‘Perhaps they’re getting their own back,’ came a voice from the back, to general laughter.
I smiled wryly, ‘Perhaps, but I don’t believe so. So I’ve thought of these four possible reasons, none of which I think is feasible. I believe it was Sherlock Holmes who said something like “eliminate the impossible, then whatever you are left with, however unlikely, must be the truth”. The problem is that as far as I’m concerned, they’re all impossible, so I’ve just parked the problem until I have more evidence. If any of you have better ideas, please let me know.’
Next came a series of rather trivial questions, the press groping for themes and possible headlines. An example: ‘Does your skin sweat?’
‘No. In fact, apart from hygiene considerations I hardly need to wash; just a dust and polish every now and then.’
Then came a hackette from one of the less elevated tabloids: ‘You say that you can direct someone else’s nervous system, so you can switch off pain. And presumably switch it on?’
I nodded cautiously, not sure where she was leading. Radio journalists anxiously gestured for me to reply verbally. ‘That’s right.’
‘So you can do the same for pleasure, too?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Could you give us a demonstration?’
I smiled. ‘Are you volunteering?’
‘Certainly!’ She stepped forward promptly, and I had to admire the way she had engineered her moment in the limelight. She was young and attractive, and clearly ambitious. I stood up as she approached, and after a bit of shuffling at the pleading of the cameramen, we were standing side by side.
‘Give me your hand.’
She complied promptly, curiously feeling my scaly skin. ‘It’s much smoother and softer than it looks.’
‘Now I’m going to fool your nervous system. First, that it’s cold.’
She gasped and shivered.
‘Now that it’s hot.’
‘Wow!’
‘Now it feels wet, and now it feels dry.’
She gave an amazed laugh. ‘How do you do that?’
‘Now you’ve got pins sticking in’
‘Ouch!’
‘Now you’ve got toothache.’
‘Pleeease…’
‘And this should make up for it.’ I carelessly triggered the pleasure centre in her brain, something I’d not tried before. The effect was electric. She gave a loud, gasping cry and slumped against me, head back, mouth slack, eyes staring and pupils dilated. I hastily held her to prevent her collapse, and turned off the pleasure. She came around with a shuddering gasp, unsteadily regained her feet, then visibly collected herself, looking down and nervously tidying her hair, as her colleagues watched in a rather embarrassed silence.
‘I… I…’ She took a deep breath, ‘you are right,’ she managed faintly, ‘you’ve proved your point.’ She walked shakily back to her seat.
The only other interesting question came at the end. ‘Cade, how does it feel to be you, compared with the way you felt before the accident? Are you sorry or pleased that it happened?’
I thought about that for a moment, and responded slowly. ‘It’s hard to say. At first, I was horrified of course. If I hadn’t been sedated for some time I don’t know what I would have done. But I seemed to get used to it surprisingly quickly. They tried providing me with counsellors, but that didn’t help – the counsellors needed counselling themselves after they’d seen me.’ I paused for the laughter to die down. ‘Now my feelings are much less clear. There are many things that I miss. Everyday pleasures like a pint of ale in my local, and of course above all the anonymity of ordinary life, the freedom to go where I wish without anyone noticing. But there are some positive sides to my situation as well. As a science journalist, I’m obviously as fascinated as anyone else by what’s happened to me. I have to say that I feel better than I have for years, if not decades; healthy, fit and strong. And above all, I’m able to help people in a unique way. That counts for a lot.’
We all sat in the hospital’s conference room that evening, flipping between the news broadcasts on the radio and TV. For once, the world had not been afflicted with too many disasters or political scandals that day so there was extensive coverage of my press conference, but the networks were clearly nervous and uncertain how to play the item, afraid it might be a complex hoax. Some took it seriously, but covered themselves against future ridicule with lots of distancing remarks (“the hospital claims that…”). Others lost their nerve and went for laughs, as an “and finally…” item. One brought in a pundit from rent-a-don who explained why what had happened was impossible.
However, one consequence rapidly became evident; the hospital’s phone system became jammed with callers. Some were journalists, especially from abroad, who had missed the press conference. Invitations to appear on television talk shows flooded in from around the world.
As reports of the apparently miraculous cures which I had effected were circulated, it gradually became accepted that I was genuine. The local MP and councillors, plus all government ministers associated in the remotest way with the Health Service, started forming a disorderly queue to be photographed with me. I felt a burn of impatience with such self-serving time-wasting and firmly vetoed visits from any and all politicians, somewhat to the discomfiture of the HM.
‘But the Prime Minister!’
‘No!’
Some callers were cranks, acclaiming me as the saviour from outer space or some such. Some were women – and a few men – wanting private consultations about their “pleasure centres”. But most calls were from the sick, desperate for help. It was clear that something had to be organised.
That “something” took a little while to put into place but eventually a system was instituted. By this time, the hospital was under siege from prospective patients camping out in the car park despite the chilly winter weather and refusing to move until they had received their miraculous cures. Careful public explanations about what I could and couldn’t do had no effect – many of the people were so desperate that they would clutch at any straw of hope.
The system we devised between us involved an insistence on referral by the patients’ family doctors to the hospital, coupled with an exhaustive briefing note for the doctors and a strict injunction only to refer patients whom I stood some chance of helping, on pain of having future referrals ignored. Those referred to the hospital then went through a further vetting procedure by the staff to check that the referral was genuine. Then they went on my waiting list.
Foreign patients were more complex to deal with, as the referral system couldn’t work for them. However, as they were not entitled to free treatment on the NHS, the solution I proposed was simple. ‘Charge them.’
‘But how much?’ The HM was keen but cautious.
‘Ten percent of their annual income. In advance.’
‘But how will we know what that is?’
‘Tell them to bring their previous year’s income tax return, plus proof of identity. That should reduce the risk that they will waste my time.’
It was agreed that I would continue to live at the hospital, as it provided some protection from the mobs of people who wanted to see me. It was a 1960s building, not exactly classical architecture but with big and airy rooms. I was given a rapidly-adapted suite on the highest of the three floors, with wide windows providing a view over the gently rolling countryside on the edge of the fenlands. Whatever crops had flourished in the summer had been harvested and the fields were brown and corrugated with plough-lines. The windows were covered with a silver film against solar gain, which conveniently afforded more privacy. The access to my room was convoluted, through restricted parts of the building. It was about as private and protected as I could hope for.