One Year At A Time - Year 1

 

PAYNE and SUFFERING

Now

My name is Michael Payne. It’s taken a while, but I’ve finally worked out I’m lying in a hospital bed. This is a first. Not experienced anything remotely similar before. Already decided I don’t want to do so again. There’s a drip; there are machines all around me. I can see wires and monitors. The wires are attached to pads on my otherwise bare chest. The monitors are showing numbers and graphs. They keep changing and I don’t know why. I can hear regular bleeping noises. They are driving me mad! 

Then - Early Years

‘My name is Michael Payne.’

I’m in the playground. I’m eleven and it’s my first day at the big school. A girl called Penny has asked me who I am.

‘Like the film star?’ she enquires.

‘Nearly.’

‘Can’t stand him.’

Penny slopes off with a look combining satisfaction and annoyance on her face.

Now

How long have I been in this room? The last thing I remember is feeling extremely unwell in my flat. My cooking isn’t great, but I’m sure it’s not that bad. Did I collapse? How did I get here? To the hospital I mean, not to this stage of my unremarkable life. Although I don’t have an answer to that, come to think about it.

There’s no-one around to ask. Surely there’d be loads of people scurrying around if it was serious? I’m no expert, but it looks like I’m in a private room. How much is this costing? I certainly can’t afford it. Something else to worry about. Add it to a lengthening list. My stress level is rising. Are the machine readouts reflecting this? The bleeping seems more intense all of a sudden.

Then – Employment Opportunity

‘My name is Michael Payne.’

I’m in an office, attending an interview to join the Fire Service. I don’t want to become a fireman, but my father has pulled some strings using his connections and here I am.

I wish I could stand up to my father, but I can’t. He’s made a success of his life. At least that’s what he tells me every time he expresses disappointment with my apparent lack of ambition. It’s only later I discover the truth about him.

It’s obvious to me the interviewer isn’t interested in expanding the headcount of the Fire Service to my benefit. He’s not even looked at the CV I carefully prepared yesterday evening with my mother hovering over me checking for spelling mistakes. He’s not even taking notes.

In the end, I’m thanked for my interest. There are no current vacancies, but when this changes someone will be in touch. I don’t intend holding my breath.

Now

The curtains are closed. It’s not dark in here, but it’s not light either. I can move my head. I notice my arms are on top of the covers. Is that a cannula in the back of my left hand?. Strangely pleased I can remember what it’s called. It looks big though and the drip is attached to it. Why can’t I feel it? Surely it must hurt a little bit?

I take stock. I’m not uncomfortable. Far from it, in fact. I’m not too hot or too cold. Very pleasant actually. Apart from the cannula, there’s no evidence I can see indicating medical intervention, for which I’m grateful. Which begs a question: what is actually wrong with me?

Then – My Father

‘My name is Michael Payne.’

The receptionist at Oddfellow Gaunt and Partners thanks me and dials a number. A harassed-looking man in a shiny grey suit appears and escorts me to his office. He points at a scuffed chair, inviting me to sit in it. I do so. He sits opposite me and opens a file.

‘Thank you for coming in at such short notice,’ he tells me. ‘My name is Harold Stevenson. Your employer must be extremely understanding to give you time off so quickly.’

I have neither the heart nor the inclination to correct his assumption. Let’s just say that after a full and frank exchange of views, my employment as a clerk at Overseas Transport Solutions has recently ended. The previous day, as a matter of fact, after the full ramifications of mistakes I made in the completion of certain critical export documents became catastrophically apparent.

‘I understand there’s an issue involving my father’s Will,’ I say, trying to appear both keen and professional. ‘How can I help, Mr Stevenson?’

He appraises me. ‘I have to say that in all my years as a solicitor I find myself in a unique situation,’ he begins. ‘As a personal friend of your father, I helped him draft his last Will and Testament. After the death of your mother five years ago, you became the only beneficiary. Following his unexpected death, I put the wheels in motion as it were to expedite a speedy conclusion.’

My father died in a hit and run accident. The driver has still not been traced. Mr Stevenson’s phrasing could have been a little more sensitive in my opinion, but I say nothing.

