Poem:  

Childhoods End

I see the morning sun break through bleak and stormy skies,

and I realise its over, tears clouding my eyes.

I remember all I’ve lost together with its passing;

seems so long since I was standing on that beach and laughing.

I knew true happiness then mindless to the passing season

until it was gone and I stood alone, shocked without a reason.

 

All is gone, or so it seems, for yesterdays never return.

Memories stir, though second-hand, they fan the senses that yearn.

 

Autumn falls, as do the leaves, the air grows cold and lonely.

Salt spray freezes on the pier the beach is littered and stony.

 

But, summer days will come again; once more my feet will wander

down to that beach, neath cloudless skies, and round its pools meander.

 

Summer doesn’t disappear

it only hibernates until next year

 

with buckets and spades we’ll dig the sand,

devour ice cream, and watch the band.

 

If at these thoughts your mind runs wild

I guess you’ve remembered once you were a child

 

I still look back with joy but sadness

To days gone forever but never the less

 

I fell wistful unashamed, and I often pretend,

that I’d never experienced childhoods end.

Len Morgan

Age. The new black.

Age.  The new black.

   A deep throbbing bone ache drags me from my sleep.   I squeeze my hands alternately, massaging the sensitive muscle tissue, smoothing out the tender flesh.   Dad would say I’ve got the screws.    In my youth, such pain would have made me cry out, and send me scurrying to the nearest doctor for surcease.   Now, it merely confirms that I’m still alive; I can go on for another day smiling and bearing up as if nothing is wrong.   But, nothing is wrong, it’s just my age.   In fact, it’s been my age for thirty-five years, more than half of my life.   I smile, recalling one of Dad’s old jokes:

 Doctor, Doctor, I keep getting these stabbing pains in my left arm.

It’s your age said the Doctor.

But, my right arm is the same age and it’s never felt better! 

I don’t consult a Doctor anymore, no point, they never do anything to help.   You’ve got a Headache?     Take two paracetamol/Avril.    Broken leg?    Take two paracetamol.   Broken heart…   I just cut out the middleman now and take the panacea.

I’ve just collected my repeat prescription for blood pressure tablets, (one advantage of being over sixty in the UK is getting free medication each month), we just take a tablet and get on with living and complaining.    Irbesartan, what kind of a name is that for a medicine?   The names ought to reflect their use with a number and or letter to depict their family, and release number, ‘Blood Pressure D175’, might be more appropriate.   Manic Depressive N06666, Cancer OMG099!   No, maybe I've got it wrong, maybe we shouldn’t know such things.  

They did it on food packaging, the boxes doubled in size, and so do the prices, or the price stay the same and the contents shrink from 500g to 425g:

Ingredients: Potato Starch, Maltodextrin, Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil, Salt, Colour (E150c), Flavourings (contains Celery, Soya, Wheat), Wheatflour, Flavour Enhancers (E621, E635), Emulsifier (E322) (Soya), Spice & Herb Extract.

   In case you’re wondering, on the other side of the drum it just say’s ‘Beef Gravy Granules’ (in 24 point text), with no mention of beef or chicken extract.  Maybe the name should suffice, it did in the past.  In the British Army circa 1964 I remember eating tins of stewed beef with  WD>1945 stamped on them, I pointed it out to the cook.   “Yea we got a job lot at a special rate,” he said.  I wonder if they’ve run out yet; a friend tells me his grandson was eating out of the same WD>1945 cans in the first Iraq conflict.  I think the army is in more danger from field rations than from bullets.

The government has set up a watchdog committee, costing the taxpayer two million pounds a year ($4 million US, and shrinking), to check that we are not being poisoned.   I rely on the old tried and tested method, suck-it-an-see.   If it tastes alright, eat it.  

Have I become a cynic?   When everything you see and hear in the news leads you in that direction, it’s hard to refute; 2+2=4 yes?. 

 Have fun!

  

Black Room (silent in solitary)

    During the Korean War the Chinese developed a method of interrogation that made prisoners susceptible to suggestion, and more willing to communicate generally. They called it ‘HSI NAO’ (wash brain). They discovered that just 5% of prisoners had leadership qualities.   If they could be identified and segregated, from the other 95%, the latter could be left unguarded, and would be unlikely to attempt escape. If the selected 5% were then placed in a room that was permanently lit, and sound proofed, day and night. In just a few days they could be softened up sufficiently to become co-operative, and susceptible to indoctrination.

