by Tony Moyle
“Were you a clever bricklayer?”
“Not especially.”
“Ok,” replied Sandy, uncertain quite how to proceed. “Still, I’m going to ask your opinion anyway. I’ve watched the gases coming in and out of Hell for ages now. I know that the blue gases coming in are souls destined for one of the levels. But I think the stuff being leaked out is the result of the passing on process.”
“Well, anyone could tell you that, bricklayer or not.”
“That’s not the clever bit. When a soul is in Hell it is cleansed from its memories and emotions. Purged of it sins. Which means the bit that is left can’t have any. But it’s still part of the soul.”
“Ok, what’s your point? I was busy trying to die, you know.”
“Well, back on Earth there was a substance called Emorfed that did the same thing. It removed all the emotions from the soul. It looks the same as the gas leaving Hell and it’s definitely not man-made. What if they are one and the same thing?”
“Interesting theory. I wish I gave a shit, to be honest. The bloke that brought me here would be more interested in it than me,” replied Paul.
It never entered Sandy’s mind that for every creature currently occupying their own piece of personal coastline, each had been captured and brought to Hell on the endeavours of someone like John. Perhaps they were all double-crossed in exactly the same way as he had been. Promised what could never be delivered. He’d seen plenty of metal boxes floating in the air above level twelve. Maybe Paul’s minder was amongst them?
“Paul, tell me about the person who brought you here.”
“Do I have to? I’m quite shagged out, you know.”
“It’s important. There aren’t many old-timers left.”
“Alright, as long as you promise to leave me in peace.”
“I promise.”
“Interesting guy. Very opinionated and self-righteous. It was as if he was always trying to help me get away, like he knew what was really happening. He seemed frustrated, unable to see the truth for himself, even though he suspected it existed somewhere within him.”
“What was his name?”
“Matthew, I think. It was a long time ago.”
“Paul, there’s one more thing I need to know. Then I promise I’ll fly back to the beach. Has any creature ever escaped from level zero?”
“No, why would they want to? If you have to be in Hell, this is the best place to be. You’re not likely to find many of those creatures over there that even want to.”
“Maybe they just haven’t had a leader to show them the way yet. I can tell you, as you won’t be here for long, it is my aim to escape. In fact it’s my intention to take over the management of the whole place.”
“Ok, crazy pigeon. Clearly you’ve not met a demon called Primordial before.”
“What harm can a pile of mud do? I wish you all the best, Paul. It’s time I started to recruit an army,” he said, casting his mind to the build-up of creatures waiting for Paul’s big moment.
Sandy lifted gently off the dolphin’s back, not wanting to accelerate the recycling process. He wasn’t convinced from his conversation that Paul’s demise was likely to come anytime soon. Which gave him plenty of opportunities to talk to the eager bystanders. Who would be willing to join him?
Back on the beach a squabble had broken out and it was no surprise to find out who was in the centre of it. In a circle of animals stood Ian, lacking a few plastic feathers and sporting a ping-pong-sized lump on his forehead. At the other end of the circle, only visible from Sandy’s viewpoint in the sky, was some sort of rodent. Even if he was thirty percent bigger than most rodents, he still didn’t compare to Ian’s stature, and yet he was kicking the pigeon’s arse. Sandy landed directly between them.
“What’s going on here?”
“This rat nicked my space,” whimpered Ian from a position on the ground where he’d collapsed in a heap.
“Rat!..cough…shrew, you idiot…bite me…come on, fight…arse…I’ll take you all on,” replied the rodent. “Damn it…are you alright…? I’m awfully sorry I hit you…stupid bird.”
It was impossible to keep an eye on the rodent’s movements because they never stayed in one place. Every third second he shook his head as if a fly was constantly bothering him. He coughed regularly to clear his throat and struggled to deliver a coherent sentence. The vessol he wore was equally volatile. Little blue sparks crackled out of the seams and on every occasion his mood changed to mimic his body.
“What’s your problem?” asked Sandy.
“Nothing…I want to kill Ian…biscuits…hug him. No, I don’t…shut up, you,” screamed the shrew insanely.
“How do you know his name is Ian? How is that possible?” said Sandy, analysing the strange creature further.
“I brought him to Hell…and he deserved it…tosser…I will feel the guilt forever…forgive me.”
“John!” said Sandy. “Is that you?”
Out in the ocean Paul answered the question with what sounded decidedly like a fart. It started slowly, wheezing from his body with the momentum of an old plumbing system cranking into action. The plastic body, where Sandy had been standing moments earlier, started to buckle and expand. Gas burst from the valve in his throat like an overboiled kettle.
Distracted by the fight, the crowd stampeded furiously back to their original positions. Watching avidly from the sidelines, they collectively hushed each other for the event that many had been waiting on for weeks. If the fight had been an unexpected support act, this was the main event. After it finished they’d all be forced to go back to the dens, nests and caves until the next one.
Sandy hovered over the beach in order to maintain a view without blocking anyone else’s. If his theory was right, this was the closest he was going to get to see it. An almighty crack disturbed the air and a BOOM flooded in from the sea. Paul’s ripped vessol quickly took in water and sank below the waves. A trace of wispy, blue gas hung above the shoreline momentarily, before floating unhurried into the sky.
