Scales

by Anthony G Williams

  We all sat in the hospital's conference room that evening, flipping between the news broadcasts on the radio and TV. For once, the world had not been afflicted with too many disasters or political scandals that day so there was extensive coverage of my press conference, but the networks were clearly nervous and uncertain how to play the item, afraid it might be a complex hoax. Some took it seriously, but covered themselves against future ridicule with lots of distancing remarks ("the hospital claims that…"). Others lost their nerve and went for laughs, as an "and finally…" item. One brought in a pundit from rent-a-don who explained why what had happened was impossible.

  However, one consequence rapidly became evident; the hospital's phone system became jammed with callers. Some were journalists, especially from abroad, who had missed the press conference. Invitations to appear on television talk shows flooded in from around the world.

  As reports of the apparently miraculous cures which I had effected were circulated, it gradually became accepted that I was genuine. The local MP and councillors, plus all government ministers associated in the remotest way with the Health Service, started forming a disorderly queue to be photographed with me. I felt a burn of impatience with such self-serving time-wasting and firmly vetoed visits from any and all politicians, somewhat to the discomfiture of the HM.

  'But the Prime Minister!'

  'No!'

  Some callers were cranks, acclaiming me as the saviour from outer space or some such. Some were women – and a few men – wanting private consultations about their "pleasure centres". But most calls were from the sick, desperate for help. It was clear that something had to be organised.

  That "something" took a little while to put into place but eventually a system was instituted. By this time, the hospital was under siege from prospective patients camping out in the car park despite the chilly winter weather and refusing to move until they had received their miraculous cures. Careful public explanations about what I could and couldn't do had no effect – many of the people were so desperate that they would clutch at any straw of hope.

  The system we devised between us involved an insistence on referral by the patients' family doctors to the hospital, coupled with an exhaustive briefing note for the doctors and a strict injunction only to refer patients whom I stood some chance of helping, on pain of having future referrals ignored. Those referred to the hospital then went through a further vetting procedure by the staff to check that the referral was genuine. Then they went on my waiting list.

  Foreign patients were more complex to deal with, as the referral system couldn't work for them. However, as they were not entitled to free treatment on the NHS, the solution I proposed was simple. 'Charge them.'

  'But how much?' The HM was keen but cautious.

  'Ten percent of their annual income. In advance.'

  'But how will we know what that is?'

  'Tell them to bring their previous year's income tax return, plus proof of identity. That should reduce the risk that they will waste my time.'

  It was agreed that I would continue to live at the hospital, as it provided some protection from the mobs of people who wanted to see me. It was a 1960s building, not exactly classical architecture but with big and airy rooms. I was given a rapidly-adapted suite on the highest of the three floors, with wide windows providing a view over the gently rolling countryside on the edge of the fenlands. Whatever crops had flourished in the summer had been harvested and the fields were brown and corrugated with plough-lines. The windows were covered with a silver film against solar gain, which conveniently afforded more privacy. The access to my room was convoluted, through restricted parts of the building. It was about as private and protected as I could hope for.

  There was one downside for the HM; his staffing budget was hit by the need for extra security to stop people from invading the place. All of my mail – which rapidly built up to sackfulls a day, increasingly from abroad – was dealt with by hospital staff. Zara sometimes told me about the choicest letters, which included some astonishingly spicy suggestions. 'And you should see the photographs they send!' Curiously, such letters continued to arrive even after we broadcast the fact that I had no time to deal with them.

  The hospital organised two adjacent consulting rooms for me, so one patient could be made ready while I was dealing with another. I spent the days walking from one to the other, assessing conditions, easing pain, sometimes effecting an instant cure. Some were more difficult.

  'This is a sad case, and I'm not sure if you can help.' Zara was reading the case notes as she walked into the empty consulting room at the start of the day. 'An eight-year-old American girl, Sally, mad about horses, fell off and broke her neck. She's tetraplegic.' The rest of her life spent completely paralysed and helpless, dependent on others for every detail.

