Waking up to the Future

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

I’m lying in bed with my eyes closed, just waking up, feeling my teeth with my tongue (aware of an unpleasant film) and half-consciously exploring the crevices and gaps. Except – they are not my teeth.
[private]I’m not awake enough to freak out; I’m more confused than scared. I tap the enamel with my finger-nail in the hope of proving something, I suppose I’m hoping it’s a dream. It doesn’t make sense otherwise.
I’m still a bit groggy and confused from yesterday. An NHS surgical team came round to do a home hernia-op on me and they insisted on giving me a general anaesthetic. I’d been told it would be a simple operation with a local, that’s why I’d arranged it while Keith was way, but when they arrived they insisted on the general without telling me why. Bloody NHS, they don’t explain anything anymore. And what have they done to my teeth?

I move my hands over my naked body under the covers. There’s nothing there. No dressings, no scar, not even any discomfort. Is that possible? Although the medical teams have come a long way with these home ops during the past few years, I expected something. None of it makes sense. And yet, as my hands continue to explore other parts of my body, I begin to understand. Yes, something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

I pull back the covers and am convulsed with an involuntary shudder. It isn’t that I don’t like what I see – everything seems to be where it should be and, objectively, everything looks good – better than it has for a long time. But none of it is mine. There is someone else’s body where mine should be. I jump out of bed and quickly get to the big mirror in the bathroom. Jesus Christ! What is going on? Here I am, a seventy-five-year-old man two weeks into retirement, looking at a thirty-something in the mirror. And, what is more, whoever it is doesn’t look anything like me.

At this point the panic is definitely rising. It’s not a nice feeling looking in the mirror and seeing someone else looking back at you – take my word for it. Who is this character? What does he want? I grab my shoulders in frustration and have an unrealistic urge to tear the flesh of the imposter from my bones.
But it isn’t only my appearance that has changed – I’m moving differently. I leapt out of bed like a bloody athlete and I haven’t done that in years. Maybe there’s no point ripping the flesh away – maybe they aren’t my bones.

My heart is beating unbelievably fast. At least, I hope it’s my heart – I’m not sure of anything at the moment. I don’t know what to do, think or feel. This is not something I’ve ever been confronted with or even considered before. And what about Keith? He doesn’t even like it when I change the type of toothpaste we use. I deliberately arranged for the operation to be done while he was away because of his nerves; he would have had kittens at the thought of the medical team cutting me open. How will he cope with this?

I continue to look at the new me in the mirror. I suppose some people regard this as progress, these total body-replacements, but if they were going to give me a new body why didn’t they do it while I was working? I could have done with a younger body when they raised the retirement age to seventy-five. These last few years have been a hell of a struggle. It’s too late now.

I sit on the edge of the bath and wonder what to do. To my surprise, after the initial shock, I’m not too worried or scared. It’s partly because the guy in the mirror is young and good looking. I mean, it isn’t exactly a Kafka trip, waking up as a giant beetle, is it? What’s so frightening about looking good? Some people would pay a fortune to look like this. And there’s no real reason for Keith to be upset. It isn’t every day a seventy-seven year-old gay finds himself living with a good looking boy like me. Even if the bones aren’t mine, the brain must be, because I’ve still got my thoughts and memories. I’m still me underneath, aren’t I?

Another reason I’m no longer panicking is because I know the probable cause of the problem. Those NHS people are always making cock-ups. Transplanting the wrong organs, taking organs from non-donors, removing body parts that are okay. I heard they incinerated a whole ward of sleeping patients by mistake not long ago. They’ve done the wrong op on me, that’s obvious. So presumably they can undo it.

I decide to phone Keith. He’s at our country cottage, getting everything ready for the big move. He’s become claustrophobic of late and seems to need the open sky. Now I’ve retired, there’s nothing to stop us moving to the cottage.

‘Hello?’ Keith says, sounding as nervous as ever.
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Sorry? Who is this?’
‘It’s me, Brien! What’s the matter, are you going deaf?’
‘Brien? Why are you putting on that funny voice?’
‘What! Oh God… Listen, something weird has happened and I suppose it has affected my voice as well.’
‘What d’you mean? Why can’t you talk normally?’
‘You’d better sit down. I’ve got something to tell you. Don’t start going on until you’ve heard me out. It’s going to sound a bit strange, but it will make sense if you just let me finish.’

Which, of course, he doesn’t. I should have known. I’ve never heard such screaming. I consider putting the phone down on him, he’s making such a racket. The only reason I don’t is because I think he might have a heart attack.