   During the 1960’s, the Canadian defence board set up a ‘Black Room' at McGill University in Montreal.   It was soundproofed, and kept in permanent darkness, with the object of investigating the phenomenon of sensory deprivation.  Princeton University, USA, also built a ‘Black Room’, it containing a bed, toilet, and food store.   It was found that most volunteers who entered the room quickly fell asleep; forty to fifty hours sleep was not uncommon.

  When they were released, minor illnesses, coughs, colds, and rashes were found to have cleared up.   Smokers, alcoholics, and drug users found that they experienced no cravings during their stay.   This was attributed to the alien environment, and sense deprivation; conditions that do not exist anywhere else, except perhaps in space, conditions so strange that old habits simply failed to register. 

Although the room was soundproofed, many subjects found they could hear a high pitched whine and a low rumbling sound.  On further investigation the whine was found to emanate from their nervous system, and the rumble was the sound of blood pulsing around their body.

  Apparently, less intelligent people could stay in the room far longer than those with higher IQ’s.  Intelligent people were far more likely to hit the panic button, sometimes in as little as ten minutes, after waking up.   Student volunteers described their experiences as follows:  For the first few hours you could think clearer, without distractions, the mind goes into overdrive running wild with ideas.   But, then you find it grinds on and on and cannot be switched off.   You’re not physically tired, you’ve just slept for forty-plus hours, at which stage panic sets in, you have acute insomnia, you start to itch, you scratch and it moves to another location, the room seems to be getting warmer…   You can understand that after a few hours without cessation anybody would become susceptible to a few carefully scripted words, from a friendly voice.   A kindly interrogator, soothing and assuring, would make you eager to talk, and share your secrets; you might want to share just to maintain contact with, somebody, anybody.   Conversely, you would become a sponge, ready and eager to soak up any information or new ideas fed to you.  Students reported that a spell in that room prior to exams concentrated the mind wonderfully.

  Curiously animals don’t seem to mind the ‘Black Room’ they will stay in there indefinitely, without ill effect, they just eat, sleep, and defecate.

Further investigation of the ‘Black Room’ revealed the following conclusions:

It had the ability to accelerate the cure of minor ailments; illnesses that normally take days to clear up were cured in a matter of hours in that room.   It has been suggested that it could prove an effective means of treating and curing neuroses.  In responsible hands it would prove to be a wonderful tool for good.

   I heard of the ‘Black Room’ in the 1980’s but I’ve heard nothing since, suggesting it was either a blind alley, or proved very effective; I’ll let you ponder on that. 

  In the meantime, if anybody can shed any further light on its demise I would be very interested.

Mind Slip

  It was just an absent minded slip, that’s what it was.   Instead of turning right out of the car park, and heading into the centre of Lakeside, I drove straight on past the neon shop signs, into an area I had not visited before.  

  I glanced at my watch, it was 17:15hrs.  I was almost an hour early for my appointment, and didn't want to appear too eager, so I decided to look around.   Ahead of me I saw a tall innocuous grey granite building faced with two high smoked glass windows taller and wider than two men standing on the shoulders of a third - at least twenty feet by twenty – how could curved glass be moulded and transported in such dimensions I wondered?   Between them a matching pair of sliding glass doors of similar dimensions waited, closed but inviting, and to the left hung a small sign.   Since I had come so far out of my way I thought I might as well take advantage of the slip, and investigate.

So, I parked my car and headed towards the building.   Closer in I saw the sign read ‘TERMINUS2010’ a few steps further, and I could see shadows moving beyond the smoked glass.   Closer still I could distinctly see groups of people all moving with purpose, in various directions.

One group dressed in sombre serviceable garb rose, as one, when I entered through the doorway.   Other figures reposed in easy chairs, singly, in two’s and three’s.   Then I saw a larger group moving away from me wearing pale pastel linen clothing.   A third group adorned with studded leather and furs, shod in high laced leather sandals, appearing to be conversing but all I heard were clicks, pops, and whistles, accompanied by highly demonstrative wide arm movements. 

At my approach all talk ceased, as if somebody had hit a mute button.   None glanced at me directly, but I had the distinct impression I was being observed; an object of silent contemplation.

