan of mine, it appeared to be working. I overtook the two folk from my semi-final in the first two laps. I imagined their look of surprise as I raced past them at the end of the straight and over the finishing line.

 

Now for the Ball-Boys.

 

I knew they worked as a team. They’d be aware that I was moving up the field, so they’d be ready for me. True enough, for the next couple of laps I was successfully blocked by two of them going round the final bend in parallel which meant there was really no way through.

 

Fuck this. These cars have bumpers for a reason. As we approached the bend at the end of the 8^th lap, I could see them both braking, blocking my way completely. Not this time though. Where they were braking, I was accelerating. I knew that the guy on the inside of the curve needed to slow down the most to get round the corner, so I rammed hard into him from behind. All too late he braked hard, his wheels locked as his car went into a skid, running into his team mate in the outside, allowing me a free path straight past them on the inside.

 

Geoff waved the black flag angrily at me. At least it wasn’t the red.

 

I had no idea which two I’d taken out with my expert manoeuvre, but I imagined that Jim was to be all that stood between me and the top of that podium. He’d taken advantage of the blocking techniques of his fellow Ball-Boys and had taken quite a lead on me.

 

I braked later than him at the end of the ninth lap, but was still too far ahead to sneak past.

 

Stay close, brake late on the last straight, overtake just before the last tight bend – job done. I kept playing my mantra through my head.

 

As we came into the final straight on the last lap he was still too far ahead. I wasn’t going to be able to brake late enough to sneak past him on that final corner.

 

And then I was struck by a thought.

 

Fuck it – I’m going to die anyway.

 

I’m not terribly sure what was on my mind as I pressed my foot hard on the accelerator instead of even considering the brake.

 

Jim was just going around the apex of that last bend as I ran straight into the side of his Kart doing God knows what speed. Thankfully, the frame of his vehicle was up to such a crazy impact.

 

Although my frame showed similar resilience, physics was clearly against me. My go-kart somersaulted over his and the protective tyres around the track and crashed into the wall of the building with a sickening crunch.

 

I was surprised. Surprised to be alive, relatively unharmed and conscious. I was also surprised at what a cock I’d been. Most of all, I was shocked at this strangely competitive John that had manifested himself over the course of the two races.

 

It had been Jim in the Kart in front. He’d managed to limp over the finishing line before the other two caught up.

 

Once Geoff established I was ok, he disqualified me and banned me for life from his indoor karting arena. I took my punishment on the chin. Fair enough, I’d been a complete arse.

 

As I gazed upon the wonderful sight of the three Ball-Boys standing together on the podium, spraying cheap Cava all over each other, laughing and cheering, I realised I’d had no right to break that up. They had been pulled together in this wonderful bit of fun that Claus had laid on for us.

 

I’d nearly wrecked it.

 

“You twat!” Jim cuffed me round the head in the car-park afterwards, “What were you thinking?”

 

There was something wonderfully intimate in a relationship where a guy, who I hardly knew, felt comfortable enough to hit me in a boyish fashion whilst insulting me with a lower order expletive.

 

“I don’t know, Jim, I guess I wanted to win…”

 

The other two gave me that, ‘You dozy arse’ look as they all climbed into Jim’s car. I waved them off, at the same time having a very strange feeling of belonging.

 

“John, what the fuck were you doing,” Claus didn’t normally swear, I must have really pissed him off.

 

“I have no idea – I was kind of overwhelmed by a feeling that…”

 

“That what?”

 

“…I dunno, it’s weird…”

 

“Go on,”

 

“That it’s ok to try my hardest – even if I might make a mess of it – does that make sense?”

 

“Yes… you’re talking about your illness,”

 

“Yeah – also, slightly more alarmingly, I thought, ‘what the fuck, I might be dead tomorrow,’ that’s not good, is it?”

 

“Don’t worry, John, no-one was killed, injured, maimed or burnt to death,” he smiled kindly.

 

“No, I suppose not,”

 

“I’ve got to tell you something…” Claus suddenly blurted.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You know Geoff?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“He refused to take a penny off me for the groups’ go-karting.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I think he felt – kind of sorry for you all – maybe he thought by not charging he was helping just a little bit,”

 

“Do you think?”

 

“Yeah – I know it sounds a bit patronising,”

 

“No, not at all… not at all. You know what it makes me think though?”

 

“No, what?”

 

“Terminally ill – licensed to kill!” I grinned only slightly demonically.

 

“Oh my God!” he laughed, followed by, “Drive carefully,” as he ushered me into the old Ford Fiesta.

 

 

****

 

Unfortunately the highs I experienced from the festival of speed were soon to be washed away with the abject misery of the limbo that my life had become.

 

Do I have a job? Am I going to the jail? Will I ever have sex again? And, probably more pressing, was I going to die?

 

“Jen? Hi, it’s me, I was wondering if we could go out for a drink… as mates … I won’t even look at you with my ‘let’s go to bed now’ eyes…” there was a slight pause while I reconsidered my monologue on Jens answer machine, there might still be a way in; never, never shut that door, “I can’t promise that I won’t give you my, ‘let’s go to bed later’ look…” fuck, how am I going to finish this without sounding desperate?

 

“I promise I won’t go off in a strop when you try to fix me up with someone…er, and I definitely promise never to make you play Subbuteo again…I’m sorry… Can you just call me, please.”

 

Great, at least I didn’t offer her money.

 

Today was yet another big day in my life. Today I was going to meet the bloodsucking lawyer, Rubin Chumley-Smythe.

 

When I was learning the dark art that is social work, we were taught that to be non-judgemental was a good thing. We’d come across all kinds of clients in our line of work who had already been judged by society, the people around them and very often themselves.

 

“What do we give our clients that no-one else does,” my tutor, Alex Reid, asked me over a pile of cases one day.

 

Eager to please as ever and, completely ignoring the social work teaching mantra, ‘There’s no right answer’, coz, to be frank, there fucking was a right answer every time, I burbled, “Money? Er…time…?”

 

“We give them unconditional love, John. Unconditional love…” he sounded ministerial in his delivery.

 

And there it was, left hanging there. Fuck, he might give his punters unconditional love – the best they were going to get out of me was ‘conditional like’.

 

I agreed with Alex whole-heartedly to the point of sycophancy. I’d give him unconditional love. Fuck, I’d give him a blow-job if it meant passing the course.

 

The thing was, while we were giving our punters our fucking souls, we were allowed to hold other professionals – doctors, police and, most of all, solicitors, with roughly the same regard one would normally hold for that bit of dog shit that’s got stuck in the finer bit of tread in your shoe. That bit of dog shit that you have to gouge out using an unfurled paper clip.

 

“John? Please, sit down. Can I get you a coffee,” Rubin wasn’t half the cunt I was expecting.

 

“Thanks… coffee would be great…lots of sugar and milk…everything to excess!” I smiled lamely at my own personal put-down.

 

Rubin was twice the man I’d expected. He was built not unlike a tank. At around five foot ten he was as broad as he was tall. His head was shaved right down to the bone and he had the most lovely, crystal clear, blue eyes I’d ever seen. I’d expected a four-stone, bespectacled oik with greasy hair and…

 

“Tell me…” he said as he sat down stuffing one of the chocolate biscuits, that had made a welcome appearance along with the coffee, into his mouth, “…everything.” As expected, I was sprinkled with the chocolate and crunchy bits as they sprayed from his mouth.

 

“Everything” in my opinion, had been a poor choice of word.

 

He sat patiently, sipping his tea and munching his biscuits while I decanted my stripy-haired woman story. 

 

“Mitigation?” he asked through slurped tea.

 

“I’m a twat?”

 

“Something that we could wave in front of the judiciary?” he smiled.

 

“What sort of thing are you looking for?”

 

“Stress, illness… that kind of thing…”

 

“So we’ve decided I’m guilty?” I wasn’t sure if I was feigning pain.

 

“John, if I had glasses I’d be peering over them in a headmasterly way at you – let’s not waste time – you’re guilty,”

 

At least I knew where I stood.

 

“Is work stressful? Being a social worker can’t be easy. Did you know that a third of your fine profession are on anti-depressants?”

 

“Doesn’t surprise me – I’m afraid I’m not one of them though.”

 

It was like we were playing some kind of weird game. The thing was… the thing was I was holding 4 aces and for some reason I was reluctant to play them.

 

“Home life?” he was writing on an A4 pad – so far he didn’t have much more than my name and address and the word ‘Guilty’ encircled and written in capitals.

 

“I…er…I might be terminally ill…” I mumbled apologetically.

 

“Really!” I would have preferred for him to sound less happy.

 

“I’m not sure though – they might be able to treat it…”

 

“What have you got?” he was very interested now, leaning forward, scribbling on his pad.

 

“I’ve no idea – it might be something to do with my hormones…” that didn’t sound very terminal now that I’d said it.

 

“In what way might it be terminal?”

 

I knew he was trying to get a clear idea of what was going on for me, but really, what a shit question, “In the ‘It might kill me’ kind of way…”

 

He met my gaze, screwed up his nose and nodded to acknowledge the stupidity of his question, “What are the symptoms?”

 

“Weight loss mainly,”

 

“Loss of appetite?”

 

“No,”

 

“And your still losing weight?”

 

“Yes,”

 

“And you’re definitely not depressed?”

 

“Well – not so much depressed – I sort of wander along in a kind of bubble of denial, you know?”

 

He nodded, “Yeah…”

 

“Every so often though – I’m struck with absolute fucking panic – a huge lurch in my stomach…”

 

“Hmm…” he was scribbling and drawing circles around key words, with lines joining the bubbles of his thoughts.

 

“You know what I think?”

 

“Tell me…”

 

“Illness, first time offender, suspension from work…Diversion scheme!” He threw his pen down in satisfaction.

 

“Diversion scheme?” I kind of knew about these from my colleagues.

 

“Yep, instead of going to court, I write to the procurator fiscal with your details – outlining your situation and I’ll suggest the scheme to them…”

 

“What does it mean?”

 

“It depends on the social worker who takes you on…”

 

“Social worker! Are you taking the piss?”

 

“No. You have a problem with that?”

“I’m a fucking social worker! I’d feel a complete arse being told what to do by somebody I might have trained with on some half-baked probation scheme…”

 

“Or you could go to court and be made an example of…”

 

“Really?”

 

Rubin nodded sagely.

 

I swallowed my words, “Half-baked probation scheme it is then,”

 

He wrote in silence for a while and, without looking up, he said, “There’s more coffee there if you want it,” pointing at the coffee maker on my side of the desk.

 

I poured a cup for each of us. I was struck with a thought, “Rubin?”

 

“John?” he was in that comfort zone that could only be brought on by the knowledge that the case was going to be very straightforward.

 

“I didn’t know I was ill when I wandered through her handbag…”

 

He smiled broadly, “John, that doesn’t matter – you must have known something was wrong – you’d lost 2 stone for no reason for God’s sake,”

 

He had a point.

 

At the back of my mind a small voice began to shout – ‘You’re terminally ill – you can do what the fuck you like!’

 

****

 

“We don’t think your pituitary is producing anything it shouldn’t,” Dr Asanovic looked genuinely puzzled.

 

“Is that good?”

 

“Well, it’s good in that we know it’s not your pituitary that’s broken…”

 

“It’s bad isn’t it?”

 

He sighed, “Yes…yes it is. There appears to be a hormone-type thing travelling around your endocrine system that isn’t going away,”

 

“And should it?”

 

“Well, yes, these things are normally excreted through the urine and – since it doesn’t appear to be being produced anywhere… it shouldn’t be there.”

 

“But it is,” I was aware that mum had her head in her hands with her elbows on the desk next to me.

We sat in silence for a while. Was I in shock? I couldn’t feel anything. This all felt like an academic exercise. It felt as if we were talking about someone else.

 

“Have you, er, identified the chemical – hormone thing that’s causing all the damage?”

 

“Well, I er…” he looked furtive, “We can only hypothesise it’s there because of what it’s doing…”

 

“So we don’t really know?” since when did I become ‘we’?

 

“Am I going to starve to death?”

 

“No – no!!” he came back brightly, “Your other organs will have failed before then…”

 

He wasn’t really a people person. Endocrinologist? I imagined him spending many a happy hour wandering around his lab in his white coat, gazing at the variety of interesting specimens he had floating in formaldehyde in bell jars on dusty shelves. I imagined my face peering back at him from my hermetically sealed home.

 

“Fuck…” I knew I should be upset. I knew I should be crying – wailing at the top of my voice. I should have been pleading with the gigantic doctor to do something, anything to save me. I felt nothing. I thought briefly about Claus and the Ball-Boys and go-karting.

 

“We’ll…er, keep taking blood and urine from you… to er… monitor the situation,” his eye contact had become very poor – he was staring at anything apart from me.

 

“What do we do now?” mum seemed as stunned as me.

 

“Come in again at this time next week…” he was trying to sound upbeat, but it sounded contrived.

 

“Sure…” he seemed terribly far away.

 

****

 

“Claus?” I needed to get out and about so I phoned my link to a social life.

 

“John? How are you?”

 

“Er… weird really… Have you got anything entertaining for me to do?”

 

“Well, the social group meet up at Malt Shovel on Saturdays – there should be a crowd of them there this weekend. They usually get there about 8ish… I er, I’m sure they’d make you very welcome,”

 

“You sound a bit unsure…”

 

“Yeah, well, after your er, over-exuberance on the racing track, I think a few of them think you’re a, er, a bit of a…”

 

“…cock?”

 

“Pretty much – the Ball-Boys thought you were great though.”

 

“Did they? Even after I tried to kill them?”

 

“Especially after you tried to kill them!” Claus laughed.

 

“Excellent – I’ll be there at 8.30 then.”

 

I put the phone down and, strangely, I felt great. I felt excited. They liked me even after my little psychopathic foible. 

 

“Jim?” I found Jim and Ball-Boy number one sitting in a little nook away from the rest of the guys.

 

“John,” he nodded to the empty chair next to him for me to sit.

 

“Can I get you a…”

 

“No, we’re fine,” he said lifting his near full glass.

 

This was shit! I’d been so excited about coming out – I’d been talking to mum about little else all week. And now here I was – and these two looked fucking miserable. No, I wasn’t going to buy into it. I wasn’t going to ask them what was wrong. I was here for a good night.

 

“Did you see the Baggies got humped today?”

 

“Who? John, what are you talking about?” Jim seemed agitated.

 

“The Baggies – West Brom – they got hammered today?”

 

They both continued staring at their pints. Fuck this, I wasn’t going to be defeated, “Where’s … er… wotsisname?” I meant Ball-Boy three.

 

“Dead. He’s dead. He died yesterday – fucking cardiac failure,”

 

“I er… fuck…I’m sorry…I didn’t realise…” I thought he’d gone to the bog.

 

That strange light-headed feeling came back. Suddenly it wasn’t all a game. Suddenly I was horribly fallible. Is this what it was going to be like? We’re all just going to stare into our pints until we die?

 

Not me. Not me.

 

“Not me!” I was fucking angry.

“Eh? Calm down, son,”

 

“Sorry mate, I just…I just can’t believe it…” this was crazy, as a social worker I dealt with death on a regular basis. But here it was really visiting me. Taunting me. Mocking me.

 

I downed the rest of my pint in silence.

 

“I’m off – to either of you guys want..?” I gestured at their empty glasses.

 

“No, John, we’re fine just now thanks – see you later.” Jim spoke – he was solid, dependable.

 

I was so angry. So scared. What next? I walked home from town. I had to clear my thoughts.

 

I was dying. I knew I was dying. No matter what vague protestations Dr Asanovic might make to the contrary – this was it.

 

When I was growing up, I’d have conversations with mum about times when I wasn’t there. Before I was born. Cognitively, that really isn’t that tricky a notion. Human beings come and go. The great circle of life and all that.

 

But trying to imagine my non-existence. Not being. The same old feelings of panic – palpitations – quickened breath – cold sweat – came to me. This time I chose to stay with it.

 

What is life? What is living? What am I? I’m a bunch of cells – not the same bunch of cells that were around when I was born – they’d been used up and spat out and replaced long ago. So where is me? Where do I exist within this degenerating- regenerating mass?

 

Do brain cells come and go? Am I my brain – that watery grey mass contained in my skull?

 

I can’t be my brain. If I was purely my brain then I’d be aware of all things at all times. I wouldn’t miss things because I was concentrating on something else – I would be omnipresent in my brain at all times.

 

I imagined a huge library. I am not the library – I am the guy standing on one of those ladders on wheels looking for books – looking for bits of information – looking for reason – constantly trying to make sense of everything.

 

I think therefore I am. Funny, I can’t think that thought without it’s parody, ‘I’m pink, therefore I’m spam’ following close behind.

 

I am my conscious mind then. I am me – now – here – in the present. No, no, no – that can’t be right. Why then does ones’ past have an unconscious – at times – effect on ones’ present?

 

What happens if no-one else exists? What happens if this is all some elaborate mental hoax set up by my own infinite mind for my own entertainment?

 

No John, that’s called ‘egocentrism’, I can be a little self obsessed at times, but…

 

What about religion? What about those millions of people who believe in their Gods. The same people who believe in the after life. Fuck, even the seemingly non-religious Buddhists believe we keep coming back for another shot until we get it right.

 

But then what? I get absorbed into a huge mental mass somewhere – no longer an individual, just a bit of homogenised thought mixing in with the rest. Surely that’s as bad as not existing?

 

It is better to live one single day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep.

 

Where the fuck had that come from?

 

Have I been living at all? Too scared not to live with mum. Too scared to do a job that was outside the local authority where the salary was ok, the working conditions were fine, the pension scheme was ok… Afraid to complain. Afraid to point out the problems in the machine. Just keep your head down and get on with it. Don’t rock the boat.

 

Don’t ask girls out – they might turn you down. Go out with those nice ones who approach you.

 

Fuck  - a life of Subbuteo fucking finger. Too scared to live – but absolutely terrified of dying.

 

All these thoughts. These feelings of terror. Doubt – fucking doubt presenting as a brick wall at the end of every potential escape route.

 

Paralysis. Total mental paralysis. Just let it happen. It’s inevitable. You can’t fight it – it will be.

 

That’s how I fell asleep. These thousands of thoughts whizzing around in my mind. I had the most spectacular dreams that night. I was a lead character in an action-packed life. I took control – I raced in fast cars – I punched the bad guys and I moved in on the women that I wanted to move in on. I was well dressed and handsome – the world was all mine for the taking. I was supremely confident in all my actions – mental cul-de-sacs didn’t exist.

 

“I thought we’d go to the shops together today,” mum said as she popped my scrambled eggs and toast in front of me.

 

Yes, why not? Seize the day!

 

“Ok, where are we going,” seize the day if it’s ok with everyone else…

 

“There’s that designer clothing outlet – they’ve got tonnes of cheap clothes there. I thought we could have a look together instead of…”

 

Yeah, instead of me waiting for the next visitation of the clothing pixies as they took away my larger clothes replacing them with smaller ones as I gradually vanished. I need to take control. If this means being involved in what I wear then that’s a start.

 

“Great, let’s do that.”

 

As usual, mum climbed into the drivers’ seat. She’d been driving me everywhere recently. It was like I’d completely absolved myself of all responsibility as I allowed her to take control of every facet of my life.

 

“Do you mind if I drive?” Today is the beginning of the rest of your life.

 

She momentarily froze. I saw a smile dance on her lips as she pulled the keys out of the ignition and handed them to me, “Sure, there you go.”

 

It felt great driving. The day was more vibrant. Clearer somehow. I was more aware of everything. I was less absorbed in myself. The sun held it’s own in a startlingly blue sky. I opened the windows as I drove – a gale force wind blew in – but it was the world – it was refreshing and, God, it was welcome.

 

As was always the case with car parks at venues such as this, there wasn’t a space to be seen. So kerb-crawling was the order of the day as we hunted that oh-so-rare creature – the parking space.

 

As was always the case in situations such as these – you spend hours waiting for one and then a hundred (well, two in this case) come up at once.

 

Since there were two spaces, I was more than happy to flash the guy in the silver Audi in to park first. I smiled to myself as he parked across the two spaces initially. Obviously he’d misjudged in his haste and…

 

He’d stepped out of the car. He was leaving his car like that.

 

“Hey,” I shouted, not angrily, but firmly, after him, “Are you gonna leave your car like that? There’s two spaces there…”

 

He came over and smiled in the window, “I know – I’m sorry – it’s not my car, I don’t want the doors getting bumped – you know what these places are like…”

 

And, with that, he walked off.

 

“Mum, could you get out of the car?”

 

She did so – she obviously thought I’d miscalculated the size of the mighty Fiesta, “John, I don’t think it’ll fit…”

 

“Don’t worry, mum,” I said brightly.

 

I reversed the car about a hundred metres back from the double parking space now occupied by ‘someone else’s’ car.