‘Yesterday, I received notification that the Will is being challenged,’ Mr Stevenson continues, searching his desk for something. He finds what he’s looking for and waves a piece of paper in the air. ‘A lady named Phyllis Waters is claiming a share of the estate.’

‘Who is Phyllis Waters?’

‘You don’t know her?’

‘No. Never heard the name before.’

‘Ms Waters alleges she was your husband’s lover whilst your mother was alive, and his companion afterwards. Additionally, she says your father promised her a share of his estate if he passed before she did.’

I am stunned. ‘Can she prove it? Is there any documentary evidence substantiating this?’

‘She has produced a letter purporting to have been written by your father, dated eleven months ago, stating his intentions. It is signed but not witnessed.’

‘Is her claim legitimate in your view?’

‘Possibly, but a substantial amount of work will be necessary in establishing the full facts here. This will be expensive I’m afraid, and there’s no guarantee the end result will prove satisfactory to you.’

‘You say you were a personal friend of my father. Were you aware of this woman’s existence?’

‘Goodness gracious, yes. Of course I was.’

Now

A woman wearing a white coat enters the room. She ignores me and writes something on a clipboard she’s holding. Then she notices I’m awake and moves towards me.

‘Can you speak?’

What a stupid question! I start to reply, before realising that, actually, I can’t. In my head I hear my voice saying yes but no sound emerges from my mouth. The woman makes a note. Is she a nurse? What about the Hippocratic oath, I think desperately, or does that only apply to doctors?

Then – Divorce

‘Can you confirm your name please?’

‘My name is Michael Payne.’

‘Thank you for the confirmation. Sorry about the need for formality. Please make yourself comfortable, Michael.’

I’m sitting in the office of another local solicitor. At this rate I’ll have visited all of them before the end of the year. This one is called Kilpatrick Legal. It’s frighteningly modern. All shiny chrome and the latest technology. I think that’s a computer on her desk. I’ve seen them on TV but never in real life. Are they the future?

My solicitor’s name is Penelope Trew. She’s extremely well dressed, with an engaging smile. She offers me a coffee from a delightfully smelling and gently gurgling machine nearby. I decline. I’ve more than enough caffeine in my system already. I blame this on all the worries I’m carrying on my shoulders at the moment. By a long process of elimination, I’ve discovered hot drinks help me calm down. But they also make me wake up in the middle of the night to visit the bathroom.

I don’t really want to be here, but I have no choice if I want to get on with my life. The divorce from Cheryl, my wife of three years, is about to be finalised after months of wrangling.

My mind wanders. There’s no ring visible on my solicitor’s wedding finger. Is she single, or divorced herself? Or married but choosing not to wear a ring? Or separated, having removed the ring in a fit of pique? Why do I want to know?

‘Michael?’

‘Sorry, Penelope, I was miles away.’

‘Indeed you were. To business. I think a recap of events would prove useful here. I apologise in advance if I open old wounds in doing this.’

‘Apology accepted. Let’s get it over with.’

I steel myself for the factual explanation imminent that represents the catalogue of disasters and painful, unfortunate circumstances befalling me recently.

‘You met Cheryl Parkinson five years ago, getting engaged to her a year later. You lived together in a small, rented apartment whilst saving up to buy your own property and get married.’

‘Correct.’

‘There’s no need to confirm anything, Michael. You’ve already seen the text in the divorce papers and agreed the wording.’

‘Sorry. Automatic reaction.’

‘To continue, Michael, your father died in tragic circumstances some three and a half years ago. You were the only beneficiary of his Last Will and Testament. In consequence, when you discovered the likely value of impending inheritance you suggested to Cheryl it would allow you to speed up the purchase your first home together. Cheryl was naturally delighted.’

The solicitor consults her notes. ‘The property purchased was 27 Downham Avenue, Moreham. It was finalised extremely quickly, in joint names. Your savings were sufficient to obtain a mortgage, but repayments were substantial. However, you were able to manage with money temporarily loaned from Cheryl’s family until the inheritance came through.’

Yes, I remember. Everything started so promisingly.

