by Stan Mason
‘How come you’re so fit at the age of eighty-nine?’ she asked when seated in his lounge.
He smiled briefly before replying, refusing to explain the true reason for the sudden spate of energy in his body. ‘I woke up one morning feeling really good. I looked in the mirror and told myself that age wasn’t something I could respect any more so I went to the track. I think that something in my body released a host of adrenalin. Now you see me as a reborn athlete ready to compete again at the highest level.’
‘If only your body allows you to do so,’ countered Sky curtly, unwilling to be deterred by some nonsensical excuse. ‘I’ve seen your medical records . You’ve had chronic arthritis over the past ten years. How can you manage to overcome a disability like that?’
Forster appeared to be stunned for a few moments but eventually found his voice. ‘I think you must have been looking at someone else’s records,’ he responded amiably. ‘I’ve been as fit as a fiddle all my life. Arthritis... I don’t think so!’
She knew that he was lying through his teeth but she couldn’t counter his comment without insulting him. ‘Running a hundred metres flat out requires a great deal of energy,’ she returned amiably. ‘You seem to have an abundance of it at your age. How do you account for it?’
‘I told you. It’s an over-surge of adrenalin. There’s no other explanation.’ He knew that he was losing the battle of words with the news reporter but he intended to hold out for as long as he could. ‘It’s only a hundred metres hurdles. It’s not as though I’m doing the marathon.’
Sky produced her camera and placed it on her lap. ‘Would you mind if I took a photograph of you in your sporting gear?’ she asked with a pleasant smile on her face.
Forster felt reluctant to change his clothes but he decided it was the only way to appease the woman and get her out of his house. If he refused, she would become suspicious and ask more questions, so he went into the bedroom to return with a T-shirt, shorts and trainers.
The news reporter took a few photographs from the front, side and back. She intended to enlarge them and examine each shot very carefully when she returned to her office as part of her plan to surreptitiously expose the exchange programme.
After she had gone, Forster rang Jordan to tell him about his visitor. The government agent pressed his lips together in anger at the news. He considered that there was no stopping the female reporter. The Minister of Science had already censored the television authority, preventing them from issuing any news on the subject, yet the pestilent reporter was still pursuing the matter.
Sky continued her research into the people who had turned ageing on its head. She wasted no time in approaching Brian Poynton to interview him in his home.
‘You’ve applied for a post in the research laboratory of one of he universities,’ she began, ‘at the grand old age of eighty-seven.’
Poynton stared at her sombrely. ‘I woke up one morning feeling really good,’ he explained. ‘I looked in the mirror and told myself that age wasn’t something I could respect any more.’
Sky sat upright as though a poker had been passed through her body from the neck downwards. Those were the exact words that Terry Forster had uttered when she had asked him a similar question. She started to wonder whether these people had been hypnotised or whether the exchange programme had something to do with it.
‘You row up and down the River Thames every day I understand,’ she went on watching the man closely. He had the face of an eighty-seven year old man but his body language and his movement was not consistent with his age.
‘Yes,’ he admitted frankly. ‘I’ve suddenly found a penchant for rowing. Even better... I’m able to do it.’
‘How do you account for that at your age?’ she enquired, pressing the man for any element of information which she could latch onto.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he responded. ‘It’s as though I found a new lease of life. Perhaps it’s something in the food chain. If so, bring it on!’ He waved his arm triumphantly in the air to make his point.
Sky produced the camera again, resting it on her lap. ‘Can I take a photograph of you in your rowing shirt and shorts?’ she asked ostensibly innocently.
He shrugged his shoulders for a moment and then went into his bedroom to change. He returned a few minutes later and she took a number of photographs although, like Forster, it was only his arms and legs that were exposed.
She went back to her office at the television studio and played back the photographs on he computer, enlarging those areas of the bodies of the two men to examine their arms and legs. There were distinct differences to those of old men in their late eighties. The skin on the arms was smooth without a wrinkle and the legs were those of much younger men. It was quite obvious that they had old heads and much newer bodies. She toyed with the idea of going to see her superior for a while and then decided to do it.