 

I popped into first gear and slammed my foot down, then second. I only just managed to get into third as I smashed into the back passenger side of the Audi. Fuck, that was one heavy car! I’d managed to shunt the back so that it only occupied one space – but the front was still hanging over into mine.

 

I pulled the drivers airbags out of the way and backed up again. Not so far this time – this demanded more precision than force.

 

As I rammed in the second time I managed to bounce the Audi into a space of it’s own. Christ, it was still a bit tight – I’d have to climb out the passenger door.

 

Ok, that was an odd thing to do. But fuck, I was tired of being pissed on – I was sick of being polite – I was tired of being subservient – most of all though, I was angry.

 

Why can’t some other fucker be terminally ill?

 

I saw Mr “Somebody else’s car” walking towards me – he looked angry. He also looked big. Not big like the worlds fattest man – more big like a rugby player who could crush my skull with one hand.

 

Bring it on.

 

As I stalked towards him I saw mum step in between us. I couldn’t see what was going on because her back was towards me. I could see her hand was on his chest – like she was gently holding him back. In seconds his angry gesticulations changed – he was rubbing the back of his neck – she gave him something and he turned and walked away before I could confront him.

 

“What did you say to him?” Accusatory.

 

She was crying, “John, I told him you were dying…”

 

“What, and he just walked off?”

 

“…and I gave him my phone number so he can claim on my insurance,”

 

“It was his fault…” I started lamely. He started it…

 

“You’ve destroyed the car…”

 

“Not quite destroyed – the passenger door still opens,” I felt the uninvited caress of humour take control.

 

“Oh John…” she pulled me to her and held me tightly.

 

I was laughing. I was crying.

 

“Can I still get some clothes?”

 

“I think we can afford some socks for you,” she smiled.

 

“What’s happening to me, mum?” I snivvled into her hair.

 

****

 

Claus listened quietly and intently as I decanted my sorry tale. His office, like him was meticulously presented. A place for everything and everything in its place.

 

“How did you get home?”

 

So typical of him. I’m on the edge of carking it, and he’s worried about transport.

 

“Mum phoned a friend, she came and got us…” then, as an afterthought, “It was all a bit of a mess.”

 

We sat in a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes.

 

“This is all normal, John,”

 

“Normal! Normal? I feel fucking mad. Sometimes I’m so angry I could kill – sometimes I’m so sad… I’m so, so sad… that… only my mum can help,” I felt a flush of embarrassment at that little revelation.

 

“Other times, I don’t feel anything. Nothing. It’s like the world isn’t real. Shit, it’s like I’m not real…”

 

“How do you feel now?”

 

“Ok, I guess – a little wired to be honest.”

 

“Do you think you’re dying?”

 

Denial kicked in immediately. I closed my eyes to allow it to wash over me. Did I think I was dying? Was this really it?

 

“Yes,” definite, “I’m pretty sure this is it…”

 

“Ok, ok… go and talk to your mum, your friends…Tell them about your thoughts. Talk to them. Then come back, and you and I can talk some more.”

 

“Talk?”

 

“You’re a social worker – it’s what you do,”

 

“You’re right,” and then to persuade me, “You’re right.

 

Just as I was about to walk out the door Claus called after me, “Oh, I’ve got some free tickets for the zoo – do you want to come with some of the others…”

 

“To see depressed animals locked up in cages?”

 

“Yes,”

 

“Too right I do – wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

When I got home I felt strangely alive. Invigorated. Fired up to make the most of my remaining time.

 

“Hi Jen,” phone message number God knows what, “Me again. Are you dead? Call me – you’ve got my mobile… text me … anything. Time’s a little …er… short.”

 

 Was that blackmail? Manipulation? I was past caring. I just wanted to see her – even if it was just once.

 

“What are you doing?” Mum looked over my shoulder as I busied myself on the home computer.

 

“Nothing… well, not actually nothing … I’m making some labels,”

 

“For what?”

 

“You’ll see… or maybe you er, won’t,”

 

“Ok… it’s nothing that’s going to get you into trouble, is it?”

 

“Hmmm?” none committal.

 

“You’re a bugger,” she cuffed me and walked off.

 

At that moment I was struck by the feeling of freedom. The freedom that only being terminally ill can give you. I could do anything. I had to right some wrongs.

 

One of the things that pissed me off the most in life was driving. Well, not driving in and of itself. It was my fellow road users that caused me more than a little consternation. To my mind it was those bastard van and lorry drivers who just didn’t give a toss about their fellow road users who should be the main recipients of my wrath.

 

Within this broad church were the sneaky marketing shits who emblazon their fleets of vans with “How am I driving?”, “Driven well?” and the like followed with “Call 0800 whatever…”

 

So, you’d phone them and they’d give you some advertising spiel about logistics or some other word stolen from our fair language to become utterly meaningless.

 

These people really got on my tits.

 

My revenge was simple.

 

It was quite good fun for a time too.

 

Wherever I saw one of these vans, trucks or lorries I would strike with my self-adhesive labels. A4 size so that they were easy to read.

 

“Driven like a Cunt? Call…”   

 

I’d made hundreds. I was amazed at how unobservant some drivers were, as I jumped out of my car at traffic lights, as I crossed the road, as I found them parked up on the side of the road to stick on my signs.

 

My crusade was relentless.

 

****

 

 

“You’ve done what??” I think Jim was laughing after I told him about my labelling of others.

 

“Yeah, keep your eyes open – sometimes it takes them days to spot it…” We were standing next to the ring-tailed lemurs. I quite liked their enclosure – it had all the bits and pieces they need to have a reasonable life. Things to climb on, things to play with and occasional sun so they could do that sitting on their bum thing with their arms and legs open, basking in it.

 

“You’ll get your heid kicked in…” he smiled.

 

“I know – but now I’ve kind of embraced this dying thing – I don’t care – live life to the full. Like every day’s your last!” Borderline evangelical.

 

He still looked unconvinced.

 

“We’re indestructible! We’re dying – we’ve got fuck all to lose – I mean – see that portable chemical loo there?” I pointed at a structure that resembled Dr Who’s Tardis, “Claus has just gone in there – what would be funnier than pushing it over while he’s on the bog?”

 

Jim looked unsure.

 

I took that as encouragement as I charged into the side of the toilet. Fuck, it was sturdier than I thought. I managed to get momentum going by rocking it – and then finally jumping in the air as it toppled onto the ground with a satisfying thud.

 

“You pushed it over onto the door!” I heard Claus’s voice next to me.

 

“I take it you’re not in there…” I said casually, eying the prone cubicle.

 

“No,”

 

“Shit!”

 

“Indeed.”

 

There came a sad female groan from inside.

 

“Oh God…could you give me a hand to get it up again?”

 

Jim and Claus looked at each other with anguish? Resigned acceptance? Whatever, they chose to give me a hand.

 

Sadly, getting the old blue box back to its feet was significantly harder than knocking it over had been.

 

After much futile gruntings and groanings, Claus took control, “We’ll have to roll it so we can get the door open.”

 

As we rolled it, I was struck with a mental image of a sad old woman being rotated in a washing machine filled with shit and chemicals.

 

As it was, I hadn’t been terribly off the mark. She opened the door, rising up out of it like some astronaut who’d landed in the middle of the zoo. The poor woman, she must have been in her fifties, her sensible dress was matted with shit and some toxic smelling blue chemical.

 

Before I had the chance to stammer my apologies, Claus and Jim, in unison, pointed at me and said, “It was him…”

****

 

“So you’re banned from the zoo now?” We were at the kitchen table again. The home of many a recent profound discussion. Mum seemed to appear more and more tired as I grew thinner and thinner.

 

“Well…no, not really. True, I was thrown out of the zoo – but technically, well, I’m not sure if I’ve been banned exactly,” if I’d been in sales, I don’t think anybody would have bought one.

 

Mum ran her fingers through her hair, “Not exactly banned – but thrown out?”

 

“You could phone them and tell them I’m dying?”

 

“Alternatively?” she was playing hardball.

 

“Have you seen Jen recently?”

 

“No – have you two fallen out?”

 

“I’m not sure – I think she might have though. D’you think you could get her to give me a call next time you see her?”

 

I wasn’t quite living up to my earlier ‘seize the day’ attitude.

 

“Have you tried phoning her?”

 

“Yeah…” was I sulking?

 

“What did she say?”

 

“Well… nothing – she doesn’t pick up the phone,”

 

“Maybe she doesn’t want to speak to you?”

 

No shit.

 

“Yeah, maybe she doesn’t?”

 

“Have you done anything to offend her?”

 

My mind instantly flashed through all the activities of that first night. Was it actually possible to offend Jen?

 

“I don’t think so…”

 

****

 

Dr Asanovic looked more upbeat today. He positively grinned as he met us and eagerly encouraged me to sit.

 

“Good news?” I cut straight to the chase.

 

Suddenly he looked pensive. I was worried that he might be a bit pissed that I’d dived in so quickly without any of the usual social niceties. Then I remembered who I was talking to – the man whose best friend was a bell jar.

 

“Better news,” he said after some consideration.

 

We sat in silence.

 

“Better news?” I prompted.

 

He looked as if he was in pain. It was almost as if he’d regretted his earlier positive demeanour.

 

“Yes…yes. We’ve, er, identified the substance in you that appears to be causing the trouble.”

 

More silence.

 

“And that substance is?” Mum sounded exasperated.

 

“It’s a hormone,” he started definitely, “But not one I’ve ever seen before – nor is it one any of my colleagues have encountered before…”

 

Silence.

 

I closed my eyes in an attempt to encourage time to pass. Surely that wasn’t it? Surely he had something else to say?

 

“It’s very clever, you see – it’s like it’s protecting itself. Ordinarily hormones only last in the body for a finite time before they’re excreted. But this… this by its very existence has stopped your body from doing this – by switching off the very processes that would remove it.”

 

More silence.

 

“And this is good… sorry, I mean better news?”

 

“Yes… I think we will try a blood transfusion,”

 

“A blood transfusion?” mum and I chorused.

 

“Yes, if there is nothing in your system producing this… er… substance, then it should stand to reason that when the blood currently in your system is removed…”

 

“…the substance will also be removed?” If he’s doing a paper on this, he’d better be naming this stuff after me.

 

“Yes.”

 

“So this blood transfusion?” mum had really perked up.

 

“Yes?”

 

“When will that happen?”

 

“Well, we can do that today.”

 

When I got home I felt kind of strange. Dissatisfied – as if something had been taken away from me. Something in me had been released at the prospect of dying. And now – was that all going to change back to as it had been before? Would I have a court case? Would I have to go back to work? What about living for the day?

 

Then it dawned on me. Maybe Jen had been avoiding me because she didn’t know what to say. I knew that in my job it was one thing to deal with a client who was dying – but illness and stuff like that was altogether different in friends and relatives.

 

“Hi Jen, come on, pick up, it’s me again… There’s a Dr Asanovic at the hospital – he’s given me a blood transfusion… he thinks I’m going to be ok… Could you call me back?”

 

I put the phone down. I realised what a long shot it was – thinking that Jen couldn’t talk to me because I was ill. She’s a nurse for fuck’s sake. She sees this kind of stuff every day. She just doesn’t want to spend time with me. That’s the beginning and end of the story.

 

My ‘Driven like a Cunt?’ campaign continued. If it was ok to stick labels on vehicles when I thought I was dying, it was ok to do it even on the off chance that I wasn’t.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

I’d found this particular white van parked half on the road and half on the pavement – a behaviour I particularly loathed. I was merrily sticking my sticker when I was approached by the angry looking and stocky owner of the vehicle.

 

“I was, er, just sticking…” and then everything went black.

 

He’d punched me. He’d punched me bloody hard mainly on the left cheek – his large fist taking in parts of my nose and upper lip.

 

I came round almost instantly. As my vision gradually came back I was able to watch the van drive off without my sticker attached. I could taste blood in my mouth and my nose felt crusty and larger than it had been before.  

 

By the looks of it, I hadn’t been lying on the ground. I was sitting squarely on my arse as the van disappeared from view.

 

Maybe stealth sticking was more the order of the day.

 

****

 

“John?”

 

“Yes!” I tried and failed to hide my excitement, “Jen, how are you? Where have you been? Are you ok?”

 

I could hear her chuckle into her phone, “I’m fine… I’ve just been busy – I’ve been doing a lot of overtime and, er, a bit of socialising,”

 

“Socialising?”

 

“Well, shagging mainly. How are you? How did the blood transfusion go? Do you feel any better?”

 

It was my turn to chuckle, “Well, I’ve put on half a stone in a week – that’s got to be a good thing, eh?”

 

“John, that’s fantastic – d’you fancy going out for a drink – the Black Bull after work?”

 

“Is that a euphemism?”

 

“No – a drink – you and me catching up – as friends, ok?”

 

“Ok,” I didn’t care – I was so excited about seeing her. She was so full of life and energy – I just wanted to bask a little in that.

 

“That’s some black eye you’ve got,” over the past few days the bruising had come out in blues and purples and yellows across my face. My eye was still a little bloodshot.

 

“Yeah,” I touched my face gingerly, “There’s a story attached to that…”

 

She laughed as I recounted my tales of living while I was dying. At times she squealed with laughter – at others she covered her face in anticipation of disaster. God, she was beautiful. Beautiful and lovely.

 

Before there had always been an edge to her. In retrospect she’d always seemed distracted – thinking about the next thing. But here, for the first time I think, she was giving me the real her.

 

“So, how’s the, er, research going?”

 

“The shagging?” she understood me oh so well.

 

“Yeah,”

 

“My work here is done.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah,” she looked serious, “I think it was something I had to get out of my system,”

 

“Funny, isn’t it?”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Well, most folk get that kind of thing out of their system by their early twenties,”

 

She shrugged non-commitaly.

 

“Or,” I was sure I was onto something here, “unless, like me, something’s happened to you in recent times to make you think ‘fuck it – I’ll do what I want’ – what do you think?”

 

Very briefly she coughed and reddened and looked away. Had I touched a nerve?

 

“I, er, no…no, I don’t think so…” she was genuinely flustered, “Maybe it was stress at work or something.”

 

“D’you think?”

 

“Maybe…” completely unconvincing.

 

I was suddenly struck with the notion that I knew hardly anything about Jen. Sure, I knew she was a nurse, I knew she had a kick-ass attitude and I knew she was an enthusiast in all things fornicatory. Beyond that though…

 

“Are you ok?” she still looked unsettled, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

 

“I’m fine…really,” were those tears forming in her eyes?

 

“Jen?” I was touched by this sudden sign of vulnerability. I reached out my hand and gently cradled her face. She leaned into my hand and, oh so gently, kissed my palm. She held my hand to her face for some time. Her tears were running freely now.

 

She took my face in her hands and kissed my cheeks and my eyes. I found the wetness of her face strangely arousing – but more, much more than that for the first time I realised that this was so much more than sex. I wanted to look after her. I wanted to protect her. From what, I had no idea. Her barriers were down and here, in front of me, was the real Jen. And for that moment…just for that moment she was mine.

 

She kissed my mouth with terrible urgency. It was like she needed the intimacy, the closeness of my face against hers. I could smell her skin, I could feel her breath against my face as she continued her kissing journey.

 

Abruptly, she stopped.

 

She looked torn, “John, I can’t do this,” her hands were clenched in tight fists on my shirt. She briefly shook me before pushing me away.

 

I stroked her face with the back of my fingers, her skin was oh so soft, “Jen, you don’t have to do anything,”

 

She stood up and took my head in her hands. She bent down and kissed my forehead. I could hear her inhaling me.  

 

“John I…” and with that she turned and left. She did that funny walk-trot thing that folk experiencing mental distress that they’d rather hide did.

 

I watched as she left the Black Bull. I knew she wouldn’t thank me for chasing after her. It could wait, I thought. This had been vastly more intense than that first night of passion and weird exploration. This could wait. She’d settle down over the next couple of days and we’d get to talk about what happened here.

 

The following day I woke up feeling incredibly nauseous. I rushed to the bathroom and only just made it as I vomited into the toilet. I felt awful – completely toxic. I held onto the toilet rim. The room was spinning. I was vaguely aware of mum appearing behind me. I was comforted in a childlike way as she held my forehead and whispered reassurances in my ear. I could still hear her gentle words as I passed out on the floor.

 

I woke up to find mum sitting next to me clutching my hand. I was in a hospital bed in ward of six men.

 

“John,” she whispered, “How are you feeling?”

 

My mouth felt dry, I felt wretched, “Mum, I think I’m in love…” I murmured. Even talking felt like a huge effort.

 

“I know, I know,” she laughed gently, “But you didn’t have to move into the hospital to be nearer to her.”

 

The next couple of days were all a bit of a blur as I slipped in and out of consciousness – usually only being awake long enough to decant the contents of my stomach before sliding off again into a strange and nebulous world where dreams and reality became inseparable.

 

One day, Dr. Asanovic appeared standing earnestly at the foot of my bed, wringing his hand, “Hello John.”

 

“Hi,” I croaked.

 

“How are you feeling?” I always thought this was a kind of strange question for my doctor to ask – surely he should just know?

 

I felt travel-sick. I had that inescapable feeling of nausea that permeated my very soul. It didn’t matter what I did, any movement or any thought for that matter, brought on the incredible urge to retch.

 

“Not too good,” British as ever.

 

“We’ve, er, taken some tests and er, we’ve found that, the, er, unknown hormone has returned…”

 

“I thought so,” I managed to mumble. The mighty bear that was Dr Asanovic had been reduced to a shadowy blur through my half-shut eyes. 

 

“…But it’s in much greater er, magnitude, than you had before…er,”

 

I knew what that meant. At least I thought I knew what that meant. At that very moment death would have been a welcome bedfellow. My eyes were throbbing, my head felt like a boiled egg that had been attacked by an over zealous seven-year-old wielding a teaspoon.

 

No more. Please, no more. I was amazed at how quickly I’d gone from vague hopefulness to absolute surrender in a matter of days. I wasn’t made of sterner stuff.

 

“What does that mean, doc?” Doc? Doc? I never called anyone Doc. This wasn’t an American sitcom.

 

“There’s roughly ten times more of the, er, compound, in your bloodstream than before…”

 

I managed to open my eyes wider in a vane attempt to get a clearer image of Dr Asanovic. No matter how much I concentrated – no matter how much I tried to get him into focus, I could only see vague outlines. All his finer details were lost to me. I dropped my head back on my pillow. Maybe he was blurry?

 

“Ten times?” I tried to sound impressed.

 

“We could try flooding your system with all the hormones that switch you back on – like adrenaline – but the unknown, er, hormone, just switches them off again.”

 

He sounded quietly defeated.

 

I really felt for him. He sounded so sad. I’d got the impression he wasn’t really accustomed to all this patient contact. I imagined that his more personable colleagues were in the habit of giving him samples to muck about with in a Petri dish – he never had to rub shoulders with the great unwashed. And now here he was.

 

“How long have I got?” Cut to the chase, John, otherwise we could be here all day.

 

“This substance is very toxic…” he began.

 

“No shit!” I would have shouted, but it came out more like an irritated wheeze, “How long do you think…? Don’t pull any punches, don’t think you’re sparing me any pain, don’t worry about…”

 

“About two weeks,” he blurted. He was blushing and there was a sheen of sweat on his face, “John, you have about two weeks,” more quietly now, “certainly no more than a month – not with the current progression of the, er, illness.”

 

“Thanks Dr Asanovic,” and with that he was gone. I had lost consciousness again. I never saw him again.

 

“John?” it was mum, gently stroking my hand and forearm, “John? Can you hear me?”

 

I felt like a drunk trying to prove his sobriety, “Yes – yes, I’m here, what? What is it…er, mum? How long have you been...?”

 

“About twenty minutes…not long,” it was so lovely to have her there. Her soft and gentle voice, so soothing, “I’ve been talking to the nursing staff,”

 

“That’s er, nice…Did they have anything to say?”

 

“Yes, yes they did. They tell me that there’s no more treatment they can give you…apart from keeping you comfortable…”

 

Comfortable? That sounded so nice. Comfortable sounded perfect.

 

She took in a huge breath, “So, they thought…er I thought…well, we thought that it might be…well, it definitely would be, er, best if you came home for me to look after you…”

 

Initially that sounded just great. What could be better than having someone who loves you caring for you in your final moments? But then I was struck with the horrendous reality of it all. What happens if I can’t make it to the toilet? What happens if she has to deal with all the shitty-pissy stuff?

 

God, I felt so tired. It felt like I’d been asleep for days, and here I was still bloody exhausted. I’m sure I could stay in hospital to be looked after by the nurses. That way mum could still come in and out and be my mum – not my carer. I remembered the families of so many of the punters I’d had. Initially they’d been so keen to get their loved one home out of the sterile world of the hospital. Home to lovely warm familiarity. But all too soon this desire to care turned into anger and resentment as certain family members began to feel used and taken for granted. Would mum begin to feel like that?

