The muscular itch became a burning need to exercise, fuelled by an equally burning hunger. But not for just any food; the first solid meal presented to me – a traditional hospital meat and two veg – made me feel sick just to smell it and I could not bring myself to pick up the knife and fork. Puzzled, Zara went hunting for alternative foods, and came back with a selection. After some experimentation, I discovered that I could eat only fresh fruit and raw nuts. I was even more appalled to find that I could drink only water: alcohol was definitely out.
My one remaining consolation from my former life was jazz. After a remote tussle with my bank – I could hardly turn up in person to prove my identity – I got access to my account. Zara managed to secure an internet-linked computer for me, plus an MP3 player, and I spent hours downloading and listening to as much as I could. I went through all the classics like a voyage of rediscovery, and have the shades of Bix Beiderbecke, Duke Ellington and many others to thank for my continued sanity.
The itch in my muscles refused to go away. I cajoled Zara into arranging some exercise equipment in my room, and pounded it with ever-increasing energy and determination. As I seemed to need little sleep, I exercised a lot and my wasted muscles gradually filled out. One day, I complained to Zara that a machine had broken. She looked at it in puzzlement, then returned with some complicated device of springs and levers, and asked me to push and pull it in various ways, as hard as I could, while she took measurements. I obliged, banging the grips against their stops until the metal frame bent. She looked at it in silence for a moment. 'Do me a favour will you? Just be careful how you handle things. And especially people.'
Handling people. Now there was an interesting problem. After they had recovered from the initial shock of my appearance, it was evident that the hospital hierarchy was flummoxed about how to handle me, or to be precise how to handle others dealing with me. To their credit, they were primarily concerned with my welfare, most anxious to delay subjecting me to the kind of attention which would inevitably occur as soon as news of this weird changeling leaked out.
For the police interview (which achieved as little as I expected), I was dressed in an all-covering robe, my face was wrapped in bandages and I was given dark glasses to wear.
Access to my room was severely restricted, those in the know sworn to silence. Brian, usually accompanied by other doctors, came to see me on most days to check on my progress. I had the impression that he was rather proud of me; his private freak show, brought out to amaze trusted visitors. But inevitably, rumours spread. Zara had become my friend as well as my nurse, my link to the outside world, filling me in with the human details of life in the hospital to supplement the impersonality of the news media, which were frequently filled with the usual gloom about impending environmental disasters.
'The word going round is that there's a monster in this room. So I've been telling them that you're just horribly deformed by the fire, and desperate not to be looked at.'
'Close enough.'
'Not really. You know, you're quite beautiful, in a strange sort of way.'
I looked at her in astonishment. 'Zara, you've been doing this job far too long. It's seriously distorting your judgement.'
She laughed, and went out of the room to return a few minutes later wheeling a full-length mirror. 'Just look at yourself!'
I looked. As usual, I was wearing only shorts; my new skin seemed oblivious to outside temperatures and I felt comfortable however cold or hot it became. I saw a figure from the cover of a fantasy paperback, gold eyes glaring from a rugged, scaled face, the low crest prominent over my scalp. My body was lean but powerfully muscled, very different from the rather flabby middle age I had been sliding into in consequence of an over-fondness for food and alcohol and a general avoidance of exercise. My skin was in fact not all the same colour; it was more greenish over my chest, and a darker purple on my back. When I moved it shone, iridescent in the light. As I looked at it, the colour seemed to shift. Puzzled, I concentrated on it and heard Zara gasp. My chest slowly changed from greenish purple to pure green. More concentration, and it shaded into red. After a few seconds, I got the hang of it and was able to shift up and down the spectrum, changing colour at will. More effort enabled me to produce crude patterns of varied colours across my body.
Zara laughed. 'A chameleon! Is there no end to your talents?'
'Probably not. By the way, you should see a dentist – that toothache won't go away by itself.'
She looked at me strangely. 'How do you know about that? I haven't told anyone.'
I shrugged. 'The same way that I know when you're close, that I know when the doctor is coming, and who's coming with him. I just pick it up, somehow.'
