The Clinic

By Len Morgan

In an exclusive private clinic, owned by a multinational pharmaceutical corporation, there is a laboratory run by a genetic chemist Dr Cole Hatcher; a chemical wizard producing man-made substances for therapeutic uses.   They are not banned or illegal substances, how could they be?   Only their creator and his exclusive clientele know of their existence.   Each client knows that his or her medication has been formulated exclusively with their metabolism and physical attributes in mind.   True designer drugs, each an exclusive one-off creation.   Cole smiled, his empire was built on his ability to manipulate chemistry at the genetic level.   Yet, he marveled at the similarity of people at basic levels.   Their dreams hopes, desires, and fears are unwaveringly constant.   With minor variations, we all crave the same things.   Regardless of sex, race, religion, age, and wealth, all men harbour similar hopes, fears, and desires; desires that Cole Hatcher was willing and able to meet on-demand.

He did so by making each client believe their unique experience was created exclusively for them alone.   To ensure his secrets would not be copied and mass-produced he maintained one inviolable rule.   All medication was prepared by and dispensed by him and No drugs or potions ever left the clinic.

David Janes, a distinguished greying man in his forties, arrived from the station in the house limousine.   He walked into the foyé, acknowledging a smile, from the young receptionist, with a curt nod and nervous twitch of his left cheek.

“Good morning Mr Janes, Cole will be with you in a few minutes.   Would you please freshen up and change into the robe provided in courtesy room No.4,” she indicated the direction he should take.

He slipped from the shower into the house green and white toweling robe.   His mind cast back one week to his initial meeting with Dr Cole Hatcher.

.-...-.

  He’d arrived with an open mind, but totally unprepared for the tall twig-like young man sporting a goatee in an obvious attempt to add age and dignity to his appearance.   But, when Cole spoke, David realised his first impression was flawed.

“David I have total confidence in my ability to fulfill your requirements no matter how bizarre.  You can be completely open and say exactly what comes to mind, it will not cause offense, and nothing said in this office will go beyond these walls.   You have my word on it,” said Cole.

“And why should I trust you?   We have only just met and you haven’t even introduced yourself.”

“My dear Mr Janes…”

“Call me David.”

“I’m sorry David, let me start again.”

“I’m doctor Cole Thatcher,” he offered his hand with a smile.   They sat and talked then arranged a session for the following week.   Within half an hour he was being driven back to the station. 

.-...-.

“We meet again Cole,” he still had to smile at the image the beanstalk doctor presented. 

“I know I’m not George Clooney,” said Cole with a disarming boyish grin.  “As I explained at our first meeting, you have a complete money-back guarantee.   If the experience falls short of your expectations, you walk away and not a single copper coin of the realm will change hands,” he had a slick carnival sideshow patter.

“For twenty-seven years, I was very happily married to Margaret, the love of my life.   She died, three and a half years ago,” he glanced away to hide the misting of his eyes, “I miss her more with each passing day.   You recall, my dream was to be with her again for a short time.  But, short of death, I can’t see how that could be accomplished.”

“Swallow the pill with liquid, don’t chew it, the taste is not particularly pleasant,” Cole warned.

“David swallowed it with orange juice.   He was about to make an inconsequential remark, but when he looked, he was alone.   He’d been instructed to go through the blue door.   He found himself walking down a narrow dimly lit corridor.   He felt younger, healthier, and more vigorous than he had in an age.   He looked down at his normally painful knuckles, genetic arthritis, flexing them he was conscious of the absence of pain and lack of wrinkles.   In fact, he had no pain anywhere, even his teeth felt strong.   He’d lost his front teeth at the age of twelve in an accident playing rugger at school.   Gauging his height, he realized he was full-grown, possibly in his late twenties, the age he’d been when he and Margaret had first met, for the first time since her death, her name failed to invoke the emotional pain.   Because she isn’t dead, he thought.   Recalling a recent promise from a skinny young man named Cole.   He realised this was a dream.   He’d been instructed to enter room No.4.    There were hundreds of identical doors ahead and behind him.   The corridor stretched as far as he could see in either direction.   He looked at the nearest door, No.4.   He turned the handle and silently entered.

 

It was a candle-lit room.   The walls were pale and bare, a mattress lay on the floor, covered by a quilted down Douvette.   He saw the familiar shape of a young woman beneath the covers.   Could it be?

He edged closer, went down on his knees, retrieving a lighted candle stub.   Holding the light above, he lifted a corner of the quilt, revealing a tanned dark haired young female form.   As he did so, she rose up on one elbow and smiled at him.   His breath caught in his throat, and he knew if it were not a dream he would have suffered a heart attack.  His face broke into a smile and his eyes filled with tears.   They embraced, “Dear sweet Margaret, love of my life.”

They didn’t sleep, they made love repeatedly.   It’s so great to be young again.   They talked and made plans for the future.   As time passed the dream took on the guise of reality, and the last three years seemed just a cruel joke at his expense; he resolved never to sleep again.   Margaret produced a French stick cheese and red wine.   They laughed and joked, ate and drank, then made love again.   Passion spent, they lay embracing watching the false dawn through a small round window, listening to the dawn chorus.   When finally the sky lightened they fell asleep in each other's arms.

David awoke, conscious of familiar, aches and pains.   But, he was filled with life, ambition, and sheer elation.   He realized it had been a dream but he didn’t care.

.-…-.