  'Let's go and see.' The girl was face-down on the consulting table, her spine uncovered, her parents sitting beside her, radiating anxiety, sorrow and hope. I greeted them, then crouched down beside the girl, turned my face the same way as hers, and grinned. 'Hi Sally! This is your friendly local monster here!' Her lips twitched. 'Let's take a look at you.' I ran my fingers over her neck and spine. Neck vertebrae crushed together, as I expected; nowhere for the spinal cord to find a way through. The nerves on each side of the break were intact, though, so I had an idea. I closed my eyes and focused on those nerves, knew them, became them. And grew.

  I concentrated intensely on growing, on directing growth around and behind the break, both sides working towards each other. There was a flicker of response; very slowly, a micron at a time, the nerves were beginning to grow. I opened my eyes and had to steady myself against the table, my head suddenly swimming. Zara looked on anxiously. I drew a deep breath. 'That'll do for now. Come back in a couple of day's time and we'll see how you're getting on.'

  I sat down and waited until the girl was wheeled out, parents whispering reassuring words.

  'Are you all right?' Concern glowed from Zara.

  'I think so, it's just that such an intense mental effort is tiring. In fact, I've been noticing it even with simpler tasks, if I do too many of them.'

  'You need a break every now and again. They're working you into the ground.'

  'Maybe. But the ones they send, I can really help.'

  'Then make sure you can keep helping them, by pacing yourself.'

  'All right, all right. I'll build in some days off, if that makes you happier.'

  She frowned. 'I'm not sure that will be enough, but it's a start. I think that you really need to get away from this place for a while. I'll see if I can organise something. Is there anything you'd like to do?'

  I thought about it. 'Oddly enough, I've been dreaming a lot about swimming lately. I don't know why, I was never much of a swimmer.'

  Two days later, I was transported in the dead of night to the local swimming baths in the back of a van, with Zara and the muscular and mainly silent Max, who had been appointed chauffeur/minder, in the front. I entered the building to find a fifty metre competition pool, still water reflecting the ceiling lights. As soon as I saw it, I felt an overpowering urge and dived straight in, feeling an inexpressible thrill of sensual pleasure as the cool water flowed caressingly along my body. I glided to the bottom and opened my eyes. To my astonishment, I found that with a slight effort I could focus sharply. Evidently, my eyes had altered in even more ways than I had realised. I pushed off the bottom and swam strongly underwater, loving the buoyancy and the feel of the water, enjoying the strange perspectives caused by the water's different refractive index. I put on a spurt, kicking hard, seemingly flying from one end of the pool to the other.

  Eventually, I surfaced and drew breath, to find Zara and Max peering anxiously down at me. 'Are you all right?'

  'Never better. I think I was designed for this. What's the problem?'

  'You've been underwater for nearly ten minutes, without coming up for air.'

  I absorbed that for a moment. 'Then I was def
initely designed for this.'

  'What's more,' Zara added, 'I timed your last few lengths. I used to do some competitive swimming at one time, and I've never seen anything like it. I think a few world records just tumbled.'

  I laughed. 'They don't give any for swimming underwater.'

  I stayed in the pool for a long time, feeling completely at home and at ease for the first time since the accident. I found that I could swim underwater for twenty minutes before needing to come up for air. I couldn't imagine what enabled that; I must be storing oxygen somewhere, which implied some novel internal changes. Eventually, Zara's entreaties about the coming dawn persuaded me to leave. I felt no ill-effects from my long immersion; my eyes were clear, my scales unwrinkled, and I returned to the hospital both relaxed and invigorated.

  That was only the first of many nocturnal visits to that beautiful pool. The physical activity of swimming somehow eased my mental tiredness and kept me functioning to meet the relentless demands of the sick. For the time being, talk of a holiday was abandoned.

  After few weeks of this routine, I had a call from reception during my lunch break (a tasty mix of macadamias and pecans, with an orange starter): 'there's a man here, he says he's your brother'.

  I paused in surprise, then mentally shrugged. 'What does he look like?'

  'Early forties, medium height, lean build, light-brown wavy hair, rimless glasses.'

