A Short Story About Time

I got sick. The pain crept from my toes to my knees, from my hips to my chest. Maybe months had passed since I’d had a clear head and it had been so long since I’d had no headaches. I lived in a constant fog that made it difficult to focus on anything, and the worst part was knowing that nothing could be done about it. Not to say that my life had become a haze or a blur, but it certainly wasn’t as clear as it used to be.

The Betrayal of a Body

When I was younger, I ran marathons, climbed mountains, rowed across rivers, dived in exotic waters, and got intimate with many a gym, even when I was on holiday. I always thought that one day, I’d age better as a result of all my years of effort.

Bullshit.

All that running, all that exercise, all that energy I expended slowly wore at my joints. That day I stared in disbelief at that overpaid dick’s bifocals and heard words I’d always associated with old people: Alzheimer’s, Arthritis, Fibromyalgia, and something else that still resounded in my head.

I realised I’d been lying to myself.

Numbness in the Clickbait Abyss

As the months dragged on, I forgot more and more. I read books I didn’t remember and binged shows I didn’t care about. I isolated from the few people I once held dear and let myself get dragged into clickbait and scams I knew better than to trust. But I did it because I no longer had anything to lose. I had no money, nowhere to be. I could have popped off at any moment and weeks would pass before anyone noticed, and even then, only because the stench of my corrupted corpse was seeping out of the house.

Chasing the Ridiculous

Apparently, a woman Doctor in some far-flung part of Asia had discovered a ‘cure’ for ageing. A cure, because she was convinced ageing was a disease. She had been dismissed as ridiculous and a charlatan. Still, when you have nothing to lose, you’ll follow the white rabbit. I laughed, but clicked and followed like a kid hearing the word ‘ice-cream’.

On forums, I found discussions en masse: speculation, ruminations, and trolling aplenty on the ridiculous claims of immortality.

There was one thread, however, which only an idiot with little to lose would even bother to read. A guy by the handle of FringeOvYerMind claimed to know the Doctor in question and that her research was not only real but tested and verified.

Because I’ve always been something of a dreamer, having created marketing campaigns for some of the world’s largest advertisers and mini-dreams in 60-second snippets, I wrote to this Fringe fellow.

I expected nothing.

He responded.

Letters to Nowhere

I don’t know how much time later; maybe a day, maybe a month. It’s all the same when you’re waiting for your final resting place. In between, I ate, I dozed, I watched stupid people pretend they knew how to run a country, and I ate some more.

He confirmed what I’d already read and assured me the research was real. He also listed himself as living in Cambodia, which made me think he was a scammer. Still, I had questions. I thought about them long enough to be clear on what I wanted to know, listed them in bullet points, and sent them.

They were smart questions designed to instantly root out scammers.

Again, I can’t be sure how long it took before he responded, this time with some interesting information.

He talked about the discovery of Telomeres lengthening and how they’d been able to prevent the telomerase enzyme from braking, which has the potential to restore the lost telomere length of adult stem cells. While I didn’t fully understand the complexities, I knew enough to recognise he was quoting facts based on current research.

Still, I waited for the credit card request for a free 1-month sample. This would no doubt include a free set of steak knives. In the case where the 1-month sample failed, you could kill yourself with unbelievably sharp, long-lasting, high-quality knives. All for just £9.99 a month, with the small print letting you know there was no end date to the payments and your great, great grandchildren would inherit your debt, plus interest.

A Hint of the Expendable

He didn’t ask for any money, surprisingly, but he did insinuate, quite vaguely, that there might be a requirement for expendable volunteers.

While he didn’t specifically state that there was a requirement for volunteers and that they’d be expendable, I was accustomed to reading between the lines. I’d spent decades writing copy that said everything between the lines.

I wrote a message back immediately, using my carefully crafted ability to advise that I may be available for such expendable volunteering, if such a thing were genuine. I included my mobile number and home address, my age, height, weight, the list of my afflictions, and a subtly-hinted willingness to be considered expendable.

If he was going to turn up on my doorstep with the 1-month sample, credit card machine, a dazzling smile that could reheat frozen meals in 30 seconds, and a set of free steak knives, he would leave with the knives festooned throughout his torso.

I’d keep the smile.

Hope Deleted

A week later, I wrote to the Fringe man asking if he’d read my message. Of course I knew he had, the read receipts confirmed it, but I was shocked to discover his profile had been deleted. My heart became a cold steel knife pressing against my ribcage. Until that discovery, I hadn’t realised how much I cared. I’d cared so much that I barely remembered any of the three books I’d read, nor the countless television programs.

For several days, I flopped in my recliner and watched the day brighten, then darken. I pulled the handle, reclined fully, slept, and repeated. Occasionally I ate. Frequently I went to the toilet. That was my life.

An Unexpected Knock

Maybe four, perhaps five, even conceivably six days went by, and a knock at my door quite literally scared the wind out of me. I was thankful I hadn’t followed through.