- CHAPTER SIX -
THE SERPO CLINIC
In a valley to the south-east of Calgary, clinging to the mountainside with all the precision of a tightrope walker in a circus, sat a vast spruce wood cabin. A place of solitude hidden from the normal bustle of everyday life: all around it was peaceful. Huge pine trees camouflaged its existence from all but those who knew how to find it. A crown of snowy white peaks kept both the world and its troubles at bay. This place was designed with secrecy at its very core.
Log cabins weren’t exactly a rarity in the Canadian wilderness and barely any of the people who lived in this beautiful desolation had noticed this one’s arrival. After all, it was customary for them to be placed where it seemed both illogical and impossible to build one. There were several reasons why this one had appeared.
This was no ordinary retreat for the rich classes keen to escape the trappings of nearby metropolises in order to reconnect with the isolationism of nature. This was no ski lodge for those in search of a five-star pampering where every whim is extended. This building was the Serpo Clinic, the world’s first and only location for the practice of psychothanasia. As with euthanasia, Canada was one of the few countries in the world that would allow it.
There are, of course, many places in the world that offer refuge from the mind. Rehab clinics are two a penny in most First World countries. They charge inordinate fees in order to cure people from the ailments that course around their brains. Many of these conditions are serious, and the work that is done to treat them necessary. For every dedicated practice there are also those that house wayward celebrities who feel it necessary to take regular trips to keep up their reputations and the public’s sympathy.
The Serpo Clinic was very different. It didn’t purport to offer healing from chemical imbalances, substance addiction or celebrity breakdowns. It offered to remove mental health problems completely and permanently. ‘Soulicide not suicide’ was the message on i
ts branding and television campaigns. Where euthanasia helped the body to die, psychothanasia helped the soul to die. And they weren’t short of applicants.
“Your first patient is here,” came the call from the receptionist to the phone in treatment room seven.
“Send him in.”
Treatment room seven was the room set aside for consultations. It lacked the medical rigmarole that accompanies so many other examination rooms. A huge log fire roared in a hearth, surrounded by thick animal rugs from beasts that should have been rampaging through the local scenery. Instead their lives had been cut short so that some rich dude could feel reassured that his money was being well spent. A sofa of red velvet, capable of seating nine patients at a time, stretched along the centre of the room. The high ceilings above it advertised the mountains through large glass panes to all who sat below. In a large, one-seater leather chair sat a tall, blond man dressed in a white turtleneck jumper and a pair of blue corduroy trousers.
“Mr. Bouchard, welcome to the Serpo Clinic. Please take a seat,” said the man, pointing towards the overproportioned sofa that had the unique characteristic of swallowing most who sat there.
“Thank you,” replied Mr. Bouchard nervously.
“My name is Victor Serpo. Please try to make yourself comfortable, this is not a job interview.”
“I am a little nervous.”
“Really no need. Nothing will be decided today, Mr. Bouchard. This conversation is simply to ensure that you are of sound mind and clear motive to receive the treatment that we offer here. There are some routine questions that I must ask to establish that, of course.”
“Of course,” replied Mr. Bouchard as his plump body sank a little further into the red velvet.
“What is your full name?”
“Antoine Roland Bouchard.”
“Age?”
“Fifty-seven.”
“What is your profession?”
“I’m the CEO of a large multinational oil company.”
“And how much do you earn a year?” asked Victor pointedly, twiddling his pen in order to capture the number of noughts in the answer.
“Is that necessary?” replied Antoine. “I have already paid my deposit.”
“It’s an important part of the consultation. After you go through our therapy your ability to earn and work will cease, and therefore we must be certain you leave your family in a sound financial position.”
This was the explanation that Victor always gave because the real reason was far less palatable. The price was never fixed. It was always dependent on the candidate.
“Three and a half million dollars a year, excluding bonuses and share options, of course.”
“Of course,” said Victor, trying to stop his eyes overreacting. “And what is the reason for applying for treatment here?”
“I can no longer live with myself.”
“None of our clients can,” replied Victor. “What are the specific reasons for that?”
“Just over a year ago one of my company’s oil tankers ran aground off the coast of Brazil. Several of the crew were killed in the blaze and the damage to the environment was considerable.”
“What’s that got to do with you? You’re just the boss, you can’t be held responsible for that.”
“But I do feel responsible. I made decisions that put profits in front of safety. My thirst for money clouded my judgement and drove my greed.”
“Well, you’ll get over it. I don’t think it calls for such drastic action.”
“In three weeks’ time I will face accusations of corporate manslaughter in an American court. I will be found guilty, yet the guilt I feel is a scar that I already carry,” said Antoine, as he started to blub like an oversensitive actor delivering a Shakespearian monologue.
Victor was unmoved, “So you’re telling me you’re a coward. You want to run from the chaos you’ve created?”
“No, I just want peace from my guilt.”