  I laughed. 'Were you in the police?'

  'No, but we have to be observant these days.'

  'Anyway, that sounds like him so you'd better escort him up.'

  A knock on my door, and Luke walked in, looking much the same as ever, only leaner and rather more suntanned. He was casually dressed, in well-worn clothes chosen for practicality rather than style. He stopped and stared. 'Is that really you, Matt?'

  'More or less.'

  'I really am finding that hard to believe.'

  I thought for a moment. 'We last met at Mum's funeral. We didn't say much then, as usual. You talked about your last mission – in Afghanistan, I think.'

  He nodded. 'Yes, we did some disaster relief work there.'

  'Then you said something about your next task – in Burundi, wasn't it?'

  'Right again, we're carrying out a major educational assistance programme. That's why it took me some time to get to you; I've only just arrived home on leave.' He paused for a moment, then asked, 'do you recall the last time we were together with Dad, and what we said?'

  I could hardly have forgotten, it was a turning point in both of our lives. 'We were arguing, about religion and science as usual. You were taking Dad's side and announced that you were determined to follow him in working for the Church – not as a priest, but for their charity organisation. I ended up telling both of you that I was an atheist and I thought your beliefs were – let me get it right – "the result of a mental virus which has plagued mankind throughout civilised history".'

  He nodded slowly. 'Word perfect. OK, you're Matt. I remember the tone of arrogant superiority as much as the words.'

  I grimaced. 'It seemed to me that the arrogant superiority was more on your side, with a lot less justification.'

  He sighed. 'I didn't some here to start all that again. I just wanted to check that you really are Matt, and – well, to see if there is anything I can do.'

  I was curious. 'In what way? Pray for my damned soul?'

  He grinned wryly. 'The closest thing to a lost cause I know. No, I just thought that you might be suffering some psychological problems, and it might be helpful to see someone who once knew you well.'

  'Thanks for the thought. I won't pretend that it has been easy. For a while I thought I was losing my sanity, but I'm gradually getting adjusted to my new self.' I smiled, 'for the first time in my life, I may even be fitter than you! Run any good marathons lately?'

  He gave a small smile, said, 'no, no time for that. I stay slim because rations are tight.' Then he held out his hand. Rather surprised, I took it.

  'I don't have much time now, the project needs me back,' he said, 'but I'd like to keep in touch.'

  'Fine. Do that.'

  He hesitated. 'You are different, you know, apart from the obvious. You were always very enthusiastic and excitable, but now you're much calmer and more deliberate, and you seem – not colder, exactly, I think that "dispassionate" is the word I'm looking for.'

  I shrugged, 'I feel much the same as ever.'

  He nodded doubtfully, then left. We parted on better terms than we had enjoyed in over twenty years.

  One morning, I sensed an unusual diffidence about Zara; by then, I could read her moods with ease.

  'Can I ask you something?'

  'Of course.'

  'My twin daughters go a local primary school, and I've been asked to go in next week to talk to the children about you – you can imagine the level of interest. The trouble is I'm not sure that I should, so I thought I'd better ask if you minded.'

  'Not at all.' I had a sudden inspiration; 'in fact, I'll come with you.'

  Her face lit up. 'Really?'

  'Why not? Just as long as you don't warn them in advance, I don't want the place swamped by the press!'

  So a week later, Zara and I were transported in the anonymous white van to the school. Max drove at the high velocity traditional for such vehicles, grumbling when he was caught for a while behind a slow estate car proudly displaying a "Drive Carefully – Baby on Board" sign. 'What difference is that supposed to make? They think I deliberately drive into cars unless they ask me not to?'

  I grinned. 'It's illogical anyway. In terms of human life, babies are no more valuable than anyone else. And economically, considerably less so – after all, not much time or resources have been devoted to them. Now a sign which said "Drive carefully – expensively trained and newly qualified doctor on board" would be much more logical!'

