by Stan Mason
However any ideas of that nature were totally misconstrued for, without undue delay, Eliza Braithwaite contacted a private investigator, Harry Dawkins, a dour detective with a high reputation, telling him all that she had witnessed and heard. She demanded that he instigated a full inquiry which would provide details of why her nephew had changed so much to allow her to possibly litigate against the Crown.
When she related her story, the detective frowned at the story. He knew nothing that might help him in the case because the tale was so bizarre. At first, he considered that the medication given to Flint had created side-effects which created a serious condition causing him to deteriorate rapidly. But putting on forty years in age, and looking entirely different, seemed pretty far-fetched.
In order to get to the bottom of the matter, Dawkins visited Gresham Asylum to see Terence Flint for himself. He went immediately to the Matron’s office to challenge whether the aged person shivering in the small room was actually Eliza Braithwaite’s nephew. The Matron confirmed the patient’s identity which left the detective in limbo. It wasn’t long, however, before events altered the situation.
One morning, two days later, Terence Flint lay immobile in his chair. He had suffered a serious cardiac arrest and his spirit had passed on to the next world. The Matron was alerted to the fact and she range Jordan to ask for his advice.
‘Terence Flint, that man you took for the body exchange, has died,’ she informed him briefly. There’s a detective named Dawkins, hired by Flint’s aunt, who’s asking why he’s aged so quickly. What should we do?’
The government agent pursed his lips at the other end of the line. ‘There’s only one thing we can do,’ he related thoughtfully. ‘You have to remove every vestige of Flint’s name from your records. As far as it goes, he was never at Gresham Asylum, he didn’t exist. There was no person by that name there.’ He paused to think for a moment. ‘I’ll arrange for the disposal of the body right away and, from your point of view, you’ve never heard of him. Is that understood?’
The Matron hesitated as she thought about the order. ‘What if the aunt returns?’ she enquired with concern in her voice, thinking that she had to removed the patient’s name from fourteen years of records.
‘Despite anything his aunt says, he was never there. She made a mistake. Claim that she must be having a nervous breakdown. That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons.’
‘And what about the detective... Harry Dawkins?
The government agent considered the problem for a moment. ‘I’ll take care of him,’ he concluded ending the conversation. He placed his mobile telephone down on his desk with a dozen thoughts racing through his mind. That was all he needed... an irate aunt, an enquiring detective, and the dead body of a very old man who no one could recognise. He knew that there would be problems with the new complete body exchange programme and this was the first sign of it happening.
In the meantime, Dawkins started to investigate the matter with his local Member of Parliament but he failed to find any information to help him. However he knew a minor official in the Government who soon brought him into contact with Jordan. Little did he know that he was the fly moving towards the dreaded spider’s web. He arranged to meet the government agent and soon they found each other in the hallway of the House of Commons.
‘There’s something odd going on,’ stated Dawkins bluntly, hoping to secure some reasonable explanation that he could pass on to the aunt. ‘I have a client whose nephew aged some fifty years in a fortnight. It’s obviously something the Government’s doing and I’d like to know about it!’
‘There’s nothing going on that your client needs to know,’ returned Jordan smoothly.
‘That’s not the answer I’m looking for?’ complained the detective sharply. ‘That’s political gobbledygook! Why can’t you come clean?’
The government agent was not to be moved by the detective’s insistence for the truth. He had offered to talk to the man in order to allay any suspicious but it did not seem to be working.
‘The Government’s involved in many different kinds of activities but I know nothing about anything your client is telling you,’ he lied blatantly.
Dawkins huffed and puffed. ‘Look... you wouldn’t have agreed to see me if something wasn’t up, pal!’ he snorted angrily. ‘You can tell me what’s going on!’
‘If there was, and you knew, what use would it be to pass on the information to your client. Flint’s dead and there’s not way anyone can bring him back. The Government’s not responsible for your client’s nephew’s condition. I suggest that you look for the answers elsewhere.’
‘And where would that be?’ demanded the private investigator.
‘You’re the detective,’ retorted Jordan. ‘You tell me!’ With that, he turned on his heel to leave the other man standing without any answers to satisfy him.
Dawkins was furious. It was obvious that Jordan had met him to find out what he had known about the incident and that he was unwilling to impart any information back to him. The truth of the matter was that the reticence of the Government left the detective out in the cold. He had nowhere to go... no one to contact. He had come to a completely dead end in his enquiries.
An hour later he found himself talking to Sky Summers on the telephone hoping beyond hope to tap her knowledge on the subject and to further his investigation.
‘You say that the man in the asylum aged fifty years in a couple of weeks and looked entirely different’ she echoed. ‘Maybe it was because it wasn’t Terence Flint but another man. They may have overdosed Flint and tried to cover it up by putting someone in his place. Have you thought of that one??