Eventually, he starts to calm down. He gives me a hard time for not telling him about the operation and for letting strangers into the apartment while he wasn’t there, but I don’t mind because I know it means he cares. He says he’ll drop everything and come straight back.

‘In the meantime, you’d better contact someone to explain what’s happened,’ he says.
‘Why? Don’t you want to check me out first? Maybe you’ll prefer me like this? We don’t have to tell anyone.’
‘Don’t start, Brien, please. You know what I’m like. If you don’t report the mistake and you’re found out, God knows what might happen.’
‘What can they do?’
‘What can’t they do! How many people have we known who have disappeared? How many bodies and bits of bodies are being kept in formaldehyde on laboratory shelves? What sort of retirement would that be?’
Even though he’s serious, I can’t help laughing. I knew he’d make me feel better. Keith worries so much that anyone else’s worries seem nothing by comparison.
‘It’s not funny, Brien. Just remember how long we’ve been waiting to be free. Please, don’t mess it up.’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll get straight on to it, I promise.’

As soon as I hang up, I switch on the computer. I swore on my retirement that I’d never switch it on again, but it’s the only way of contacting anyone in authority these days. You’re not supposed ever to switch off your home computer; Keith nearly had a fit when I did it. But I’m sick of the way the authorities use them to keep an eye on us – or, rather, on the dwindling workforce. If the government concentrated on making the world a nicer place there wouldn’t be a dwindling workforce. Sod them, I was finished with all that. I was retired. That’s why I figured no-one would bother about my little protest. Who cares what an ex-worker does? Once you’ve finished working you’re just a liability as far as the authorities are concerned.

The trouble is, the young man who is at the moment inhabiting my space is a mite young to retire. I go back to the bathroom for another look. I’m getting used to him already. And although I don’t want to boast because I know it isn’t strictly me, he is extremely good-looking. A nice straight nose, dark hair and perfect teeth. I could have done very well in my youth looking like this. Maybe I still can? There’s a thought. This could be an old man’s dream come true. I could dump old Keith and have the time of my life. Why not?
Shit, someone’s ringing the doorbell. That’s what I get for having mean thoughts about Keith.

I don’t rush to answer it because I’m nervous about being seen. It’s like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes, except more serious. I mean, who’s the imposter here, him or me? I wouldn’t mind so much if there was a possibility of it being a friend at the door – it would be a laugh to see their reaction to the new me – but that’s unlikely because only government officials are out and about at this time. All the workers are busy working, and retired people are encouraged to stay at home during working hours.

As I throw on some clothes, I notice again how easy everything is. No more rheumatism in the shoulder, no more hernia. There is definitely something to be said for being young. I’m beginning to think I really should keep quiet about what’s happened.

Two community policemen are standing on the doorstep. These gooks would have frightened me once with their tight black uniforms and sour faces, but I’m too long in the tooth for that now.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’ the younger one asks.
‘I’m retired,’ I say. ‘I’ve done my time.’
The looked at each other other.
‘Oh, I see, you think…. No, I’m not as young as I look. What happened was, the NHS boys came round yesterday to do a little home op on me and someone obviously dropped the proverbial bollock…’
‘You’d better come with us,’ the first one says.

I don’t protest. If you argue with these characters it only makes matters worse. That’s the trouble with living in a bureaucracy-laden state; once a cock-up happens no-one wants to take responsibility for it and it takes forever to sort out. I can cope with that. I’ve done nothing wrong and I’ve got plenty of time. The only part that annoys me is when they won’t let me leave a note for Keith.

They take me down to the local police department. It’s just as well I’ve got plenty of time because once they get me there they leave me in a room on my own for the rest of the morning. They don’t even give me a coffee. They must know of the cock-up, that had to be why they came for me, but no-one is about to admit anything.

Eventually, I’m led into a poky box of an office where a balding official is sitting at a desk and staring at a computer screen. He looks as though he enjoys his work as much as I used to enjoy mine – and the poor bastard has at least another twenty years to go. I sit down and shake my head in sympathy and dismay.
‘I see you haven’t any children,’ he says after a while, without looking at me.
What that has to do with anything I don’t know. He must know I’m gay, it’ll be in my records; so why mention kids?

