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