 

What did I want? If I were to make a decision on my own – not taking into account the feelings of others – what would I really want?

 

I wanted to go home. I wanted to be in my room in my house with my things and most of all… with my mum around me.

 

What about her though? Was I asking too much of her? Would she accept extra help at home if it dragged on for ages? She was a qualified nurse. No, I decided, it was too much to ask of anybody. I’d be perfectly comfortable here. Folk could pop in and see me and no-one would feel compelled to care for me, to do things for me.

 

“What happens if...?” I started.

 

“Then it’ll be nothing I haven’t seen before,” she smiled as she squeezed my hand.

 

I closed my eyes as I remembered her bustling into my room at home while I was closely scrutinizing my undercarriage, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she’d said.

 

Matter of fact. No nonsense. I guessed this was something she had to do.

 

“Ok mum, I’ll come home…but…”

 

  “Yes, I know – if I need any help, I’ll shout.”

 

****

“Hello, my name’s Jennifer and I’ll be your discharge nurse today,” an Americanised version of a familiar voice permeated my sleepy world.

 

“Jen?” I managed through cracked lips.

 

“Ssshhh now,” a cool flannel being wiped across my face.

 

“You don’t work on this ward,”

 

“I pulled a few strings,” she whispered conspiratorially, “You’ve gotta have some perks…” hadn’t those been my words?

 

“I’m glad. I’m glad you came. I’m so glad you came.”

 

“Now, let’s have a look at you,” she turned my face left then right then up and down, “You’ll do,” then she kissed my forehead.

 

“Isn’t that a bit…”

 

“Unprofessional is my middle name,” she laughed as she wiped the lipstick off my face.

 

“How am I getting home?” I suddenly thought of the huge physical task of walking to the car, “I don’t think I can…”

 

“Don’t worry,” she cooed, reading my mind, “You’re going home in an ambulance – your mum’ll be waiting for you when you get there,”

 

My head slumped back into the pillow again. Sleep came so quickly. It was so welcome compared to the exertion of consciousness.

 

“I’m so sorry John, so, so sorry…” I was aware that my head was being stroked. The curtains had been pulled around the bed. Jen was actually sitting on my bed – cradling my head and stroking my face.

 

Why was she sorry? Why would Jen be sorry? Maybe she thought she should have spotted something sooner? Maybe she was sorry that, as a nurse, she hadn’t managed to keep me going longer? Or maybe, it was that, “I’m sorry for your loss,” kind of expression?

 

I opened my eyes. She was crying, “Why are you sorry Jen? It isn’t your fault. It’s just one of those things…”

 

“I know,” she sniffed, “I know…”

 

I floated off again. I momentarily woke up in the ambulance – I was vaguely aware of the movement of being in traffic – and then sleep. Lovely, comfortable, unchallenging sleep.

There was a blast of fresh air, of outside noise and of light when the door was opened. Mum was there offering assistance.

“No, we’ll be fine,” said generic ambulance woman, “We’ll get him inside,”

 

She was kind of pretty. She had green eyes. You don’t see many folk with really green eyes. But her eyes were almost emerald green. I wonder if she was wearing contacts? I’d been to a Halloween party where someone had been wearing red contacts. They’d been very effective in a ‘less is more’ kind of a way. Why would she wear coloured contact lenses to work though? No, I concluded in my dream state, they must be real.

 

“We got your bed downstairs – I thought it would be easier for you,”

 

There was something horribly symbolic about having my bed in the living room. To my mind, this meant there was no way back. This was the final run in. At least I’d be comfortable. The thought of climbing the stairs had filled me with horror. I just felt so weak. Sitting up was a struggle. Fuck, breathing was a struggle.

 

After the blur of green from the paramedics jumpsuits I fell asleep again. God, even the exertion of others was leaving me tired.

 

When I finally woke up again I was instantly aware of all the flotsam and jetsam provided by the social services and the NHS. I had a commode next to the bed, a monkey-pole over the bed  - I could grab onto the dangling handle to help mum when she was turning me or helping me to sit up. In the corner of the room I saw the dreaded bedpan, a little, flat toilet seat to assist when the time came where I was unable to get up, with or without assistance. Mum had wangled a wheelchair. I allowed myself a moment of amazement. These things were like hens teeth.

 

The next few days were made up of little vignettes of times when I woke up.

 

“Mum, why do you bother feeding me?” Mum was carefully shovelling in chicken tikka masala into my face, “It doesn’t get digested.”

 

“Do you like it?” she asked, matter of factly. On seeing me nod, she continued, “Well what’s the problem then?”

 

She was right. This was about quality of life. Or quality of death.

 

“Mum, do you think they could have tried harder to keep me alive?”

 

“How do you mean, darling?” she pulled my duvet up and stroked my face in one fluid movement.

 

“Well, they only tested me for cancer – and then they found it was a hormone thing – they only did one blood transfusion and…”

 

“Ssshhh… No, no John, they did much more. You’ve had about ten full blood transfusions – they even tried you on dialysis at one point – it just kept on getting worse and worse…”

 

 

 

God, I must have been completely out of it. I couldn’t remember any of that stuff. Well, I could remember bits, but it all felt like a dream.

 

“Mum, do you believe in God?”

 

“You know I don’t, John,”

 

“But do you think there’s something after all this?”

 

“I don’t think so…I really don’t think so,”

 

“You don’t think it might be an idea to patronise me a bit at this point?” I managed to smile.

 

“Oh, sorry, of course…you’ll fall asleep here and, when you wake up, there’ll be beautiful fields of corn and children laughing – there’ll be a beautiful blue sea rolling into golden sand dunes. You’ll see it all. You’ll roll down the hills, laughing like an idiot – you’ll be covered in sand – but you’ll keep going back for more. You’ll swim in the sea and all the sand’ll come off…” she was beginning to struggle with the more imaginative bits.

 

“Will there be virgins?” I grinned mischievously.

 

“What would you do with a virgin?”

 

“I’m not terribly sure – could she be an experienced virgin?”

 

“Errr…?”

 

“Mum – I really liked Jen. Do you think she’ll visit?”

 

“What, in the afterlife?”

 

“No, silly!” I chided, “in the beforelife.”

 

“I’m not sure, I hope so.”

 

The periods I spent awake decreased as my poor body fought this invincible foe. I was comforted as mum busied herself around me though. I’d try to help as she slid the bedpan underneath me, as she washed me and as she fed me. Had it not been for the fact that I was dying, this would have been a wonderful and magical time. I felt so loved.

 

“Mum, could you get my Subbuteo down?”

 

“What for?”

 

“I want to show you something,” somewhere, deep down, I believed I’d shaken off Subbuteo finger. I’d driven like a madman, I’d mashed up an Audi, I’d started my ‘Driven like a Cunt?’ campaign, and, most of all, I’d fallen in love.

 

I had started living. Better late…

 

“Where do you want this?” Mum grunted as she staggered in with my Subbutteo pitch.

 

“Could you kind of lay it on the bed in front of me? That’s it, just on my lap’s fine.”

 

It was on quite a slope initially – it took a lot of guidance and direction on my part to get the pitch as flat as possible. There was a lot of further work as she placed the goals and players and the corner flags in their correct places. As ever, I had to be Brazil. I couldn’t reach, so I had to get mum to set up the desired situation for my demonstration. I had Pele and the ball. Mum placed one of her players (in a 1970’s Chelsea kit) between Pele and the ball. All I had to do…

 

“Hold it!” I exclaimed, “Where’s the little camera man and his tower? He wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.”

 

Mum sighed heavily as she dug out the required bit and pieces, “There you go,”

 

“He’s facing the wrong way – he’ll miss the action,”

 

She sighed an even heavier sigh as she gradually rotated the whole ensemble until I shouted, “That’s it!”

 

“Now what?” she smiled.

 

“Watch this…” I poised my finger behind Pele for the intricate swerve my player around another player to hit the ball trick…

 

Time passed.

 

“What are you supposed to be doing?”

 

Bloody, fucking, wanky-shite! I still couldn’t do it. The index finger of my right hand remained rooted to the spot in spite of all my psychological efforts.

 

“I still can’t do it,” I sighed as I let my hand fall flat on the pitch, “I just can’t.”

 

“There’s some mail for you,” Mum handed me a small pile of envelopes.

 

I shuffled through them, disregarding the ones that said, ‘Yes, you John have definitely, no kidding this time, honest to goodness, won Forty Million Pounds…all you have to do is buy three books a month…’

“Oh,” I smiled, “This is interesting,”

 

“What’s that then?”

 

“Rubin tells me I’ve got a place on the diversion scheme… isn’t that great?”

 

“Hmmm?” she raised her eyebrows.

 

“Don’t think I’ll go just yet…”

 

“No, I guess not.”

 

My days had started to melt one into the next. A feast of daytime television and the occasional flirtation with the outside world through the living room window. When mum came in from work, I could smell the outside on her. The traffic, the hospital and other people. It was like a universe now forbidden to me.

 

As a nurse manager, mum’s work life was pretty much nine to five. That meant I had to fit in with her. I’d get up at seven. Well, in reality, she’d get me up at seven. She’d transfer me onto the commode where I do my business. She’d gradually change me while she supported me to stand. My legs were so weak, I could feel them shaking as I got up to stand. I was safe though if I locked out my knees when mum was undressing and dressing me.

 

It was, after all, nothing she hadn’t seen before.

 

Once I was in my day attire I’d sit on the wheelchair. With a lot of effort, using both my feet and hands, I could propel myself around the living room and into the kitchen. She’d leave me a flask of soup so, at least, I could go through the action of eating. This was collusion at its finest. We both knew that the soup made no difference but it helped her to think that she was caring for me in her absence and it helped me to think that I was being cared for.

 

Probably the most arse clenchingly embarrassing thing about this whole situation was my leg bag. We agreed that, since I couldn’t use the commode on my own during the day and since I’d invariably end up pissing on my arm if I tried to use the urine bottle, a leg bag was seen as the best option. This involved taping a condom-like sheath to my ning-nong. The sheath was attached to a tube, which in turn, was attached to the leg bag. I could happily piss the day away without fear of falling over or causing myself a heinous injury.

 

“Has Jen been in touch at all?” mum asked almost nonchalantly as she pulled up my jeans one morning.

 

“Not since I was in hospital.”

 

“Funny that…”

 

“Yeah…” she’d completely vanished off the radar again.

 

“Have you tried calling her?”

 

“No, I hadn’t thought of that. God, what a great idea…” unpleasantly sarcastic.

 

“For fuck’s sake John, I’m just trying to…” the first angry outburst.

 

It was weird. Instead of starting a head on fight with her, I was drawn closer to her. Her mini-tantrum humanised her. No longer was she indestructible mother-woman. Here we had a hint of fallibility. An image of a woman looking after her son. Her son who was supposed to outlive her. Her son who, at present, didn’t appear to be managing this most simple of tasks.

 

“I’m sorry, mum,” a quiet apology.

 

“It’s ok – I’ve got to get to work – your flask’s there on the side,”

 

****

 

“So, you’re comfortable?” I was dead impressed that Dr Higson had come to visit me at home.

 

“Comfortable? Yeah – more than that, mum’s been fantastic,” I squeezed her leg as she sat on the arm of the sofa next to my wheelchair. She smiled, but she looked absolutely fucked.

 

“Anything for my little angel,” her tone was all wrong. Her humour fell flat.

 

“Is there any help you can get, you know, for mum, she’s run ragged?”

 

“Well there’s the Mac…” he started.

 

“No. I, I er mean, we are coping perfectly well together,” then, more of a threat than a question, “Aren’t we, John?”

 

“Yes mum. Yes we are.” She was managing fine. God, it was hard for her, but we both knew there wasn’t far to go now.

 

“Dr Higson?” on the topic of not having far to go, “I’m dying, aren’t I?”

 

Momentarily flustered he replied steadily, “Yes John, you’re dying,”

 

“It’s just that nobody really told me. I always thought that if nobody told me there would still be hope…Stupid really…”

 

“Sorry John,” he reached forward and squeezed my hand.

 

“How long? I mean it’s not long…It can’t be much longer, you know… for mum…er,”

 

Mum ran her fingers through my hair. I momentarily thought of my image of Dr Smith and his mum messing up his hair on the way out of the door.

 

“Not long,” he said quietly as he stood up to leave, “Not long. Good-bye John,”

 

****

 

“Jen? Jen, can you please pick up? I haven’t got long…” why was I phoning her? My voice felt weak and thin. I was using energy I didn’t have, “I just want to see you one last time,” Oh God, I was crying now, “Just to say Good-Bye – nothing else,” I hung up. Even the effort of crying was too much. I lay back in my chair and closed my eyes.

 

Just recently the image of what death might be kept flashing into my mind. For me it meant falling endlessly in space. Feeling nothing. Seeing nothing. The thought caused me to sit up with a start, my heart thumping, my breathing short and rapid.

 

“Mum? Mum, are you there?” This was it – I knew this was my time.

 

“Hey John, it’s ok, I’m here…” she cradled my face.

 

“I want to go into the garden…I need to be outside…” panting with each word, each exertion.

 

“Sure John, anything you want,” Quickly, she clicked the brakes off on the wheelchair, checked to see I was secure and that my feet were on the foot-plates, and off we went – through the kitchen then backwards out of the back door.

 

The sky was a beautiful blue. The whole world was humming with life. I could hear cars and children shouting in playgrounds, I could hear sparrows squabbling in the hedge. It was a little chilly, but that didn’t matter.

 

“Where do you want to be?” mum asked quietly.

 

“The grass, I want to lie on the grass,” I must have sounded a little desperate.

 

Quickly, she put on the brakes, undid my seat belt and hoisted me out of the chair. I had lost so much weight, this was easy for her. Slowly she lowered me and herself to the ground, the back of my head on the grass.

 

I could remember, no, I could see me playing badminton with her. I was about eight and we were both laughing as the shuttlecock flew over into the neighbour’s garden again. She had always cared for me and loved me.

 

“Mum, can you put my head on your lap?” I needed her to hold me.

 

“Sure, there you go…” she smiled down at me and stroked my face, “there you go…” a whisper now.

 

With the world humming, with the sparrows squabbling, with mum stroking my face, I closed my eyes and fell into the black abyss.

 

“Mum!” my eyes jarred open suddenly, a tiny adrenaline rush fighting to the last.

 

“Sshh,” she smiled down at me, “Off you go my beautiful boy, off you go…”

 

And with that, I was gone.

 

 

****

 

The image of mum holding my head as I lay in the garden was at the forefront of my mind as I fell into the dark. I imagined me zipping into space like some accelerated Google Earth. It was as I’d expected. I could feel and see nothing. There were no smells, no tastes – just nothing.

 

There was something, though, that I hadn’t quite expected. Consciousness. I had expected that with death there would be that nothing kind of a feeling. The same one that was there before I was born. Since I couldn’t remember the time before I was born, I felt a little lost. What if it had always been like this? Falling through space with nothing but thought – my inner dialogue – going on and on.

 

Fuck, maybe this was Hell. Surely after a while, even my inner dialogue would run out of things to say? So, that was it – I was destined to fall through infinity for eternity. A very long way for a very long time.

 

Is this what it’s like for everyone? Maybe there’s some kind of congestion? Maybe a lot of folk have just died. Maybe somewhere there’s a message sounding out, “We’re sorry, we’re experiencing a large number of deaths just now, please continue plummeting through space and time, your death is very important to us…”

 

Was that a light? It was – there was a tiny prick of light so small as to be almost imperceptible. So what was I supposed to do? Do I go towards the light or away from the light? What had they said in all the horror movies I’d seen? I’m sure that current thinking leant in the favour of approaching the light. Wasn’t there a film though that warned of the danger of going towards the light? It was some evil trick by the devil to pull in lost souls.

 

I thought of mum again. Cradling me. She’d still be crying. What the Hell had happened there? Why did I have to die of some unknown bloody something coursing around my veins? God I loved her. If there was something in life that I was certain of, it was that I loved my mum. What would she do without me?

 

She’d live. That’s what she’d do. Shit – I’d convinced myself for years that I had been there for her – helping her pay for the house – for bills – stopping her from feeling lonely. Lonely? Mum? She was the friendliest person alive. It was me who was lonely. In the end all I had was her – and Jen, if you can count her – she never picked up the fucking phone.

 

Am I allowed to swear here? Do I go away from the light or towards the light? Looks like I’ve got no choice – it’s getting bigger whether I like it or not. Maybe I could swim away? Shit, this was weird – I had no sense of me – well, no sense of my body – all I had was the voice in my head – which, I guess, had to be me.

 

The light was getting bigger and bigger. I kind of felt scared – but there was no horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach – there was no pit in my stomach – there was no heart to pound – there were no lungs to breathe rapidly.

 

Faster and faster the light came towards me. Or was I going towards the light? The light became bigger and bigger – it filled all I could see.

 

I could see! Suddenly I was there. Suddenly I could hear and smell and feel…

 

It was all white. I was aware of me. I was lying down. I was dressed in white. I tried to lift my arms, my legs, my head, but there seemed to be something holding me down.

 

There was a terrible hissing from all around me – and then the lid came off. I was lying in what looked like a casket. The lid swung back on its hinges to reveal what looked like the roof of a warehouse. There was a guy standing over me. He looked like he was in his mid forties, unkempt black hair and beard, a bit overweight and he was talking to me, “Sorry we had to bring you back, man,”

 

I was just getting the hang of focusing when he said, “You’re not going to do anything crazy if I take these off?”

 

I looked at the restraints on my arms, I could feel them on my legs and ankles and across my chest.

 

“I…er…,” say something! “It depends on what you mean by crazy,”

 

He laughed a little contrived laugh, “Hey guys, over here,” he called to some unseen colleagues, “I might need a hand with this one.”

 

Three other faces appeared above me. Three average men, of average build, of average age all dressed in white jumpsuits.

 

“What’s going on?” that was definitely my voice but it seemed to be coming from somewhere else.

 

“Yeah, yeah, nice one Barney, let’s get you up and out – you’ve pissed off a lot of folk,” beardy man leant over and undid my straps.

 

I have? I’ve just arrived in…heaven and I’ve already caused the disgruntlement of those around me. Without even trying. Fucking marvellous.

 

“No, really,” he helped me to my feet, “I don’t know what’s happening.”

 

He turned to the other three, “Waddya think guys?”

They shrugged simultaneously.

 

It was weird, even though I felt shaky on my feet, I felt decidedly stronger than I had moments ago in the garden with my mum. I looked down, the curve of my stomach suggested that I was better nourished than I’d been moments ago. I looked at my hands.

 

Those weren’t my hands.

 

I looked around. I was in a huge warehouse filled with hundreds, no, thousands of white caskets. There were twenty or thirty of these guys standing around. Doing what? Monitoring? Monitoring what?

 

My heart was thumping. Was it my heart? Whose heart was it then? I felt light headed – this was all a bit too much to take in.

 

“He’s tried this before,” beardy man explained to the others, “Take him to see the doc before he does a runner.”

 

Right on cue I fled. I had no idea where I was going or even why I was running. Before me, a sea of caskets came and went. There was no sign of a way out anywhere. It felt great to be able to run though. It felt great to be able to do anything.

 

Suddenly there was a thump in my back. My whole body sizzled in what felt like a seizure. I fell to the ground, face down, paralysed.

 

“Nice shot, Tom,” voices behind me.

 

“Cheers Steve,” casual.

 

I felt myself being pulled to my feet. I couldn’t stand – my new legs had stopped working.

 

“We’re gonna need a trolley,”

 

I was lifted onto what felt like a hospital bed, the bearded guy pushing from behind, “C’mon Barney, let’s get you to the doc,” he sounded kind, perhaps resigned, “I haven’t seen you like this before…”

 

I closed my eyes and awaited my fate. I felt so tired. My last thought before I lost consciousness was, “Who the fuck is Barney?”

 

 

****

 

I woke up in a comfortable bed with soft pillows and a duvet that smelled like flowers. It had been a dream. That weird warehouse place, with the men in white jumpsuits, was just a construct of my ailing brain.

 

I was facing a wall that I didn’t recognise. It was painted a serene magnolia. I must be in a hospice. They do serene and ‘close to God’ kind of colours. I turned around to see the rest of the ward. I was amazed at how easily I managed it. Before, the very thought of turning caused breathlessness, but now, now I could do it with consummate ease.

 

I was surprised to see a distinct lack of ward when I turned round. It looked more like a very clean bedsit. Everything was either white or magnolia. Directly opposite my bed, past the living area, was a well-appointed kitchen with all the bits and pieces you could ever want. The living area had a wonderful retro-sofa in simulation white leather and a cream, short-piled carpet.