Two young men appeared; well-dressed in a casual style, both carrying old-fashioned briefcases. Neither flashed sun-blinding pearly whites, but they looked friendly and curious. One had cropped short dark hair, the other was blonde. Their wrinkled clothes and scuffed shoes made it clear they weren’t military or corporate. Scholars, students or scientists, I assumed.

The moment one of them cleared their throat, ready to speak, I already knew who they were. Even as the dark-haired boy began to talk, I opened the door wide and moved aside.

Meeting Max and Steve

They seemed surprised, so I smiled, turned and walked into the kitchen where I filled the kettle with enough water for three and took three cups from an overhead cupboard. I heard the door close even as I rummaged and retrieved the boxes I was waiting for. I’d done some online shopping and I’d somehow decided that several types of green tea, peppermint teas and other natural teas – all organic – were delicious, antioxidant, age-fighting, new habits I should adopt.

As the two young men entered the kitchen, I pointed to the various flavours and simply said, “Which would you like, gentlemen?”

The blonde boy smiled and came forward, picked up the peppermint box, read the side briefly, regarded me with a new-found respect and handed me the box, then said, “This one please, sir,” and stepped back, then looked at his colleague.

The darker boy studied each of the teas, then regarded me with some level of interest, before returning to the teas. He eventually chose a plain green tea.

“I’m Max,” the blonde boy offered with a handshake.

“Name’s Ollie,” I responded, then faced the dark-haired boy, who took a moment before realising he hadn’t offered his name and then said, “Steve,” and shook my hand, looking a tad unsure of himself.

I was curious from the onset. These were fit boys, standard representations of the new generation, eager, enthusiastic, creative, sensitive and earnest in the way they dressed and presented themselves. But their eyes, their eyes told a different story.

When Max spoke, at length and with no flair, no faff and no fanfare, in a manner that was politely direct, I knew he was telling me the truth.

I also knew without a doubt that he was a lot older than he looked.

While Max did most of the talking, pragmatic, explanatory and no-nonsense with an accent from the West Country, possibly West Midlands, Steve added technical details or confirmed information where needed. The topic and possibilities opened up a vortex in my mind that threatened to suck out all logic and sensibility, but also sparked excitement somewhere deep within me, of the likes I had not experienced in a long time.

Secrets in the Kitchen

While they simply referred to their workplace as ‘The Lab’, it turned out that Max and Steve were both scientists and investors working on a super-secret project. They made it clear that I could not talk about it with anyone, or they would sue me and every descendant of mine until kingdom come. They did not come right out and say it, but they were skilled in the art of speaking between the lines.

Nobody was truly concerned about secrecy. They both already knew from the first few minutes we spent at my kitchen table that I was not interested in telling anyone anything, and they even made it clear that they had performed a number of background checks and alluded to having spied on me online. In fact, during one of Max’s explanations of the social implications of their discovery, he either accidentally or intentionally let it slip that he was aware of all my online communications.

He even pointed to a new brand of coffee pods I was trialling and asked if they were better than the previous brand I had been using. Just to make me aware that he knew more about me than I knew about him. ‘The Lab’ people might well have known more about me, given that the Alzheimer’s often made me forget the names of simple things like my coffee pod brands.

Sampling the Goods

As we sat around my kitchen table, I realised Max had hardly given me anything more than I could have gleaned online.

Max asked questions, and while his eyes, a kind of light-blue that reflected the kitchen light in ways that made me think of millions of tiny tea lights, seemed to decipher whether my answers were truthful, Steve got to work.

With my permission, Steve took my blood pressure, several blood samples, a scraping from my fingernails, some strands from my hair, and a small scraping from the skin on the side of my nose. It all seemed so coordinated, so perfunctory, as each of them methodically worked through an invisible checklist. Max memorised my answers, continually regarding me with friendly but analytical eyes, while Steve pulled out one bottle or vial after another, labelled each carefully, and placed them into a case that seemed much deeper on the inside than it looked from the outside.

Approximately an hour later, they both simultaneously finished and stood.

Max asked, “Any questions?” in a way that let me know he was not really prepared to answer any.

Poking the Bear

I asked one anyway, because I was curious and because I knew that I had nothing to lose. I watched Steve carefully as I asked, knowing I would not catch Max, who seemed slightly more mature and unreadable.

Looking directly at Steve’s walnut-coloured eyes, I asked, “How old are you?”

I heard Max exhale with a short laugh while Steve seemed perplexed, perhaps even confused, definitely taken aback. He opened his mouth to form one word, then changed it as he spoke it.

“Thirty-two,” he said, while looking down at my slippers.

I smiled, then looked at Max.

“And you?”

“Thirty-three,” he replied, a wide grin forming across his face, his eyes watching me carefully but with a hint of not caring all that much. They knew they held all the cards and that I would not pursue anything if I valued the process. They knew I did, and that this was just me testing the waters.

“Thanks for your time Mr. Beaconsfield…”

“Please, it’s Ollie,” I interrupted.

“Sure. Ollie, thank you again, and we’ll be in touch.”

