by Alec Birri
He recalled Tony’s words: ‘There’s always some new medical advance to make you live longer.’
It seemed fantastically impossible, which was why his brain had to exaggerate their appearance to ensure he understood – the hospital’s staff were part of the trial too.
He couldn’t even begin to understand how it was happening, but, like increasingly beautiful parasites, they were sucking the life out of him and the others – just so theirs could be restored and extended. The gardener was wrong. A way to perpetuate flowers had been found, but at a terrible cost – accelerated decrepitude for those less deserving. Like front-line soldiers sacrificed in battle, he and all the other patients had served their purpose and could now be discarded.
Dan became angry. Who were they to decide who should live and who should die? What gave them the right? It was an abomination against nature which Dan had to expose in whatever time he had left. He looked back at himself in the mirror and wondered how long that was. With each passing second, the human leeches seem to drain more and more life from him. The little hair he had left on his head appeared to be falling out and he reached up to touch it. More came away. He ran a finger down one cheek. It split. Dan panicked.
‘NO! NOT YET!’ He put his bloodied hand up to smear the image from view, as if being out of sight would put a stop to it, but that just presented a limb that had begun to mummify. ‘NO! NO!’
In desperation he turned to Doctor Adams just as a drop of blood appeared to hang in front of Dan’s face. His eyesight was deteriorating fast, but he knew what it was. His legs buckled. He had no choice – Dan lunged at the red pill.
Part Two
Chapter One
‘So, how’s the fountain of youth coming along?’
Professor Savage glanced around the club. As a member of parliament, Alex Salib had impressed her superiors enough to be considered a rising star, but any more off-hand comments like that and she would be lucky to serve the rest of her time on the back benches, let alone as a future prime minister.
A couple of the broadsheets rustled disapprovingly, but more out of annoyance at the disruption to the genteel atmosphere than the damage a breach of confidence might cause. The professor leaned forward and lowered his voice.
‘If you must refer to the discovery as some kind of elixir, then I’m afraid it’s more one of health rather than youth.’ He sat back in the armchair. ‘I’m sorry if that disappoints you.’
Alex looked at her surroundings. She despised old-guard establishments at the best of times, and a gentlemen’s club that had only recently allowed women in as guests, let alone members, was about as far removed from her politics as it was possible to get. Throw in a hoary old professor of medicine with blood on his hands via animal vivisection, and it could be argued that the only reason she became a member of parliament in the first place was to ensure their retirement.
Still, she’d only recently won her seat and, if being a member of a cross-party health committee meant having to appear more centrist for a while, then so be it. They were a dying breed anyway and, like any species heading for extinction, she felt sorry for them so decided to abide by their petty rules – for now.
She leaned forward in her seat and adopted a tone she hoped didn’t patronise too much. ‘Well, if you wish to secure more funding, then I’m afraid it’s going to have to be some kind of miracle cure at the very least.’ She sat back again. ‘I’m sorry if that disappoints you.’
The professor sighed inside. It was all so easy a couple of generations ago. One was born a gentleman destined for high office, one grew up with other gentlemen equally set for great things. One went to Eton or Harrow, then Oxbridge with them; went to war with them; shit, showered, shaved, and even shagged with one or two of them; and if you were still close after all that, then the vulgar subject of money was never even discussed, let alone begged for.
He studied her. He’d seen the country’s newest MP at a distance, but this was their first meeting and certainly the first time he knew his fabled charm would be of little use. It wasn’t just the fact that she was a self-proclaimed lesbian transgender (whatever that was), but mainly because she was about as far removed from him as it was possible to be.
Born on a kitchen-sink estate to a single white mother and absentee refugee father from a war-torn Middle Eastern country, her modest education consisted of comprehensive school, a first in law at some polytechnic masquerading as a university, and then straight into politics to help save the planet. Everything a darling of the left should be. She even used a wheelchair for goodness’ sake. If ever there was a politician engendered to secure the sympathy vote, she was it. Indeed, if it wasn’t for her disabilities, one could imagine her a prize specimen, plucked straight from the old left’s great melting pot of humanity.
He speculated on her condition. Like most medical men, he’d always at least subconsciously diagnosed a visible ailment upon first sight, together with the social group suggested. He knew it was judgemental, but that was just the way he was. It was nothing personal.
Her posture and pallor indicated a number of complex conditions and he estimated she would probably succumb to at least one of them within the next ten years. Plenty of time to achieve her political ambitions, but still sad nonetheless. She was dying and, like any species heading for extinction, he felt sorry for her, so decided to abide by her petty rules – for now.
He adopted a tone he hoped didn’t patronise too much. ‘What if I were to tell you it has the potential to cure many disabilities?’
Alex corrected him. ‘You mean “impairments”.’
Savage sat back in his chair again and tried not to be irritated by the lesson in political correctness.
She didn’t labour the point.
‘What’s the catch?’
Savage made his pitch. ‘The catch is, money is needed to extend the trial so the efficacy of the discovery can be tested on other equally deserving sections of society.’