 

This was obviously a new regime they had at the hospice. What a great idea. Promote independence at the same time as providing the care that I’d need. I looked around – there were no red emergency pull cords. No –obviously they’d look too institutionalised – there must be pressure pads on the floor to alert staff when I’m up and about. Fantastic.

 

I pulled the duvet back, again with ease, to reveal blue and white stripy pyjamas. I sat up and swung my legs round so my feet were just resting on the ground.

 

Jesus my back hurt!

 

It’s amazing how, sometimes, things in real life get incorporated into your dreams. I must have banged my back or something while I was asleep.

 

I felt strong. Should I try standing up? There was no wheelchair or walking aids. Maybe they didn’t expect me to try to stand up. Well then, they would have put bars around the bed to stop me.

 

I put more and more pressure on my feet as, very tentatively, I stood up. I moved my weight around as I became accustomed to this new-found skill. I looked over at the kitchen – I decided that I was going to make myself a coffee.

 

I strode over to the coffee machine with ease. I’d put on a lot of weight. I felt normal, I felt slightly overweight. I felt great. Apart from the sore back, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this good.

 

I opened a well-stocked cupboard and found the coffee. I opened the well-stocked fridge and found a choice of milks for my beverage drinking pleasure. God, they really had thought of everything.

 

I steamed up the milk in a generous mug and poured in my shot of coffee. Satisfied with my work this far, I retired to the ever so comfy sofa.

 

There was no TV.

 

Well, there’s an omission. Who’d have thought? I’ve got all this wonderful comfort and no TV. Not even a radio. Maybe it’s hidden somewhere? I looked around. There was a door next to the kitchen. There must be somebody out there who I can speak to – to let them know I’m up and about. I mean, if I fell and hurt myself someone might get into trouble…

 

I tried the door handle – it was locked. Maybe I’m just doing it wrong. I pushed it and pulled it. I tried wiggling it. No, it was definitely locked. How were they supposed to know if I was up and about?

 

Of course, the alarms on the floor. Someone would be along in a minute. I sat down again and drank my coffee.

 

I finished my coffee. I made another one. I drank that and I waited. Maybe my movement hadn’t activated the alarm? Maybe they only had the pressure pads next to the bed? I stood next to the bed. I walked up and down the side of the bed. Maybe there’s a faulty connection? Maybe I haven’t stood in the right place in the bedsit?

 

Methodically I walked up and down to ensure my feet had pressed down on every part of the floor. Nothing. Still nobody came.

 

I banged on the door and bellowed, “Hello, is anybody there?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Maybe the connection was loose somewhere in a pressure mat under the carpet? It just needed stamping down a bit? I started to jump around. I was amazed that I could. Before I knew it I was leaping around the room – jumping on the bed, on the sofa, everywhere – these pressure pads had to be somewhere.

 

“What are you doing?” A woman in her late thirties, blondish, kind of pretty in a pointy-faced kind of a way, wearing a white coat had come in without me noticing her.

 

“I…er…I was looking for the pressure mats…” I started lamely.

 

“There aren’t any,” she said humourlessly, her voice seemed to lack any dialect, “We were watching you through the video link.”

 

“Ah, that explains it…” it didn’t really, “I feel great,”

 

I did, I was a little flushed from my maniacal bouncing but I felt fantastic.  

 

“Do you know where you are?” again bland, without emotion.

 

“I’m in the hospice?”

 

No response.

 

“I’m in the hospital? I’m in a special observation room where you monitor my progress?”

 

No response.

I was suddenly aware that I no longer had my leg-bag on.

 

“Where’s the loo? I couldn’t find it earlier.”

 

“It’s just over here,” she walked over to the door that I’d been wrestling with and opened it with ease.

 

“I’ll just pop in for a…”

 

It felt like I hadn’t pissed for a fortnight. As I stood I wrestled with all the possibilities.

 

As I washed my hands I decided that I’d developed some kind of mental problem brought on by the stuff zipping round my veins and I’d been sectioned.

 

“Am I mad?” I asked as I walked out of the toilet.

 

“What makes you ask that?”

 

A question answered with a question – that really pissed me off.

 

“Well, to be honest, I’ve no idea where I am. Is there any chance I can see my mum?”

 

“No.”

 

No explanation.

 

“Why not? Oh shit… I didn’t hurt her did I? What did I do?”

 

“Sit down, let’s see what you can remember,” she guided me to the sofa.

 

She sat at one end with me at the other.

 

“I, er… where should I start?”

 

“Wherever you want to,”

 

I told her everything from when I was in the garden with mum – I even told her about my weird dream in the warehouse.

 

“Ok, thanks for your time,” she got up to leave.

 

“Is that it? What’s going on? Who are you?”

 

“I’m Dr Pope,” and with that she opened a door that I hadn’t seen in the wall of the living area.

 

****

 

“Barney, how are you doing?” a man who I’d never seen before was hugging me like a long lost friend.

 

I didn’t want to appear rude, but instinctively I pulled away from him, “I er…”

 

Seeing the obvious lack of recognition in my eyes he said, “Barney? It’s me, Ralph. Don’t you remember me?”

 

The twang of Yorkshire in his accent did sound familiar, but, “Who’s Barney? I’m John,”

 

“No…no you’re not…shit, this is worse than I thought. Look at me – it’s Ralph. C’mon Barney – look at this face – you couldn’t forget that could ya?”

 

I looked into his blue eyes, he had a mouth that curled up slightly at the edges – ready to smile, some wrinkles around his eyes – definitely laughter lines, his light brown hair was closely cropped, slightly greying round the edges. His was a kind face.

 

Instinctively my hand came to my face. He did look like someone.

 

“You live with me!” he sounded desperate.

 

“No,” I whispered, “No, I don’t,”

 

“Listen mate, where do you think you are?”

 

“Dr Pope said, well, er actually Dr Pope didn’t say anything.”

 

“C’mon, try…”

 

“I’m in a hospice or a hospital being treated for an unknown disease? Are you one of the Ball-Boys?”

 

“What? Am I what?” he sounded almost angry now.

 

A disembodied voice spoke over the sound system that I didn’t know I had, “Ralph, come out now please,” it sounded like Dr Pope.

 

He pulled me to him again, hugging me hard, “Listen man, come on try to remember – I’ll be back soon…”

 

I patted him on the back. It felt like the right thing to do. 

 

****

 

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you ask me questions that I clearly don’t know the answer to – then I ask you questions that you clearly do know the answer to – but all you do is answer my questions with more questions,” I was exhausted, “When can I see my mum?”

 

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

 

“She isn’t here.”

 

“Fu… God, I’m glad I stopped myself there, I nearly said, ‘Fuck!’ Where is she then?”

 

“We need to be sure.”

 

“Sure of what? What are you talking about?” I was shouting now.

 

“We need to be sure that what you’re saying is true.”

 

“All I’ve said is that I haven’t got a clue what’s going on and I don’t know where I am… What isn’t true about that?”

 

Dr Pope sighed a heavy sigh, “You’ve just been a little…er, tricky in the past. We just have to make sure.”

 

My mind was spinning, “Who’s Ralph?”

 

“He’s your friend.”

 

“He’s one of you guys, isn’t he?”

 

“What do you mean by that?” bland, monotone as ever.

 

“You’re all just fucking with my head, aren’t you? Why can’t I leave here?”

 

“Because you’re ill.”

 

“Look at me! I’m better. I’ve put on weight. I’m healthy. I need to go on the diversion scheme…”

 

“No, this is different. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

 

“How long is this going to go on for? It’s been days. What’s going on? I want to speak with the mental welfare commission.”

 

“You can’t.”

 

“Why?”

 

“They don’t exist. Let’s speak tomorrow,” Dr Pope got up and quietly left the room.

 

This was a fucking nightmare.

 

 

****

 

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” I felt I had nothing to lose.

 

“What are you talking about?”  Ralph appeared genuinely wounded.

 

“Come on Ralph. I’ve seen this on TV a million times. Dr Pope is the bad cop – you’re the good cop…”

 

“Barney?”

 

“You’re wasting your time though, I can’t tell you anything,” then a crazy thought came to me, “Am I dead?”

 

“Er…”

 

“I mean, being so ill, lying in the garden with mum – going to the light – waking up like this,” I spread my arms and looked down at my new me, “I’m a different person. Why are there no mirrors? Or reflective surfaces?”

 

“Barney, I dunno…”

 

“And why the fuck do you keep calling me Barney?” So angry.

 

“Ralph, it’s time to leave,” the disembodied voice of Dr Pope came to his rescue.

 

Stressed though he was, he still hugged me. What the Hell was I supposed to do?

 

Apart from my visits from Dr Pope and Ralph, my days were deathly boring. The most exciting thing I could do was make myself coffee, occasionally a snack, my meals were delivered at all the right times. Typical hospital fare –nothing terribly dynamic – bland hotpot, flavourless curry and tasteless lasagne stood out as my favourites so far.

 

Time and again I thought about how I’d got here. Time and again the answers came back the same – Lying on the grass with mum, going towards the light, the warehouse, being shot with God knows what and then waking up here. It was hard to tell what was dream and what was reality.

 

“How long have I been in here?” It was impossible to tell – there was no natural light. The tedium was doing my head in.

 

“Just over a month,” Dr Pope was as insipid as the food.

 

“Can I…” Go home?

 

“Do you know what home is?”

 

I closed my eyes and all I could see was mum in different guises of mumliness – smiling at me, ruffling my hair, having tea with her, watching TV with her…

 

“Yes, it’s 27 Craigview Gardens, Edinburgh. I live with my mum. I’m a social worker. Sure, I’m suspended just now, but I work with adults. I’ve got a place on a diversion scheme, because this was my first…” I let that trail away, “What about Claus? Has he been to visit? Is this part of the hospital? Has Jen been along…”

 

The words just cascaded. I had no idea where I was, who I was or who I was talking to.

 

“Ralph is keen to have you home. I’m not so sure.”

 

The words ‘Ralph’ and ‘home’ felt completely incompatible. Then I thought of the absolute crushing tedium that was this place. Surely home with Ralph couldn’t be any worse than this?

 

“I’d like that,” poker faced – not too excited.

 

“Do you know what you’re asking for?”

 

I sighed and rubbed my head, “No, no Dr Pope I have no idea what I’m asking for. I have no idea. But surely it must be better than this…” and then as an afterthought, “I’m not dangerous,” I smiled a feeble smile.

 

She stared at me for an age, “You’ll have to be tagged,”

 

“Sure,” I didn’t know what that meant, but I was willing to accept anything.

 

“And Ralph will have to be completely responsible for you. He’ll be your Guardian for a while.”

 

“Anything you say,” my heart was hammering in my chest.

 

“Hmm,” she murmured getting up to go.

 

“What about my clothes? I can’t go home in these?” My blue and white striped pyjamas.

 

“I’ll talk to Ralph.”

 

****

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ralph was sitting on the sofa next to me, holding my hands.

 

“What have I got to lose?”

 

He snorted quietly, looked down and shook his head, “Oh God,”

“What? What’s wrong?”

 

“Barney, this is huge. I don’t know where to start…”

 

“Hey, that’s my line…” I smiled, “Listen Ralph?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can you call me John?”

 

“Sure I can. Whatever you need.”

 

“So when can I go…home, do you know?”

 

“You’ll need to talk to Dr Pope about that,”

 

“Sure.”

 

****

 

“Is that everything?” Dr Pope was there to see me off. I still hadn’t taken a step outside the bedsit.

 

“To be fair I only had my pyjamas – and I’m not even sure if they were mine.” I looked down at the jeans and flowery shirt that Ralph had brought in for me and smiled, “I’m not sure if these are mine either.”

 

I felt the tightness of the electronic tag on my right ankle – that definitely wasn’t mine.

 

“They are,” Ralph butted in, “Trust me er, John, they are,”

 

Dr Pope shot him a steely glare.

 

“He wants me to call him John – I’ll do that until he remembers,”

 

“If he remembers,” she came back coldly.

 

“I’m still here, guys…”

 

“Ok, you’ve agreed to come back twice a week – we’ve got a lot of work to do,” very matter of fact.

 

“Yes – anything – I’ll do anything…”

 

“Don’t promise what you can’t deliver,” Ralph hissed in my ear.

 

“You brought this on yourself,” Dr Pope stared angrily at me.

 

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

 

“Yeah, sure he did – c’mon John…”

 

It appeared that these two might have some unresolved issues…Perhaps Ralph did have my best interests at heart? Perhaps this was all a bit of an act for my benefit? Who knows? Anything was possible.

 

For the first time I walked out of the bedsit through the concealed door and into a bright corridor. The floor was tiled – the lights were intense in true hospital style. There were windows along one side. At last I was able to see the outside. Well, I could see the car park. None of this looked familiar though. It was all so…different.

 

We walked out into the fresh air. There was even something strange about that. It was like the air from the air-conditioning in mum’s car. It was very welcome, it was cool, it was refreshing, but it left an aftertaste.

 

“In you go,” Ralph had opened the door of a nearby car – it looked beautiful – completely retro, light blue with tail fins and chrome all around.

 

“Is this yours?”

 

“You didn’t think I’d have anything quite so… magnificent, did you,” Ralph laughed as he guided me in.

 

Inside the seats were leather, the dashboard was mahogany – it was a stunning example of a…

 

There was no steering wheel.

 

I watched as Ralph climbed in, “Ralph?”

 

“There’s no steering wheel? Yeah, I know… Car home…”

 

The car started up of it’s own accord and started to make it’s way out of the hospital. The engine roared manfully in front of us. Before I could comment Ralph said, “It’s not real – it’s hydrogen – the engine’s actually completely silent – all that throbbing and grunting is synthesised – pretty cool though, eh?”

 

Yes, it was cool. Very cool. I couldn’t really appreciate it though – I felt like I did when I first thought I was dying. I felt like I was floating outside my body – it was as if nothing was real. 

 

The car drove round to the front of the building. It was a huge white block – bigger than any hospital I’d ever seen in my life. Above the main entrance, in twenty, no, thirty-foot black letters was the word ‘Pilots’.

 

“Pilots? That’s a strange name for a hospital, isn’t it?”

 

Ralph turned to me, “That’s…that’s…fuck, I’m not going to even try. Look, can we get you home and I’ll try and break you in gently?”

I felt like a wildebeest that had been pulled down by two lionesses – absolutely resigned to my fate. I felt like a passive observer in my life.

 

I watched as this new world cruised past the window. There were tall blocks of flats everywhere interspersed with contrived trees and assorted greenery. It was all so clean and – unpopulated. I had so many questions, too many questions. I chose silence. I looked at Ralph. He was looking absently out the window. Even though the inside of the car was cool, there was a sheen of sweat on his face. He looked stressed beyond belief.

 

The car turned into a drive, at the end of which was a small white tower block set in sculpted gardens. We drove into a car park underneath. The car reverse parked itself beautifully and the throaty roar of the engine stopped.

 

“C’mon John – there’s a lift up to the apartment just over here.”

 

I followed him – for an underground car park it was as bright as day. We walked into the lift. There were no buttons – nothing to tell it where we wanted to go and yet it sprang into action.

 

“How...?”

 

“It knows us,” Ralph pre-empted my question, “And here we are…”

 

The doors opened straight into a flat that looked not unlike the bedsit, bright, with clean surfaces and the odd bit of retro furniture dotted around.

 

He had the biggest sofa in the world! It was just like the one I’d had in the bedsit but twice the size.

 

“I love you’re sofa,”

 

“That, John, is our sofa…”

 

“It is?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are we..?”

 

“No John, we’re not,” Ralph grinned wryly, “This is your room through here,”

 

I walked into an astonishingly garish room – it was all reds and oranges and flowers and joss ticks and…

 

“Ralph…am I…?”

 

This time he laughed a real belly laugh, “No John, you’re not – you’re just a bit, er, flaky,”

 

“Flaky?” This was surreal.  I sat on the big flouncy bed in the middle of my room and held my head in my hands. Where do I start?

 

“Come through – do you want a coffee?”

 

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

 

He walked over to the kitchen area adjoining the living area in an open plan kind of a way, “Two coffees,” he said to no-one in particular.

 

And there they were – two coffees!

 

“There you go,” he said handing me a lovely steaming mug of frothiness. 

 

“I know I’m going to say this a lot, but how...?”

 

Ralph let go a massive sigh and rubbed the back of his head, “I have no idea where to start – but coffee aint gonna be it,”

 

“Nice place we’ve got here…”

 

“Does any of it feel familiar?”

 

Exaggeratedly, I looked around. The rest of the living area appeared to be less ostentatious than my room – still a bit colourful and fruity – but vastly more tasteful, “Nope, I don’t remember any of this…”

 

“John…I…” he started then put his hand over his mouth.

 

I still had that other-worldly feeling, “This isn’t Kansas, is it?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about – but no, I don’t think it’s Kansas…”

 

“It’s from The Wizard of Oz – Judy Garland…”

 

He held his hand up to stop me, “John, please…I’ve rehearsed this again and again…I keep putting myself in your shoes…I have no idea how to deliver this to you…”

 

“What?”

 

“The story of where you are…come through here,”

 

I followed him through to what looked like the bathroom. There was a mirror.

 

“Look in there and tell me what you think…” he closed his eyes tightly.

 

 Where I’d had blue eyes, brown eyes where now staring back at me, my normally light brown hair was dark, almost black, my face that had, up until my illness, been roundish had sharper features. A slightly pointier nose, higher cheekbones, a more pronounced chin…

 

I fainted.

 

“Barney…Barney…c’mon mate, wake up,”

 

I slowly opened my eyes to reveal Ralph gently flicking water on my face. I was lying on the lovely sofa.

 

“You were lucky to miss the sink – you could have smashed your head. Are you ok?”

 

“You can call me Barney now…”

 

“Are you taking the…what, really?”

 

“I guess I’m going to have to get used to it – especially now I don’t look like John…” Now that was weird, talking about myself as if I was someone else…shit…

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Well let’s try it and I’ll tell you if I begin to freak out,”

 

“Ok – do you want to have a sleep? You look knackered,”

 

“No, I guess I want to know some stuff. You know how Dr Pope said I’d brought this on myself?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well, can we start there?”

 

“That’s a biggy,”

 

“Am I some kind of arch-criminal?”

 

He sniggered, “Er…no…not exactly – you are a pain in the arse though,”

 

“To who?”

 

“Pilots,”

 

“Pilots? It’s not a hospital, is it?”

 

“Well, a bit of it is – the clinic that you were in…”

 

“What was I being treated for?”

 

“Well…there’s a thing…it’s kind of like amnesia…amnesia that’s been brought on by events…”

 

“What kind of events? What are you talking about?”

“Barney!”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Shut the fuck up just now, and I’ll tell you…”

 

“Sure…”

 

“Pilots isn’t a hospital…”

 

“You said,”

 

He raised his eyes threateningly at me.

 

“Sure, sorry Ralph,”

 

“It’s more like … I’ll make this as simple for you as I can. It’s more like a Travel Agents with millions of destinations…”

 

I was bursting to speak. What does he mean? Is it about space travel? No, that can’t be it – all these people were lying in caskets, they weren’t going anywhere..

 

“No…no, that’s not it. God this is hard. Ok…Do you remember after you’d er, died?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You know how you felt that there was, like, no you?”

 

So that wasn’t just something I’d dreamt, “Yeah…it was like I was just thought. That’s all I was.”

 

“Good…good…hang on to that,” again he sighed heavily, “I’m a bit of a nerd on this subject - I’m going to give you a history lesson. Back in the twentieth century…”

 

“You make it sound like it’s a long time ago…?”

 

“Trust me, it is. Can I continue?”

 

“Sure, sure…go on,”

 

“Back in the twentieth century some scientists were trying to help patients who suffered from epilepsy by applying electromagnetic stimulation to what they believed to be the effected part of the brain – in this case it was their left temporoparietal junction,” 

 

Seeing my bemused look, he pointed vaguely at the top left of his forehead, “Round about here somewhere. But – and this is a huge – instead of curing the epilepsy, it caused what is now called The Doppelganger effect…”

 

“What does that mean? Did it make them feel they had a double? What…”

 

“Shush! In this case the effect gave the person the feeling of being outside their body. In some cases it made people think that there was someone exactly like them sitting or standing directly next to them. At the time, they believed they’d found the part of the brain responsible for a condition they called schizophrenia…”

 

“Eh? The condition they called schizophrenia. What is it called now?”

 

“Nothing – it doesn’t exist – well, not as it did then…anyway, shall I go on?”

 

“Sure, sure…”

 

“What they had actually found – but what they hadn’t yet realised – was that the mind could exist outside the body…”

 

“Whoa there…the mind existing outside the body...You started off by telling me about someone jiggling a bit of the brain and now you’re saying…you’re saying…What are you saying?”

