Anthony G. Williams
SCALES
PROLOGUE
A story has to start somewhere. When the story is autobiographical, the logical place to start is with birth. Except that to understand the context, the reader may need to learn about parents, even grandparents; was the subject born into wealth or poverty, privilege or obscurity? My case is rather different in that this story starts, in explosion and fire, when I was already past my forty-fifth birthday.
Picture the scene: a flat, fenland landscape typical of East Anglia. The endless farmland stretching to the horizon, dissected by the ruler-straight dykes and smaller drainage ditches planned by the Dutch when this part of England was reclaimed from marshland centuries before. The fields beginning to turn green with the first leaves of the vegetable crops; later, they would be full of potatoes and sugar beet, carrots and cabbage. Overhead, a vast open sky just dimming into dusk, a few wispy clouds high above still glowing in the sun. A straggle of red-brick houses along each side of a straight, narrow road running well above a land sunken by drainage. A white-painted pub, red Bateman’s sign swaying slightly in the breeze. At one end of the small village, a house a little detached from the rest, three stories tall but shallow from front to back, set in a square plot bordered by tall poplars to screen the cold north wind, a few remaining daffodils nodding over the lawn. A late spring scene of rural tranquillity, disturbed only by birdsong.
Inside the house a man is sitting in his study. He is approaching a sedentary middle age and casually dressed, the study furnished in a comfortably old-fashioned style, with several packed wooden bookcases and worn chairs. In complete contrast is the latest style of portable computer which the man is using to finish an article.
The arguments in favour of Intelligent Design have therefore been systematically countered by scientists such as Dr. Miller. More fundamentally, the principles underlying it have been attacked as unscientific. The scientific method is an objective process which depends upon observation and analysis. The proposition that life was designed by some superior intelligence, intervening in an undetectable way, is the very antithesis of science. It explains nothing, and cannot even explain itself. Despite this, and the devastating verdict of the judge at the Dover school board trial, the religious basis for ID means that its true believers will not be shaken. They continue to press for it to be taught as an ‘alternative theory’ in schools both in the USA and the UK. Those who care about the integrity of science need to remain on their guard.
He reviewed the final paragraph, saved it, and made a back-up copy. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He would email the article to a journal in the morning; not one of the science ones, of course – their subscribers would already be familiar with the issues – but one aimed at a more general readership.
In the meantime, he deserved his usual small celebration after completing a project. He contemplated a glass of wine before deciding in favour of the grain rather than the grape, as he planned to walk to the pub for his evening meal and a jar or two of ale with the regulars. He went to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Straffe Hendrik from the fridge. The strong Bruges beer poured pale yellow and frothy into its wide-mouthed glass. The man walked into the lounge, selected his favourite Dave Brubeck LP, and settled in his old leather armchair to enjoy the combined pleasures of mellow jazz and fine ale.
He was just beginning to relax when he became aware of a rising tension in the room, like a strong electrical field. Puzzled, he turned to look around the room. At that instant, his world came to an end.
The explosion sent tiles flying from the roof and bricks spilling outwards. The blaze followed immediately, flames roaring through the wreckage. Sounds of alarm, of dogs barking; doors opening and villagers rushing to the scene, only to be held back by the ferocity of the fire. A blackened, charred, figure, crawling from the ruins. The man heard gasps of horror and cries of concern from the villagers: ‘For God’s sake, call an ambulance!’ Then silence, darkness and oblivion.
BOOK 1: THE SCALED MAN
1
For a long time, all was dark. All I was conscious of were the smells and sounds which marked out my location as a hospital, the occasional murmurs of voices, sounding concerned and grave. And pain. The pain was universal, inside and out, and at a level which I had never before experienced or even imagined possible. Every now and then the pain receded for a while and I drifted into a hazy sleep, only to be woken again as the pain slowly regaining its ground. I did not know whether it was night or day; the pain cycle determined my timescale. I thought of nothing, remembered nothing, not even who I was.
An indeterminate period of time passed, a relentless cycle of more pain, less pain. An odd little monorhyme started running through my mind, as if on an endless loop:
I had no idea whether I had remembered this, or just invented it.
Eventually, at a time when the pain had woken me but had not yet become unbearable, I heard the scrape of a chair and a louder voice, clearly directed at me:
‘Well, good morning! And congratulations – I must say you have astonished us all!’ The man’s voice had the underlying strain of one who is trying to sound cheerful while feeling exactly the opposite. ‘Are you able to talk?’
A direct question, requiring a response. My mental cogs slowly turned, grinding with rust. I found I could open my mouth, but only a croak emerged when I tried to speak.
‘Let me give you something to drink; it might ease your throat.’
I felt my head lifted, something bumping against my mouth, then cool pleasure slipping down my throat. I swallowed greedily. A second attempt, barely audible: ‘Yes.’
‘Good! Do you remember what happened to you?’
I thought back, but could only remember pain. ‘No.’
‘It seems that there was a fire at your home. You have been badly burned, but you’re going to be alright now.’
A major effort to construct a sentence: ‘Why can’t I see?’
‘Your eyes are covered at the moment. We’re hoping to put that right in a few days.’
I thought about that. ‘Will I be able to see?’
‘Well, we won’t know for certain until it happens. But we’re hopeful, as you seem to be making a remarkable recovery.’ Definitely hope rather than expectation, it was clear.
The pain, momentarily held back by the distraction of conversation, returned with a vengeance after the doctor had left. Another voice, with a soft, feminine lilt which a random flicker of memory vaguely associated with a place called West Africa, intruded on my suffering. ‘Bad again is it? Would you like some relief?’
All I could manage was a hoarse croak, which she evidently interpreted correctly. I heard her fiddling with something by the bed, felt the soft wash of oblivion spreading through my body, and slept.
For several pain cycles, the pattern remained the same. Each time I woke I would hear the soft voice as she tended me, encouraging and comforting. My frozen imagination began to melt, focusing on her, wondering what she looked like. Sometimes there were deeper male voices murmuring in the background, sounding puzzled, even excited. They seemed to be intensely debating something; I was afraid that it was probably me. I grew stronger and the general pain reduced, leaving some specific areas of agony behind, like a flood slowly revealing the landscape as it recedes. One of those areas was my mouth; my gums screamed with the pain of universal toothache.