The truth was, Alex had already been briefed on the importance of the professor’s work and instructed to give him whatever he wanted but a determined personal ambition meant she was keen to exercise independence of thought too.
‘Not if the research involves animals, abuse of the unborn or any other creature unable to make its own decision.’
It felt good to get on to a subject she was passionate about. The professor became quiet for a moment.
‘Ms Salib, have you any idea of the impact a discovery like this could have on the lives of millions of ordinary people? Not to mention the literally billions of pounds of savings to the National Health Service and social care budgets. And what do you think your fountain of youth could be worth to the exchequer in terms of foreign drug sales?’
Alex didn’t answer. She didn’t give a damn. She knew she had to do her colleagues’ bidding, but if helping people came at the expense of innocents, she was vehemently against it – regardless of how many it helped and especially if money was to be made from suffering.
The professor glanced around the anteroom before leaning towards her and lowering his voice again. ‘Now, if that means I get to sadistically enjoy inserting red-hot needles into the eyes of bunny rabbits and babies so you and millions of others can regain the simple pleasure of walking again, then I trust you would be willing to compromise on your admirable, if somewhat naïve, principles?’
Chapter Two
‘Come on, Danny – wake up!’
‘Wake up, Dad.’ It was his daughter’s voice.
Someone took hold of his left hand. For a second, he thought both his wife and daughter must be with him.
‘Dad, can you hear me?’
His hand was being caressed. He opened his eyes. Not in the conservatory any more.
‘Dad, do you recognise me?’
He squinted at the shock of blonde hair. It nev
er ceased to amaze him how much Lucy looked like her mother. Or was it the other way around? Claire didn’t seem to be with her.
‘Where’s your mother?’ he croaked.
Lucy didn’t answer. He focussed on her and tried to smile.
‘Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes. Where am I?’
He scanned the room and saw the hoist, the window back in its usual place, and that damn clock still annoyingly stuck at the same time. Dan answered his own question. ‘Back in my old room. How did I get here?’
‘Try not to stress yourself, you’re still very weak.’
Dan lifted his right arm and, as expected, his hand was bandaged. He winced at the memory of slicing his fingers into the blade to ensure the horrors were just hallucinations. A glance at his left hand confirmed they were no longer being manifested. It still hurt to move his fingers, though. He recalled the illusion of his face decaying.
‘I need a mirror.’
Lucy rummaged through her handbag, opened a compact, and passed it to him. Dan raised it to his eyes.
Despite knowing it couldn’t possibly have been real, he still expected the worst, but, to his surprise, his face was back to normal – just as Tony said it would be. The red pill had worked. He recalled Doctor Adams’ words: ‘Unless you resume your medication, you’re highly likely to experience the worst horrors the mind can produce.’ An understatement if ever there was one.
Dan sighed with the relief. The nightmare was over. Lucy had her head down – her lower lip protruded slightly. He reached forward, pushed it back in and tickled her under the chin. Both their faces lit up with smiles and yet more tears as they embraced. Father and daughter reunited at last.
There was a knock and Adams entered. He smiled at Lucy, which annoyed Dan just as much as when he smiled at Claire. There may have been nothing sinister about the red pill after all, but Dan still didn’t trust him.
‘Awake, I see. Good morning – do you know who I am?’
Dan wiped his eyes before replying: ‘Doctor Adams.’
The doctor uttered some more pleasantries before taking his patient’s temperature and pulse, and then checking over the bandages. It gave Dan a chance to confirm the young, muscular Adonis had returned to normal too. Back to mid-forties, he guessed. Tall with dark hair greying at the sides. Dan still couldn’t warm to him but there was one difference – Dan didn’t feel sorry for himself. He guessed the illusions of exaggerated youth and beauty were just his mind’s way of getting him to acknowledge what the red pill had now made obvious.
‘I’m afraid these dressings will be needed for a while. Mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘Sure.’ Dan was looking forward to answering them this time.
‘What’s your name?’
Dan looked at his daughter. ‘I’d like to say Winston Churchill, but no one seems to appreciate my sense of humour, so I guess I’ll just have to reply: Squadron Leader Daniel Stewart.’
Lucy turned to the doctor who remained just as expressionless. Dan assumed irony was over their heads too.
‘What year is it?’
Dan knew the answer but it felt strange to say. He looked around the room for confirmation, but there was only the annoying digital clock. He checked to see if it also displayed the date, but his vision blurred as he moved closer.
Lucy offered him his glasses and he put them on. The four digits refocussed, as did the twelve months of the year next to them. He now knew why the figures hadn’t moved for the last three days – because they weren’t meant to. Dan turned away from what had always been a calendar and answered, ‘2026.’
Lucy jumped up and down in her seat and squeezed his hand. She apologised when he grimaced.
‘And how old are you?’