 

“If you’d shut up, I’ll tell you. Ok, so we’ve got the mind outside the body…”

 

“Is it bit like broadband?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“It’s how computers link up wirelessly on the internet…it’s er…actually, I’ve got no idea, I’ll shut up now,”

 

“Ah, computers – there’s a blast from the past – I imagine it’s a bit like that…but not really…”

 

“Are you patronizing me?”

 

“Yes. It’s more like what you might imagine your soul to be. Now – the next jump – time travel…”

 

“Time travel, you really are taking the piss now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

 

“Bear with me – really from the twentieth century onwards, scientists have been fascinated with travelling at the speed of light – or faster…”

 

“That’s impossible though, isn’t it?”

 

“Well, you know, you’re right. It’s impossible for great big lumpy things like space-ships and the like – but not for sub-atomic particles – like photons and radio waves – stuff that lacks substance…”

 

“Like souls?”

 

“Brilliant! You’re a genius. At the speed of light – or even faster – something really strange happens…”

 

“What like? Don’t lose me now,”

 

“Time folds in on itself,”

 

“Ok, I understand the words, I just haven’t got the faintest idea what they mean when you put them in that particular order…”

 

“Well, the interesting thing is that by travelling faster than light we mastered the forth dimension. Essentially, when you travel at that speed, any time is now,”

 

“You’ve done it again,”

 

“You don’t need to know too much of this – but basically what it means is that the soul – this doppelganger – this essence of you – can be zipped back to any time to experience the trials and tribulations of the populace during that era,”

 

“Surely if you’re just floating about like some nebulous collection of subatomic particles you’re not really going to experience the full quality of that…”

 

“Well no – obviously you’re gonna need some kind of medium,”

 

“Like what? Water? What?”

 

“Any living thing, really,”

 

“Any living thing? What about a virus?”

 

“As far as I know, a virus isn’t really living thing, it doesn’t do its thing until it finds some kind of host…Anyway – almost any living thing…”

 

This was all too big for my small mind to comprehend, “You talked about Pilots being a travel agency…” I knew I was going to regret asking.

 

“That’s exactly it – you go to Pilots so that you can live some other life – wherever, whenever you choose…”

 

“What about the er… Souls that are already there? Isn’t there some kind of punch up?”

 

“Ah, well, that’s another story…I’ll fill you in about that later – basically though, if they insert you early enough into the living creature then there’s no soul there to er, have a punch up with…”

 

“So, say with humans, when’s that point?”

 

“Pretty early on – you’re still looking like a bunch of cells…”

 

“No, no, no…this is bollocks. If I was some kind of subatomic creature, soul, whatever you want to call it from a future time, then surely I’d remember where I’d come from…and then…and then…well, there’d be chaos…wouldn’t there?”

 

“But that’s the beauty of the thing. Learning to Pilot a human takes a huge amount of mental power. In most cases, all your mental power,”

 

“So what you’re saying is that it takes so much mental energy just to be that thing, you can’t remember what you really are?”

 

“Pretty much…”

 

“What about insects? Surely they can’t take up too much cognitive processing?”

 

“Absolutely right – but they lack the equipment to think too deeply – now that’s an experience – it’s all about feelings with them…”

 

This all felt completely academic. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that this was all bollocks. I knew at some point I’d wake up dead – or something. Oh shit, I dunno.

 

“Go on…”

 

“Go on about what? Insects? Pilots? What?”

 

“Tell me how I fit into this – what’s going on? What did Dr Pope mean?”

 

Ralph blushed, “To be honest, I’m implicated here too…”

 

“In what way?”

 

“You were…you are bored with all of this…you see no value in it…you see no future…you have no hopes and no aspirations…”

 

“That sounds strangely familiar…”

 

“Ok…I er helped you to overcome some of your tedium by giving you a variety of identities,”

 

“What – with Pilots – I went and lived lots of lives?”

 

“No…well, er yes, but that’s not what I meant…Pilots is still relatively early on its technological life – they’re reluctant for folk to experience too many different lives until they can fully understand the impact that it has on folk,”

 

“Like amnesia?”

 

“Yeah – like amnesia,”

 

“So you gave me a whole bunch of new identities so I could live lots of lives without them shitting themselves?”

 

“Yes. You seemed to get so much out of it. The first time you came back you were high for weeks.”

 

“Was I? What kind of life was it?”

 

“I can’t really remember too many of the details – I remember it sounded pretty mundane to me though… You had a family, a job… nothing exciting,”

 

“You know how I go off and live these lives?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“How long am I gone for – I mean, is it a lifetime? You keep the flat going for three score years and ten, waiting for my return and then…”

 

“No,” he laughed, “No…it’s not like that – each life lasts about a day in our time. It’s funny, looking back, each time you came back slightly different – like you’d taken on the attributes of the folk you’d been…”

 

“But I was them? I didn’t take on their attributes – they took on mine, surely?”

 

“Hmm…I’m not sure which way that particular riddle goes – I guess we’re all products of our biology and our environment – it’s all a bit of both isn’t it?

 

“I guess…have you ever tried it?”

 

“What, Pilots?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I did a couple – I tried being an ordinary twenty-third century Joe – that was all a bit dull…I’ve been a dragon-fly! Now fuck, that’s living…”

 

I smiled at his enthusiasm as I tried to imagine what that must have been like.

 

“It’s not like being a human driving a dragonfly – it’s about being that dragonfly from egg to larvae to dragonfly  - the works – it was fabulous…”

 

“So I’ve had lots of these lives?”

 

“Yeah, about fifty or so this year…”

 

“This year?”

 

“Yeah – ordinarily folk are allowed one or maybe two at a push each year – sort of like holidays,”

 

“So how did I get fifty?”

 

“I er, got you a whole bunch of different identities…I’d never seen you so happy…”

 

“So I just kept on going back for more?”

 

“Yeah,”

 

“And this is what happens? This amnesia?”

 

“Well, we didn’t know…”

 

“So John, he wasn’t real?”

 

“Yes…yes…John lived. You lived his life…well…er…”

 

“John’s life is still er, in me. All this – everything around me – you – God, even me – feels completely alien. I feel like I’ve lost me.”

 

“This is all my fault – I shouldn’t have got you those other names,” he looked so tired, his eyes were wet and red.

 

“I imagine you were doing what you thought was right… you know how you said John lived and that I lived his life?”

 

“Yeah?” he looked pained.

 

“You sounded a bit uncertain – I did live his life, didn’t I?”

 

Silence.

 

“Didn’t I?”

 

“Well, yes…just about…”

 

“Ralph, is there something you need to tell me?”

 

“Yes,” he put his hand to his mouth to stop the words escaping.

 

“And that is…?”

 

“It was like you were addicted. Every day you’d come home and ask me for another identity. Every day you wanted to be someone else. I was panicked. I’d heard some stuff about this amnesia in other folk – I’d heard about some pretty strange behaviours…Shit Barney, you’re my best friend…”

 

This all felt ok. No matter what he’d done – it felt like he’d done it to some other bloke, “It’s ok Ralph. I’m sure it’s fine…”

 

“I told them. I got in touch with them. You’d gone in the morning – by lunchtime I was outta my head with worry – I told them about all of your different identities and how often you’d been back. You’ve got to understand, I was worried about you – I had no idea what was happening…”

 

“I’m sure whatever happened – it was fine, don’t beat yourself up,” Still, I felt that anything he’d done, he’d done to Barney – this person who I wasn’t.

 

“They sent someone back,” he couldn’t look at me, his hands nearly covered the whole of his face, “They sent someone back to er, retrieve you…”

 

Silence. What the fuck did that mean? How do you retrieve someone from a life unless…unless what? I couldn’t even begin to think what that meant. Surely not…? I felt cold and not a little light-headed.

 

“Retrieve me? What exactly does that mean?”

 

“I’m not completely sure – it means one of two things…” his mouth was quivering with stress, “They either sent someone back to live a full life – to meet up with you and…Or, they sent someone back to take over an existing life to…”

 

“Shit! Is that possible? Isn’t there some kind of…punch-up?”

 

“Yeah…yeah…it’s actually what they did at first – initially they dabbled with folk in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries – you know the time of which-hunting and possessions?”

 

“Jesus!” so much to take in, let’s try and keep it simple, “So what do you think they did to me?”

 

“I think they sent someone back to take on someone’s life. It’s too complicated to live a full life and then try to remember what you’re supposed to do…”

 

“And what were they supposed to do? What did they have to remember?”

 

“They had to remember to bring you back…”

 

“What does that mean, Ralph? What does bringing me back actually mean?” I knew the answer – I just didn’t want to hear it or believe it.

 

“Someone was sent back to… kill you…”

 

No longer was he talking about some abstract Barney-person who I couldn’t believe in. Suddenly he was talking about me and my life. This had been my life and some bastard had taken it from me. I thought about me and mum – her distress – my distress…Jesus what a fucking mess.

 

“Surely if someone killed me in the past it would have a massive impact on the future…?”

 

“It had already happened…”

 

“What? What the fuck is that meant to mean? Does that mean that nothing is determined by the individual? Do we all throw ourselves down that inevitable slide that is fate? What are you talking about?”

 

“They sent someone back to kill you – and they killed you – it doesn’t have an effect on the future because it’s already happened…don’t you see?”

 

“No…no…I don’t fucking see! Some bastard killed me. What about my feelings? What about my mum? I was living a life and some bastard took that from me. What was wrong with letting me live it and then apprehending me after the fact?”

 

“They thought if you were there any longer then you’d lose your identity completely,”

 

“What the fuck’s this?” I held my arms out to display this body more fully, “I’ve no idea what or who Barney is. He’s gone. I’ve lost him – don’t you see? I was John and some cunt killed me…”

 

With that, I stormed into the lift. It colluded with me and took me down into the car park. Where I was going I had no idea. Purposefully I strode away from the lift and towards the beautiful car.

 

Suddenly, I was hit with a massive shock and I fell, unconscious, to the floor.

 

I opened my eyes to find a blurry Ralph kneeling next to me. It took some time, but I gradually realised that it was me that was blurry and not him. I was lying on the sofa again. Ralph was clutching my hand.

 

“What happened?” I mumbled.

 

“Your security bracelet-thing on your ankle went off…”

 

“It did?”

 

“Yeah – we were supposed to discuss that – but you managed to leg it before we had the chance,” he kind of smiled.

 

“I take it it’s not terribly keen on me going places on my own?”

 

“No,” he laughed gently, “It’s either me or the apartment I’m afraid…”

 

“What?”

 

“If you aren’t within a hundred metres of either me or the flat – your security thing goes off…and I think we both know what that means?”

 

“Bloody Hell, yes,” I rubbed the side of my face where it hit the ground, “Does it look bad?”

 

“No, you’ll be fine – bit of a graze – you’ll never play the ukulele again though,”

 

I slanted my eyes quizzically at him, “Did I…”

 

He wrinkled his nose and shook his head, “Nah…”

 

“Thought not,” he might have been one of ‘them’, but I was quite warming to Ralph.

 

“You really need to get some sleep,” he stroked my head.

 

It felt lovely, “Ralph, are you sure we’re not…?”

 

“Absolutely. We’re friends – good friends,” he grinned down at me.

 

I went through to bed and fell asleep surprisingly quickly. When I woke up the following morning it felt like I’d experienced a night full of exciting dreams that were now slipping through my fingers like so much sand. My old life and new life were inextricably linked – it was hard to tell the difference between the two. So much so, that when I woke up I was sure I was at home with mum again. As my eyes gradually focused on the light of the day and the audacious cacophony that was the colour scheme of my room I realised that that was not the case.

 

I wandered through to the living room. Ralph wasn’t around yet. I walked up to the kitchen, “Coffee, er, coffee please…”

 

And there it was – a coffee, milky and frothy just they way I liked it. While I was confusing myself with the inner debate as to whether or not my coffee preference was down to nature or nurture, Ralph came through.

 

“Sleep well?” he smiled.

 

“Very – I’m just getting the hang of…” what? There was nothing there. I waved my arms about a bit, “…of this…er thing…”

 

“Could you get me a coffee while you’re there?”

 

“Sure, how do you have it?”

 

“Same as you, just ask for a coffee…”

 

So I did. Excited with my integration with modern living so far I said, “Banana,”

 

Nothing happened.

 

“Banana, er please…”

 

Still nothing. I was aware of Ralph watching me.

 

“Please could you make me a banana, er please…”

 

Nothing.

 

“It doesn’t do organic things…”

 

“Surely the coffee’s got beans and milk in it?”

 

“It’s all synthetic, I’m afraid – you’ve got to admit it’s a pretty good likeness though?”

 

I held my mug level with my eyes just in case I could see some obvious flaw, there was none, “That’s amazing…”

 

“Yeah,” Ralph smiled, “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

 

We sat down at the table in the kitchen area, me in my striped P.J.’s and him in a white bathrobe.

 

“So, what’s the plan?” I had this image that I’d be sat in the apartment all day waiting for Ralph to come home from work – it’d be easy to have his dinner on the table waiting for him when he came in.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Well – don’t you go to work, leaving me to get up to all kinds of mischief here? Hey, I could even hatch an evil escape plan…”

 

“Knowing you, that’s exactly what you’d do…”

 

Gradually I was becoming accustomed to the notion that this new me wasn’t terribly different from the old me…which, obviously was the new me…

 

“…no, I don’t really have a job as such…I do go in from time to time and twat about with some technology…”

 

“Where do you go?”

 

“I…er, work for the government…I kind of keep things ticking over…”

 

“Is that how you could get me all those different identities?”

 

“Pretty much, yeah. I’m in a spot of trouble for that – I’m sure you can imagine…”

 

“Yeah. So what’s the plan? What are doing today?” I allowed myself to feel vaguely excited at the prospect of exploring this new world.

 

“Well, Dr Pope told me she thought it would be a good idea for me to take you to do the stuff that you like doing…to sort of re-orientate to this world… ”

 

“And what sort of thing is that?”

 

“Well there’s a couple of things – one you tend to go off and do by yourself – the other, you and I quite enjoy doing together…”

 

“Well, since you and I are er…linked, let’s go and do the thing we enjoy together…”

 

“Sure – it’s a bit early for that kind of stuff though – we usually go to watch something in the bar together,” it sounded like he was being deliberately obtuse.

 

“Are you hiding something?”

 

“Well no – I guess I just wanted it to be…you know…a surprise. You’ll find out when we go to watch at lunch…”

 

“Hmmm,” I raised an eyebrow, “So it’s something I go to watch…?” I felt like Sherlock Holmes discovering an evil plot.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I just said, you arse,” image destroyed.

 

“On that subject…”

 

“What subject?”

 

“Of discovery?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“How much are you able to tell me about my, er, death?” that felt strange.

 

“What do you want to know?” serious now.

 

“Whodunnit?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure – I think I could find out though…”

 

“Could you? I mean, was it someone close to me? Or some hidden assassin?”

 

“I think it’s my turn to say ‘whoa’,” Ralph put his hands up.

 

“Why?”

 

“You’ve got to remember, I don’t know anything really about your, er, past life…”

 

“Of course you don’t…no, of course you don’t…What do you want to know?”

 

“What do you want to tell me?”

 

“I think I’d like to tell you everything…”

 

So I told him about my life living with mum, about my life as a social worker and the events leading up to my early demise. He appeared very interested when I told him about Mr Stuart and the Evil Eye.

 

“Fascinating,”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“I’m not sure – I’m sure there’s more for us to find out there though,”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah – not just now though – carry on with your story,”

 

I told him all about Jen, and stripy haired woman and Claus and the Ball-Boys and how my behaviour changed radically when I found out I was dying.

 

“That’s really interesting…”

 

“In what way?”

 

“Well, that you started really living when you knew you were dying,”

 

“D’you know, I think I might have said that?”

 

“It wouldn’t surprise me if you had,” he grinned back at me, “Bloody Hell, is that the time – c’mon we need to get dressed and outta here – we’re going to miss it,”

 

Ralph leapt to his feet and scurried off to his bedroom – I followed his cue and vanished into my room in search of an item of clothing that might not melt the eyes of onlookers.

****

 

As we were driving to venue x I was struck by the thought that Ralph wouldn’t be drinking at this social event, because he was driving. How would a law cover that? If we were going to the bar – was it to have a drink? Or was it to meet up with some old friends and acquaintances who might be able to get me back to now?

 

The bar – the pub, looked like it should. There was a bar with folk serving, there were a number of folk milling about the place – some chatting, some looking wistfully into their drinks, some looking at the big fuck-off screens on the wall. Of course – a bar – big screens – a bunch of men together – it could only mean one thing  - some manner of sport for them all to comment on, look at the form and babble about how, if their lives had been different, they could have been a contender…

 

Ralph came over carrying two glasses of amberish liquid.

 

“Synthetic chemicals?” I smiled as I took a sip.

 

“Only the best for you sir,” Ralph winked as we clinked glasses.

 

“What’s all this then? Soccer? Football? Basketball? Formula 1?”

 

Ralph’s eyes widened as he put his drink down, “H-Surfing – you love it…”

 

“I do? Do I? What is it?”

 

“It’s hydrogen surfing, to give it it’s full name…”

 

“Isn’t that just normal surfing, on hydrogen with a bit of oxygen – you know, on water?”

 

“No, no, no…this is much more interesting…”

 

As usual in a pub the volume was down, but there on the screen was a Lycra clad Adonis with film-star good looks.

 

“Who’s he?” I whispered.

 

“Cannon-fodder – you don’t need to know,”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah – watch, here’s the main man,”

 

There appeared on screen an ageless, gnarled almost treelike man with piercing blue eyes. His Lycra was more sombre than that of the earlier young blade. On his head he wore a patterned scarf that looked not unlike a knotted hankie.

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Who’s that? Who’s that?” Ralph hissed at me, “He’s your favourite H-Surfer of all time…”

 

“Yes, but while I’m in the frame of mind where I can’t remember where I live…do you mind just filling me in with a few of the facts?”

 

“That’s Graham Martin…”

 

“Graham…” I instantly felt a mistrust for anyone with two first names.

 

“He’s known as ‘H’ – he is Mr Hydrogen…”

 

“Quick – tell me about H-Surfing…”

 

“Ok – briefly these guys ride on boards with sails…”

 

I felt a terrible cloud of anticlimax rain down on me.

 

“What? It’s windsurfing?”

 

Ralph sounded distracted, “What? Well, kind of – take a look…”

 

There on the screen was about a hundred guys lined up on surfboards with huge sails. They all had full-face helmets on. Wherever they were it looked very dark – it was difficult to tell the difference between the water and the sky.

 

“Is it a race?”

 

“Yes…watch,”

 

The camera was looking down on them from a height of about 20 metres or so – they were all bobbing about waiting for something to happen. Then, as one, all the surfers tensed, poised ready to go. I wasn’t quite ready for what happened next. The race started – but fuck – it was a lot faster than I expected. To my casual spectators eyes it almost looked like they just vanished from the screen – there was a blur of colours as they flew off…

 

“What the fuck?”

 

Ralph laughed at my response.

 

“How fast…?”

 

“Fairly…”

 

“No…really…how fast?”

 

“Well they get to around two hundred miles per hour pretty quickly…”

 

As I looked at the screen, the view turned to what appeared to be an onboard camera. The board seemed to have powerful light at the front – huge rocks would suddenly leap out of the twilight and then whoosh by as the surfer took evasive action.

 

I turned to Ralph and calmly put all the questions to him that I felt would give me clarity, “What the…? Who the…? How the…? Where the…?”

 

“They’re in space – they’re actually going through the asteroid belt – that’s where most of the races take place – kind of makes it more exciting if someone might get horribly maimed, don’t you think?”

 

With my mouth gaping open, I nodded my agreement, “Fu-u-uck!”

 

“The sails gather hydrogen atoms and the board transforms that into energy…pretty cool, eh?”

 

“Bloody cool…are there teams or what? How does this all work?”

 

“There’s two guys in each team. Sometimes they work together, sometimes it’s every man for themselves…”

 

“But…but…this looks dangerous – don’t people get killed all the time?”

 

“Watch…”

 

The racing was fast and furious – seemingly with no holds barred as boards bounced off each other at astonishing speeds. Two H-Surfers were vying for position at the front, skilfully avoiding a variety of space flotsam and jetsam as they sped round the course that, I could now see, was marked out by bright marker buoys. Just watching was exhilarating – I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I gripped the table in front of me.

 

Suddenly, one of the racers forced the other into a huge rock. Surely at that speed he was a goner…?

 

We watched from a variety of angles as a red aura appeared around the surfer and he bounced into the rock in slow motion. By his body language we could see he was angry and frustrated but amazingly, unhurt.

 

I turned to Ralph with a quizzical expression.

 

“It’s a time buffer – absolutely brilliant bit of technology…”

 

“And that does…what exactly?” I was floundering again.