‘You realise you’re putting your head in a noose,’ he warned her with concern. ‘For your sake, Sly, you need to pull in your horns.’
‘But it’s such good news!’ she retorted in anguish. ‘It’s far too good to let go and the public ought to be aware what’s going on. For Heaven’s sake, that’s our job, isn’t it?’
‘And far too risky,’ he went on with an agitated tone in his voice. ‘You know exactly how the Government’s going to react. Why place yourself in danger?’
She shook her head at his negative attitude and returned to her office. That was what life was all about... risk! People took risks with their careers, their partners in life, their money, their investments, their children... the list was endless. A person could go outside a building into the street and get run down by a bus or a taxi. Every action, every idea, every event heralded danger in life. Fate held the future of each individual in its hands and no one could ever predict what was going to happen until they examined the facts in hindsight. She recalled a joke told to her by a friend. ‘You know,’ said the woman, ‘my grandfather knew the exact year, the month, the week, the day, the hour and the minute he was going to die. ‘
‘How did he know that?’ Sky had asked her somewhat puzzled.
‘The Judge told him,’ replied her friend, bursting into laughter.
The telephone rang to intrude into her thoughts. To her surprise, Jordan was on the other end of the line.
‘We have to meet,’ he told her point-blank. ‘We really do... for your own sake!’
‘You want to arrange a meeting so that your marksman can shoot me this time,’ she returned accusingly, referring to the meeting arranged with Jeremy Ratcliffe in Birmingham.
‘I’m quite willing to come to your office at the television studio,’ he offered without comment on her remark. ‘But we must meet very shortly to discuss the situation.’
‘Where are you now?’ she asked him.
‘About ten minutes away from your office,’ he replied easily. ‘I thought it was urgent so I took the chance of meeting you.’
‘Then come! I’ll tell reception that you’ll be here shortly. I’ll be waiting.’ She replaced the telephone receiver and drummed her fingers on the desk impatiently thinking about what she expected to hear from the government agent. No doubt he would read her the riot act and threaten her with some kind of accident if she failed to conform with the Government’s wishes for secrecy and silence.
Jordan arrived fifteen minutes later and he sat on a chair facing her.
‘You’re very persistent, aren’t you?’ he challenged with an element of a grin on his face. She raised her guard at the comment expecting to hear the worst from him but he continued to talk to her in the lightest of terms. ‘What does the word ‘no’ mean when you’re told not to pursue a story to the bitter end? Why does the word ‘stop’ not register in your brain? You’re pretty enough but your ambition rides ahead of you on a high white horse, refusing to bow to
anyone else’s wishes Can’t you see the big picture... the importance of the Government’s programme? don’t the stories of old people finding a new lease of life excite you with regard to the good it’s doing... against the wasteful rotting of young bodies of prisoners incarcerated in jail?’
‘I can see where you’re coming from, Mr. Jordan, but you’ve got to see it from my point of view,’ she responded solidly. ‘The public need to know what’s going on in the world. Your programme, as you call it, is very significant Why do you have to keep it a secret? I’m sure that once you get past the few miserable do-gooders who always bleat on about human rights, you’ll find a lot of support from the greater public.’
‘I’m only a pawn in the game,’ he replied glumly, with a solemn expression on his face. ‘The Government insists on secrecy and they’ve asked me to ensure that it remains a secret.‘ He paused to reflect for a moment. ‘By the way, I’m truly sorry about the incident in Birmingham. It was unforgivable! Ratcliffe’s a hard liner and his mind is focused on one way only. He was wrong to try to eliminate you in that way and I’m delighted that you avoided being injured or killed. There are other way to keep a lid on this matter.’
She shook her head slowly experiencing the awful event again in her mind. ‘You can say that again!’
‘I’ve come with nothing like that in mind. Personally I want you to continue living a good life, doing what you’re good at. ‘My task is to dissuade you from pursuing the quest with regard to interviewing old people who underwent the exchange.’ He paused in his flow for a moment. ‘Look we’re both adults. We know the score. Why don’t we settle our differences until a later date when the Government decides to come clean. That’s all I’m asking you. Just wait a little longer so that your safety’s secured.’