“Don’t worry, Antoine, it was not a criticism. We love cowards. They’re some of our best clients. Cheats, criminals, con artists, the bereaved, the mentally unstable, disgraced public figures – we love them all. We are the last bastion for the desperate and depraved. Your last and only friend, for a fee of course.”
“Is it painful, what you do here?”
“Not for you, it isn’t. It’s a simple procedure no more complicated than taking an aspirin. Within minutes of taking it you will feel nothing at all. No more guilt. In fact no pain at all from the emotions in your mind or body.”
“Will I still be able to have sex?”
“I’m sorry, is that important given you’re likely to be spending a fair amount of time locked up in a cell?”
“I’m not banged up yet.”
“And sadly, if you forgive the pun, you won’t ever be banged up after taking our therapy. Not in a consenting way at least. You can have sex, of course, but you’ll have no desire to. What have you told your family about this?”
“They are aware. Clearly if I go to jail they’d rather not see me suffer,” replied Antoine.
“That’s understandable. After all, they haven’t done anything wrong, have they? They will need to sign our contract, though, to demonstrate their willingness to let you participate.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Ok. Well, I have enough information for the time being. Take this prescription to the receptionist and she will arrange a time for the therapy to be administered. The total fee will be two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which must be paid upfront and we don’t take PayPal.”
Mr. Bouchard made several attempts to extricate himself from the sofa with little joy. Eventually, Victor came to his assistance. Victor’s fragile movement showed none of the strength and vitality a younger version of himself once had. His current mannerisms showed a man struggling to live in a changing body some distance from the powerful man at the peak of his influence. There had been no such change in his outlook, though. As he guided Antoine across the uncluttered space of treatment room seven he stopped before reaching the door.
“It was good to meet you, Antoine. I would show you out, but I don’t really do doors.”
As Antoine left he traded places with a woman coming in the other direction. Long, auburn hair flowing down to her shoulders, she learnt forward and gave Victor a kiss on the lips. She floated into the room like a puck on an air hockey table, sitting elegantly on the sofa that had given Antoine so much difficulty. The Versace suit hugged her body like a lizard’s skin. It had once felt so alien against her body compared to the lab coat that she’d spent so many years wearing to work. But that was then and Dr. Trent’s circumstances had improved exponentially in the past decade.
“How did the interview go?” she asked, removing a minuscule laptop computer from her handbag.
“Good, I think he’s a win for sure. Strange little man but fucking loaded so I jacked the price up a little.”
“Well, that’s good. Sales have been pretty strong, two million dollars so far this quarter.”
Since the clinic had opened three years ago the total number of patients treated had increased rapidly in each quarter, which was good because their investors had demanded ever-greater returns. Strangely, corporate types never wanted less, always more. ‘We think you’ve had an excellent quarter and you’ve worked really hard, so as a reward we thought you should have a break. Let’s go for twenty-five percentage less next quarter.’ Never going to happen. Unknown to the Serpo Clinic’s investors, the profits would not continue forever. But by then, Victor would be richer than any of them.
Although the clinic currently made good money it had not always been the case. Victor had started with nothing. In fact, nothing was an overstatement. Out of work and lacking the protections his last profession gave him, he’d been forced into hiding. The only element of his past life that he kept was his name. Not the one he used most often. Victor Serpo, not Agent 15, was his real name and almost no on
e knew it. Those that did – Byron, Dominic Lightower, John Hewson and Sandy Logan – were no longer a threat.
Byron hadn’t been seen since the days after the last election. Dominic had been arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment for treason against the state, although many had called for the death penalty. In truth he didn’t know where John and Sandy were, although there was a boatload of evidence to suggest they could have been dead the first time he’d had dealings with them. There wasn’t a lot he could do. Pigeons he could track. The undead not so much. The final person who knew who the real Victor Serpo was now sat opposite: his current partner, in both business and life, Emma Trent. In many ways it was her actions that allowed them to live in their current opulent surroundings.
“Are we on target, then, Emma?” asked Victor.
“We are, although it won’t last forever.”
“How are the stock levels looking?”
“At this rate we’ll run out in a year and a half. That’s at current levels of candidates, a rate that is going up all the time.”
“Any luck with replication?”
“None. Over a decade I have been working on the formulation. I have more scientists than ever, including some of the best and most brilliant ones, and still we search in the dark. This substance is just beyond current human knowledge. It just depends how far in front it is.”
“Well, it is what it is. We must continue with the small amount we have left and be prepared to retire this time next year. We have enough money,” said Victor, lacking any great concern.
“It’s not just about the money. Don’t you want to know what this stuff is? Aren’t you curious to unlock its mysteries?”
“Not in the slightest. It makes me money and that’s it. The money gives me the opportunity to get back some of what was stolen from me. That’s all I really care about.”
Why didn’t he want to know? Emma was infatuated with knowing. You could throw all the money in the Bow River for all she was concerned. Even though she enjoyed the lifestyle afforded to her by a business unique anywhere on the globe, she’d happily live as a tramp to unlock the questions that lay scattered and broken amongst the expensive spectroscopy equipment neatly adorning the walls of her laboratory.