 

“Ok, normally, travelling at that speed, it would have taken that guy – what? A hundredth of a second to hit the rock?”

 

Not being a scientific sort, I nodded vacantly.

 

“The time buffer turns that one hundredth of a second into anything up to thirty seconds – what you saw on the screen just now wasn’t slow motion – it was actual time…”

 

“But why doesn’t everyone else slow down then?”

 

“The time buffer’s localised to the board – it’s brilliant. A shield would be no good because decelerating from two hundred to zero would kill you anyway. The TB allows the surfer to slow down safely without injury…”

 

“I’m going to put that in a little box marked, ‘Black Magic’ – it’s like broadband, I don’t understand it and I don’t need to…”

 

Ralph laughed, put his arm around me and hugged me close to him, “Isn’t it great though?”

 

“Fabulous,” I grinned.

 

We watched as the race unfolded in front of us with most surfers skilfully negotiating rocks and each other, whilst others were coerced into almost balletic crashes. It lasted for about half an hour which, to be honest, was more than enough for me – I was exhausted.

 

We watched as the gnarly wooden man, H to his friends, received his trophy. In second place was a guy who looked a bit like Adonis-man and in third was a sculpted and athletic woman.

 

“Do they let women race…?” I realised how ridiculously sexist that sounded as soon as it left my mouth.

 

“Yeah, they let women race…sometimes they even let the women win…” Ralph rolled his eyes at me.

 

I felt myself shrink like a beaten dog, “Sorry…”

 

“No worries – see her? Michelle Sykes, she’s currently second in the series – sometimes they call her Mrs H,”

 

“I’m sure she’s delighted,” I thought of her relative beauty standing next to H.

 

“Hmmm – is anything coming back to you? You used to love this almost as much as vanishing off to Pilots…”

 

The atmosphere felt familiar – but I wasn’t sure it that was due to my experience of pubs in my last life.

 

“I’m not sure…I just don’t know…”

 

****

 

“You look anxious,”

 

“I’m waiting for this bloody thing to go off on my leg again,”

 

“It won’t go off in the clinic – if you go more than a hundred metres away from here, or your apartment or Ralph, then it’ll go off…”

 

“Oh, I hadn’t realised it was attached to here as well,”

 

“It is,” non-committal and bland as ever, Dr Pope looked through my notes, “How are you finding it back in the community?”

 

“Ok, I think. Ralph’s been great…I still don’t remember anything though…”

 

“Give it time…”

 

God, that almost felt like warmth.

 

“Dr Pope?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“How much do you know about my life as John?”

 

“We’ve been fully briefed…””

 

“By whom?”

 

“By the person who retrieved you.”

 

“Who are they? Can I see them?”

 

“I’m not at liberty to say and no – you can’t see them, it would compromise their position,”

 

“Can you tell me which character they…er…played in my life?”

 

“Again, I’m unable to tell you…”

 

“So what do we do? Do we just wait until my memory comes back to me?”

 

“Hmmm…yes, yes, that’s what we do,”

 

“Are there others like me?”

 

“A few,”

 

“Does the memory always come back?”

 

“Usually,”

 

“What you’re saying is, I could be stuck like this?”

 

“Don’t be angry with me, Barney. This is a situation of your own making,”

 

How could I argue against that? The me, that I don’t remember being, has put me in the shit by sending me on a jolly holiday too far and now I’m stuck in this half-world.

 

I held my head in my hands, “Sorry, you’re right…it’s my own fault. So what do I do now?”

 

“Carry on doing things that you normally did. The familiarity should help in time,”

 

We sat in silence for a few more minutes. I’m not sure why, but Dr Pope was really beginning to piss me off.

 

“Ok, it’s time. Thank you for coming in. I’ll see you again in two days, at the same time.”

 

“Sure, thanks,” I stood for a second wondering if I should reach out to shake her hand. I decided against it. The result was that I looked like an indecisive twat as she tried to escort me to the door.

 

“How was that?”

 

Thank God for a friendly face and a smile. I slumped in the seat in the car next to Barney.

 

“Humiliating. Embarrassing. Fuck, she’s horrible,” the tension I had felt in my back lifted.

 

“Let’s get you home…”

 

I leaned back into the seat and closed my eyes. I wrestled with my thoughts as I tried to make some sense of this world. More and more I played and replayed the events of the past few days. In my heart of hearts though, I still believed that this was all a construct of my sick and dying brain. A last, desperate throw of the dice before I floated off into some nebulous ether.

 

“Coffee?” Ralph asked brightly. Bless his socks, he was trying to be upbeat.

 

“Coffee…hmmm…yeah, that would be…” great? Super? Coffee?

 

He sat down next to me brandishing my synthetic caffeine hit.

 

“Come on then, what’s on your mind? Let’s have it,” his enthusiasm was so out of beat with the way I felt.

 

“It’s just that there are more questions than answers here…”

 

“Go on…”

 

I gently slapped my face as I tried to focus, “Ok – the thing that I really want to know is – who killed me? I don’t know why, but it’s doing my head in. The more Dr Pope says she can’t tell me, the more I want to know…”

 

Ralph looked into the middle distance, “I think I know a man who knows a man who can get us that little piece of information – it’ll take a little while – is that ok?”

 

This must have been what had drawn me to Ralph in the first place – he was a doer and a fixer. What he was doing with a minor subversive was anyone’s guess. Already the day seemed slightly brighter. I felt some weight lift from my weary shoulders.

 

“That’s fantastic – it would be great if you could,”

 

“I can – no worries. What else?”

 

“You mentioned something that I went off and did on my own – without you…?”

“Yeah…?” he suddenly looked pained and tired.

 

“What is that?”

 

“It’s pub based…”

 

“Can’t be that bad, then…” then, on seeing the strained expression on Ralph’s face, “…can it?”

 

“You go to this pub, ‘The Golden Jug’ where you meet up with up bunch of…”

 

“…Loonies?...Miscreants?...Subversives?...a bunch of, a bunch of…bananas?”

 

“Yeah, yeah…” he smiled, “…a bunch of bananas…politically idealistic bananas…but bananas nonetheless,”

 

“Interesting…in the spirit of keeping me immersed in my normal life, when do I get to meet them?”

 

“You all met on Thursday nights – you’d always come back a little pissed and pretty fired up,”

 

“About what?”

 

“Ooooh…stuff and fluff. Things that were bad with the world – but things you couldn’t change…”

 

“I was a revolutionary!” I exclaimed with delight.

 

He looked at me with borderline disdain. I remembered my image in the mirror – Che Guevara I wasn’t.

 

“No, as far as I could make out you met up over a few beers with similarly disgruntled folk and set the world to rights – or not, as the case may be,”

 

“You’re suggesting we’re a bunch of whingers?”

 

“Yeah, pretty much,”

 

I felt defensive of these comrades I’d never met, “So you’d describe yourself as perfectly gruntled then?”

 

“Gruntled?”

 

“As opposed to dis…”

 

“Oh, I see. I think I’m reasonably happy – but the things that you were talking about – well, there’s no point, is there?”

 

“In what?”

“Trying to change everything – or talking about changing everything – it just made you dissatisfied…”

 

“Such as what?” I could feel the anger rising.

 

“Why don’t you wait and meet up with your friends – and then you’ll know – they’ll be able to describe it so much better than me,”

 

“And they won’t think it’s a pile of old shite?”

 

“Well, there is that, yes,”

 

“Did I work at all – you know – for a living?”

 

“Hmmm – well – not really…”

 

“Why – am I disabled? Unemployable? What?”

 

“Well, most folk don’t – so much is automated – a few of us dabble in stuff, but to be honest, there isn’t that much to do in that respect…”

 

“Money? How do I earn money to go drinking in the Golden Jug?”

 

“Well there’s quite a large difference there…between your twentieth century life and this one…”

 

“In what respect?”

 

“Well…there is no money…”

 

“No money? What about trade and the economy and all that other shit that I didn’t understand?”

 

“Well, I guess – don’t quote me here – there must have been a point where we realised there was enough to go round for us all to be, you know…er wealthy,”

 

“Wealthy without money?”

 

“You know what I mean – we’ve all got food and water and a roof over our head and tonnes of…stuff,”

 

“Produced by…?”

 

“Technology pretty much…”

 

“So what do I actually do from day to day? I must do something…don’t I?”

 

“Yeah – you spend time at the library – you go to the gym…”

 

“That sounds interesting…”

“What, the gym? Trust me, it isn’t. Basically you get wired into a gizmo that stimulates all your muscle groups to stop them from atrophying,”

 

“Wow…that sounds…”

 

“Dull? Well, yes it is. You seem to get a lot out of the library though…”

 

“Are there real books and stuff?”

 

“Well, yes, to an extent – there’s been this ongoing battle between books and these hand-held electronic readers…”

 

“I knew they’d never catch on…”

 

He laughed, “Well, for thousands of years they did. It’s only been with new technology where we can basically reproduce anything synthetically that we have been able to go retro – and produce books again. You liked books – personally, I think they’re just a passing fad…”

 

“There seems to be a lot that’s retro here – your car – the sofa…”

 

“You’re right – it’s all very welcome – everything had become terribly similar and efficient – homogenised really…”

 

“Thank God for retro…”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“You know how you have been assigned the task to ensure that I re-familiarise myself with this world?” I was leading the witness.

 

“Yes – why do I know I’m not going to like this?”

 

“What about going to Pilots – you know, recreationally?”

 

“I knew you were going to say that…”

 

“Sooooo…?”

 

“You can fuck off – not a chance – it was your obsession with Pilots that got you here in the first place…”

 

“Oh, come on – I’m sure there’s stuff I could do that won’t be too harmful…”

 

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he was angry, “You honestly think I’ll help you to dive back into the very thing that did your head in, in the first place?”

 

“There must have been a reason that I kept having to…leave?”

 

“The thing is, the more you did it – the more you wanted to do it. You started off with a few fleeting possessions and lower order animals…”

 

“…Before I got onto the hard stuff?”

 

“Well, yeah – you were so unhappy with this life – anything Pilots had to offer, you wanted…”

 

“So why was I so bloody miserable? What’s so bad about all this?”

 

“You tell me. I think your misery was a lot to do with the fine folk of the Golden Jug,”

 

“What, I’m hanging about with a bad lot?”

 

“Well…yeah, yes you are. Listen, I don’t want to have this conversation – it’s important that you speak to these guys first,”

 

“Ok…” were we just replaying a rift that was there before?

 

The next couple of days went without incident. It felt that the happy-go-lucky Ralph that I’d initially met had become more subdued, and a little distant. Maybe he’d hoped that with all my memories of revolution out the way, we could just be mates again?

 

At-home entertainment wasn’t terribly thrilling. We had a huge screened thing that doubled up as a kind of instant internet access computer – touch screen – thing. The whole world was there at the touch of a finger. There was still drama and films and sport and stuff – but it all felt sanitised and hollow. We seemed to be able to communicate through the big screen thingy as well – sure, we had smaller screen thingies in our rooms – but it was in the living area where most of the action happened.

 

****

“How have things been?” Dr Pope began brightly.

 

“Much the same – I did get to see some H-Surfing though – that seems pretty exciting…” Even as I said it I knew some of the excitement had waned. What was exciting about a dangerous sport that wasn’t actually dangerous?

 

She scribbled on a pad as she spoke to me, “Any recollections?”

 

“No, none – well, I thought I might have some manner of something in the bar…but I’m not sure…”

 

“Tell me more,” she sat forward on her seat.

 

“I thought I might have remembered being there – but I think it’s probably because I remembered pubs that I went to as John…” God, just mentioning the name brought thousands of memories flooding back. I could see mum crying – I could see Jen…I remembered that last time we met…

 

“Is there something wrong?” she must have spotted that far-off look in my eye.

 

“No…no…not really – I just feel incredibly sad,” I could feel the tears welling in my eyes.

 

“What about?” sharp and demanding.

 

“Well…about mum, mainly…”

 

“Anyone else?”

 

“Well, there was this woman…”

 

“Can you remember her name?”

 

“Wha…? Of course I can remember her name. It was only a couple of weeks ago…”

 

“What was?”

 

“When I was John…What’s wrong – shouldn’t I remember this stuff?”

 

“Of course, of course you should…” I couldn’t help but think she was covering something up, “…so what was her name?”

 

“Caroline,” I lied, “She was lovely – long brown hair, dark eyes – slightly rounded – not her eyes – her…you know…”

 

Not a flicker of humour. She seemed to relax, “I wasn’t aware of this woman in your life – that must make all this difficult,”

 

It was weird – it was like she was saying all the right stuff – but she didn’t mean it. She didn’t care about my emotions – she didn’t care about me.

 

“Yes, yes it does – we were just getting to know each other…”

 

“What happened to her?”

 

“When I found out I was dying I had to tell her it was over…it was terribly sad,”

 

I had no idea what information she had access to – what would happen if she found out I was lying? Why was I lying?

 

“How was that?” Ralph seemed concerned about me.

 

“I…er…I…” could I talk to him about lying to Dr Pope? Does he keep her up to date with everything anyway? Was he one of them? Or was he a, slightly straight-laced, one of me?

“Are you alright?”

 

“Well…kind of…I don’t know…can we talk about it later?”

 

“Sure, sure…” he looked genuinely concerned – just like a real friend would, “Do you still want to go out tonight, or…”

 

“I definitely want to go out – I want to meet up with these underground terrorists…”

 

Ralph shot me an alarmed glance, “Don’t…just don’t…it’s not funny. You’ve got to careful with these people…”

 

“Don’t worry, you’ll have to come with me anyway…”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“The security bangle-thing – I can’t go further than a hundred…”

 

“Yes…of course, you’re right…”

 

“You could invite a friend along – make a night of it?”

 

“I’ll bring something to read – just in case,”

 

“In case of what?”

 

“In case we have to leave suddenly…”

 

“Is that likely?”

 

“I have no fucking idea what goes on in that place” he sounded threatened.

 

****

 

“You’re looking for a black guy called Brendan,”

 

“What does he look like?”

 

“This…” he held up his hand-help pda, reading tablet thing. Brendan – somewhat predictably – had dreadlocks – although black, he had European features and, most noticeably, blue eyes.

 

“You are so good to me – you think of everything – thanks,”

 

“I think that’s your lot over there,” he nodded over to two men, one of which was Brendan, and a woman sitting in the corner. They were relaxed and happy, laughing at something or other.

 

“What do I say to them?”

 

“I’ve no idea – I’ll be sitting over here…” he looked scared.

 

“Whoa there! Do I tell them what’s happened to me?”

 

“I don’t think you’ll have much choice – do you?”

 

“Well…er…no, I suppose you’re right,”

 

“Good luck,” he rubbed my back and walked off to the opposite end of the bar.

 

“Can I have a beer, please?” I asked the young, fresh-faced bartender.

 

She looked at me with a kind of squint and questioning smile. Of course – I come in here every week – I must have… “The usual, er, please…” was I putting on an accent? Who was I pretending to be?

 

I wasn’t terribly surprised when she came back with a long blue drink with orange hues over ice with a straw and an umbrella. Flaky.

 

Nervously, I walked over to the group in the corner. I sat down on the stool at the corner of the table – next to a tall red-headed woman with olive skin and opposite Brendan.

 

“Brendan,” I smiled at him, then turning to the others, who I wasn’t sure if I’d met or not, “Hi…hi…” weak smile.

 

I took a long suck at my drink to calm my nerves. Jesus Christ! It tasted like a mixture of cough-medicine and turps. I felt my face redden and I coughed somewhere deep in my chest.

 

“You alright man?” No, no, no…this couldn’t be true. I’d seen so many folk at college doing this. Middle-class kids pretending to be colloquial – Brendan sounded like Prince Charles doing an impression of a West-Indian.

 

“Yeah…well…actually…” I should have rehearsed this.

 

“Coom-on man, tell us what’s going down…” was that a hint of Birmingham in there?

 

“Right…ok…here’s the deal,” I obviously had their full attention, “I went to Pilots, something happened and…well…I can’t remember who I am,” succinct and almost straight to the point.

 

Brendan tried laughing…and then stopped when I didn’t join in.

 

“What’s happened man?” he looked really concerned. God, was this guy really a good friend of mine? Well, if I went to see them every Thursday…? What happens if this is just a set up? What happens if not only Ralph is one of them – but these fine folk are part of the same thing?

 

Bugger it – what had I got to lose? I told them everything…except the bit about lying to Dr Pope.

 

They sat in silence, aghast. We sat in silence for a bit after I’d finished.

 

“So you can’t remember anything?” the shortish, blondish, plumpish guy at the end of the table asked.

 

I looked at him vacantly, hoping for a smart-arse answer to spew forth…

 

“Oh, sorry – you won’t remember – I’m Gordon,”

 

“He knows stuff,” piped up the woman next to me in a painful pseudo-cockney accent.

 

I closed my eyes. Fuck – I’m a pretentious fuckwit. No wonder Ralph was worried.

 

I opened them again, “And you are…?”

 

“Jane. Pleased to meet you,” she laughed as we shook hands.

 

“Have any of you guys heard of anything like this happening before?”

 

All three of them looked blankly at me. Good-God, the children of the revolution.

 

“No…you’re the only one who really threw himself at Pilots,” Brendan spoke quietly

 

“Have any of you tried it?”

 

“Just a couple of times,” Gordon mumbled into his drink.

 

“Once,” Jane spoke quietly.

 

“Yeah, just once for me too…”

 

“Did any of you like it?”

 

“Yeah, it was ok,” they all responded in unison.

 

“How come I got to go so many times,” suddenly I felt like a lab rat.

 

“It’s coz, like, you know Ralph,”

 

“Is that it?” I felt and sounded exasperated.

 

“Yeah – you’d come back and tell us what it was really like to live, man,” if he says ‘man’ once more, I’ll fucking…

 

“So, let’s get this straight – we come here every Thursday, right?” they all nodded obediently, “We moan about the state of this world?”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“We send me off to live some life or other…”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Then I tell you about it…?” Someone fucking shoot me.

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Ralph!” I shouted over to my solitary friend.

 

He waved vaguely at me.

 

“Ralph, drink up, we’re leaving…” with that I downed my drink in one – nearly lost consciousness and said, “See you later guys…”

 

Sitting back in the car I turned to Ralph, “I can’t believe you were actually scared of these people…”

 

“I think ‘scared’ is a little harsh – wary of yes– not scared of…”

 

“Do you know they were sitting there moaning about there little lives at the same time, at the same time…” what…?

 

“What Barney? What is it?”

 

“They were living vicariously through me living vicariously through others…” fuck.

 

He wrinkled his nose and rubbed his head, “I had no idea…I really had no idea…”

 

“Let’s go home…”

 

“Yeah…”

 

Back at the apartment I leant up against the kitchen counter, “Hot chocolate,” I demanded then, turning to Ralph, “What in the name of God was I drinking?”

 

“I dunno – but it looked shocking…it was glowing…I could see it from the other side of the bar,” he laughed. Surely he was one of the good-guys?

 

“I’m going through to bed…it’s all been a bit…you know,”

 

“Yeah – sleep well...”

 

I slipped into my stripy jammies and thought about the three musketeers – whatever they were. What a let down. I had some notion that these subversives were going to provide me with the answer…or an answer to something. What a bloody disappointment…I drank down my cocoa and snuggled up under my epilepsy-inducing duvet.

 

I was almost asleep when I was aware that I could hear a phone ringing. I quickly reminded myself that I didn’t have a phone. All things phone-like had been left behind in John-world.

 

I looked at the TV-thing next to my bed – there, in the middle of the screen was an animation of an old phone ringing. Underneath it was the word ‘Gordon’. What was I supposed to do?

 

“Hello?” Nothing, it kept ringing. There was nothing for me to pick up, even if I wanted to speak to him. To be fair, he was the only one out of the three who hadn’t put on some obscure accent. Finally, I decided to poke the screen. Gordon’s face appeared – he looked worried.

 

“Hi, er, Barney – sorry, I can see you’re in bed…”

 

“Yeah, yeah…no worries…” I sat up immediately, I felt that I was doing something wrong.

 

“I need to see you – we need to talk…is Ralph there?”

 

“What? No…no…this is my bedroom – what would Ralph be doing in here?”

 

“Sorry…no…you’re right. Listen – can I come round tomorrow?”

 

“I’ll just have a look at my diary…nope, just like most other days – fuck-all, guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,”

 

“Great,” he seemed relieved, “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

 

“Fabulous – night,”

 

“Bye…” he vanished from the screen.

 

I went to sleep with some vague notion that this all might be a little cloak-and-dagger…

 

****

 

“Have you got anything on today?” I asked Ralph as he produced two bowls of synthetic muesli out of thin air.

 

“Well…no, not really. I was planning on popping into work for a couple of hours…but if there’s something you fancy doing?”

