by Stan Mason
‘I know he’s here somewhere,’ continued Eliza refusing to be put off. ‘Even the books I gave him are on the table in the room.’
The Matron’s hackles rose in fear at the comment. She had taken extreme care to delete all evidence that Terence Flint had been a patient at the asylum but somehow no one had removed the books. It was indeed an error on the part of her nurses but the responsibility lay at her door. In order to put an end to the accusations, she decided to play her trump card which the government agent had mentioned to her, to stop the woman in her tracks.
‘You know what I believe, Mrs. Braithwaite,’ she advanced coldly with full force causing the visitor to halt in her flow. In my opinion, you’re having a nervous breakdown.’
Flint’s aunt seethed with anger. ‘I am certain not!’ she remonstrated. ‘But I can see I’m not getting anywhere here.’ She stood up and leaned across with her face moving closely towards that of the Matron. ‘It’s not over,’ she concluded. ‘You may think it is but it’s not! I intend to find out what happened to my nephew one was or the other!’
She stormed out of the asylum totally unaware of how to progress to find out the truth. Everything seemed to be turning against her... the sudden ageing of her nephew... the different face that she didn’t recognise... his disappearance... the statement by the Matron that he was never a patient there... and the sudden death of the detective. It was all becoming too much for her. Indeed, she felt as though she was on the edge of a nervous breakdown!
After Eliza Braightwaite had left the asylum, the Matron rang immediately for one of her nurses and ordered her to remove the two books on the table in the room which had been inhabited by Terence Flint. Following that, there was no evidence that Terence Flint had ever been there. She had taken great care to remove all his details from the records and she was sure that the asylum could sustain any investigation, if it ever came to that, and emerge squeaky clean. She considered contacting Jordan to advise him of the latest incident but then decided not to do so. The aunt was in an invidious position. She could really do nothing to determine the truth. It was now a matter of fact... Terence Flint was never a patient at Gresham Asylum and that was that!
***
The removal of Flint’s body, as well as the murder of Sky Summers and Harry Dawkins weighed heavily on Jordan’s mind. He found that he was unable to sleep at night , waking up experiencing nightmares on a regular basis. He kept seeing the assassin shooting Sky Summers, feeling remorse every time and he could not expunge the visions from his sleep. In addition, Terence Flint kept exposing his aged body in front of him and, although he knew that it wasn’t real it sent elements of fear surging through his body. His conscience became so badly pricked that he was almost of the verge of resigning his appointment and to throw himself on the mercy of those in Parliament who might be able to help him. On reflection, he realised that there was no hope of assistance from anyone in the political arena. Unlike all the Members of Parliament, who had to stand for re-election every five years, Jordan didn’t have to do so. As a result, no one was sympathetic to his cause and they were very much unwilling to be interested in his resignation from the appointment he hated so much.
At five-thirty one morning, when he was awakened by a nightmare in which Sky Summers, dressed in a black gown, pointing her finger at him in an accusing manner for her death, he decided that enough was enough and he had to see Jeremy Ratcliffe. He stared at his tired face in the bathroom mirror, knowing that he was unwilling to take any further responsibility in the body exchange programme. Not only did he intend to complain about his part in the murders but he was willing to resign his post.
He arrived at the office of the Minster of Science at eleven o’clock on the following day. Ratcliffe sat calmly behind his desk as though it was his fortress with his hands clenched in front of him.
‘What do you want, Jordan?’ he began curtly, staring directly into the visitor’s eyes., He knew the nature of the discussion by instinct and he was ready to resist any barrage which related to the resignation of the government agent in relation to the body exchange programme. He was an afficionado of it and would do anything to ensure its progress.
‘I can’t stand it any more!’ bleated Jordan, willing to pour out his heart to the other man. ‘I’ve been responsible for two killings... two murders... and I’ve been forced to lie to everyone. The exchange programme’s pretty much defunct now because of the lack of subjects for body transfer. Donors are dying by the hundred and people are becoming suspicious because of the Capella experiment. People have been turned into zombies a few days after exchange takes place. Each one of them is a murder by the Government. It can’t go on!’ Tears began to form in his eyes and all his misery emerged through his mouth. ‘I can’t take it any more. I want to resign!’ He removed a white envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and threw it on to the table in anguish.
‘Pull yourself together, man!’ snapped Ratcliffe callously, ignoring the envelope and all that it contained. ‘I take your point about the murder of Miss Summers and that detective fellow but such things have to be done if we’re to maintain equilibrium for the project. We can’t have people wandering about causing trouble with their own personal agenda. It’s not on! Surely you can understand that. We have to look at the bigger picture!’
The government agent shook his head wearily refusing to listen to reason. ‘I’m sorry,’ he bleated weakly, ‘I don’t want to be part of it any more.’
The Minister for Science leaned down to open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk. He withdrew a bottle of whisky and two glasses which he placed side by side. He poured out two measured glasses, handing one of them to Jordan.