‘You seem awfully keen to keep me alive,’ she responded with a slight smile touching her lips.
‘For good reason,’ he told her candidly. ‘I’ve seen you many times on television and, in my opinion, you’re a very attractive woman. I think I’ve fallen in love with you.’
She stared at him pitifully before her mind began to go into a whirl. In the past, she had been approached by many suitors but had dispensed with them all in a very short time. However this man was quite different. He was handsome, clean-cut, well-dressed, possessed a good job, and he clearly had a way with women. She felt quite flattered by his comment even though it came out of the blue, taking her by complete surprise. In one breath, he had told her that he wanted to save her life,... in the next, he had told her that he was in love with her. She had never thought of romance or marriage for a long time. Her work was more important and it took up most of her time. Now she started to feel that this man was a person who might captivate her heart and bring her to the edge of romantic excitement.
‘How about coming to dinner with me this evening?’ he asked pleasantly changing the subject swiftly.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she replied teasingly, looking at him in a new light. She had always thought of him as a villain, however the mantle had fallen from his shoulders and now he appeared to her as a hero. She wasn’t certain she could explain to herself how that change had come about.
‘There’s a nice little restaurant not far from here,’ he pressed, hoping to influence her to make up her mind.
‘I’d like that,’ she conceded readily. Her work was always of paramount importance to her. However her heart began to send different signals to her brain. She stood up reaching for her coat. ‘I’m ready if you are!’
They left the studio and he hailed a taxi which took them to the restaurant of his choice. He felt on top of the world in the company of the woman he had learned to love and adore from a distance. Sky was confused in her mind at the speed of events which took her from an ambitious successful news reporter working on a secret story, to a woman whose resolve was being beaten down at the centre of a romantic liaison. The diversity of one from the other was too difficult for her to adjust to or understand especially as it was happening so quickly. The problem that she really faced was to determine where the future would take her. She didn’t want to throw herself into a romantic relationship which eventually petered out in the end as a dull affair. That would be too much of a heartbreak. If she was going to move in that direction, she wanted it to start well and go on for ever. However there lurked a suspicion at the back of her mind that Jordan might be playing her for a sucker, pretending that he had feelings for her in order to divert her activity from divulging anything about the exchange programme. There was always that possibility that he was leading her down the garden path!
***
Mike Farrell had been an eminent artist who had painted a portrait of many senior politicians and a number of peers listed in Debrett’s Peerage. He had gained a reputation for his excellent skill as an artist as one of the most renowned painters of the age. He was eighty-eight years of age but over the past twenty-seven years he had endured a number of operations on his eyes to remove the cataracts. Unfortunately the operations were not successful. From that time onwards, he had been unable to see clearly and, as a result, his work had suffered badly. When he receive the invitation to take part in the exchange experiment, he had lied about his eyesight for fear of being eliminated from the programme by physical default. He had gone through with the transfer and now enjoyed the body of a younger man who had been aged thirty-nine. He felt distinctly energised but as he still retained the same head, his sight remained impaired. Despite that, he continued to paint for most days of the week but, due to his feeble sight, the talent that lay within his hands was mainly ineffective. The paintings were far less than creditable of someone with his talent because he was unable to determine the fine lines required to make the picture appear sharp. When the exchange programme came to light, he thought about his youth and readily came but, for some ambitious reason, which was totally unfounded, he believed that his sight might become restored. The idea was hopeful but he became extremely disappointed for, after the exchange was completed, he was still practically blind.