 

“No, I got a…er,” what the fuck do I call it? “On the screen – from Gordon last night…”

 

“Curious – he’d just seen you,”

 

“Yeah, I thought that,”

 

“What did he want?”

 

“I’m not sure – he told me he had to see me though…”

 

“Great, do you want me to take you along to the Golden…”

 

“Well, no…he wants to come here,”

 

“That’s interesting…”

 

“Is it? Why, he’s a friend – doesn’t he normally pop round for a chat…or…?”

 

“No…never…I think your friends are a bit scared of me,”

 

“Really, why?”

 

“Because I work for the Government…” he tried a scary voice and failed.

 

“You were scared of them…”

 

“No I wasn’t,” he overacted through gritted teeth, “I was wary of them…Listen, I could be at work when he comes round – it sounds like he might want to speak in private,”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“Oooh nothing – the fact that he didn’t talk to you in front of the other two – the fact that he didn’t just spill last night on the video…”

 

“Why wouldn’t he speak on the video?”

 

“Maybe he thought someone was listening in?”

 

“Do people listen in?”

 

“Sometimes,” positively coquettish.

 

“Will somebody be listening in if you go to work and he comes round this morning?”

 

“No,” smiling.

 

“Really?”

 

“There will be no-one listening in between ten and twelve this morning – definitely,”

 

“Which means, at other times…?”

“Shut up, I’ve told you enough,’ He smiled a big smile.

 

“Excellent,” Why would folk want to listen in to me? Had they been listening before I pickled my brain, or had they only started since I’d lost my memory?

 

“Hi,” Gordon’s face appeared on a small screen next to the door.

 

“Hi, come up – I think,” I said unconvincingly as I poked at he green pad underneath his image.

 

“Great,” he said as he vanished from the screen.

 

The door opened to reveal a nervous bordering on the paranoid Gordon, “Is Ralph here?” His eyes darted around the living area.

 

“No, he’s gone to work for a couple of hours,” I put on my best soothing voice.

 

He crept in, “Is anyone…?”

 

“No, there’s no-one here. And…” fuck, here’s a leap of faith, “…he tells me there will be no listening devices pointed in our direction while he’s out,”

 

“And you believe him?”

 

“I’ve no reason not to,”

 

“No, I suppose not,”

 

“D’you want a coffee?”

 

“Synthesized?”

 

“There’s another kind?”

 

He pulled out a silver packet from underneath his tatty baggy jacket, “Just get boiling water in a cafetiere,”

 

“Boiling water in a cafetiere, er, please,” I doubted anything would happen – instantly though, there it was.

 

Gordon took charge, “Have you got a spoon??

 

I turned to the kitchen, “Could I have a …”

 

Gordon opened a drawer and there was a whole clatter of cutlery.

 

“Oh…”

 

“See how easy it is to just depend on the gadgets and gizmos?” he said earnestly.

 

“Yeah, I guess…”

 

“You’re not like that…we’re not like that…”

 

“Should I get some milk for that?” I said as I watched him spoon what appeared to be coffee into the water.

 

“No, it’s better without – that way it’s real…”

 

“Real as in beans and shit?”

 

“Real as in beans – yeah,”

 

I was hit with that wonderful smell that only fresh coffee can provide.

 

“Wow, that’s a smell I hadn’t even realised I missed,”

 

“I know – there’s a lot of that going on here…”

 

I thought about what he’d said for just a second, “Yeah I can imagine…”

 

“Ok, listen…I’ve got a lot to tell you and we’ve only got a couple of hours,”

 

“Fine, fine…” I had no idea what I was saying ‘fine’ to.

 

“Ok – let’s start with Brendan and Jane…”

 

“Our friends?”

 

“Pair of airheads – they’re just along for some ride. They don’t want change. They’re happy in this comfortable bubble we all live in,”

 

“And we’re not?”

 

“No,”

 

“Are we revolutionaries?”

 

For the first time I saw Gordon laugh a real, wide-mouthed honest to goodness laugh, “No – no, we’re not – we’re a couple of guys who are trying to work out what the fuck’s going on,”

 

“What year is it?” I was suddenly struck by the fact that I didn’t even know the most simple of things.

 

“The year thirty seventy-two,”

 

“Well that’s…nowhere near as far in the future as Ralph implied…”

 

“The thing is – we don’t actually know what the real year is – three thousand and seventy two years ago the whole thing was clocked…”

 

“Clocked?”

 

“Just reset to the year zero…”

 

“So we don’t have any idea of…”

 

“No…”

“Does anyone?”

 

“There’s a select few in the government – but other than that…no…”

 

“Why would they do that? What purpose would…?”

 

“The other thing you need to know is that we don’t die…”

 

I looked at Gordon – he was an ordinary looking bloke, nothing particularly remarkable about him. He looked like any number of folk I’d met in…John’s world, and yet they were all busily living and dying, living and dying passing on their genes one generation to the next. He’s…we’re immortal? I immediately thought of Zeus on top of Mount Olympus. Sitting here on the sofa next to Gordon didn’t exactly feel like that.

 

“We don’t die?”

 

“No…”

 

“Are we, like, indestructible?”

 

“Indestructible we’re not – and therein lies the problem…

 

“Hold on – rewind a little here…if we don’t die – how long have we been around? I mean, how old am I?”

 

“That’s what I’ve just been telling you, we don’t know…the whole thing was reset three thousand years ago and…”

 

“What? I’m over three thousand years old?”

 

“Yes…” Why was I trusting this guy? He was clearly fucking nuts. Ralph was right to be concerned about this little gang…but there again…it all felt strangely compelling.

 

“Surely there would have been some massive population explosion – if we all live for bazillions of years – what about our children and our children’s children and our…”

 

Gordon held up his hand to stop me…just as well, I could have been at that for hours, “We can’t reproduce…”

 

“What?” I was aware I was saying that a lot, “Surely the whole purpose of life – the whole purpose of being was to pass on your DNA to the next generation?”

 

“Well, yes, yes it was…but that stopped thousands of years ago. Towards the end of the twenty second century – first time round – the male sperm count had become so low that we could no longer produce children. As you can imagine, the population began to plummet rather quickly…Fortunately…I say ‘fortunately like it’s a good thing… fortunately for our longevity at any rate…there had been a lot of work of work looking at the mitosis of cells…”

 

“Gordon…I don’t know what that means…”

 

“Sorry – basically mitosis is the division of cells – it’s a system the body uses to constantly replace itself. At the time our cells changed, almost imperceptibly, each time mitosis occurred – gradually aging us until we died. Just in time these scientists came up with a genetic engineering programme that stopped that…”

 

“So we can’t breed?”

 

“No,”

 

“Do we at least, shag?”

 

“People still do – but not that often – the impetus, if you like, has gone…”

 

“Surely though…surely the human race must still be dying out…surely there must be viruses and illnesses wiping people out on a grand scale…?”

 

“They’ve gone…there are none…”

 

“What about accidents? Surely folk are accidentally killing themselves every day?”

 

“Haven’t you noticed?”

 

“No? Noticed what?”

 

“Your world – our world – this world is incredibly safe. Take your synthesised coffee for example…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It’s got exactly the right blend of nutrients, sugars, carbohydrates and fibre to keep us all ticking over happily – everything you eat or drink has exactly the same make-up, just different constituencies and flavours…”

 

I thought about my first drive back to the apartment – looking out of the window at the little parks and patches of greenery – there was no-one about.

 

“People are still dying?”

 

“Yes, but not on any grand scale,”

 

“What’s the cause?”

 

“Suicide mainly…”

 

I tried to imagine this utopian world where we all wanted for nothing – where there was no striving, for our very existence, where there were no worries or stress. On one hand it sounded delightful – on the other – kind of empty. No wonder people were killing themselves.

 

“So I threw myself into Pilots out of what? Boredom?”

 

“Well yes – but that was only part of it – you wanted to experience life – the joys and the struggles of day to day living…”

 

“And of dying? Knowing that there was an end date – specified or otherwise – surely drives someone on…?”

 

“What are you saying? To truly live we must know we’re dying?”

 

“I think so - yes I think that’s what I’m saying…”

 

“You know, Barney, that sounds more like you,”

 

“Does it? Ok, let’s go with that,”

 

“Pilots is a relatively new thing – and you were one of the pioneers…”

 

“Me, a pioneer? How?  From what I can guess about me, I’m not the most scientific of individuals,”

 

“You’re right – you’re more of an astronaut than a rocket scientist – I’m guessing – I don’t know – but I think Ralph was pretty instrumental in getting you involved in the programme…”

 

“Really? But he said…” wheels within wheels…

 

“What did he say?”

 

“No…nothing really. He sort of implied I’d get more answers from you guys and now, here you are telling me I’d get more answers from him,”

 

“Hmm…So, from what you told us, they sent you off initially into subjects that were already half way through their lives…”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Spiritual possession!” he opened his eyes wide and waved his fingers about.

“So I’d go off and take over some poor fifteenth century wench, put voices in their head, get them to do stuff they wouldn’t normally, perhaps mischievously give them a few bits of information they shouldn’t have, and then, before they knew it, they’d be burning at the stake…”

 

“Doesn’t sound quite so great when you put it like that,”

 

“No, I suppose not…”

 

“They also put you into some animals – mammals, birds, a few reptiles, insects – bloody Hell, you loved insects,”

 

“Why?”

 

 “I think it was all about the raw emotion of it all – hunger – lust – desire…but I remember you saying there was something more,”

 

“Stop – I bet you I can tell you what that was…”

 

“Sure, go ahead…”

 

“The thing I liked about it most is that insects just are. They know how to be insects. It’s all terribly clear to them. They don’t worry about the feelings of others, or social etiquette or being judged…they just live…”

 

“Wow, that could have been the real Barney…not that you’re not…oh, I don’t know…”

 

“We’ll take that as progress then?”

 

“Sure,”

 

As we chatted, I realised how at home I felt with this slightly socially awkward man. I felt like I’d known him for a long time. He seemed genuinely interested in what had happened to me – it felt like he cared.

 

“What do you think about Ralph?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean you seem wary of him?”

 

“I am, yeah…”

 

“Was I…?” I knew this was giving him a great opportunity to really put him down.

 

“He’s your best friend,” no hesitation.

 

“And that’s ok,” more of a statement than a question.

 

“Yes it is.

 

“He’s trying to do a little something for me…”

 

“What’s that, exactly?”

 

“Well, you know how I was brought back?”

 

“Yes,”

 

“Well, I’ve asked him to find out who did it…”

 

“What, during your er, journey, or back here?”

 

“Both,”

 

“Are you looking for some kind of closure?”

 

“I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to get out of this. Do you think he’ll be able to help?”

 

“I’m not sure. It’s my understanding that he’s pretty high up – but there’s an inner sanctum that he’s not privy to…”

 

“Do you know anyone else who’s lost their memory through this?”

 

“Honestly?”

 

“That would be ideal,”

 

“There’s a bunch of folk held in the clinic at Pilots all at different stages of recovery,”

 

“Are they all volunteers?”

 

“Oh yes, people were falling over themselves to be included in this,”

 

“Why’s that do you think? D’you reckon there are loads of folk like me – just unhappy with the situation?”

 

“Yeah, there’s a lot…”

 

“You know with all this wonderful technology?”

 

“Yes,”

 

“What happened with space travel? Did we conquer the stars?”

 

“In short – no. I’ll send you a reference to look into it – there’s too much to tell you about just now…”

 

“I suppose we were buggered when we found that big solid lumpy things lie space ships weren’t able to go faster than the speed of light…”

 

“Yes – and more – read the reference…”

 

“Ok,” I smiled, “Ok…just going back to Ralph,”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What happens if he can’t help me?”

 

Gordon looked into the middle distance. He looked slightly pained as if he was wrestling with some internal dilemma.

 

“More coffee?” he suddenly stood up and wandered over to the kitchen.

 

“Yeah, that would be good,”

 

He made the coffee and refilled our mugs from the cafetiere in silence. His fingers drummed the side of his cup.

 

“You don’t have to…” I started.

 

“No…I’ll tell you…Put it this way, Pilots isn’t the only travel agents in town…”

 

“You’re kidding…?” This really had my interest.

 

“It’s more your economy class…”

 

“I love it already,”

 

“…and the technology isn’t quite as shit hot as theirs,”

 

“In what way?”

 

“Let’s see what Ralph can come up with first – I don’t want to put you through a whole pile of shit unless I really have to. Also…” he looked worried suddenly.

 

“What is it?”

 

“I know you’re not completely sure who the good guys and the bad guys are here…”

 

I blushed, “Er…no, you’re right…”

 

“I don’t want to put you in a position where you might feel compromised…”

 

“Sure, I understand…thanks…”

 

We talked a while longer about some less intense stuff. Well, basically we bitched about Brendan and Jane and how they wanted the reflective glory of radical thinkers but didn’t really want to put what they had at risk.

 

He left with me thinking that there were at least a couple of folk that I could rely on in this world.

 

****

 

“I think it’s going to be harder than I thought,” Ralph was trying to sound upbeat, but it came out more as frustrated.

 

“Harder – or impossible?” I’d almost resigned myself to Gordon’s airways already.

 

“Well…” he frowned, “You know the old saying, ‘As one door closes, another one slams in your face?’”

 

“Can’t say I’m that familiar…” I smiled.

 

“The people that matter know that I’m involved with you – so any casual questions are being met with…I dunno…defensiveness,”

 

“What do you suggest?”

 

“Not sure – did your chats with the lovely Gordon reveal anything?”

 

“Well – yeah – nothing I’m terribly keen to discuss with you right at the moment,”

 

He gently closed his eyes. I knew he was tortured with all this.

 

“Come here,” he whispered as he embraced me on the sofa, “Do what you need to do – don’t let my silly worries get in your way, ok?”

 

I wept into his shoulder. Why, I don’t know. It might have been for my lost life, it might have been for my mum...We held each other tightly for an age.

 

“I need to go to the library – can you take me there?”

 

“Sure, of course…” again his face twisted in inner turmoil, “Fuck it – give me your leg,”

 

“Wha…?” I blurted as he up-ended me.

 

He pulled a small fob from his pocket, “Don’t tell anyone…” he grinned as he held the fob against my leg bracelet. It sprung open.

 

“I’ll take that,” he said as he clipped the bracelet around his own ankle, “It needs to be attached to something with a pulse – and we don’t have a dog,”

 

“Can I borrow the car, then?”

 

“It’s our car…” he stressed.

 

“Is it easy to make it go?”

 

“It knows you – you should manage to work out something between you…”

 

“Thanks dad…” and with that I raced out the door.

 

It was all incredibly straight forward – the car was designed to get me to where I needed to be – that was its job. There was some negotiation as to which library it might be – but I guessed it would be relatively local, so that’s what I asked for. As it drove I looked out of the window – there was hardly anyone about – it was eerie.

 

Gordon had been in touch again – he’d given me the reference of the piece on space travel that he thought would be of use to me and an address to meet him at once I’d finished. He hadn’t been surprised when I’d told him that Ralph had so far failed in his mission.

 

I walked into the library – a huge warehouse of a place – and thought ‘where the fuck do I start?’

 

“Can I help you?” a friendly-faced man greeted me with all the warmth of a long-lost relative.

 

“Yeah – I’m looking for this,” I handed him a bit of tatty paper with the reference on it.

 

“PDA or book format?”

 

“Book,” I replied instantly – stick with the familiar.

 

After a short wait, where I had just enough time to look around at this vast space to find I was the only punter there, he came back with an A3 sized tome simply entitled, ‘Space Travel’.

 

As I sat down with the book I felt excited and anxious at the same time. What was I going to find out? What was so terrible about this that I would want to have nothing to do with this modern-day world?

 

As I tore through the pages I realised that it must have been written with older children in mind. Were there older children? How old would you have to be to be considered an older child? I stopped beating myself up and decided it had been written simply, for the mass market.

 

I had been right. Space travel had been stopped in its tracks because of our inability to make something solid go faster than the speed of light. Human beings are resourceful beasties though, and after a time of consolidation they began to look in rather than out. We explored the oceans, mapping all its depths, finding all manner of creature on the way.

That wasn’t what I needed though – this all felt optimistic and forward looking. The age of discovery was very much alive.

 

Once the oceans had been explored, we still wanted more.

 

Nanotechnology, paradoxically, became the next big thing. The world of atoms, neutrons and electrons became the next frontier.

 

I guess I knew that the universe was basically made up of nothing – so it shouldn’t really have been too much of a surprise when I read that atoms are, essentially, made up of nothing. This new science discovered a way to remove this ‘nothing’ that filled over ninety-nine percent of everything. This meant things could be shrunk down to a subatomic scale.

 

Excitedly, I read on – this must mean that the scientists of the day would have been able to make subatomic spacecraft that could travel faster than the speed of light. My excitement was stopped dead in its tracks though when the book reminded me that these things, no matter what their physical size was, still had a mass, and this meant they wouldn’t be going anywhere fast.

 

What it did mean though, was that these craft, with similarly shrunk nanonauts, could travel through the solar systems of neutrons and electrons. It was fantastic. All this time we had been looking out to the stars and yet here, there were billions of universes right in front of us.

 

Filled with thrill of these wonderful technologies, I read on. This was a new and wonderful world. What could possibly lead me to think that this life wasn’t worth living?

 

I was to find out all too soon. Time and again the brave nanonauts vanished never to be seen again. After fifty or so missions, nanotechnology was shelved.

 

More was to come. The cosmos had not dealt its final, tragic, blow as yet.

 

Over a hundred years later the nanonauts started to come back. Their craft, normal sized now, came crashing through the atmosphere. No-one survived. Their air and food supplies had long since been depleted. They had been led back home by their autopilots.

 

Why had they come back full-sized? What had happened to them on their travels?

 

Scientists soon agreed that when the craft had entered the subatomic world it had sealed its fate by falling into an infinite loop. All the atoms on the earth represent the stars in the sky. No…I think what they’re saying is that all the atoms on the earth are the stars in the sky. The onboard computers that drove the autopilot were designed to find planets with life bearing environments.

 

All of the nanocraft came back over thousands of years. The conclusion? Nowhere in there – or out there was there life.

 

This was it. This was heaven and earth. This was all there was.

 

I could only imagine it. The whole of the human race must have gone into mourning. What started off with a desire to find out what was over that next hill, that next ocean had come to an end.

 

No wonder Pilots had become so popular.

 

****

 

My mind was spinning as I drove to my secret rendezvous with Gordon. Was this really all that was left? The human race had evolved so completely that it would live forever in this fucking monotonous world.

 

Enough of that. I had to think about the matter in hand. God, it was hard though – I felt like my heart just wasn’t in it.  I thought about mum. I could see her smile, I could feel her loving hand on my back. I could remember it all wonderfully.

 

I remembered Jen. Fuck, she was gorgeous and vital and funny. I felt a horrible lurch in the pit of my stomach. I knew it was her – it just had to be. I thought about mum. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be. What evil wanker would manipulate a mother so that she murdered her only son? No, it couldn’t be her.

 

What about Claus, or the doctors? No, it couldn’t be them either, could it? He was ill before he met them. It must have been…

 

I remembered the sex. It had been fantastic. Odd – but fantastic. What kind of girl actually asks for anal sex? Fuck. I imagined her as she came into my world – mum’s world – the world I knew and loved. Her mind must have been filled with completely new experiences. Emotions for one. Sexual desires for another. A desire to live out of the prying eyes of this controlling in the name of caring big-brother world. No wonder she went off with Steve and wotshisname. Bastards!

 

In amongst all of that though, what had I felt? Lust? Desire? Obsession? Could it have possibly been some kind of love? It couldn’t have been reciprocated though – she was obviously there to do a job. Bring back this miscreant and come back. She was cold. Fucking heartless bastard. How could she do that?

 

Had it been like a computer game to her? Kill the evil Zogladites and get move on. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as that. Maybe it was more like the depersonalisation that those in the military experience when they fire off some missile at some far off target. There’s no connection. They don’t think of the enemy as having friends or relatives – they’re just objects.

 

No, it couldn’t have been like that. We’d been up close and personal. She knew my mum. God, it even looked like she liked my mum. How could she do something like that to her?

 

Maybe she thought she was just following orders? I’m just a pawn. It’s not my fault. It’s no-one’s fault. Fuck – it’s my fault. If I hadn’t chosen to pursue this crazy hunger for living the lives of others I’d never have got into this position.

 

Hadn’t Gordon said that I was a pioneer, though? These bastards had wilfully used me, and then when I wanted more they just wanted me to go cold turkey. Ralph thought he’d been helping me…Or had he? Was he implicated in this fucking mess?

 

****

 

“It’s Jen, I’m sure of it,” I was fucking livid when I met up with Gordon.

