were. Perhaps,” and he smiled as he said this, making me think that he wasn’t entirely serious, “perhaps they’re aliens in disguise?”
We laughed and argued amongst ourselves for a while, and then Ben said, “I’ve often wondered about the bastards who die and come back. I mean, the really evil people. Killers, despots, psychotics. They come back changed—I know that. But who’s to say that they are who they once were?”
Zara smiled. “You don’t really think...?”
Ben laughed. “Of course not. I’ve read enough to realise that the maniacs are somehow mentally altered up there, for the better. Made humane.” He shook his head, his gaze lost in the leaping flames of the open fire. “It makes you wonder, though, exactly what does happen...”
Talk drifted onto other subjects.
Ben remained quiet for the rest of the evening. It was only later—a year later, to be precise—that he told us the reason why he was not implanted, and why he wondered at the process of transformation undergone by the returnees.
THREE
THE KÉTHANI INHERITANCE
That winter, two events occurred that changed my life. My father died and, for the first time in thirty years, I fell in love. I suppose the irony is that, but for my father’s illness, I would never have met Elisabeth Carstairs.
He was sitting in the lounge of the Sunny View nursing home that afternoon, chocked upright in his wheelchair with the aid of cushions, drooling and staring at me with blank eyes. The room reeked of vomit with an astringent overlay of bleach.
“Who’re you, then?”
I sighed. I was accustomed to the mind-numbing, repetitive charade. “Ben,” I said. “Benjamin. Your son.”
Sometimes it worked, and I would see the dull light of recognition in his rheumy eyes. Today, however, he remained blank.
“Who’re you, then? What do you want?”
“I’m Ben, your son. I’ve come to visit you.”
I looked around the room, at the other patients, or “guests” as the nurses called them; they all gazed into space, seeing not the future, but the past.
“Who’re you, then?”
Where was the strong man I had hated for so long? Such was his decrepitude that I could not bring myself to hate him any longer; I only wished that he would die.
I had wished him dead so many times in the past. Now it came to me that he was having his revenge, that he was protracting his life purely to spite me.
In Holland, I thought, where a euthanasia law had been passed years ago, the old bastard would be long dead.
I stood and moved to the window. The late afternoon view was far from sunny. Snow covered the hills to the far horizon, above which the sky was mauve with the promise of evening.
I was overcome with a sudden and soul-destroying depression.
“What’s this?” my father said.
I focused on his apparition reflected in the plate-glass window. His thin hand had strayed to his implant.
“What’s this, then?”
I returned to him and sat down. I would go through this one more time—for perhaps the hundredth time in a year—and then say goodbye and leave.
His frail fingers tapped the implant at his temple, creating a hollow drumming sound.
“It’s your implant,” I said.
“What’s it doing there?”
It sat beneath the papery skin of his temple, raised and rectangular, the approximate size of a matchbox.
“The medics put it there. Most people have them now. When you die, it will bring you back to life.”
His eyes stared at me, then through me, uncomprehendingly.
I stood. “I’m going now. I’ll pop in next week...” It would be more like next month, but, in his shattered mind, all days were one now.
As I strode quickly from the room I heard him say, “Who’re you, then?”
An infant-faced Filipino nurse beamed at me as I passed reception. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Knightly?”
I usually refused, wanting only to be out of the place, but that day something made me accept the offer.
Serendipity. Had I left Sunny View
We laughed and argued amongst ourselves for a while, and then Ben said, “I’ve often wondered about the bastards who die and come back. I mean, the really evil people. Killers, despots, psychotics. They come back changed—I know that. But who’s to say that they are who they once were?”
Zara smiled. “You don’t really think...?”
Ben laughed. “Of course not. I’ve read enough to realise that the maniacs are somehow mentally altered up there, for the better. Made humane.” He shook his head, his gaze lost in the leaping flames of the open fire. “It makes you wonder, though, exactly what does happen...”
Talk drifted onto other subjects.
Ben remained quiet for the rest of the evening. It was only later—a year later, to be precise—that he told us the reason why he was not implanted, and why he wondered at the process of transformation undergone by the returnees.
THREE
THE KÉTHANI INHERITANCE
That winter, two events occurred that changed my life. My father died and, for the first time in thirty years, I fell in love. I suppose the irony is that, but for my father’s illness, I would never have met Elisabeth Carstairs.
He was sitting in the lounge of the Sunny View nursing home that afternoon, chocked upright in his wheelchair with the aid of cushions, drooling and staring at me with blank eyes. The room reeked of vomit with an astringent overlay of bleach.
“Who’re you, then?”
I sighed. I was accustomed to the mind-numbing, repetitive charade. “Ben,” I said. “Benjamin. Your son.”
Sometimes it worked, and I would see the dull light of recognition in his rheumy eyes. Today, however, he remained blank.
“Who’re you, then? What do you want?”
“I’m Ben, your son. I’ve come to visit you.”
I looked around the room, at the other patients, or “guests” as the nurses called them; they all gazed into space, seeing not the future, but the past.
“Who’re you, then?”
Where was the strong man I had hated for so long? Such was his decrepitude that I could not bring myself to hate him any longer; I only wished that he would die.
I had wished him dead so many times in the past. Now it came to me that he was having his revenge, that he was protracting his life purely to spite me.
In Holland, I thought, where a euthanasia law had been passed years ago, the old bastard would be long dead.
I stood and moved to the window. The late afternoon view was far from sunny. Snow covered the hills to the far horizon, above which the sky was mauve with the promise of evening.
I was overcome with a sudden and soul-destroying depression.
“What’s this?” my father said.
I focused on his apparition reflected in the plate-glass window. His thin hand had strayed to his implant.
“What’s this, then?”
I returned to him and sat down. I would go through this one more time—for perhaps the hundredth time in a year—and then say goodbye and leave.
His frail fingers tapped the implant at his temple, creating a hollow drumming sound.
“It’s your implant,” I said.
“What’s it doing there?”
It sat beneath the papery skin of his temple, raised and rectangular, the approximate size of a matchbox.
“The medics put it there. Most people have them now. When you die, it will bring you back to life.”
His eyes stared at me, then through me, uncomprehendingly.
I stood. “I’m going now. I’ll pop in next week...” It would be more like next month, but, in his shattered mind, all days were one now.
As I strode quickly from the room I heard him say, “Who’re you, then?”
An infant-faced Filipino nurse beamed at me as I passed reception. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Knightly?”
I usually refused, wanting only to be out of the place, but that day something made me accept the offer.
Serendipity. Had I left Sunny View
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