Dawkins was flabbergasted for he had not considered that to be a solution. He could not believe that an established asylum would go to such lengths to hide a death of that kind... but it was possible. At the same time, Sky’s mind moved back to the censored story recognising that the Government was going to head for a fall within a short space of time. People were already asking questions and it was her role to bring them to the public domain. ‘Why don’t you meet me at the television studio in Manchester tomorrow when we can discuss the matter in detail.’
Dawkins was delighted to find another lead, realising that the news presenter knew much more about the matter than she was letting on.
The next day, he sat in her office facing her with a barrage of questions on his lips. ‘Miss Summers,’ he began in earnest, ‘I’m aware of your experience in rooting out strange stories and presenting them on the news. Briefly, my client has a nephew aged thirty-three who turned into a man in his eighties in two weeks. He also had a different face. Is that a story for your television news programme?’
The female news presenter hesitated before replying. She had already been cautioned not to pursue the issue but she had never signed the Official Secrets Act, and now a member of the public was demanding answers. Nonetheless, she realised the seriousness of her position and hesitated to relate to the visitor all that she knew.
‘I’m not sure I can assist you with your enquiries,’ she told him, cutting back on her original decision to discuss the matter.
‘Come on, Sky,’ insisted Dawkins angrily. ‘My client’s a disturbed aunt who’s extremely concerned about the condition of he nephew. She doesn’t recognised him any more. How can someone change in age and looks like that in a fortnight?’
‘Why can’t she recognise hi?’ asked the news presenter with a puzzled expression on her face.
‘Because he looks so different... like another person!’ came the reply. His face is unrecognisable, wrinkled, different. He’s a thirty-three year old man in his late eighties. Isn’t it something that looks suspicious?’
Sky sat up sharply in her seat as the words of the detective became etched in her brain. ‘Are you talking about his face and his body?’ she asked, with a chill runni
ng down her spine.
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ retorted the private investigator vehemently. ‘His face and his body are those of a very old man!’
Reality began to strike a chord as Sky realised that there had been a development in the body exchange programme. It had previously been only a body swap. Each person involved had been allowed to keep his own head. Now it seemed to be a complete exchange... both head and body. But what about the criminal element? What happened to that? Was it deleted from a criminal’s brain in the process? Yes... how did the Government managed to retain the talent of the recipient and destroy the criminal element being passed over.? There were many questions to answer but they appeared to have overcome most of the problems... although it didn’t help Terence Flint at the Gresham Asylum. Reason and logic fled her mind for a moment as she sensed an escalation to the story.
She halted the interview for a short while, taking the detective into an ante room, excusing herself to him before returning to her office to pick up her mobile telephone and ringing Jordan.
‘It seems that you’ve moved on,’ she challenged brazenly. ‘You’ve now found a way of exchanging both the heads and the bodies, haven’t you?’
‘Why do you say that?’ he asked as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
‘I’ve a detective by the name of Dawkins with me whose client has a nephew in East Anglia,’ she related positively. ‘Apparently, he’s aged fifty years in a fortnight... both head and body. You don’t know anything about that, do you... or do you?’ Her comment and her tone were most accusing.
Jordan decided to come clean expecting Sky to be forced to keep the secret. ‘We’ve moved on,’ he told her frankly. ‘A scientist discovered a means by which we could exchange people in total and still be certain to retain his talents and drive.’
‘What about the donors?’ she enquired with concern. ‘How do they come out of it?’ There was silence on the line before she continued. ‘It’s okay... you don’t have to answer that. The silence says it all.’
‘I’m not saying anything, Sky,’ retorted the government agent knowing that he had given the game away. ‘You do realises you’re still prevented from telling the story under a D-notice. You can’t represent anything about it on television.’
‘So you keep reminding me,’ she countered angrily. ‘But let me say this. The story’s become too big to keep from the public and this is starting to move into this area.’
‘I think we’ve finished the conversation,’ concluded Jordan rudely, turning off his mobile telephone. It was starting to become a very difficult day for him... and it was still so early in the morning!
Sky stared across the room pursing her lips as ambition flooded her mind. The matter was now getting out of hand with aunts and detectives coming on to the scene and the Government deserved to be exposed on the matter. She decided to take the bull by the horns and over-ride the convictions of the D-notice, ignoring the warnings of her superior, to reveal the nature of the tale on television within the next two days
At his office in the House of Commons, Jordan sat at his desk with his hands clenched in front of him. He still had romantic ideas about Sky although he knew that she no longer wanted any romantic involvement with him. Her career clearly came both first and last in her life. At this stage in her life, she wanted nothing more. Any intervention from a male suitor was of only a temporary nature as far as she was concerned. However, her investigation into the body exchange programme remained a serious threat to its secrecy and now he was forced to consider the future of his own career. He knew that she was on the verge of revealing the story to the public and it was imperative that she had to be stopped. After a great deal of deliberation, he dialled a number on his mobile telephone and await a reply at the other end.