At the far end of the high ceilinged hallway, one of a row of ten oversized black gun metal lift doors opened.   A group of very tall impossibly thin beings, in long black hooded robes, entered the hall through the portal.   Their faces were veiled against casual inspection.  Their guttural speech was alien to me, a language I had never heard before and doubt I shall ever hear again.   Their faces may have been covered but their eyes were florescent violet with flashes of lavender, blues and greens.   Wisps of red yellow and orange Medusan hair peeked out, from beneath their hoods with sensuous serpentine undulations.  I averted my gaze at the thought...  All talk ceased as if someone had called a telepathic command.

  Though I saw nothing untoward in their demeanour, it changed subtly.   I had the strangest precognition of hostility.  Of not being welcome.  As if I’d entered a Freemasons meeting uninvited.  I felt the hackles rise on the back of my neck, I sensed fear and panic welling up inside me, coupled with an irresistible urge to be gone.  I was fighting to stay calm when the aroma assailed my olfactory senses, a foetid scent accompanied by a malevolent buzzing that seemed to emanate from inside my own head, its intensity increased by the moment.  I turned, and fled without looking back.

My car was in gear and moving before I realised the buzzing had stopped.   Only then did I ventured a furtive glance over my shoulder.   Everything seemed normal, nobody was following me, and I began to feel a little foolish about the whole incident.  All the neon signs were now switched off.  

I glanced at the clock in my car.  I really didn’t have time for exploration anyway, it was 18:40hrs, and I was late for my appointment!  All because of that stupid mind slip.

Readers can you EXPLAIN!?   (you have two days)

ends.

Explanation!?

Mind Slip  ~  Explained.

Saturday morning I sat down to watch the Arsenal v Chelsea match.

"Don't get too engrossed in that, you can watch the highlights at ten thirty tonight," my wife said.  "I want to see the fashion show in aid of  the ‘TERMINUS2010 charity’ being held at Lakeside this afternoon." She switched channels...

We watched eight minutes of adverts, then an announcer appeared:

"We regret to announce The Terminus2010 Fashion extravaganza scheduled for this afternoon has been postponed because of  an electrical malfunction yesterday evening.   Sound equipment overloaded shorting out the lighting system, and caused damage to vital control units.  Replacement units are on their way from Paris, and will arrive later today.   The show has been rescheduled for ten thirty tonight, in place of the football highlights..."

"Well," I said, switching the channel, "2 : 0?   We've scored two and I missed it because of  a bloody postponed fashion show, and I won't even get to see the highlights.   I could have gone down to the pub and watched it on the big screen..."  I looked closer at the time clock on the TV, seventy five minutes played, I looked at my watch, 3:15hrs.   "Did they start early?"

June looked at my watch, "You daft bugger, the clocks went forward an hour last Sunday (BST) daylight saving!   It's 4:15hrs now."

"Just a minute," I said.   "the clock in the car is showing the correct time, I listened to the 9 o'clock news on my way home last night."

"I updated the car clock on Sunday when I went shopping." Junes smile was a bit too wide for my liking.

 'So, I ran away from a fashion show rehersal...' I thought.

48 a very Good Year.

48 a very Good Year.

  I have fond early memories of 1948, and my childhood, just after the war.    The production of munitions stopped and the production of cars resumed at Dagenham.  So after demobilisation, Dad got a job in the River Plant at Briggs Bodies, soon to become a subsidiary of the Fords Motor Company.

 Rationing was still in force and shortages were the norm.  There were four hundred houses in Western Avenue, where we lived, but only two cars.   One belonging to Doctor Smithers, the other to Bill Roach a neighbour.   Bill had been in the RAF, as aircrew, and lost both legs when his plane was shot down.   He drove a Ford Prefect that had been converted to operate with hand controls.   At that time the streets were still safe for children to play in, and that was where I first discovered I had a sense of humour.  In 1948 I was an ancient three and a half year old.

.-...-.

 It looked like a tea cosy but it was a hat.   Grass green inside, orange, red, green and blue outside, with a large blue pom-pom on the top.   Mum religiously planted it on my head whenever I went out to play.   But, as soon as she went in, I removed it and stuffed it up the drain pipe.   When I returned I would retrieve it and nobody was any the wiser.   One blustery day I returned but forgot to retrieve the hat.  When mum asked where it was I said the wind had blown it away. So she bought me a brown French Beret (see photo).

