He nodded slowly. ‘Word perfect. OK, you’re Matt. I remember the tone of arrogant superiority as much as the words.’
I grimaced. ‘It seemed to me that the arrogant superiority was more on your side, with a lot less justification.’
He sighed. ‘I didn’t some here to start all that again. I just wanted to check that you really are Matt, and – well, to see if there is anything I can do.’
I was curious. ‘In what way? Pray for my damned soul?’
He grinned wryly. ‘The closest thing to a lost cause I know. No, I just thought that you might be suffering some psychological problems, and it might be helpful to see someone who once knew you well.’
‘Thanks for the thought. I won’t pretend that it has been easy. For a while I thought I was losing my sanity, but I’m gradually getting adjusted to my new self.’ I smiled, ‘for the first time in my life, I may even be fitter than you! Run any good marathons lately?’
He gave a small smile, said, ‘no, no time for that. I stay slim because rations are tight.’ Then he held out his hand. Rather surprised, I took it.
‘I don’t have much time now, the project needs me back,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to keep in touch.’
‘Fine. Do that.’
He hesitated. ‘You are different, you know, apart from the obvious. You were always very enthusiastic and excitable, but now you’re much calmer and more deliberate, and you seem – not colder, exactly, I think that “dispassionate” is the word I’m looking for.’
I shrugged, ‘I feel much the same as ever.’
He nodded doubtfully, then left. We parted on better terms than we had enjoyed in over twenty years.
One morning, I sensed an unusual diffidence about Zara; by then, I could read her moods with ease.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘My twin daughters go a local primary school, and I’ve been asked to go in next week to talk to the children about you – you can imagine the level of interest. The trouble is I’m not sure that I should, so I thought I’d better ask if you minded.’
‘Not at all.’ I had a sudden inspiration; ‘in fact, I’ll come with you.’
Her face lit up. ‘Really?’
‘Why not? Just as long as you don’t warn them in advance, I don’t want the place swamped by the press!’
So a week later, Zara and I were transported in the anonymous white van to the school. Max drove at the high velocity traditional for such vehicles, grumbling when he was caught for a while behind a slow estate car proudly displaying a “Drive Carefully – Baby on Board” sign. ‘What difference is that supposed to make? They think I deliberately drive into cars unless they ask me not to?’
I grinned. ‘It’s illogical anyway. In terms of human life, babies are no more valuable than anyone else. And economically, considerably less so – after all, not much time or resources have been devoted to them. Now a sign which said “Drive carefully – expensively trained and newly qualified doctor on board” would be much more logical!’
We drove into a village and pulled up outside an old school building, with tall multi-paned windows in the traditional brick and flint walls. Christmas decorations were stuck on the windows, reminding me of how much time had passed since my accident. As agreed, Zara went into the school first to collect her twins – nine-year-olds whose initial shyness at meeting me was soon overcome by fascination – and I walked in holding each by the hand. The headteacher was flustered and seemed close to panic at first, but rapidly realised her opportunity and I was soon absorbed with the children, struggling to answer their questions. The young ones were the most natural and, once they learned I didn’t mind having my strange skin felt, they were all over me. The older children were more reticent, and I sensed traces of doubt and caution in some of them. Afterwards, I asked a beaming Zara about that.
‘Well, there have been some mixed reactions to you,’ she admitted, ‘so they’re just picking that up from their parents. People are still rather unsure about what happened to you, what kind of person you are.’
That was the first indication to me of the difficulties which lay ahead.
2
The next day, I met with Brian and the rest of the Consultation at my request, in the conference room; it had padded chairs around a large table in pale wood, and enjoyed a view into a courtyard with a few neglected plants straggling over concrete paving. The Consultation included a diverse group of specialists, still keen to find any excuse to probe me further.
‘At that press conference, the HM said that my DNA had been checked and that I wasn’t alien. But if I recall correctly, he didn’t actually say I was completely human either. What did the tests show?’
They shuffled a bit and looked at the geneticist, a thin, grey-haired man with the studious look of a priest or philosopher. He steepled his hands. ‘Well, your DNA is certainly basically human but there are some irregularities; some genes switched on, others off, and quite a few additions that we can’t account for. A rather different pattern from normal in various respects.’
‘And I’ll bet you’ve been tracking those changes against the human genome map. What areas are affected, exactly?’
‘Well, we don’t have a complete understanding yet about what each gene does, of course. We do know that there is a lot of apparently non-functional rubbish in human chromosomes, but rather less so in yours. Sorry to be so imprecise, but we’re groping in the dark here.’
Brian coughed in a rather embarrassed way. ‘I was wondering if you’d agree to another conference? Just of the scientific community, invitation only. You have no idea of the level of curiosity about you.’
Actually, I had. I was no longer frontline news, even the tabloids had tired of repeating stories of “miracle cures”, but the scientific journals seemed able to support an apparently endless stream of articles; some well informed, others more speculative. And I was as curious as anyone else to find out what had happened to me. ‘All right then, set it up will you?’
A few weeks later, after Max’s usual white van heroics, I arrived at the venue: a college on the edge of a nearby town, whose much larger lecture theatre had been booked for the occasion. It was a dull, wet, winter day and the college looked appropriately gloomy, dark streaks of water running down the concrete-faced building.
When I walked in, the theatre was packed, the sense of anticipation electric. Brian chaired the meeting and had obviously established some form of precedence, as the scientists each dutifully waited their turn to ask questions. One TV camera was visible and a few members from the specialist scientific end of the press corps were present, but their uncharacteristic silence indicated that they had probably been told to shut up and listen, or leave.
To start with, the members of my Consultation took it in turns to give short presentations of their findings. I was able to follow much of the discussion, but some was beyond me. The ophthalmologist’s speculation about “changes to the amino-acid sequences of opsins in the photoreceptor cells” was something I had to look up later. My ears did prick up at the mention of high levels of myoglobin in my muscle cells. I knew that some seals had this and that it enabled them to stay underwater for long periods as it was much more efficient at storing oxygen than haemoglobin. My skin caused most interest: in some ways it was similar to a lizard’s – with elements like a chameleon’s – but with a number of other modifications. It was very tough and an excellent insulator but could also channel blood close to the surface for radiative cooling. There was information about the efficiency of my metabolism, evidenced by the small quantity of food I needed, but only baffled speculation about my drastic change in diet. There was also great interest in the revelation that my body seemed to have become ‘zero-timed’; restored at a cellular level to that of a young adult. But no-one had any idea of the mechanism by which I had become so sensitive to people’s moods and state of health, let alone how I was able to cure ailments, although there were some impressive-looking brain scans showing a massive level of mental activity while healing.