Alice Prendergast, Ali to her friends, a smart, mature, woman in her forties had been a widow for four years.   She was wealthy and influential, a woman with physical needs and the determination to see them met, with as little disruption to her business and social life as possible.   Charlie, her well-endowed and devoted husband had kept her satisfied for twenty-two years, until his sudden death.   After a period of mourning, she found no shortage of suitors, but they all fell far short of Charlie.   Finally, she gave up on them.   A kindly well-meaning friend gave her the number of an exclusive male escort agency.   To her surprise, she found her frustration was alleviated overnight, and her physical well-being improved immeasurably.   She looked around and found other agencies, less reputable but able to cater to her needs, day or night.   She was seeing more men, more frequently than anybody realized.   Her search for Charlie 2 was becoming an obsession.

An escort from a less reputable agency breached the confidentiality clause by writing about her sexploits.   He threatened to talk to the tabloid newspapers, he even had pictures.   So she bought his silence as any woman in her social position would.   Overnight, she stopped using agencies, and for several months led the celibate life of a nun.   Then, of all people, her chiropodist told her about 'the clinic'. 

.-…-.

On her first visit, she was skeptical, but hopeful, what had she to lose but time, a commodity she had in abundance.   She took the pill Cole gave her and enjoyed the experience, but after her third visit, she felt there was something lacking.   She explained to Cole at their debriefing session.  

“The experience was perfect, maybe too perfect.   Charlie—in my dream—was better than the original; he was too pre-emptive.”   After a long pause, she said, “I no longer wish to continue with these sessions,” to her surprise Cole laughed.

“You know, it’s a plateau, it takes a dozen visits for some clients to reach that conclusion, others never do.   Three sessions is a new record.”

“So what can you do when somebody rejects the program?” she asked.

“Simple,” he said with a widening grin, “change the game and modify the rules.”

“My problem you understand is that I loved Charlie warts and all.   The dream was too perfect, it lacked his humanity.”

“Ali, don’t concern yourself,” Cole said, “It’s my job to iron out such trifling details.   Just come back next week, in your usual slot, and you will enjoy an enhanced session, a completely new experience.”

.-...-.

A week later, Cole was briefing a young man from an escort agency.

 “Of course you will appear to be her Charlie, your movements and actions will be his.   If you play your part well she will have the experience of a lifetime.   One thing could spoil the illusion, we do not have a print of his voice, so on no account should you speak.” 

.-…-.

David was to have his first enhanced session on the very same day.

A young woman had been briefed on him and was already waiting in the adjoining room No.5.   David walked down the corridor followed by a young man possibly on a similar mission.   As David entered his room, the young man entered the room opposite.  

 The woman was not young.   She took his hand and led him to a bed of scatter cushions.   They disrobed in the subdued light, admiring each other.   He knew she was not Margaret.    But, in the deep shadows, he would never know, this would be his first time with another woman since they were married.   They kissed tentatively at first, nervously, like two shy young virgins on a first date.   They kissed, caressed, and tentatively made love.   As they became more familiar their movements became surer and their lovemaking more intense.   They rapidly improved and learned from each other, neither spoke, they communicated in other ways.   Their passion waxed and waned and waxed again until dawn's light sidled throw the small window.   They slept exhausted but satisfied, in each other's arms.   In the other room, a young couple had been similarly engaged, each totally absorbed in the other.   Mid-morning they retired to their respective rooms to freshen up and return to the outside world.   David was very taken with the woman, he supposed her services would be added to his bill, but he had a real desire to continue their association.   Even if it was a relationship based on cash.   Unlike previous visits, he was completely aware of everything they had done because he had deftly palmed the pill to enable him to have a real experience instead of just a memory.

Having decided that she would enjoy the company of a man who was not a Charlie substitute, Ali did not take the pill either.   She had been aware that the evening could easily have ended in failure.   It was actually an unqualified success because she knew she’d found a man with whom she could spend the rest of her life.   But, there would be a cost.   Whatever it was she would pay it. 

.-…-.

Ali was driven to the station, in the house Limo, in plenty of time to catch the 12:10 train to Waterloo.   Cole had made sure they were unlikely to meet by accident, still believing they had both taken their medication like good little patients.   David was booked for the 13:10 train.

.-...-.

“You two!   How could you possible have gone into the wrong rooms?”

“You told me No.4,” the young woman protested.

“You told me No.5, but the other guy went into that room and I don’t do same-sex, so I assumed you gave me the wrong number.   If it’s any consolation, we have decided not to accept payment for the sessions, we are getting married, if it hadn’t been for this coincidence we might never have met, so our thanks to you, doctor.”

“Does that mean you will no longer be available?   Either of you?”

“Fraid not, we are both seeking a new profession.”

Cole waved them off as they left the staff car park. 

.-...-.

“Sir, I found this in Mr Janes’s room.”

One glance told him it was the tablet David should have taken it before entering room No.5.   It didn’t matter, he had left an hour after Ali, so it was unlikely that it would pose a problem.  'We are not a dating agency,' he thought.

.-…-.

Ali made inquiries at the station.   She described David to the station staff but none had seen him that day.   David arrived an hour later, the station was practically deserted, as always.   His heart sank, he’d obviously missed her, or she hadn’t left the clinic.  

He approached the ticket office attendant.

“Have you seen a young woman about so tall, dark hair, delicate features…”

“Aye!” he said, “try ‘the ladies waiting room’, she’s been here about an hour.”

He gazed through the window.   Ali sat with her head in her hands.   'She probably won't remember me having been under the influence of a mind-altering drug, when we were last together,' he thought   'Maybe she would be revolted by a man who needed a substitute for a wife, four years after her death.'   He was stricken with doubt now, maybe it would be better if he stayed out of her life.  

'God, she’s so beautiful,' he thought.

At that moment, she looked up, her head turned in his direction.   Her eyes lit up with recognition, anticipation, and something else.   Love!   All at once, she was in his arms, her perfume filling his being, taking over his life.   In that instant, they were both irrevocably changed.

As they kissed they knew, that neither would be returning to 'the clinic'.

Copyright Len Morgan