 That winter we had a series of heavy rainstorms and the gutters overflowed.   Dad decided to clean them out, but first, he checked the downpipes, where he discovered the remains of my hat.   He solemnly announced, to mum and me, that a small furry creature had got trapped in the pipe and died.   He made us turn our backs whilst he extricated it and buried it with full ceremony. 

“Heh heh heh!

.-...-.

 In the spring of 48, Dad told me off for calling our next-door neighbour Arry!

“You mustn’t call him Harry, that’s disrespectful.   Call him Mr Thomas!” he said.

Next morning, I was in the garden when out came Mr Thomas to do some gardening.

“Hello Lenny,” he said with a smile.

“Ello Arry.   Mustn’t call you Arry, aye Arry.   Mr Thomas aye Arry?”

Dad looked as if he would suffocate attempting to stifle his laughter.   Harry had no such inhibitions. 

Here I am, good job they didn't know what plots were hatching behind that cherubic face.

Balance

With a delicate push he launched the model glider into a gentle breeze, aiming it towards the far corner of the field.   He watched as it looped then stopped in mid-air.   Its nose dropped and it began to fall.  Then as it picked up speed it started to soar once more.   It looped three times before landing undamaged in the tall grass.

“It’s stalling; we need to add more weight to the nose,” said Papa.

Moments later James tried again.   This time the glider nose-dived into the ground crashing harmlessly into the long grass stalks. 
 

“Always do your test flights over long grass, it cushions the landing,” said Papa.

James smiled and ran twenty yards to gather up his glider, a sixth birthday gift from Papa.  He returned proudly clasping it to his chest.

“If you hold it too tightly you will crush it,” Papa warned.

He adjusted his hold on the balsa, doped tissue, and string construction.

“Maybe we added too much weight at the nose.  Possibly the angle of incidence between the wings and fuselage needs adjusting, then there’s a third alternative, we could add a little more weight at the tail to put it in balance.   Should we try that first?” Papa asked.

James smiled and nodded.

Moments later his heart soared as he watched it glide fifty yards, over and beyond the boundary fence and continue on straight and true into the next field. When he turned Papa was kneeling, at his level, and beckoning him. He threw his arms about Papa’s neck and squeezed.

“When I was your age, your Grandpa gave me this medallion.”

 James looked at the disc his father was holding.  It had a cross on one side and a man with a stave, carrying a child on the other.

“It’s St Christopher he is the patron saint of traveller’s.”    He placed it around James’s neck, “It will keep you safe,” he said.

.-…-.

Papa had been a commercial pilot.  Ten years later James was following in his footsteps...
“Wake up Captain, there’s a storm front heading our way.”

    James fingered his St Christopher, remembering that six months after giving it to him Papa had died in a plane crash, and a spark had been extinguished and had never been rekindled.   James often wondered, If he'd refused the medallion, would Papa still be alive?

His co-pilot shook him gently. "Captain?"   
James opened his eyes, “I'm with you Simon,” he gratefully accepted a wake-up mug of tea.
  

“Drink it fast, I've climbed to twenty nine thousand feet but we can’t get above it, and it’s too wide to go around.   So, were going to have to fly through it, unless you’d prefer to head back?”

 James tapped a gauge.  “Not enough fuel for that, guess we go on.”  He put down the empty mug and took over the controls.   “Tell the passengers to fasten their seat belts; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

.-…-.

He peered through the heavy rain clouds as the turbulence increased.  Half an hour later they were in the throe’s of a full blown storm.   Forked lightning, torrential rain, and winds over seventy miles an hour buffeted the small 8 seater twin turbo jet.  It was never built to withstand such punishment.  Multiple lightning strikes took out the port engine and twenty minutes later the starboard engine caught fire and had to be feathered.  The only light now was from the instrument panel and battery powered lights 

His St Christopher hung in front of his face and he realised despite the darkness that they were going down.   They were loosing height rapidly; they were already below ten thousand feet.
  

“We’re going to die Captain,” Simon whispered in a calm matter of fact voice.

“Maybe,” said James.  “Get the passengers to the rear; this crate is a tad nose heavy.   Do it Simon!”   The urgency in his voice galvanized his co-pilot into action.   The plane was still falling but its dive levelled off with the redistribution of weight.   At four thousand feet they dipped beneath the storm.