‘Three things then happen in surprisingly swift succession,’ the solicitor goes on. ‘Your father’s Will is disputed, you lose your job and a once in a lifetime weather event causes severe flood damage to your new property. You’ve only been living there for a month.’

‘It’s now twice in a lifetime,’ I tell her, for reasons I cannot logically explain just then.

‘Pardon, Michael?’

‘The property flooded again a fortnight ago.’

‘I didn’t know. Not that it matters anyway I suppose, now you no longer reside there.’

‘Not after the forced sale. I saw something about it in the local paper.’

‘Very sad. So, moving on, the dispute delays completion of Probate and then reduces by 50% the amount you eventually inherit. Retrospectively, this makes the property purchase less financially affordable. Losing your job severely affects your ability to contribute to its upkeep. The buildings insurer accepts your flooding claim in full, subject to a large policy excess, but for reasons best known only to you and Cheryl, there is no contents cover in place so personal belongings worth approximately £8000 are uninsured and therefore lost.’

Miss, Mrs or possibly Ms Trew stares at me. ‘It’s the stuff of nightmares,’ she tells me, slowly shaking her head.

Don’t I know it. Cheryl never forgave me for what happened to her wedding dress. In my defence, I argued in favour of contents insurance but was overruled. Cheryl disputes this, but I have a very good memory.

‘Your relationship with Cheryl begins to break down, despite the recent marriage. She moves back in with her parents as the house is uninhabitable for much longer than expected. She never comes back.’

With hindsight, it was clear the Parkinson family never really liked me. ‘The wedding cost thousands, by the way,’ I point out. ‘Something else the inheritance was supposed to cover.’

‘And then the icing on the cake, so to speak. Cheryl’s father demands repayment of the money he’s provided to keep you afloat after the property purchase. You can’t do so. He assaults you when you tell him. You need treatment in A & E for injuries sustained.’

‘Cheryl put him up to it. She told him I was having an affair. I wasn’t. She was though, but I only found this out later. On the plus side, the injuries were relatively minor.’

‘Why didn’t you press charges?’

‘Too scared.’

‘The house sells for a much lower amount than you purchased it for due to the previously unknown flooding problem. Cheryl will receive half of not very much after the building society reclaims what they are owed. She will also be eligible for half of your reduced inheritance. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that.’

‘Then why am I here?’

‘You need to sign paperwork. Look on the bright side. Things can’t get any worse after this.’

I hope not. I sign and then hold out my hand for my solicitor to shake.

She doesn’t. Instead, she says ‘you don’t remember me, do you?’

‘Should I?’

‘We last met on our first day at the big school. I thought then you were a bit strange. It would seem my view was accurate. Your life is a mess.’

She walks out of her office with a look combining satisfaction and annoyance on her face. It’s something I’m familiar with.

Now

The woman in the white coat doesn’t seem overly concerned about my incapacity. She lifts each of my arms in turn. I try to stop her but can’t. No feelings being experienced. My arms flop back on to the bedsheet after she releases them. I try to move my legs, but nothing happens. No feelings there either. I am appalled but trapped, unable to articulate my abject horror at this development. I can’t even scream, but it doesn’t stop me trying. What have I got myself into now?

Then she begins to play with the drip. I don’t remember anything after that.

Then – An Unexpected Development

‘Can you state your name for the purposes of the tape?’

‘My name is Michael Payne. I am the only child of the late Kevin Payne.’

‘Too much information, Michael. Please just answer the question. I’ll get to your father in due course.’

‘Sorry. Automatic reaction.’

I’m in an interview room at the police station. I was contacted at the call centre where I work yesterday and asked if it would be possible for me to attend ASAP in connection with new information that’s come to light about my father’s death. To say I was surprised about this is an understatement. He died more than thirty-five years ago.

My interviewer continues. ‘I am Detective Constable Peter Comer. Certain allegations and admissions have recently been made and received relating to one Kevin Reginald Payne, an individual who died following a hit and run accident in 1988. No-one was ever convicted of the crime and our file was closed on insufficient evidence grounds many years ago. Now Michael, Kevin Reginald Payne was your father?’

‘Yes,’ I say, suddenly wondering what information and why now?

‘Do you know an Alison Devereux?’

‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’

‘Mrs Devereux was admitted to a local hospice two days ago. She has terminal womb cancer and her health has suddenly and massively deteriorated.’

‘That’s awful. How horrible for her.’

‘Indeed. Her impending death would appear to have persuaded her to come clean about the circumstances surrounding your father’s unfortunate demise.’

‘In what way?’

‘She contacted the police to make a confession. According to her statement, she drove the car that hit and killed him.’

‘What? Did she know him, or was it an accident? Why didn’t she come forward at the time?’ My head is spinning.

‘This is where the story takes an ugly turn,’ DC Comer advises. ‘It appears Alison Devereux is the daughter of one Phyllis Waters. At the time of the accident, your father and Mrs Waters were lovers, and had been for some time. Alison, at that time just eighteen years old and living at home with her mother, didn’t approve and told your father what she thought of him. He allegedly punched her in the face, breaking a tooth and causing severe bruising.’

‘My father was not a violent man. Overbearing and insufferable yes, but not someone to cause injury, especially to a woman.’

‘Your father isn’t here to defend himself. I only have Alison’s word on the subject and, given her current situation, why should she lie?’

That’s a question I can’t answer. ‘Following my father’s death, Phyllis Waters claimed a share of my father’s estate,’ I say instead. ‘If her confession is true, then the actions of Mrs Devereux contributed in no small part to her mother benefitting financially from it. In many ways, it proved to be the catalyst for many of the problems I’ve subsequently experienced in my life. That can’t be fair.’

DC Comer has the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Alison addressed this issue directly during her confession. Her mother took your father’s side after the alleged assault, indicating her daughter was obviously delusional in trying to blame him for her facial injuries. They argued and Alison stormed out of the house, vowing never again to set foot there.’

‘She was driving to stay with a friend some nights later when she saw your father walking unsteadily along the pavement on his way to see her mother. No other cars were about. To scare him, she deliberately aimed her vehicle at him, driving slowly, intending to swerve at the last moment. When she saw him laughing as he recognised who it was, something inside her snapped and she increased her speed, hitting him. It was allegedly only a glancing blow, but the impact knocked him over. His head hit a kerb, sustaining severe injuries and dying almost instantly.’

‘Unbelievable,’ I manage to say.

‘Alison drove away. She has lived with her guilt ever since, but she’s said nothing about it to anyone until now. Her mother certainly didn’t know. When news of the accident broke, Alison played the part of the sympathetic daughter and returned home. However, when her mother later told her what she intended to do about your father’s estate, there was another row. They never saw or spoke to each other again. Alison didn’t even attend her mother’s funeral.’

The interview room door opens before I can respond. A colleague of the DC comes in, hands him a note and then leaves. The DC reads the note before turning to me. ‘I’m afraid Alison Devereux has passed away.’

Now

I wake up. The room’s curtains remain drawn. I don’t know if it’s day or night. Machines continue to bleep but I’m getting used to the noise now. The monitor displays have settled down. How long has it been since the white-coated woman sent me to sleep? I have no idea.

I can move my head. I can’t speak but I can see and hear. That’s it though. I can’t feel anything. I’m not hungry. Irrationally, I speculate about going to the bathroom. How is this aspect being addressed? Not a clue. Strangely though, despite everything I’m no longer worried.

A phrase pops into my head. Locked-in syndrome. Is that what this is? No, this can’t be the case. There would have been symptoms beforehand, wouldn’t there? Until I felt unwell recently, my health has been excellent. The tablets I’ve been taking as part of that trial I’ve joined have made me feel better than ever before. Loads of energy. Positive attitude. Glass half full all the time. Up and at them!

The door opens. The white-coated woman is back. She’s got someone with her.

Then – Slippery Slope and Beyond

‘My name is Michael. It’s been two years, four months and seventeen days since I last had an alcoholic drink.’

The other attendees at the meeting stay quiet at my revelation. This, I have discovered during my time with the group, is standard procedure. Tough crowd.

‘Drinking has blighted my life. Without wishing to sound like a victim, I’ve been terribly unlucky. God knows I’ve tried to make a success of everything, but at the last moment something always happens to ruin my plans. Then I drink, but the problems continue.’

