‘What’s the matter with my teeth?’
A hesitation, before the soft voice replied. ‘It’s really quite astonishing; you seem to be growing new ones.’
‘New ones?’
‘Yes, they’re pushing your old teeth out. You lucky man, I wish I had a new set of teeth; I’d take better care of them this time!’
I thought about that. I’d never heard of such a thing as growing new teeth, although I remembered from somewhere that scientists had been talking about using stem cells to grow new teeth – in a few decades’ time. ‘What’s happened to me?’
‘You were burned, all over. One hundred percent, first degree burns. It’s amazing really, most people don’t survive even when partially burned as badly as you were, and no-one thought you would last the hour when you were brought in. But look at you now, getting better every day!’
‘I can’t look at me now.’
‘You’ll be able to soon, I’m sure. The doctor wants to open your eyes tomorrow.’
‘Open my eyes?’ I was puzzled at the curious phrase. ‘You mean, take the bandages off?’
‘Something like that, yes.’ She sounded hesitant. ‘Your eyes have a protective cover at the moment.’
Tomorrow came, and obediently brought the doctor, who I learned was a burns specialist called Brian. I realised for the first time that I always knew when he was there, and whether others were with him. I had no time to puzzle over this before he spoke, his voice showing the usual mixture of heartiness and strain.
‘Before we begin, there are some things I need to explain to you. As you know, you suffered severe and extensive burns. When you first arrived we didn’t expect you to survive for more than a day. However, you confounded all of us. Your skin formed some kind of thick protective layer, all over, like a kind of giant scab – I’ve never seen anything like it before. We’ve left it alone so far, but it’s beginning to break up and there are indications that it may be ready to peel off, particularly over your face. Your eyes have been glued shut by the protective layer, but given these promising signs and your return to consciousness we think this means that we can now clear this layer out of the way.’
I began to understand the tension in his voice and felt my anxiety growing to match his. While I wasn’t an expert on medical science I was reasonably well up on current developments, but had never heard about anything like this before.
Gentle hands held my head and I felt picking and rubbing sensations over my eyes. Sudden cold struck my eyelids as the fresh air hit them. There was a puzzled murmur, sounding rather shocked.
‘Can you open your eyes?’
A definite sound of strain in the voice: something was wrong. With great reluctance, I forced my eyes to open. Light flared into my head, glaring and painful. I barely registered the gasps from the small group clustered around my bed. There was a long silence. I concentrated on the light, gradually made out the shape of heads looming over me. One of them spoke.
‘Can you see?’ The strain was close to breaking point.
I looked at the speaker, whose features slowly swam into focus. An apprehensive face, something like panic in his expression.
‘Yes. What’s the matter?’
‘What colour were your eyes?’
Were? I thought about that. ‘Brown, more or less.’
‘Well, they aren’t now. Bring a mirror, please nurse.’ One of the heads disappeared, returned with a circular mirror which was held in front of my face. I looked at the face, an unrecognisable mask completely covered with dark scabs except for the holes for my nostrils and mouth, and my eyes. I looked at those eyes in disbelief, felt my hold on reality slipping. Around the black pupil, the iris and the white sclera had merged into one. And it was all a vivid gold. They were alien eyes, nothing to do with me.
‘Then there’s your eyelids.’ His voice was shaking. I slowly closed one eye. The skin of the lid was a gleaming, greenish purple. And covered with fine scales, like a lizard’s.
I was sedated for most of the next few days, remembering only the occasional appearance of the nurse, anxiety visible in her warm brown face. After a while, I recovered enough of my sanity to begin thinking again. ‘What’s your name?’
She turned and looked at me. ‘Zara. Are you feeling better?’
‘As well as can be expected. Musn’t grumble.’
She giggled suddenly, a flash of white teeth. ‘I’ll tell the doctor. He wants to talk to you.’
‘I’ll bet he does, but not just yet – bring me the mirror, please.’
She duly obliged, and I looked again at that scabbed face, the alien eyes. I felt my hold on reality slipping again and dragged my mind back with a furious effort of will. There was no point in kidding myself, this was real and it was happening to me. A part of my mind went away into a corner, gibbering quietly.
My skin itched suddenly, so I rubbed at my face. The surface shifted, and I rubbed some more. Part of the scabs started to come away. I put the mirror down and rubbed harder with both hands, suddenly anxious to know the worst. The scabs peeled off my face and my hands, and I heard Zara gasp. I rubbed until I could feel no more of the hard, crusty scabs, then I picked up the mirror again, took a deep breath, and looked.
This time I could tell there was quite a crowd of them before they entered the private room I had been put in. My doctor, Brian the ginger-haired burns specialist, eyes worried behind their thick-rimmed glasses, was accompanied by heavier firepower in the form of several older, dark-suited figures, all covered by the obligatory white coats. They all stared at me in fascinated silence as I continued to rub at my body, shedding the thick layer of scabs as if I was clearing off a dried, all-over mudpack.
It was the same all over my body; the healing was complete, the skin intact. But it was all in various shades of greenish purple, and all covered with scales. They varied in size, being small and fine on the palms of my hand and my face, almost disappearing on my fingertips and lips, larger over my body. I rolled over, with some help, and Zara got to work on my back, tentatively at first, then rubbing vigorously. She revealed a shallow crest of scales running up my spine and over the top of my bare scalp. When she had finished, I realised that I had no hair, anywhere. I rubbed my hand over my chest. The fingers seemed quite sensitive, the scales on my chest surprisingly smooth. My nipples had disappeared, somewhere.
‘How are you feeling?’ One of the grey-suits spoke.
I thought about it. I realised suddenly that the pain had gone, leaving behind only a feeling of weakness, muscles itching from lack of exercise. I turned to the mirror and opened my mouth. A new set of teeth gleamed confidently back at me. They seemed normal enough, no extra-long canines. The inside of my mouth was even pink.
‘Very well, thank you. Considering.’
He coughed. ‘Yes, well. Do you have any idea what happened to you?’
‘Do you know who you are?’ A second suit added intensely.
I thought some more. My memory had been returning in fits and starts, as if a flashlight were being shone around a dusty attic. I began slowly. ‘I’m beginning to remember. My name is Matthew Cade Johnson. I write, I think. About science, yes. Popular articles and books, that sort of thing. I live in a village, in the Fens, in my parents’ old house.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Yes, for some months.’ Since Ros had left me, I recalled, a city girl bored with life in the empty countryside.
‘What happened to you?’
‘I have no idea. I understand there was a fire, but I don’t remember anything about that.’
‘It was more than just a fire. Your house blew up. There’s nothing left but rubble.’