She looked thoughtful and went away. Shortly afterwards, the usual "Consultation" of doctors and other specialists arrived, trailing behind Brian like a comet's tail, and eager as always to try new tests and take new measurements while they tried to work out what had happened to me and what I had become. They had examined and X-rayed my new teeth (flawless), measured the performance of my new eyes (considerably improved in all respects: I no longer needed the glasses I had recently had to start wearing), assessed my strength (very impressive) and speed of reaction (even more so). I had a suspicion that several articles for the medical journals plus a couple of doctoral theses were being worked on. I did my chameleon trick to excited murmurs, concluding with plans for yet more tests.
I gathered that they were now in something of a dilemma, prizing their exclusive access to such an oddity while recognising that there was no medical reason to keep me in hospital any longer. Sooner or later, I would have to face the public. However, they first wanted to pin down this sensitivity to people which I claimed to have. They ran some tests, hovering outside the door in various combinations while I identified who was there. They were fascinated by my claimed ability to detect when something was wrong with someone, and debated how to test that. After a while, they conceived a plan to take me secretly around a children's ward in the middle of the night, when they would all be asleep.
I walked around with my little posse, scarcely needing to pause as I passed the end of each bed. I was initially uncertain how to link what I sensed with the medical terms for their ailments, so described the symptoms for the doctors to translate, murmured voices in counterpoint.
'Something badly inflamed, down in the digestive tract below the stomach.'
'Appendicitis; being operated on tomorrow.'
'Something feels wrong with the blood; it seems to be connected with the bones – something not working properly.'
'Leukaemia; awaiting a bone marrow transplant.'
'Part of the brain is damaged, it's affecting the use of some of the muscles.'
'Cerebral palsy.'
As we approached one bed, a small girl moaned; I sensed she was awake. I walked closer to her head, relying on the dim night lighting to hide my appearance. Her eyes were closed.
'Massive headache, affecting much of the brain.'
'She suffers from frequent and severe migraine attacks; she's in for observation.'
I bent over her head, sensing the strain within her nervous system, the agony she was feeling. I instinctively reached out a hand and placed it on her head. The flow of nervous energy was clear to me, the pressure points glaring as if red-hot. I focused on these, absorbing their details, willing them to cool while rerouting the flow to release the pressure. The moans quietened and she relaxed into sleep.
'What did you do?' An urgent whisper.
I shrugged. 'Just untied some knots.'
The tests became even more frantic, the doctors suddenly realising that I was more than a medical curiosity; I had become a major asset. My ward tours became nightly, I learned which symptoms were associated with which ailment and was soon able to diagnose with precision. I also learned which problems I could help with; they were essentially ones of the nervous system. I discovered that I could stop pain instantly, relax patients and send th
em to sleep at a touch. I could cure tinnitus (easily), epilepsy (with some effort), and a host of minor afflictions. There was little I could do about most diseases or physical injuries, but I could usually ameliorate the symptoms and speed the recovery. The hospital authorities were overjoyed – I was enabling them to comprehensively shatter their government targets for patient turnover.
Eventually the inevitable happened; one elderly lady (sciatica) awoke before I could reach her, took one look and screamed and screamed.
'There will have to be a press conference.' The hospital manager, a plump, bald man with a perpetual and probably justified air of carrying more than the usual weight of care on his shoulders, was glum but resigned. A crisis meeting was being held in the conference room. The Consultation nodded in agreement, with varying degrees of enthusiasm depending, I suspected, on how ready their articles were for publication. He turned to me. 'Is there anyone you want to warn first?'
I had thought about this before. 'No. I have a kind of brother, but we haven't spoken in years.'
'A kind of brother?'
'We were adopted as babies by the same couple, but we're not blood relatives.'
'Very well then, the sooner we get it over with, the better.'