I explain about my father’s tragic death and the complicated story behind it, my marriage and subsequent traumatic divorce, the contested Will, the succession of dead-end, poorly paid jobs I’ve had over the years, my inability to buy a home of my own or form any lasting relationships, the continuous use of alcohol as a crutch. Whilst doing so, it occurs to me this is exactly the kind of thing I used to say to anyone who would listen whilst I was drinking.

‘My life was careering into the gutter. One evening, I staggered back to my rented flat to discover a letter from my landlord telling me he intended to sell the place. I had three months to find somewhere else to live. It was the last straw. I decided there and then to end it all, notwithstanding the fact I was completely off my face at the time. The trouble was I didn’t know how to do it.’

Ah, the memories! Walking around the town centre at 3am, drunkenly trying to work out the best method to kill myself. No traffic, so throwing myself under the wheels of a vehicle wasn’t an option. No tall buildings to jump off, even if I was able to get onto a roof. No harbour or shoreline to allow me access to the water needed to drown myself.

I remember I fell asleep on a park bench. The dawn chorus woke me up. Then a pigeon shat on my head. For some inexplicable reason, I took this to be a good omen. I walked back to my flat with a new resolve.

My reasoning was as sound as that of any drunk. There were bound to be enough tablets in my drawer to overdose on, given the frequent visits to my long-suffering GP and his habit of issuing pain relief prescriptions just to get rid of me. If there weren’t, I’d hang myself. But, before making a decision, I’d be able to clean the pigeon guano from my head.

‘I decided to overdose after failing to find any material suitable to use as a ligature or anywhere high enough to wrap material around to facilitate the process. Investigation of my medicine drawer revealed I had enough tablets to kill myself three times over at least. I locked my door, wrote a note to the children I never had and swallowed fifty paracetamols.’

It was strangely peaceful as I lay on my bed and waited to die. Nothing flashed before my eyes. I had no regrets. My liver was already used to the constant attacks heavy drinking had inflicted upon it. Paracetamols would be a walk in the park. I’d be asleep when it happened.

Unfortunately, my body had other ideas. Eleven pints of Guinness on an empty stomach had started a chemical reaction the arrival of the paracetamols simply accelerated. I threw up. Then I realised I needed the bathroom, but because I was groggy after taking the tablets I was unable to get there in time. Clothing got covered in urine and faeces. Then I threw up again and lost consciousness.

‘The ambulance driver told me he’d never seen such a dreadful sight when he entered my flat and saw me, and he’d served in Afghanistan. My front door was hanging on one hinge, the police having forced it open after receiving a 999 call from my neighbour, who’d been woken up by me crashing around when I’d returned from the park. He’d assumed I was being burgled by a blind idiot.’

‘I was told being sick probably saved my life. I had a narrow escape and vowed there and then never to drink again. The hospital authorities referred me to various rehabilitation centres and programmes, which eventually led me here. I had more reasons than most to drink to excess but I’ve realised you have to accept the cards life deals you and get on with it. Failure to take the blame for your own mistakes is unacceptable.’

When I sit down, I receive a pat on the shoulder from another attendee, someone I’ve never noticed before. She whispers ‘well done’ as another person begins talking. We go for a coffee later. She explains my life story is the perfect background for some research she’s doing into alcohol-related mental health problems and potential resolution scenarios. I swallow my response, which is something along the lines of ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

Now

‘Blink once for yes or twice for no.’

The man accompanying the white-coated woman is talking to me. If I had been able to speak, I’d have suggested nodding or shaking my head, but that’s not possible. And what about OK?

‘Do you know where you are?’

I blink twice.

‘Well done. You’re in a room within a private facility the company operates in a remote part of the south-west of England.’

If I could have shrugged my shoulders then, I most certainly would have done. Irrationally, I wonder if there still are remote parts anywhere in the south of the country?

‘We’ve had our eyes on you for some time. Your friend Monica is quite the fan and her judgement is usually impeccable.’

I just look at him uncomprehendingly.

