Ethicare Well-Being Trust Centre as it was then known – started its life as a psychiatric hospital. Never one to let stupidity hinder policy, the then Home Secretary decided that the best thing to do with the cripplingly shy, the hyper sensitive and the over anxious members of society, would be to lock them up with shit-slinging window-lickers, psychopathic killers and corpse-mutilating, necrophiliac rapists. The idea being, of course, that this would put them in an environment where they would feel safe and their issues could be resolved quickly and efficiently. Part-private funding and a substantial one-off payment for each patient was nothing to do with it . And it certainly wasn’t a plot to camouflage health service inefficiency by locking the evidence out of site.
Ethicare was also noted for its curious security, the high fence with the wide gap on the cliff’s edge labelled, “Jump here to be free of torment”. And with no doorlocks to stop them, many did and probably were. Unofficial communications between ministers made veiled references to “the successful implementation of a cruel-to-be-kind stratagem”. But throwing aside rumours of conspiracy, malpractice or simply extreme gallows humour, no one could deny that the suicides were televised and that bets were taken on which patients would jump next. I’m told a doctor won fifty pounds on my father’s death.
When asked about the matter in the commons, the Home Secretary replied: “Sometimes, I stand up too fast and it makes my brain all hurty,” and was quickly consigned to the facility he’d created.
But time marches on regardless. Large sums of money change hands and the last of the patients make the great leap, buttering the cliff with body parts. Ethicare Well-Being Trust Centre becomes Stemset Life Technologies , part of a rapidly expanding research corporation. They add electricity to the razorwire fences, sling in some halogen lighting and a couple of watchtowers and fix up a charming sign reading: “If you’ve seen this, you’re already dead. By appointment to His Majesty, King William.”
Business thrives. Anthrax sales are down due to the popularity of home brewing, but government subsidies and a nice little sideline in cryogenics ensure a healthy return for the unethical investor. And here come our investors...
The guard on the main gate is surly and the stench of non-viable embryos in the incinerator further proof, if any were needed, that Stemset may be one of the many entrances to the underworld.
“Call me C,” says a disguised Ceesal warmly as they approach the huge, reinforced doors.
“Believe me, that's the letter that springs to mind,” Malmot answers bluntly. “You’re to behave yourself today. Understand?”
It’s unlikely Ceesal does. He’s drunk. One more drink and he’ll be quadrupedal. Malmot’s mood is sour, bordering on explosive. His new mouthpiece is an inarticulate inebriate; a liability unfit for public display; a one-way ticket to ridicule.
“Why are we here?” he asks. “Am I being annoying?” he adds.
“We are here,” Malmot replies, “to operate on your deformities. I’m thinking, we probably can’t make you any smarter but we might be able to find some kind of electrical implant that shocks you whenever you behave like an arse. You don’t mind us putting things inside your skull do you?”
“Not at all! Plenty of room in there!” Ceesal laughs.
“Just as well,” says Malmot, “because the alternative is a little more...” he turns away “... a little more fatal .”
The charming receptionist with the dead seagull eyes and too much makeup introduces them to – or rather points at – Doctor Holubec, a swarthy Eastern European with a handshake of respectful pressure. But his courteous smile hangs beneath a blank, blue gaze. It’s a look that speaks of war crimes and a first family lost to a mass grave. Whatever he loved is long gone. He prefers scientific experiments to
Ethicare was also noted for its curious security, the high fence with the wide gap on the cliff’s edge labelled, “Jump here to be free of torment”. And with no doorlocks to stop them, many did and probably were. Unofficial communications between ministers made veiled references to “the successful implementation of a cruel-to-be-kind stratagem”. But throwing aside rumours of conspiracy, malpractice or simply extreme gallows humour, no one could deny that the suicides were televised and that bets were taken on which patients would jump next. I’m told a doctor won fifty pounds on my father’s death.
When asked about the matter in the commons, the Home Secretary replied: “Sometimes, I stand up too fast and it makes my brain all hurty,” and was quickly consigned to the facility he’d created.
But time marches on regardless. Large sums of money change hands and the last of the patients make the great leap, buttering the cliff with body parts. Ethicare Well-Being Trust Centre becomes Stemset Life Technologies , part of a rapidly expanding research corporation. They add electricity to the razorwire fences, sling in some halogen lighting and a couple of watchtowers and fix up a charming sign reading: “If you’ve seen this, you’re already dead. By appointment to His Majesty, King William.”
Business thrives. Anthrax sales are down due to the popularity of home brewing, but government subsidies and a nice little sideline in cryogenics ensure a healthy return for the unethical investor. And here come our investors...
The guard on the main gate is surly and the stench of non-viable embryos in the incinerator further proof, if any were needed, that Stemset may be one of the many entrances to the underworld.
“Call me C,” says a disguised Ceesal warmly as they approach the huge, reinforced doors.
“Believe me, that's the letter that springs to mind,” Malmot answers bluntly. “You’re to behave yourself today. Understand?”
It’s unlikely Ceesal does. He’s drunk. One more drink and he’ll be quadrupedal. Malmot’s mood is sour, bordering on explosive. His new mouthpiece is an inarticulate inebriate; a liability unfit for public display; a one-way ticket to ridicule.
“Why are we here?” he asks. “Am I being annoying?” he adds.
“We are here,” Malmot replies, “to operate on your deformities. I’m thinking, we probably can’t make you any smarter but we might be able to find some kind of electrical implant that shocks you whenever you behave like an arse. You don’t mind us putting things inside your skull do you?”
“Not at all! Plenty of room in there!” Ceesal laughs.
“Just as well,” says Malmot, “because the alternative is a little more...” he turns away “... a little more fatal .”
The charming receptionist with the dead seagull eyes and too much makeup introduces them to – or rather points at – Doctor Holubec, a swarthy Eastern European with a handshake of respectful pressure. But his courteous smile hangs beneath a blank, blue gaze. It’s a look that speaks of war crimes and a first family lost to a mass grave. Whatever he loved is long gone. He prefers scientific experiments to
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