I'm not sure exactly what the hospital manager said to the news media (or whether Mrs Sciatica's relatives had alerted them first), but they were there in force on the appointed morning, packing the lecture theatre amid a buzz of excited speculation. Television lights glared, technicians frantically gaffer-taped cables to the floor, microphones were tested amid much crackling and feedback whine, the table on the dais had been covered with a cloth onto which some alert PR man had imprinted the name of the hospital trust. Eventually all was ready. I watched from the sidelines, out of sight of the press.
The hospital manager said a few words of introduction, announcing an important development in his ability to help patients and commendably working in the name of his hospital three times in five sentences. All wasted effort; from my experience with news editors, they would cut that bit out. Then the HM introduced Brian, who gave a dry but gruesome description of what had happened to me in the fire, illustrated by some photographs which I had not seen before. Even a few of the less-hardened hacks gasped at the sight; I was totally unrecognisable, just the charred form of a man. He went on to describe my miraculous recovery from what should have been certain death, and the strange transformation which took place under my all-over scabs. The photos (discreetly edited in the interests of decency) caused a murmur of astonishment and speculation around the audience. Attention became even more rapt when he described my sensitivity to people and their afflictions, and my ability to heal some of them. He paused for a few moments, the press so stunned that it took at least three seconds before they dived into the gap and started a clamour of questions. He forestalled them with raised hands. 'I'd now like to introduce Cade to you.' He turned to face me and beckoned.
Zara, who was watching from just behind me, had decided to take over responsibility for my clothing and had put much effort into my appearance.
'You can't go in there just wearing shorts. And you'd look silly in conventional clothes. My sister is doing a course in textiles and fashion, I'll work on something with her.'
"Something" turned out to be a sleeveless tee-shirt with a deep vee-neck, in an open weave cloth of a metallic grey material. Loose jogging pants in a similar cloth were complemented by silver-grey trainers: I looked like nothing so much as one of the aliens from an episode of Star Trek. Zara gave me an encouraging little push and I realised that I had been hanging back, dreading this moment. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and marched to the dais to a stunned silence from the press. I sat down between the HM and Brian, and smiled. 'Good morning', I said. Then all hell broke loose.
After a while, the HM managed to establish some sort of order and an agreed sequence for questioning. The first hack stood up. 'Cade, I don't wish to be rude but you really don't look human. How can you prove you are who you say you are, and aren't some alien from outer space?' There was nervous laughter from his colleagues.
I smiled. 'An understandable question. All I can say is that my memories of before the fire are intact, comprehensive and accurate. The only thing I can't remember is the explosion and fire itself.'
The HM leaned forwards. 'We did, of course, have some initial doubts about this ourselves, but after draining Cade's memory of all he could recall we checked it out exhaustively and were able to confirm the accuracy of his account. We also did some DNA tests and I can assure you that he is no alien.' I hadn't known about that bit.
The next part of the press conference was predictable. I did my chameleon trick and answered some learned questions from science journalists, one of whom I recognised from my previous life.
'Hello Stephen, good to see you again.'
He smiled rather thinly. 'I'm relieved that you recognise me. But I used to call you Matthew. Should I now call you Cade?'
I shrugged. 'I used to use my first and last names, but so much has happened that to some extent I don't feel the same person that I used to be, so I prefer to use my middle name now.'
Stephen continued. 'What explanation do you have for what has happened to you?'
This was the key question and I could sense interest rising to an even higher pitch. 'Obviously, I've thought about it a lot, and identified some theoretical possibilities. Maybe it's natural; perhaps I'm some earlier or alternative form of humanity and the stress of the fire switched on some dormant genes. But there's no evidence that such a form ever existed, and nothing like that has ever happened before. It could be a new mutation brought on by the fire, but it's very hard to believe so many changes happening at once, all of them functional; mutations don't happen like that. So it seems more likely to be artificial; some scientists somewhere might have been playing with genetic modifications to people, and I somehow got involved. But the science of genetics is decades if not centuries short of being able to achieve this.' I spread my arms wide, then smiled. 'Perhaps I have been got at by little green men in flying saucers.' There was nervous laughter. 'But I don't believe in earth visitations by such creatures for very good reasons, as I've emphasised in articles I've written before.'
'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.'
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