‘When you collapsed at home last week, our ambulance was waiting around the corner. Monica had provided the means for gaining access, so we were able to collect and transport you here quickly and without fuss. I’m told no-one saw anything.’

He hasn’t asked a question, so there’s no point in blinking. However, finding out Monica doesn’t really care for me is a big blow, although my relationship track record should have provided some clues. I start to cry at this knowledge.

‘That’s interesting,’ the man says, looking at me. ‘Crying has never been seen before. I must speak to the tech boys about it. I suppose you want to know why you’re here?’

I blink once.

‘Well, Michael, for the first time in your life you are a success.’

Then – Monica

‘My name is Michael Payne.’

Monica had fiddled with some settings. ‘A little bit louder this time, Michael.’

She had encouraged me to tell the story of my life so far. I was doing so by speaking into her smartphone. I’d been nervous, hence the initial quiet voice. She’d told me it would make accessing the information as part of her research much easier, meaning I wouldn’t need to be there all the time. I’d not been sure how happy I felt about this because I’d been very much enjoying her company.

After our coffee at the close of the AA meeting, we’d exchanged numbers before parting. I hadn’t really expected to hear from her again, so it was a pleasant surprise when she’d called to ask if I wanted to go to the cinema with her. Of course I’d said yes – my social life had become almost non-existent by then. Having decided I wanted to live was one thing. Actually being sociable, as opposed to simply going to work and attending AA meetings, was something else.

One thing had led to another. Now we see each other two or three times each week. Nothing tremendously exciting; walks, trips to the cinema, a drive out in Monica’s nice car. But never to the pub. Some things are non-negotiable. Thankfully, Monica doesn’t seem to mind though. 

Sometimes we stay in, either at my flat or her lovely little cottage on the outskirts of town. Conversation covers a wide range of topics, but Monica seems to have developed a particular fascination for my life story, over and above the research work. I get bombarded with questions about relatives (I have none), my health (good, but probably damaged by alcohol), even my finances (not great) and future hopes and fears (none).

I’m happy to give truthful answers because I trust Monica. I’m sure she likes me, although I’m no expert in these matters. We don’t kiss and we certainly don’t sleep together, not that it bothers me at all. If it bothers Monica she certainly hides it well. As for love, who knows? That’s a foreign country to me.

Six months ago, Monica had brought a leaflet round. I’d seen something similar on the noticeboard at the AA meeting place. I can’t honestly say it had interested me much. But Monica had been very excited.

‘I think this would be perfect for you,’ she’d said, showing rare emotion. ‘You tick all the boxes, and there are plenty of potential benefits.’

‘I don’t know. I agree about the opportunity to improve myself, especially as I’m getting older, but these people want to know far too much about me. I like to keep myself to myself, if you can understand what I mean. What exactly does wellness mean? And what do you know about the foundation behind it?’

Monica had said she could see my point of view but suggested I sleep on it. So I had. Then I’d forgotten about it. When, a fortnight later, she’d asked me if I’d come to a decision I had felt embarrassed about my oversight so I’d said yes, predominantly to stay in her good books.

‘That’s great! I’m happy to get everything organised for you. Leave it with me.’

So, Monica had signed me up to this foundation and downloaded the extremely detailed questionnaire I needed to complete to become a member. It had covered everything I’d done in my life so far.  We’d completed it one evening at her place, using her laptop. Monica had known 99% of the answers herself, something that had surprised me a little bit.

I’d been amazed when I’d found out my application had been accepted. Monica had told me she’d never had any doubts; I was an ideal candidate.

Since then, the foundation has been contacting me weekly, making various suggestions about methods I should consider as part of a wellness strategy. With Monica’s support, I’ve put some of their recommendations into action. And, do you know what? They seem to be working!

The foundation also sends me free supplements; tablets to take to strengthen my immune system and improve my clarity of thought. Monica is delighted with the new me. She even kissed me a few nights ago, completely unexpectedly.

I must admit to initial scepticism about all of this. But the results are beyond my wildest dreams. I sometimes lie in bed, wishing the foundation had existed when I was younger and more in need of the support they provide. I’m sure I wouldn’t have made some of the bad decisions I did make, and my responses to the various traumas I’ve faced would have been much more positive.