“Is there anything else I can do,” Simon asked.

“Yes, get to the rear and make sure they are as far back as they can go.”

  The plane, was now a glider.  He levelled off at two thousand feet and set the craft into a shallow glide.   He looked down, there was water below, but their speed was still 200mph.   There was land on the starboard.   He thought quickly, hitting water at over 100 mph would be like hitting a brick wall; they had to go inland find a landing strip or a road.   He edged the craft towards land, trying to recall the area.   Radio communication had been their first casualty, no help there, he thought.

Just five minutes later they were down to five hundred feet but there was land below.   He activated the landing gear.  Nothing happened, all the electrics were out.

“Simon?  He yelled.   “Do you recall which crops were growing along this strip of coast on our trip down?”

“Mostly maize Captain, It’s early September, so it will be near to harvesting,” Simon yelled from the rear of the craft. 
 

 He waggled gently to one side and saw the rolling maize fields below.

“Thank you for showing me the way Papa,” he whispered.   “We’re going down, role into a ball and cover your heads.”

Moments later, he heard scraping on the undercarriage and they slid for ever before coming to rest.   I'm alive, he thought, “We made it!   Is anybody hurt?”

"A few bruises, and a suspected broken arm, but nothing serious, thank God,” said the co-pilot.

 

Suddenly he knew, it wasn't a medallion that had saved their lives, it was knowledge.  He knew then without a doubt, that Papa would be here now if his crash had been avoidable.  James had not been responsible for his death.  He felt all the guilt and uncertainty in his heart lifting, blown away by the storm.  For the first time in twenty years he felt his conscience was clear and his life was in balance.

The Clinic

In an exclusive private clinic, owned by a multi national pharmaceutical corporation, is a laboratory run by a genetic chemist Dr Cole Hatcher; a chemical wizard producing man made substances for therapeutic uses.   They are not banned or illegal substances, how could they be?   Only their creator and his exclusive clientele know of their existence.   Each client knows that his or her medication has been formulated exclusively with their metabolism and physical attributes in mind.   True designer drugs, each an exclusive one-off creation.   Cole smiled, his empire was built on his ability to manipulate chemistry at the genetic level.   Yet, he marvelled at the similarity of people at basic levels.   Their dreams hopes, desires and fears are unwaveringly constant.   With minor variations we all crave the same things.   Regardless of sex, race, religion, age, and wealth, all men harbour similar hopes, fears and desires; desires that Cole Hatcher was willing and able to meet on demand.

He did so by making each client believe their unique experience was created exclusively for them alone.   To ensure his secrets would not be copied and mass produced he maintained one inviolable rule.   All medication was prepared by and dispensed by him and No drugs or potions ever left the clinic.

David Janes, a distinguished greying man in his forties, arrived from the station in the house limousine.   He walked into the foyé, acknowledging a smile, from the young receptionist, with a curt nod and nervous twitch of his left cheek.

“Good morning Mr Janes, Cole will be with you in a few minutes.   Would you please freshen up and change into the robe provided in courtesy room No.4,” she indicated the direction he should take.

He slipped from the shower into the house green and white towelling robe.   His mind cast back one week to his initial meeting with Cole.

.-...-.

  He’d arrived with an open mind, but totally unprepared for the tall twig like young man sporting a goatie in an obvious attempt to add age and dignity to his appearance.   But, when Cole spoke, David realised his first impression had been  flawed.

“David I have total confidence in my ability to fulfil your requirements no matter how bizarre.  You can be completely open and say exactly what comes to mind, it will not cause offence, and nothing said in this office will go beyond these walls.   You have my word on it,” said Cole.

“And why should I trust you?   We have only just met and you haven’t even introduced yourself.”

“My dear Mr Janes…”

“Call me David.”

“I’m sorry David, let me start again.”

“I’m doctor Cole Thatcher,” he offered his hand with a smile.   They sat and talked then arranged a session for the following week.   Within half an hour he was being driven back to the station. 

.-...-.

“We meet again Cole,” he still had to smile at the image the beanstalk doctor presented.

“I know I’m not George Clooney,” said Cole with a disarming boyish grin.  “As I explained at our first meeting, you have a complete money back guarantee.   If the experience falls short of your expectations, you walk away and not a single copper coin of the realm will change hands,” he had a slick carnival sideshow patter.