‘Here... drink this!’ he ordered curtly. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
Jordan complied with the order and emptied the glass in one swallow much to the surprise of the senior man. ‘It’s driving me crazy!’ went on the subordinate. ‘I can’t sleep at night. I’m having nightmares. My life’s in shreds. I had to order the killing of a woman with whom I was in love. How monstrous is that! What kind of a man am I? It’s all got too hard to manage!’
Ratcliffe leaned across to refill Jordan’s glass to the full. ‘You have nothing with which to reproach yourself,’ he told him boldly. ‘You were appointed to take on an extremely difficult project and you’ve performed splendidly... with full credit. I can’t allow you to resign!’
‘You’ve no choice, Minister,’ declared the government agent. ‘I refuse to continue with it.,’
‘You do realise what you’re saying,’ returned Ratcliffe with a sense of urgency. ‘If I accept your resignation it’ll be the end of your career. You’ll be finished in political circles once and for all. I’ll make certain that you receive no further appointments in the House,,,,,none whatsoever! You’ll become a pariah with no hope of any work here. ‘ He paused for effect before pushing the envelope to the far end of the desk in front of his subordinate. ‘Take back your letter. Go on holiday for a couple of weeks to get it out of your system. Then return with a fresh mind and a new attitude. Get rid of your demons in that period and return to your work a new man, I’m going to suggest that this meeting never took place.’
Jordan considered his advice for a few moments allowing the words to filter through his mind. Ratcliffe was a cunning man, a vicious opponent, who was a lion in the fight and, no doubt, he never lost a battle. If the resignation was forced to remain, the government agent would be out in the cold for the rest of his life. On reflection, the Minister for Science was right. He had allowed the situation to get on top of him, riding him to the edge of insanity. He needed to rid himself of the mantle and recognised the responsibility that lay on his shoulders without flinching. Indeed, a vacation would be ideal at this stage to allow himself to clear his mind and settle his personal differences that hid within himself. Ratcliffe was absolutely right. What use were prison
ers serving life sentences and those interned for life in mental institutions when eminent people, useful to society, could contribute to the community. He had to think positively before his demons destroyed him and all his career prospects for the future. The Minister was right in telling him that resignation was the worst thing that he could do. If he allowed it to remain, he would never forgive himself when logic began to prevail in his mind. Subsequently, he took the advice and gathered the envelope, placing it firmly in his inside pocket as though it had never been offered.
‘I’m glad you came to see me,’ continued the Minister as Jordan stood up to leave. ‘I need to inform you of a further development in the body exchange programme.’
The government agent stopped in his tracks, turning to face the other man with a frown appearing on his face. Surely the Capella units were the last measures to be used in the experiment! What more could there be?
Ratcliffe stared past Jordan at the wall of his office before passing on the information that had come to hand. ‘It appears that the programme has been brought to the attention of the CIA in the United States. They contacted me about it and I’ve been talking to them. They’re extremely interested in what we’re doing... in what we’ve already done. Apparently the death penalty is carried out ever five days in Texas which, as you’ll agree, is a waste of cannon fodder to say the least. They’re sending some people over here to observe the programme and they may even bring a couple of prisoners with them. Their intention is to set up a laboratory in the United States. Of course thee are many more opportunities for them because they have so many more prisoners available that we do. What do you say to that?’
Jordan shrugged his shoulders at the information. It was unlikely that the Americans would be able to keep the process a secret but then why should they. The British Government was so sensitive about such matters; the Americans relished telling everyone about it! After all, the United States was a land of progress; Britain relied on its tradition. However the news made the government agent’s mind boggle. Where would the programme extend beyond America. Would it become popular in China where life seemed to be less important... to India despite its castes... to Australia? It suddenly seemed to stretch worldwide with a limitless number of donors and an even larger amount of recipients. It meant the deaths of hundreds of thousands of prisoners and mentally disturbed people. Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot and many others would have rubbed their hands with glee had they known about the body exchange programme and the way it was able to eliminate all the people who were undesirable to them in one way or the other.
‘You realise that you’re on the edge of infinity,’ retorted the government agent recognising what the future would be with the extermination of tens of thousands of criminals alone. On the one hand there would be many people with talent and drive who could enjoy a new lease of life; on the other hand, the number of criminals and mentally disturbed people would be old, ready to die within a very short time. The benefits were incalculable as the world would be rid of a great deal of evil and misery while the recipients would contribute greatly to society. He suddenly saw the bigger picture forming in his mind. No longer was it isolated to Britain but a worldwide operation of good over evil. As a result, he returned to his seat facing the Minister of Science as though someone had passed a magic wand over his head to cause all his anguish to disappear.
‘I’m not going on holiday!’ he declared flatly. ‘I want to be there when the CIA contingency arrives. Do you know how many prisoners they’re actually bringing with them?’
Ratcliffe shrugged his shoulders aimlessly, surprised at the sudden change in attitude of the other man. ‘Only two I should imagine. They’re arriving by special plane at Heathrow tomorrow. We’ve arranged transportation to take them directly to the laboratory at Lytham St. Annes. I could arrange for you to be on that vehicle if you want.’