 

“Hi Barney, we’ll talk about that later,” he began patiently, “this is Frank, he…”

 

Never washes? Is afraid of water? I gazed at this short, greasy-haired pallid specimen thinking, “Is this really the guy who’s developed an alternative to Pilots?”

 

They both looked at me.

 

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?” I began to stammer, “Wha…what I actually meant was…”

 

“Be quiet…” Gordon guided me gently, “Yes he is…he was involved in the development of the prototypes for Pilots – you actually know him very well…”

 

“Barney…” Frank reached out to shake my hand.

 

“Hi Frank…er…good to see you again…” I was doing my best.

 

He turned to Gordon and whispered something that sounded not unlike, “Cock,” and then indicated that I should follow him through into the adjoining room.

 

We sat on three plastic bucket seats as Frank explained how it was all going to work.

 

“Ok…this isn’t like Pilots in a number of ways…”

 

“That doesn’t really matter, I don’t really remember Pilots in that way…I still feel like the guy from my last…er…journey,”

 

“Hmmm…Listen Gordon, no offence mate, but this isn’t going to work – this guy’s so full of residuals he doesn’t know what fucking day it is…”

 

“He’s still the same guy who did all that work with you in the past – don’t you remember? He was great – he led the way…”

 

I sat back and listened as Gordon sang my praises. I wished I could share his confidence. I wasn’t that guy – he’d been completely lost somewhere along the way. I was still an insipid snivelling social worker who lived with his mum. He was right, this wasn’t going to work…

 

“Ok, ok…” Frank held his hands up in resignation, “Let’s give it a go – but it’ll be time limited, ok?”

 

He looked at as both expecting some kind of response. I looked at him blankly because I wasn’t sure what he meant. I looked to Gordon for a cue.

 

“Yeah, ok…” I joined in and nodded with him.

 

“Right…the main difference between this and Pilots is that you’ll be co-hosting…”

 

“What does that mean?” I desperately looked to Gordon for an answer.

 

“It means that there’ll be two of you in the same person…”

 

“Doesn’t that mean I’ll be fighting for control…er…or something?” I felt completely out of my depth.

 

“No…there should be no internal battle – we’ve got a guy there already. He’s co-hosted with a lot of other folk already – he knows what to expect…”

 

“So he was, like, born into this?” I didn’t feel terribly safe all of a sudden.

 

“Yes…but he knows the score…there haven’t been any problems so far,”

 

“Won’t this have some, you know, profound effect on me. I mean – what happens if I forget this me? I’ll be completely fucked…”

 

I looked to Gordon, then to Frank then back to Gordon in search of some manner of platitude that might make me feel a bit better.

 

They both nodded, “Yeah, he has a point,” Frank agreed.

 

“I don’t want to have a fucking point. I want to go there. Meet up with Jen – find out who she is and then come back here and…er…”

 

Fuck, what did I want to do?

 

“…and give her a stern talking to?” Gordon smiled widely at me.

 

“Yeah,” I said nervously, “Something like that…”

 

“Yeah,” I said nervously, “Something like that…”

 

“Are you prepared for the fact that it might not be her?”

 

I looked blankly back at Gordon…Fuck…now that I’d convinced myself, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

 

“What happens if she doesn’t want to divulge who she really is? How far are you willing to go?” Frank gazed at me intensely.

 

Had I really thought I’d go back as someone else, meet up with Jen, ask her who she really is and then come skipping back?

 

Fuck! I was a complete cock.

 

“While you’re turning that over in your mind, do you want to come through to the lab?” Frank opened a pair of doors to reveal a large white room with two home-made looking coffins lying in the middle. One had a large Perspex cover concealing who lay within – the other was open and empty.

 

“In you pop…” Frank smiled.

 

“What? I’m not going now. What about all the planning? What about letting Ralph know where I am? What about…”

 

To the casual observer I was clearly shitting myself.

 

“Calm down,” Frank was coming into his own now, “it’s all ok, you’ll only be gone for an hour or so in our time…”

 

I looked to Gordon for guidance – for some kind of confirmation that this would all turn out ok. He tried to relax me with a crooked grin.

 

“What’s his name?” I asked in desperation.

 

“Colin, but he won’t remember that…” Frank replied.

 

“Ok,” I felt panicked, “What’s his name in his world?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Frank looked slightly awkward, “D’you remember?” he looked at Gordon.

 

Gordon shrugged, “No – I’ve no idea – do you need to know?”

 

“Oh come on guys! I’m going to arrive unannounced into some poor guy’s head. A name would be nice to say hello at least…”

 

“Nah, he’s had it before – I’m sure Colin’ll be fine with it…” Frank nodded enthusiastically at Gordon who reciprocated.

 

“So…I just, er, climb in?” I looked at the awaiting casket. Why did it have to look like a fucking coffin?

 

“That’s pretty much it – you’ll have to stick this on your head too,” John produced a decidedly shonky looking piece of headwear from the cupboard behind him.

 

I must have looked terrified as I lay down with my new hat on.

 

“You’ll be fine,” John reassured me again.

 

“You’ve done this loads of times,” Gordon nodded as he closed the lid.

 

I felt a strange tickling sensation from behind my left eye and suddenly I was falling backwards. The white light of the room and the casket quickly vanished out of sight.

 

****

 

It was kind of like dying – only in reverse. The time spent floating through time and space felt shorter though – probably because I was aware that there was going to be some manner of destination.

 

So, I as flying back to my own time – my own town – everything that I knew – everything that I was familiar with was there. What happened if I met myself? Would space and time collapse in on itself? God, why hadn’t I asked? What was I going to say to Jen? What happens if it wasn’t Jen who done it?

 

Suddenly I was aware that I was in a body. This time, though, it was different. I could see out and I could hear all that was going on.

 

“Jesus Christ, Mr Stuart!” I knew I shouldn’t have shouted – it just came as huge surprise.

 

Mr Stuart was standing, having a piss, naked in his bathroom. I knew all this because that was the scene that confronted me as I looked into the mirror just above the loo.

 

Mr Stuart, contrary to the assurances from Frank and Gordon, had not been expecting me.

 

“Get out of my fucking head!” he screamed.

 

It was like getting on a rain with a ticket for a reserved seat, only to find that someone else also had a …

 

No – that’s bollocks – it was nothing like that – it was like travelling through space and time and arriving in the head of a man who had been diagnosed as having schizophrenia. No, not exactly, it was like…

 

“Get out of my fucking head!” he screamed again.

 

This wasn’t going well.

 

“Mr Stuart,” I began, putting on my best social work voice, “it’s ok, it’s me, John…”

 

Yes, it’s me, John, your social worker. I was a bit concerned about you so I thought I’d, er…pop in.

 

“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…” he whimpered as he ran to his bedroom and started rifling through some drawers. At last, I could see that had found what he was looking for. A vast array of anti-psychotic drugs. Not being a medical sort, I had no idea what would happen if he started necking these. I was pretty sure that they wouldn’t help though.

 

“Mr Stuart…it’s me, John the social worker, I died…”

 

“You looked perfectly fine when I saw you a few weeks ago…” he was hyperventilating through his tears.

 

I could see that he had a handful of orange pills, “Please don’t take those, Mr Stuart, they won’t help…” well, I don’t think they’ll help me.

 

He paused for a moment, then he stuffed them all in his mouth…”

 

“Mr Stuart – remember the two circles? Remember our drawing?”

 

“Yes,” he still filled the glass next to the sink.

 

“I was wrong. If you swallow those pills then you won’t know just how much I was wrong…”

 

He brought the glass to his mouth…then stopped.

 

“Show me,” he said out loud, the drugs causing him to lisp.

 

“Spit the drugs out first, then I’ll show you,”

 

He walked over to the toilet and spat out the bright orange tablets.

 

He and I both sighed in relief. Not only could I see and hear what he could – I could feel as well. He was clearly in control though.

 

“Great – now get some paper and a pen…”

 

He produced a lined A4 pad and a black biro from a drawer in the kitchen.

He was still breathing quickly – I could feel his heart pounding in his chest. I could still hear him whispering, “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”

 

“That’s brilliant, Mr Stuart – now, turn the page sideways…”

 

Again, he did as I asked.

 

“Now, draw a circle on the left side of the page…”

 

I watched as his shaking hand produced a wobbly oval.

 

“Ok, now draw another, making sure they overlap,”

 

He was terrified as he drew the second circle, whispering, “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…” all the while.

 

“Do you remember what I said before?”

 

I could feel his head nodding.

 

“The right circle – that’s my reality…” my voice wasn’t coming out anywhere tangible. I imagined I was standing in a pitch-black cavern with my voice echoing…

 

“…and the left circle…that’s my reality,” he whispered.

 

“The bit in the middle?” I asked gently.

 

“That’s where we can do our work together…”

 

“That’s right…that’s what I said…but I was wrong…”

 

All I could hear was his rapid breathing and his heart pounding.

 

“Mr Stuart?” I whispered, “Tear that page off…”

 

Again he followed my directions.

 

“Ok, now draw a big circle in the centre of the page…”

 

He did so.

 

“That’s your reality…ok?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Now, draw another circle inside that one – make it quite a lot smaller…”

 

With his hand still shaking, Mr Stuart drew a small circle on the centre of the page.

 

“Perfect – do you know what that is?”

 

Still crying, he shook his head.

 

“That was my reality. You were right and I was wrong,”

 

He stared at the page for a few minutes as, gradually, his breathing and heart rate slowed.

 

“What am I right about?” he finally spoke out.

 

“I’m not sure – the voices in your head for one thing…”

 

“What else…?” he was beginning to sound a little angry.

 

“Mr Stuart…” I began.

 

“George…call me George…” he sounded exasperated.

 

“Ok, George, I think you were right about the Evil Eye too…”

 

“How…how was I right…?”

 

“You said the Evil Eye was looking down at me, do you remember…?” I was still whispering, the situation felt volatile.

 

“Yes…”

 

“You were right – it was – someone from er, far away…” C’mon John, this isn’t fucking Star Wars…

 

“Far away?”

 

“From a another time…”

 

“Are you taking the piss?”

 

“No…no…” I felt I was losing this.

 

“You want me to believe that the Evil Eye that I saw was from another time…?”

 

“…er…yeah…pretty much…” suddenly it felt like an ordinary, everyday, conversation.

 

“I might be mad…but I’m not that fucking loopy,”

 

“Loopy? You’re having a conversation with a voice in your head!” Oh shit.

 

Quietly he stood up and walked through to his bedroom again. Perhaps insulting him hadn’t been the best way ahead.

 

Again, he opened the drawer revealing his medication.

 

“I need your help,” I hissed.

 

He stopped what he was doing.

 

“Listen George, we’re both from the future. Right at this moment we are lying next to each other in a big white room…”

 

“Where?”

 

“I…I…er…I don’t know…”

 

“When?”

 

“The year is thirty something-odd. But that’s not the proper time…it’s been clocked – you know how you clock an old car so that people don’t know it’s true history…?”

 

He paused, “Yes…yes I do,”

 

“There’s something that they’re hiding from our past – our future…”

 

“What? It can’t be both?”

 

“Yes it can – it’s the future from here – it’s the past from where we are in that big white room…”

 

“What are they hiding?”

 

What are they hiding?

 

“John?”

 

It was weird that here, back in this time, this place, I thought of myself as John. I’d just been getting the hang of thinking of myself as Barney. Even without a body, I was still John. I belonged here.

 

“John? What are they hiding?”

 

“They’re hiding the crushing, never ending monotony of it all,” I started angrily.

 

“What…?”

 

I sighed. How could I sigh without a body? Maybe I had some control over George’s body?

 

“You might want to get yourself a drink – this will take some time…”

 

I started talking as George filled the kettle. I was still talking a full hour later when he finished his third mug of tea.

I told him everything. I told myself his mind was boggled already – at least he wasn’t coming from the same perspective as me where I had actually believed that everything was normal.

 

“How can I help?” he said simply once I’d finished.

 

“I’m not sure – I had some notion that if I found Jen I’d be able to start…I don’t know…making some sense of my existence…” Fuck, good job I wasn’t selling him a car.

 

He sat in silence looking at the huge tree that furnished his living room. I could feel the humidity on his naked body. I could hear his parrot crunching up some nameless seeds.

 

“Ok, let’s find Jen,” he picked up his house keys and strode towards the front door.

 

As he turned to lock up I decided to remind him, “George, you’re naked,”

 

“So what? I’m not going to bend to the demands of some society that’s not even my own. I’m not going conform to the…”

 

He’d really got into role. Suddenly his world was making a bit more sense…possibly.

 

“No, but the police do…You’ll get half a mile down the road, and you’ll be arrested…”

 

He ignored me. He walked down the three flights of stairs and walked out into the street. He was seen by an older woman in a greyish mac carrying her shopping. She dropped her bags as she held her hands to her mouth in shock.

 

He turned round and walked back towards his flat, “No, I suppose you’re right…and anyway, I haven’t got anywhere to put my keys,”

 

He – we rifled through drawer upon drawer of clothing, “You told me you didn’t have any clothes,” I tried not to sound too wounded.

 

“You’re a fucking social worker…you should be used to folk lying to you…”

 

That hurt – I felt a slight pang in his stomach. That was weird. He looked up to acknowledge the feeling of someone else’s emotions in his body, “Did you feel that?”

 

“Yeah,” I replied, “I think that was me being emotionally scarred,”

 

I could feel his face smiling widely, “Sorry…”

 

“Lying bastard!” I laughed, “No you’re not…”

 

“Can you hear my thoughts?” he sounded slightly concerned.

 

“No…” but surely that’s all I was – just thoughts, “Can I make you talk?”

 

“I’m not sure,” he smiled and frowned at the same time, “Do you want to have a go?”

 

“Ok…let’s try it…”

 

Suddenly I was in control of everything. I could sense the world around me, “I can speak,” I said out loud.

 

“Fuck, that’s weird,” he said in what was now my head.

 

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, “Here, do you want it back?”

 

It somehow felt like we passed through each other as he took control again.

 

He pulled on some jeans and then opened a drawer with some plain coloured t-shirts. He chose the black one and put it on.

 

“I like the blue one,” I whispered menacingly.

 

“Fuck off,” he laughed, “This is my body, I choose what it wears…”

 

“Is that right?” somewhere I was grinning.

 

Our minds locked as we battled for control. Initially, I took him by surprise as I pulled off the black top and grabbed the blue one.

 

“Not a chance, mate,” he half thought and half spoke as he easily overthrew me. He had, after all, been in control of this particular body for years.

 

“The black top it is then,” I conceded.

 

“Too right,” he pushed his keys into his jeans pocket and strutted towards the door to the outside world.

 

“It makes you look gay though…” I whispered.

 

“How do you know I’m not?” he sounded genuinely wounded, “In fact, before we do anything, I need to go round to see my friend Paul – it’s been a while…”

 

“I…er…I’m sorry…I didn’t…” I mentally stammered.

 

“You twat!” he laughed out loud, “Just be careful with your assumptions,”

 

Second round to George. I wasn’t very good at this. 

 

“Ok, where to?”

 

“The Eastern General, do you know it?”

 

“What do you think?” sarcastic.

 

On the way we chatted about how we could best do this.

 

“You get us there, then I’ll do the talking,” made sense to me.

 

“Sure…that sounds fine. I’ll just take a back seat and watch as you work your magic…”

 

“You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

 

“Well, considering your recent history with her…”

 

“…but I’m not the same person…”

 

Fuck, I needed someone to draw a genogram with just me in it.

 

“No, you’re not, are you?”

 

“Well, what do you suggest…? You’ve been diagnosed as having a psychotic illness…”

 

“Hey…I resemble that remark – I’m still not completely convinced that you’re real…”

 

“Sure, sure…I’m sorry…I still think it’s best if I do the talking at least initially…”

 

“Ok…I’ll go with that,”

 

We took a couple of buses to the hospital. It felt wonderful as John yielded control as we walked onto the hospital grounds, “If you need me, I’ll be right here…” he whispered as he faded into the background.

 

It felt great. I felt normal. Just a guy going about his business…

 

“Ow!” I’d walked into a stone bollard, “Careful with the body, man!”

 

“Yeah…sorry…I’ll pay more attention – I was just enjoying…”

 

“Yeah, I know…”

 

I walked past oncology outpatients on my way to Jen’s ward. It was all so very odd. With Georges help I’d been able to get a fix on dates. It was a couple of weeks before Jen was to utter those immortal words, “Hi, I’m Jen, and I’ll be your staff nurse for the day,” in her corny, generic, American accent.

 

My skin prickled as I felt a huge lurch in my stomach. This was the time when she was meticulously ignoring me. God, I missed her. Then I was struck by a surge of anger as I imagined her putting compound x, or whatever it was, in my drink or in my food…fuck, she could have put it in my drip.

 

“Hi,” I spoke to the first nurse I recognised on her ward, “I’m looking for Jen, is she around?”

 

The middle-aged protective looking woman said, “No, she’s not at work today – who shall I say’s looking for her?”

 

“Tell her, her friend Jo….”

 

“George…” George dived in, “Her uncle George…pleased to meet you,”

 

“What are you doing?” I shouted internally.

 

“Hello,” said the nurse, shaking his hand.

 

“It was meant to be a surprise, I’m only in town for a couple of days…I’ll catch her at home…”

 

As we walked from the ward, George relinquished control again.

 

“What was that all about?” I hissed angrily.

 

“Her friend? I’m old enough to be her father – that nurse would have immediately thought this pervy old man is chasing after our young, lithe and supple nurses – you’re lucky she didn’t call security. Just remember whose body you’re in, ok?”

 

“Shit, yeah, sorry you’re right,” I spoke out loud as I walked down the corridor.

 

I felt a hand on my shoulder, “Excuse me,” I turned to find a tall hospital porter looking angrily at me. Shit, what now?

 

He pointed at the picture on the wall of a mobile phone in a red circle and a line through it.

 

He must have thought…”Yeah, sorry mate,” I held up my hand and walked off.

 

I could hear George chuckling somewhere at the back of my mind.

 

“Where to now?” he whispered.

 

“I don’t know why you’re whispering, no-one can hear you,” I murmured into my chest.

 

“So…?”

 

“I’d like to…er…”

 

“What…what is it, John?”

 

“I want to see my mum…” I just wanted to see her – I wanted to watch her from afar – just to see her go about her daily business – anything.

 

“Sure…fine…get on with it then…”

 

I walked up to the medical wards. She had an office just off one of the wards. She was hardly ever in it though. She missed hands on nursing and was always to be found wandering around the patients. After finding her office empty I asked a few staff nurses about where she might be. I told them I was a friend from the past and that I was hoping to surprise her.

 

Thankfully, no-one called security. I was directed to the canteen where staff and patient visitors mixed.

 

I walked into the huge refectory to find her sitting alone, reading a paper eating some salady nonsense. I quickly ordered a coffee and wandered over.

“Do you mind?” I said as I pulled back the empty chair opposite her.

 

“No, not at all,” she said without looking up.

 

I sat silently, waiting for my coffee to cool.

 

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” I bumbled.

 

She looked up and smiled kindly, “What is?” She must be accustomed to visitors pouring out their hearts to her.

 

Our eyes locked. It was hard to believe that she couldn’t see it was me.

 

“I…er…my daughter’s up in ITU, she’s not doing too well…you guys must have to put up with this all the time…”

 

“What do you mean?” I was obviously more interesting than her shitty paper.

 

“You know…caring for folk…” I was still aware that I was staring at her. I was so close to tears.

 

“Do I know you?” she tilted her head slightly to the side as she asked.

 

“I…er…no…”

 

“How old’s you’re daughter?”

 

“She’s er…thirty…er four…”

 

“You don’t sound terribly sure…” she teased.

 

“I was just working back to her birthday…kid’s, eh?” I added vacuously.

 

“Yeah,” she looked distant.

 

“Do you have any…er…children?”

 

“Yes…I’ve got a son…he’s er…”

 

“Is he ok? I mean, you must get enough of looking after folk in hospital…”

 

“No…he’s grown up…” thankfully she misunderstood my clumsy rambling.

 

She smiled, “He still lives with me though…”

 

“That must be…er…hasn’t he found someone to er…”

 

“No…it’s lovely…he’s not so good just now, so I’m looking after him a bit…”

 

“Isn’t that hard? I mean, you’ve got all your patients here – it must be difficult going home to more of the same…?”

 

She squinted at me, “Are you sure I don’t know you?”

 

“I er…I don’t think so…maybe through a friend of a friend…”

 

“Yeah, maybe…no it’s different looking after my boy,” she smiled her big smile.

 

“How?” I knew I was looking for something.

 

“Because I love him to bits,” she whispered, “Now, drink up – your coffee’s getting cold…”

 

With that she got up to leave, “Thanks for the chat…?”

 

I sat vacantly for a second, “Oh…er…George…my name’s George…”

 

She shook my hand, “I’m Wendy, I hope you’re daughter’s ok,” and left.