“For twenty seven years, I was very happily married to Margaret, the love of my life.   She died, three and a half years ago,” he glanced away to hide the misting of his eyes, “I miss her more with each passing day.   You recall, my dream was to be with her again for a short time.  But, short of death I can’t see how that could be accomplished.”

“Swallow the pill with liquid, don’t chew it, the taste is not particularly pleasant,” Cole warned.

“David swallowed it with orange juice.   He was about to make an inconsequential remark, but when he looked, he was alone.   He’d been instructed to go through the blue door.   He found himself walking down a narrow dimly lit corridor.   He felt younger, healthier, and more vigorous that he had in an age.   He looked down at his normally painful knuckles, genetic arthritis, flexing them he was conscious of the absence of pain and lack of wrinkles.   In fact, he had no pain anywhere, even his teeth felt strong.   He’d lost his front teeth at the age of twelve in an accident playing rugger at school.   Gauging his height, he realized he was full grown, possibly in his late twenties, the age he’d been when he and Margaret had first met, for the first time since her death, her name failed to invoke the emotional pain.   Because she isn’t dead, he thought.   Recalling a recent promise from a skinny young man named Cole.   This was a dream, he realised.   He’d been instructed to enter room No.4.    There were hundreds of identical doors ahead and behind him.   The corridor stretched as far as he could see in either direction.   H looked at the nearest door, No.4.   He turned the handle and silently entered.

It was a candle lit room.   The walls were pale and bare, a mattress lay on the floor, covered by a quilted down Douvette.   He saw the familiar shape of a young woman beneath the covers.   Could it be?

He edged closer, went down on his knees, retrieving a lighted candle stub.   Holding the light above, he lifted a corner of the quilt, revealing a tanned dark haired young female form.   As he did so, she rose up on one elbow and smiled at him.   His breath caught in his throat, and he knew if it were not a dream he would have suffered a heart attack.  His face broke into a smile and his eyes filled with tears.   They embraced, “Dear sweet Margaret, love of my life.”

They didn’t sleep, they made love repeatedly.   It’s so great to be young again.   They talked and made plans for the future.   As time passed the dream took on the guise of reality, and the last three years seemed just a cruel dream; he would never sleep again.   Margaret produced a French stick cheese and red wine.   They laughed and joked, ate and drank, then made love again.   Passion spent, they lay coddled in each others arms watching the false dawn through a small round window, listening to the dawn chorus.   When finally the sky lightened they fell asleep in each others arms.

David awoke, conscious of familiar, aches and pains.   But, he was filled with life, ambition, and sheer elation.   He realized it had been a dream but he didn’t care.

.-…-.

Alice Prendergast, Ali to her friends, a smart, mature, woman in her forties had been a widow for four years.   She was wealthy and influential, a woman with physical needs and the determination to see them met, with as little disruption to her business and social life as possible.   Charlie, her well endowed and devoted husband had kept her satisfied for twenty two years, until his sudden death.   After a period of mourning, she found no shortage of suitors, but they all fell far short of Charlie.   Finally she gave up on them.   A kindly well meaning friend gave her the number of an exclusive male escort agency.   To her surprise she found her frustration was alleviated overnight, and her physical well being improved immeasurably.   She looked around and found other agencies, less reputable but able to cater to her needs, day or night.   She was seeing more men, more frequently than anybody realized.   Her search for Charlie 2 was becoming an obsession.

An escort from a less reputable agency breached the confidentiality clause by writing about her sexploits.   He threatened to talk to the tabloid newspapers, he even had pictures.   So she bought his silence as any woman in her social position would.   Overnight, she stopped using agencies, and for several months led the life of a nun.   Then, of all people, her chiropodist told her about 'the clinic'.

.-…-.

On her first visit she was sceptical, but hopeful, what had she to lose but time, a commodity she had in abundance.   She took her pill and enjoyed the experience, but after her third visit she felt there was something lacking.   She explained to Cole at their debriefing session.  

“The experience was perfect, maybe too perfect.   Charlie—in my dream—was better than the original; he was too pre-emptive.”   After a long pause she said, “I no longer wish to continue with these sessions,” to her surprise Cole laughed.

“You know, it’s a plateau, it takes a dozen visits for some clients to reach that conclusion, others never do.   Three sessions is a new record.”