Dan knew the answer to that too but, again, it felt strange to say. So that was the reason for all the subterfuge and lies. That was the reason he had to restart the medication and why the red pill had to be given time to work. Because without it, the truth would have been too horrific to contemplate. He looked at the middle-aged woman holding his normal-looking but arthritic left hand.
He smiled at his daughter then replied: ‘Ninety-six.’
The next two questions were answered as expected of a nonagenarian firmly rooted in the twenty-first century, although Dan struggled with them both. Not because he couldn’t remember, but because Lucy and he were finding it difficult to contain their excitement. The miracle they were all hoping and praying for had actually happened – Dan’s Alzheimer’s disease was cured.
Their shouts of joy attracted attention from outside and Tracy, Tony, and others entered, only for the room to then erupt into emotional scenes of congratulatory celebration. That put paid to the doctor’s remaining questions, and he was forced to stand back and spectate while the outpourings of joy proceeded.
Dan grinned at him through the throng. The doctor looked down at his pad and blinked at it a couple of times.
Human after all, thought Dan. The psychologist would have to do more than tremble a bottom lip for his patient to fully trust him.
The melee settled and some of the visitors drifted away to leave close family, Tracy, and Doctor Adams. Dan looked at his saviours and recalled the hallucination of them in the conservatory. He wondered if they were having a relationship in real life, too. They didn’t seem suited now they were physically back to normal and the distance they chose to stand apart neither suggested one nor the other. Dan decided the illusion of the two as young lovers expecting a baby amongst all the death and decay was just his brain’s way of exaggerating what had happened to him – new life spawning within his brain.
His doctor proceeded by asking some new questions. ‘You’re holding someone’s hand. Can you tell me who that person is?’
For a moment, Dan thought the answer couldn’t have been more evident, but played along.
‘And who’s sitting next to her?’
Again, Dan thought it a strange thing to ask but understood the reason. ‘It’s her husband – Tony.’
Tony and his wife smiled at each other and held hands. Dan recalled the two of them kissing in the car park and promptly became embarrassed about his loss of control afterwards. He offered to pay for the damage.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Adams brought Dan back to what did. ‘Does an accident involving an aircraft mean anything to you?’
Dan was about to reiterate his thoughts of it being a figment of his imagination when he realised part of him still felt very much the thirty-six-year-old RAF fighter pilot, living in 1966. He looked at his left hand to confirm his real age, his daughter, her equally middle-aged husband, and the immediate surroundings.
It didn’t satisfy, so he got out of bed and went to the window. The hospital had been constructed in the nineteenth century, so only the cars below could be used to confirm it was the twenty-first now. Tony had yet to return the E-type and it stood out as very much the museum piece amongst them all. If Dan was still being lied to, then they’d gone to extraordinary lengths to make him think the year was 2026. He turned to Adams.
‘Why does part of me still think it’s 1966?’
The doctor made a note of that. ‘Alzheimer’s, I’m afraid. It’s robbed you of many long-term memories. If the brain can’t reference those any more, then another period can be confused with the present day. In your case, that would appear to be when you were thirty-six. Some sufferers regress all the way back to childhood.’
Dan thought about his fellow patients, and one in particular. ‘Like Alice, you mean?’
They all nodded. Dan had been convinced she was a little girl, horribly burnt in the same aircraft accident as him.
‘How old is she really?’
Tracy enthused. ‘One hundred and eleven next month – she’ll be getting another birthday card fr
om the Queen.’
Dan now knew why Alice’s mother was dead – she couldn’t possibly still be alive. Adams repeated the question about the crash, but Dan couldn’t remember anything. He asked a question of his own.
‘I take it there actually was an aircraft crash?’
‘I need you to answer some other questions first.’ The doctor hesitated. ‘How would you describe your state of mind at the moment?’
Dan knew what he was alluding to. ‘You mean, am I still planning to take my own life?’
The doctor didn’t answer. Others in the room shifted with discomfort. Dan took his daughter’s hand again.
‘Of course not. I couldn’t be happier. Whatever you guys have done is simply remarkable – a second shot at life. Not something I could imagine anyone wanting to deliberately squander.’
The sighs of relief were audible. The next question was voiced just as sensitively.
‘What can you tell me about your wife?’
It reminded Dan of how much his daughter looked like her. He smiled again, but Lucy didn’t smile back this time. Her hair took him back many years to the day he first realised Claire was the one.
They were both fourteen years old and preparing to stage the school pantomime: Cinderella. She had the lead, but Dan was just a stagehand. It was a dress rehearsal and one of the teachers had insisted on getting Claire’s hair right for the part. School rules meant long hair had to be tied back or plaited, so this was the first time he’d seen her flowing locks. He’d always had a thing for Claire, but the sight of it framing her beauty tipped him into falling in love there and then and, once he’d plucked up the courage to ask her out, she was fool enough to do the same, and the rest, as they say, is history. He chuckled at the row it caused their parents when a week later Claire and he announced their unofficial engagement. He could still see her father ranting and raving while Dan’s dad couldn’t see what the problem was at all.