  We drove into a village and pulled up outside an old school building, with tall multi-paned windows in the traditional brick and flint walls. Christmas decorations were stuck on the windows, reminding me of how much time had passed since my accident. As agreed, Zara went into the school first to collect her twins – nine-year-olds whose initial shyness at meeting me was soon overcome by fascination – and I walked in holding each by the hand. The headteacher was flustered and seemed close to panic at first, but rapidly realised her opportunity and I was soon absorbed with the children, struggling to answer their questions. The young ones were the most natural and, once they learned I didn't mind having my strange skin felt, they were all over me. The older children were more reticent, and I sensed traces of doubt and caution in some of them. Afterwards, I asked a beaming Zara about that.

  'Well, there have been some mixed reactions to you,' she admitted, 'so they're just picking that up from their parents. People are still rather unsure about what happened to you, what kind of person you are.'

  That was the first indication to me of the difficulties which lay ahead.

  2

  The next day, I met with Brian and the rest of the Consultation at my request, in the conference room; it had padded chairs around a large table in pale wood, and enjoyed a view into a courtyard with a few neglected plants straggling over concrete paving. The Consultation included a diverse group of specialists, still keen to find any excuse to probe me further.

  'At that press conference, the HM said that my DNA had been checked and that I wasn't alien. But if I recall correctly, he didn't actually say I was completely human either. What did the tests show?'

  They shuffled a bit and looked at the geneticist, a thin, grey-haired man with the studious look of a priest or philosopher. He steepled his hands. 'Well, your DNA is certainly basically human but there are some irregularities; some genes switched on, others off, and quite a few additions that we can't account for. A rather different pattern from normal in various respects.'

  'And I'll bet you've been tracking those changes against the human genome map. What areas are affected, exactly?'
<
br />   'Well, we don't have a complete understanding yet about what each gene does, of course. We do know that there is a lot of apparently non-functional rubbish in human chromosomes, but rather less so in yours. Sorry to be so imprecise, but we're groping in the dark here.'

  Brian coughed in a rather embarrassed way. 'I was wondering if you'd agree to another conference? Just of the scientific community, invitation only. You have no idea of the level of curiosity about you.'

  Actually, I had. I was no longer frontline news, even the tabloids had tired of repeating stories of "miracle cures", but the scientific journals seemed able to support an apparently endless stream of articles; some well informed, others more speculative. And I was as curious as anyone else to find out what had happened to me. 'All right then, set it up will you?'

  A few weeks later, after Max's usual white van heroics, I arrived at the venue: a college on the edge of a nearby town, whose much larger lecture theatre had been booked for the occasion. It was a dull, wet, winter day and the college looked appropriately gloomy, dark streaks of water running down the concrete-faced building.

  When I walked in, the theatre was packed, the sense of anticipation electric. Brian chaired the meeting and had obviously established some form of precedence, as the scientists each dutifully waited their turn to ask questions. One TV camera was visible and a few members from the specialist scientific end of the press corps were present, but their uncharacteristic silence indicated that they had probably been told to shut up and listen, or leave.

  To start with, the members of my Consultation took it in turns to give short presentations of their findings. I was able to follow much of the discussion, but some was beyond me. The ophthalmologist's speculation about "changes to the amino-acid sequences of opsins in the photoreceptor cells" was something I had to look up later. My ears did prick up at the mention of high levels of myoglobin in my muscle cells. I knew that some seals had this and that it enabled them to stay underwater for long periods as it was much more efficient at storing oxygen than haemoglobin. My skin caused most interest: in some ways it was similar to a lizard's – with elements like a chameleon's – but with a number of other modifications. It was very tough and an excellent insulator but could also channel blood close to the surface for radiative cooling. There was information about the efficiency of my metabolism, evidenced by the small quantity of food I needed, but only baffled speculation about my drastic change in diet. There was also great interest in the revelation that my body seemed to have become 'zero-timed'; restored at a cellular level to that of a young adult. But no-one had any idea of the mechanism by which I had become so sensitive to people's moods and state of health, let alone how I was able to cure ailments, although there were some impressive-looking brain scans showing a massive level of mental activity while healing.