There were no further words from Max, and none at all from Steve. They walked to the door, opened it, stepped out, and I closed it behind them without a single awkward or uncomfortable moment.

I stood and stared at the back of the door for several minutes, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind.

Eventually, I turned and headed back to the kitchen and put the kettle back on.

“Thirty-three my ass,” I said to the kettle, then began to laugh.

The Return

The knock at the door was insistent and loud. It woke me from my sleep.

Fumbling for my phone, I eventually felt it and picked it up without opening my eyes. Only once I could feel the right way up with my hand did I open them.

7:13am.

On the one hand, I was curious how I had managed to sleep so late, and on the other, I was concerned about who the hell could be banging on my door so loudly. I lifted the cover and pushed it aside, then slid to the side of the bed and braced myself for the searing pain that was sure to come as my feet hit the soft carpet.

It was going to be a good day. My feet hurt, sure, they always hurt, but they did not hurt nearly as much as some other days. I took two steps to the window and pried the blinds apart just enough to look downstairs.

Looking up at me were both Max and Steve, smiling, and not carrying briefcases.

One Last Cup of Tea

A minute, or maybe ten, passed before I reached the front door. As I opened it, I realised I had forgotten to lock it the previous day.

Oops. I just was not used to visitors these days, so such a thing was plausible.

“Good morning Mr… I mean, Ollie. How are you today?” Their smiles were genuine, of that I was sure. I stood aside and shook hands as they passed me, then closed the door, locked it, then felt stupid and unlocked it again, then followed them into the kitchen.

They were standing and waiting for me to accommodate them.

“Old school, aren’t you?” I said in jest, then added, “Please, make yourselves at home. Same again?” I asked, pointing to the teas which I exposed by opening the cupboard door.

They both agreed, and within minutes, hands wrapped around hot cups of organic tea, the social niceties evaporated.

The Offer

“We’d like to make you an offer, Ollie, to join our program and to be one of the first test subjects,” Max paused to take a sip of his tea, set it down, then returned to study me as he spoke, “Of course there are risks. You’ll need to sign a lot of paperwork, essentially indemnifying us from any responsibility. You would also need to be away for the next three months, lose all contact with friends and family, and we are going to take you to a secret location which we cannot share with you.”

I simply nodded, then swallowed, and it was louder, at least to my ears, than I would have liked.

“Ok,” was all I could muster.

“Good, well,” he looked over at Steve, then back to me, “we’re happy to come back and pick you up. About 12pm ok for you?”

I was stunned.

“Today?”

“Of course, we need to get moving as quickly as possible. Will there be a problem?”

No Turning Back

So many thoughts filled my mind. I looked at the ground, at my slippers, at Max’s clean, trendy, red shoes and Steve’s also clean but military-green sneakers. I looked at my cupboards, worn but clean, tired and probably due for replacement. The other direction was my front room, television, coffee table, settee and my recliner. All nice furniture, all very clean but all could do with a refresh. I had had them a long time. I had everything a long time. It was not going anywhere. I had not gone anywhere in a long time and if I stayed how and where I was, I was not likely to go anywhere else in what little remained of my inactive existence.

I said, “Ok,” before I even knew I was going to and before I had even decided if I had made up my mind. Of course I was going to go with them. There had been no hesitation since my first contact online.

“Great,” Max said, and offered me his hand. “We’ll pick you up at 12pm. Don’t bother bringing anything with you. Just your passport, and one change of clothes.”

Waiting for the Future

I had a thousand questions pressing against my lips and filling my mind, but I escorted them to the door and watched them leave without saying another word.

I locked the door and chuckled that I did so. Then leaned against my book-case and tried to sort through my thoughts.

If I was not allowed to pack anything, then I was pretty much ready to go. They knew that too. In fact, they had given me a few hours to get my head around what I was about to do. They knew I would not change my mind. I knew I would not change my mind. The empty house knew it too. We all knew I was going to need to prepare myself for a big change.

Four agonising hours and fifty soul-sucking minutes later, I waited by the door with a small rucksack packed. I looked through the small gap, checked the driveway, looked around the house for the thirtieth time to make sure I had not forgotten anything, and went upstairs more times than was good for my knees.

I wanted to pop over to see my neighbours, not that I knew them well. On one side, there was a Polish family who were polite but never said more than a simple hello or goodbye, and on the other, I had three couples, all English and friendly enough, except the youngest lad, who had the prettiest girlfriend but the sourest expression on his face and often either grunted or raised his eyebrows in greeting or acknowledgement.

An Hour of Your Time: The Ambulance

I deliberated about telling someone, for reasons I could not even imagine. My grass was dead, I did not bother with flowers or plants that needed more than rain, and I had no pets to consider. This went on for minutes that dragged into an eternity.

As I considered my life, my situation, the possibilities ahead, the risks, it was clear even to me that I was putting my life into the hands of complete strangers, when an ambulance pulled into my driveway.

Not quite what I had been expecting.

The end of part 1 of an hour of your time. Part two is now ready…