‘Johnston!’ he uttered when the call was answered. ‘I’ve got a job for you. Sky Summers at the Manchester television studio and a detective by the name of Dawkins... Harry Dawkins. They’re together at the moment. Do it now!’
He closed down the conversation abruptly, staring bleakly at one of the walls in his office. It was sad for him to have to arrange the demise of anyone with regard to the fact that they would endanger the Government’s position but, in this case, he regarded it to be essential. There was no other alternative. His love for Sky was one thing; her betrayal of information that would affect the Government was another.
Half an hour later, Dawkins and Sky left the television studio by the rear door to got to her vehicle in the car park. She had arranged to see someone on a pre-arranged interview having concluded not to go any further with the visiting detective... but it was never going to happen. Tom Johnston, an assassin working for MI6 rested his Kalashnikov rifle on a tripod on a low-level bridge facing the car park. As soon as the detective and the news presenter emerged from the building, he looked causally through the magnified sight, pin-pointing each of them in the cross-fire, and fired twice in succession in a matter of seconds. Both his targets fell to the ground shot through the temple as he swiftly dismantled the equipment and placed it in a cello case. There would be no more interference by Sky Summers or from Harry Dawkins in the exchange programme. Aunt Eliza Braithfwaite would be left wanting with regard to any information on the horrid changes in her nephew.
Jordan would never forgive himself for his actions but needs must when the Devil drives and this was one of those occasions. He prayed for the day when he could confront Ratcliffe and tell him exactly what he thought about him and the exchange programme. The he realised that his own subordinates would think the same of him... cold, heartless, and cowardly. It was a vicious circle of a war on human rights!
***
Eliza Braithwaite sat brooding about her nephew for a further week and, not having heard anything from Dawkins, she rang him to discover that his telephone had been disconnected. She went to the building where his office was located to chide the man for not paying his telephone bill only to discover a note pinned to his front door.
“We regret that this agency is closed due to the sudden death of Mr, Dawkins,” it read.
Aunt Eliza stepped back for a moment as though struck by a blow with a blunt instrument being suddenly faced by a situation she had not expected. She walked a short way down the corridor before knocking on the door of another office to ask for further details.
‘What happened to Mr. Dawkins?’ she asked, staring directly into the face of the receptionist sitting there.
‘He was shot when visiting Manchester,’ came the reply. They say he died instantly.’
Mrs. Braithwaite slumped into a chair at the news, musing that it was just her luck to employ a detective who got himself killed. In due course she left the building and made her way to Gresham Asylum to visit her nephew again. There was a vague hope in her mind that the man they claimed was her nephew might recover to explain what had happened to him.
When she arrived there, she slipped past the Matron’s office in the direction of the small room where her nephew had been on her last visit. She opened the door tentatively to discover that it was empty. The chair was in the same position but her nephew was not there. Her gaze fell to the table by the side of the chair to notice two books which she had given to her relation. The first was an early reader designed to help young children to read; the second was a colouring book.
Concerned at his absence, she approached a nurse walking along the corridor.
‘Where’s Terence Flint, my nephew?’ she enquired politely. ‘He was in this room a few days ago when I came to visit him.’
‘I think you must be mistaken,’ replied the nurse with a frown appearing on her face. Without hesitation, she continued her journey along the corridor.
‘Just a moment,’ shouted Eliza hurrying to catch up with her. ‘He’s been here for fourteen years, for God’s sake. He’s not in his room. What’s happened to hi
m?’
The nurse shook her head slowly. ‘You’d better see the Matron,’ she suggested before going on her way.
Flint’s aunt stood quite still in the corridor completely puzzled. She had seen the nurse on several occasions so it wasn’t as though the woman was new to the asylum. Therefore why did she deny all knowledge of her nephew? Something very odd was happening!
She knocked on the door of the Matron’s office and entered. ‘What’s happened to my nephew, Terence Flint?’ she demanded furiously.
‘Terence Flint!’ repeated the Matron with a dumb expression on her face. ‘I don’t know any patient of that name at this asylum.’
‘Horesefeathers!’ snapped Mrs. Braithwaite sharply. ‘I’ve been here dozens of times.’ Her blood-pressure was begin to rise rapidly.
The Matron continued her act of innocence before replying. ‘You must be mistaken. There was never a patient of that name here.’
The aunt leaned heavily on the desk with a determined expression on her face. ‘You’re lying to me through your teeth!’ she seethed. ‘Of course you know him! He was here when I last came and the nurse took me to his room. And that was interesting too because he was very old and looked completely different. Something unholy’s going on here. I demand to know where you’ve put him.’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘The person you showed my last week was not my nephew. Of that I’m certain. He was someone else. So what have you done with him? I want the truth!’
Despite the woman’s angry tirade, the Matron was not to be intimidated. In effect, she was more fearful of Jordan had she told the truth. Flint’s aunt could field one accusation after another but it would not help her cause.