Monica and I are enjoying a rare indulgence, afternoon tea at a swanky five-star hotel in the countryside. It’s my treat to thank her for persuading me to join the foundation. I feel really, really good, but Monica appears troubled.

‘A penny for your thoughts?’ I ask, placing my hand on hers.

Monica lifts my hand away. ‘Sorry, Michael, I have some serious work-related problems.’

I don’t exactly know what Monica does for a living. I’ve never asked. Judging by the nice car and lovely cottage, whatever it is pays well. She was doing research work when we first met, so maybe she’s some kind of scientist?

‘Anything I can help you with?’

‘I’m afraid not, Michael, but thank you for the offer. There’s something I need to talk to you about. I may need to relocate to Head Office for a while.’

‘That’s fine. We would still have weekends.’

‘Head Office is in San Francisco.’

I am instantly devastated, but I clutch at straws, nevertheless. ‘When you say for a while, how long do you think that will be? And you said may. So it’s not definite yet?’

‘I don’t know at the moment. If it happens, it will be for at least three months, but maybe longer. It all depends.’

‘As long as it’s not forever, I think I can cope,’ I tell Monica bravely.

She puts her hand back on mine. ‘The foundation will look after you.’

Now

Whilst the man had been talking to me, the woman wearing the white coat had once again been fiddling with the drip attached to my cannula. It’s the only explanation I could reach as my eyes closed and I couldn’t reopen them. I could still hear though.

‘The foundation exists to research the concept of eternal life and create farms comprising the best examples of human beings possible,’ the man said. ‘Its founder strongly believes replacement of body parts can extend life expectancy until science develops a simpler method to achieve this.’

‘Society spends too much time arguing about the moral aspects of such research. In reality, every day that passes where nothing is done shortens the time available for the founder and her followers to live without fear of an earlier than desired death. She has decided she must act now.’

I lie in my bed, unable to move. My brain tries to analyse what I’m hearing. It sounds very much like the demented ramblings of a madman, but I’m developing an awful theory that I may have stumbled into this nightmare scenario and I’m now part of the farm. I can’t properly describe how powerless and wretched this makes me feel. I’m not sure anyone in my situation could.

‘The founder is extremely rich. Money is no object. At the outset, her intensive investigations revealed many, many like-minded individuals, all prepared to contribute towards the research and implementation activities necessary. She set up the foundation and covertly advertised for suitably qualified and, more importantly, similarly concerned professionals who would be able to undertake the work required.’

‘There are now branches of the foundation all over the world. Of course, it hasn’t been possible to explain to anyone the true nature of the activities undertaken, but the wellness programme you joined is one of our more successful methods to identifying potential recruits. Agents like Monica befriend people considered worth cultivating, persuading them of the incredible benefits available. The detailed questionnaire weeds out those who prove unsuitable.’

‘The tablets supplied made you feel better, stronger, younger, more energetic. They were designed to do this. When Monica felt the time was right for you to move on to the next stage, subtly different tablets were provided. They instigated your feelings of sickness and subsequent collapse. And here you are!’

He’s definitely mad, deranged, a lunatic. He also holds all the cards. I’m the next gullible person on the conveyor belt leading to one of the foundation’s farms. How has this happened?

The man continues his diatribe. ‘I like to provide successful applicants with the full story because their selfless contribution to the founder’s brilliant concept needs to be applauded and fully explained. You are a perfect specimen for your age. The fact you gave up alcohol two years ago allowed the parts of your body you damaged to regenerate. The tablets we provided have helped to improve your general health. Your body parts are therefore excellent. They will be harvested after cryogenic storage and made available to those foundation members who need them. As I remarked earlier, your life has become a success. You should be proud.’

‘Your journey to the farm has been made possible due to your life experiences. You have survived setbacks that would have destroyed others. But you still persisted. Trying to be all things to all people hasn’t worked. You were a lost soul. Until Monica appeared, there was no-one you could call a friend in your life. You existed, but you didn’t enjoy living. In short, being brutally honest I don’t think anyone will miss you now you’ve gone.’

He turns to the white-coated woman and nods his head. She adjusts the drip.