“So what can you do when somebody rejects the program?” she asked.

“Simple,” he said with a widening grin, “change the game and modify the rules.”

“My problem you understand is that I loved Charlie warts and all.   The dream was too perfect, it lacked his humanity.”

“Ali, don’t concerned yourself,” he said, “It’s my job to iron out such trifling details.   Just come back next week, in your usual slot, and you will enjoy an enhanced session, a completely new experience.”

.-...-.

A week later, Cole was briefing a young man from an escort agency.

 “Of course you will appear to be her Charlie, your movements and actions will be his.   If you play your part well she will have the experience of a lifetime.   One thing could spoil the illusion, we do not have a print of his voice, so on no account should you speak.”

.-…-.

David was to have his first enhanced session at the very same time.

A young woman had been briefed on him and was already waiting in the adjoining room No.5.   David walked down the corridor followed by a young man possibly on a similar mission.   As David entered his room, the young man entered the room opposite.  

 The woman was not young.   She took his hand and led him to a bed of scatter cushions.   They disrobed in the subdued light, admiring each other.   He knew she was not Margaret.    But, in the deep shadows he would never know, this would be his first time with another woman, since they were married.   They kissed tentatively at first, nervously, like two shy young virgins on a first date.   They kissed, caressed, and tentatively made love.   As they became more familiar their movements became surer and their lovemaking more intense.   They rapidly improved and learned from each other, neither spoke, they communicated in other ways.   Their passion waxed and waned and waxed again until dawns light sidled throw the small window.   They slept exhausted but satisfied, in each others arms.   In the other room, a young couple had been similarly engaged, each totally absorbed in the other.   Mid morning they retired to their respective rooms to freshen up and return to the outside world.   David was very taken with the woman, he supposed her services would be added to his bill, but he had a real desire to continue their association.   Even if it was a relationship based on cash.   Unlike previous visits he was completely aware of everything they had done, because he had deftly palmed the pill to enable him to have a real experience instead of just a memory.

Having decided that she would enjoy the company of a man who was not a Charlie substitute, she did not take her pill.   She had been aware that the evening could easily have ended in failure.   It was actually an unqualified success, because she knew she’d found a man with whom she could spend the rest of her life.   But, there would be a cost.   Whatever it was she would pay it.

.-…-.

Ali was driven to the station, in the house Limo, in plenty of time to catch the 12:10 train to Waterloo.   Cole had made sure they were unlikely to meet by accident, still believing they had both taken their medication like good little patients.   David was booked for the 13:10 train.

.-...-.

“You two!   How could you possible have gone into the wrong rooms?”

“You told me No.4,” the young woman protested.

“You told me No.5, but the other guy went into that room and I don’t do same sex, so I assumed you gave me the wrong number.   If it’s any consolation, we have decided not to accept payment for the sessions, we are getting married, if it hadn’t been for this coincidence we might never have met, thank you doctor.”

“Does that mean you will no longer be available?   Either of you?”

“Fraid not, we are both seeking a new profession.”

Cole waved them off as they left the staff car park.

.-...-.

“Sir, we I found this in Mr Janes’s room.”

One glance told him it was the tablet David should have taken before entering room No.5.   It didn’t matter, he had left an hour after Ali, so it was unlikely that it would  pose a problem.

.-…-.

Ali made enquiries at the station.   She described David to the station staff but none had seen him that day.   David arrived an hour later, the station was practically deserted, as always.   His heart sank, he’d obviously missed her, or she hadn’t left the clinic.  

He approached the ticket office attendant.

“Have you seen a young woman about so tall, dark hair, delicate features…”

“I!” he said, “try ‘the ladies waiting room’, she’s been here about an hour.”

He gazed through the window.   She sat with head in hands.   She probably wont remember me having been under the influencing of a mind altering drug, when they were last together.   Maybe she would be revolted by a man who needed a substitute for a wife, four years after her death.   He was stricken with doubt now, maybe it would be better if he stayed out of her life.  

God she’s so beautiful, he thought.

At that moment, she looked up, and her head turned in his direction.   Her eyes lit up with recognition, anticipation and something else.   Love!   All at once she was in his arms, her perfume filling his being, taking over his life.   In that instant they were both irrevocably changed.

As they kissed they knew, that neither would be returning to 'the clinic'.

…/Ends