‘A perk of my old job,’ I say. ‘I was given special dispensation. I was in Maintenance.’
‘I am aware of that,’ he says. Then, almost mumbling to himself, he adds, ‘No wonder we’ve got problems, people avoiding their responsibilities…’
‘Is that why we’ve got problems?’ I can’t help saying.
‘Do you think the labour shortage is amusing?’
‘Not particularly. But it’s not my problem – I’ve done my bit and now I’m retired. I was only waiting to get my hernia fixed before moving to the countryside.’
‘It’s a bit late for that.’
‘Come again?’
He looks at his screen, then back at me.
‘People like you think nothing of trying to avoid your responsibilities, do you?’
‘What’re you talking about? What am I doing here?’
‘You have a visitor. This interview will be resumed shortly.’
I shrug. He doesn’t worry me. I’ve done nothing wrong.

A policeman opens the door and I’m escorted along a narrow corridor and shown into a room where I see Keith waiting. It’s nice to see his familiar old face, even though it looks grey with worry. As soon as the policemen leaves, I rush over to the old dear to give him a hug. I’m horrified to see him recoil.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.
‘Who…who are you?’
‘Oh God, don’t start that. It’s me. How many times do I have to explain?’
‘Brien? But…you can’t be.’
‘What’s the matter, don’t you fancy kissing a bit of young stuff for a change?’
‘No, I don’t! Especially not here. This place gives me the creeps.’
The poor thing is near to tears
‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask.
‘They were waiting for me at the apartment. I’ve been in an interrogation room for over an hour.’
‘You’ve been interrogated? Why?’
‘I don’t know! They were horrible to me….horrible.’
His eyes are full of tears. I try to comfort him but I can tell he feels uneasy in my arms. He doesn’t believe it’s me. Poor old Keith, he’s never been able to cope with the unexpected.
While I’m still wondering how to make him feel better, his whole body shudders violently.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.
‘I told them we’d been together for more than twenty years.’
‘So?’
‘Look at you! You’re not more than thirty. What does that make me? This is all a set-up. They’re going to put me away!’
‘Don’t be silly, of course they’re not.’

Someone opens the door behind me. I turn to see two policemen. Then I look back at Keith. I want to hug him and I’m sure he wants to hug me, but neither of us dare do anything. One of the policemen leads him away. He looks back, his eyes still full of fear and brimming with tears. The other policemen takes hold of my arm and returns me to the balding official with the computer. I still don’t know what’s going on, but I know it’s more serious than I thought.

The official indicates for me to sit down.

‘According to our records, you were informed two weeks ago that you would be given the next available body.’
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ I say.

He’s playing with me. He knows damn well our computer was switched off, but I’m not about to admit anything. Just because I’m more worried than I was doesn’t mean I’m going to break.

‘Listen,’ I say, forcing myself to sound upbeat, ‘someone’s obviously made a mistake. I don’t need a new body; I was happy with the old one, apart from the hernia. Why can’t you just arrange for me to get my old body back and give this one to someone else? I’m not going to file a complaint or anything. I just want to get back to being like I was yesterday.’

‘That is no longer an option.’
‘Why not?’
He looks at me over the screen.
‘Your old body was incinerated early this morning.’
I feel the blood drain from my face.
‘There’s no problem,’ he continues. ‘You’ll keep the body you’ve been given – that’s why you were given it.’
‘But why? I didn’t ask for a new one.’
‘You don’t know?’ he says, almost sympathetically. And then he smiles without humour: ‘You are very lucky. You have been selected to go on. You have been given another body for the specific purpose of an extended work-life.’
‘Go on? With work? But I don’t want to. I’m retired!’
He shakes his head.
‘All retirement has been cancelled for skilled workers. There aren’t enough of you. You should be flattered. Your retirement has been commuted to a two-week break, which expires tomorrow. You will report back to your depot Monday morning.’
‘But….for how long?’
He smiles his humourless smile again.
‘It looks to me that the body you have now is good for another forty years’ work.’
‘Another forty years! Is that what all this is about?’
He shrugs.
My head is spinning. I can’t believe what is happening.
‘And Keith?’ I say after a while. ‘What about him?’
‘Forget him.’
‘Forget him? You’re talking about the man I…’
‘I said, forget him. And if you want to save yourself trouble in the future, I suggest you start looking for a wife – a real one – one who can reproduce.’
‘I don’t want a wife who can reproduce. Apart from not being that way inclined, I’m too old for that crap. I’m retired. I want to live in my country cottage with Keith and….’
He switched off the computer and stood up.
‘Wait a minute. I haven’t finished!’ I said.
He opened the door for the two policemen to enter.[/private]

Mel Fawcett is a carpenter, biker, father and writer. He is based in Camden Town. His stories have recently appeared in 34th Parallel, Apt, Twisted Tongue and Espresso Fiction.