On this particular evening, he felt pain wracking his body and he climbed out of bed to ease the muscles, taking two pain killers to rid him of the agony. He stood in front of a large bedroom mirror vacantly peering vaguely at the features in his wrinkled face that he could still recognise. Instantly he noticed that something was different. The white line that encircled his neck had vanished... it was not there any more. He considered that his body had recovered from the exchange process and had corrected the situation, causing the white line ot disappear. However he could not dispense the feeling that something was different. Peering closer into the mirror, he noticed that the wrinkles around his neck had also gone. His face turned into a frown and he ran his hands over his throat which had become quite smooth. All the wrinkles had gone! The skin below his jaw was as smooth as silk... like that of a young man. His body began to relax as the pain killers kicked in and he returned to bed wondering whether or not he was dreaming. He fell asleep shortly with a worried expression on his face, not knowing what the next day would herald.
When he awoke the following morning, he still felt a certain malaise. His hands went out to the area below his chin and it still felt smooth without any wrinkles or hanging flesh. He went into the bathroom to receive the shock of his life. He stared at himself in the mirror and saw himself clearly for the first time in twenty-seven years. The wrinkles on his face had disappeared and his sight had returned in strength. He could hardly believe the change that had overcome him. He could actually see! He ran around his apartment staring a the paintings he had completely in the recent past, looking at them with abject despair as he noticed serious defects in the work. For a few moments, the desire to paint surged through his brain and then, just as suddenly, it vanished without trace. He staggered back to the bedroom with a complete change of attitude in mind. Strangely enough, he began to draw a sketch which represented a
bank robbery taking place, his brain running through all the aspects of a robbery as though he was watching the action on a television screen. There was the getaway car, the weaponry, ski-masks, the banking hall, the cashiers, the safe, and the time allowed for the robbery before the police arrived. Then he had to find a place where the gang could meet to split up the stolen money. It was all so clear. This was obviously not a side effect of the body exchange. This time, the brain was exchanged although he head remained intact. He was now a criminal on the loose with a young body, prepared to start robbing banks. Worst still, he was ready to murder anyone who stood in his way.
He endured such thoughts for three days without any intention of ever painting again. His brain had become that of the criminal with whom he had exchanged his body even though the operation wasn’t planned to work that way. Each recipient was supposed to retain his own mind. Somehow with Mike Farrell the programme had failed. He had assumed both the brain and the body of the prisoner from Lancaster jail and there was no way that anyone could reverse the process. At the end of the third day, Farrell could stand it no longer. He took a pistol, pointed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger, blowing out his brains. The change within his head had been too dramatic and he was unable to come to terms with it. The Death Certificate would read: ‘Suicide by means of a gunshot wound.’ and there would be no autopsy due to the fact that the man was in his late eighties.
At the same time, Graham Voce, a prisoner in cell one hundred-and-six at Blackstock jail, who had exchanged bodies with Farrell, felt wracked with pain in the middle of the same night. He cried out to the warders asking for pain killers awakening the other prisoners who started a commotion. Voce’s neck hurt most and, to his dismay, he discovered lots of wrinkles appearing under his chin. What the hell was going on? All the other prisoners who had been subjected to the exchange programme seemed to have come out of it without any trouble yet he was suffering from a severe bout of pain which wracked his body. He managed to get to sleep eventually, awaking the next morning feeling extremely tired and somewhat nauseated. He felt beneath his chin, noticing a large number of wrinkles that had seemingly grown during the night but thee was worse to come. His image in the mirror seemed to be very misty. He blinked a number of times and rubbed his eyes but he still could not see clearly. Life was suddenly becoming very miserable. His body had aged considerably and now he was having trouble seeing clearly. He had woken up like an old man and was practically blind. Beside that, his mind became totally confused. All the evil that existed within him started to disappear to be replaced by a strong desire to hold a paintbrush and a palette in his hands and to pain a portrait of the other man in the cell. He sat on his bed trying to reconcile his thoughts. What had happened to the real Graham Voce? He had been committing crimes from the age of fifteen, stealing money and goods from other people’s houses. In due course, he escalated into senior crime ultimately killing a family of four during a burglary, Suddenly, he found himself to be an ageing prisoner with very poor sight who thought only of painting portraits. The whole idea of such a metamorphosis was inconceivable! He stood up and pulled at the sleeve of his companion in the upper bunk.