‘I’d like that,’ responded Jordan eagerly, looking forward to meeting the visitors although he was uncertain with regard to his new-found enthusiasm.
After a while, he left the office of the Minister of Science and went to a café to consider his position. What a fool he had been to submit his resignation! If it had been accepted, there would have been no future for him... none at all! What difference did it make if he had arranged for Sky Summers to be eliminated. She didn’t love him. There was no future in a relationship for either of them. As the Minister had told him, they couldn’t allow people to do what they wanted on their own agenda when it affected the Government. Notwithstanding that, Ratcliffe was a callous character and one not worthy to work for. He was supportive only when it suited him. He would have had great difficulty finding another executive to carry on the body exchange programme at this stage of its development. Jordan was there... he was in control... and he had to remain there as the controller! To work against him was anathema to the individual for the man had no conscience and he would, without remorse, destroy an antagonist like a man with a fly-swatter killing an insect. At the same time, he would delight in watching his victim squirm as he died.
The following day, Jordan waiting patiently at Heathrow Airport as the aeroplane carrying the CIA agents landed. Their arrival was hushed up by the airport authorities as four Americans, in plain clothes, alighted with two men, in prison uniforms. They went directly to a special room reserved for them. A side door led outside to a specially-fitted large white van which stood ready to take them to the laboratory at Lytham St. Annes. The prisoners were already handcuffed by the wrists and chained by the ankles as they shuffled out of the room into the vehicle, prodded and pushed by the CIA agents with them before being manacled to their seats inside the van, There was never going to be any chance of them escaping in Britain. They had been flown into the country in secrecy and no one else knew that they were here.
Jordan produced his credentials to prove his identity to the CIA agents and then climbed into the van in the area which was segregated from the prisoners by a thick metal mesh. The prisoners were clearly puzzled as to the reason for them to be flown to Britain and they had no idea what was in store for them. However it was better than simply sitting in a cell wherever they had been incarcerated. In any case, they had come from Texas so it was a joy-ride that neither of them had expected because each man had expected to be executed within a few week’s time. They would each receive a lethal injection for a serious crime he had committed. In their minds, there was the remote element of hope for survival... for what it was worth!
‘Hey, Limey!’ yelled one of them staring directly at the government agent. ‘Is this the way to Disneyland?’
Jordan ignored him, sitting on his seat and opening a book that he held in his hand. He thought it inadvisable to make any contact with the prisoners. It could only impinge on his mind to cause him to suffer further trauma after they had gone through the body exchange process.
They eventually arrived at the laboratory where the CIA agents secured the prisoners to a special metal frame attached to one of the walls in the corridor in order to prevent them from causing a riot and to avoid seeing what was going to happen to them. In turn, each one was released from the metal frame and taken inside the laboratory and injected with the hypodermic syringe before being released from his shackles and chains. The CIA agents watched very closely with great interest.
‘Are you taking the prisoners back with you?’ asked Jordan inquisitively.
‘No!’ returned one of the visitors. ‘They’re going to a place called Lancaster jail,’
The government agent nodded his head. It made sense to leave them in Britain for they would be very old men waiting to die. The two men went through the transfer process to emerge as very aged men.
‘That’s one of the things we’ve discovered,’ related the scientist carrying out the process. ‘The exchange reduces the level of intelligence of the donor down to practically nothing.’
‘Are you telling me that the
donor’s intelligence falls from a lowly-rated IQ to absolute zero?’ exclaimed Jordan in disbelief. ‘You’re turning them into zombies by these Capella units!’
‘Fraid so,’ responded the scientist candidly. ‘It takes their minds away entirely. We’re working on a solution but it’s not likely to be forthcoming shortly.’
‘I’m gonna write a report on what happened here today,’ the leading CIA agent told him after the exchange programme had been carried out. ‘I have to say I’m impressed. We lost two prisoners awaitin’ execution and used them to give two other people a much longer life. I reckon it’s a great invention an’ I’m gonna recommend it to my superiors. I don’t s’pose there’s any problem in sharing it with us, is there?
‘You’ll have to discuss that with my superiors,’ stated the government agent. He felt much easier that the programme was going to be used in America. It made it more worldwide and a much bigger picture to view. ‘Why don’t you take your prisoners back to the States to show them what happens to them?’ he suggested.
‘Nah!’ replied the other man. ‘They’re zombies. I can tell them all about it in my report. They don’t need to see them.’
They all returned to the white van. The prisoners were carried there on stretchers and laid in the rear of the vehicle. Thereafter, they were driven northwards to Lancaster jail where Bill Preston awaited their arrival. The Governor pursed his lips as he saw the prisoners taken from the van. It was becoming common practice for donors to arrived at the jail as very old people, suffering from all kinds of diseases, with their brains turned to mush. The problem was that most of them died within a few weeks, if not sooner, but he was beginning to get used to it. Lancaster jail was becoming a hospice for those prisoners who spent their last few days there. It mattered little to him because there was always a service which took the dead bodies away to an unknown destination.
