Chapter Four

“Bugger off, the lot of you!” Darcy McGovern didn’t appreciate the small group of protesters bothering her brother and his team outside the doors of the university’s AI laboratory. They were making it difficult for her to bring Dalton his lunch.

“You should be ashamed!” said a man holding up a sign that read No Human Trials.

Darcy rolled her eyes. First, it had been the animal rights people insisting not to test the afterlife on the rats. Now, it was the religious fanatics losing their minds over human trials. Karl had been right about it being a headache, ethically speaking. Though it was also proving to be a literal headache. Darcy tried to ignore the throbbing at her temples which announced the beginning of a migraine.

“I’m a little bit psychic and I have a feeling my brother forgot to make his lunch today, so I’d like to bring him one, if you don’t mind,” Darcy told one protester. I served our country defending your bloody rights and this is what you do with them? Darcy thought hard, hoping the man would hear her on some level.

“Jesus saves!” exclaimed a woman who gave Darcy a pamphlet explaining the miracle of Christ. Darcy tossed it on the ground but felt guilty about littering and picked it back up.

“I’m Catholic. And look what the Pope tweeted!” Darcy pulled out her phone and showed it to the woman and the other protesters. Indeed, the Pope had written: “I hear some stupid American televangelists saying to stop some crazy guy in Liverpool. But God said, no don’t bother with that.” Darcy wondered why the Pope wrote his own tweets.

“Papist!” the woman shouted. Darcy rolled her eyes again and elbowed her way past them. She walked into the lab.

Dalton and his team were watching Clyde burrow about in his virtual afterlife. The latest development was that Clyde could now generate certain things he wanted in the simulated reality. The Albert Dock was full of grains, seeds and fruit for Clyde to nibble on. He was also capable of changing certain things about himself he didn’t like. For reasons only Clyde knew, he had chosen not to have a tail anymore.

“Dr. McGovern!” a dark-haired, bug-eyed neurosurgeon, Dr. Fanny Whalen, called out to Dalton as she entered the lab, waving around a dead rodent high in the air. “Brooke died!”

“Excellent,” replied Dalton. “It shouldn’t be long before she joins Clyde.” All eyes were now glued to the screen, waiting for a second little grey rat to appear. Sure enough, Brooke showed up in the simulated reality and began eating from Clyde’s abundance of seeds. The team applauded.

“This is starting to make me hungry,” said Dalton, going through his bag.

“I’ve got you covered,” said Darcy, bringing him the lunch she’d made him.

“Creepy twins anticipating each other’s needs,” observed Dr. Fanny Whalen.

Darcy jerked her head in Dr. Whalen’s direction, but her eyes seemed to lose focus. “You’re going to die a painful death rather soon, I’m afraid,” Darcy uttered to her in a low, monotone voice.

Dr. Whalen shuddered and dropped the dead rat on the floor. “Like I said, twins are creepy,” she muttered under her breath.

Karl hurried to join Dalton and Darcy, holding his laptop. In his rush, he nearly tripped over a wire on the floor. The only thing that kept him from falling was the fear of breaking the computer, which still wasn’t backed onto any sort of cloud, despite Dalton’s advice. He pulled up a chair between the two and sat down, placing the computer on his lap.

“Look, we’ve got it!” said Karl. “Authorization for human trials. Now all we need is the consent of a few competent and capable adults.”

Dalton nodded. “Thank you for dealing with all the legalities, Karl. I understand it hasn’t been particularly easy.”

Karl had hardly slept in the past eight months trying to find a way around the unethical nature of the experiment. “Oh, it was nothing, really.”

Clyde approached Brooke, hoping she might be interested in mating. She grew three times his size, hissed, and left with his food. He generated some more.

“Poor ol’ sod. Looks like you can’t have everything you want, even in Heaven,” said Darcy.

Dr. Fanny Whalen had been eavesdropping. “Competent and consenting adults. Right. I can’t imagine what kind of competent adult would consent to such an experiment.”

“Souls doomed to a fate worse than death,” Darcy said in the same flat voice as before. Dalton, Karl and Dr. Whalen looked at her with widened eyes. Even Darcy seemed taken aback by her words. They all quietly turned back towards the large screen. Brooke was now swimming in the River Mersey.

* * *

“Bottle or tap?”

Isidora Prentice stood behind the bar, waiting for the greasy man sitting on a stool on the other side to decide what to order. The Toxteth pub was dimly lit and needed renovations, but Isidora didn’t care enough to bring it up with the owner. Most people came to the pub to place bets on football games. The average clientele was middle-aged men who enjoyed looking at Isidora almost as much as they enjoyed watching football, which they enjoyed almost as much as drinking.

“Bottle. No, tap. No… How much are they?”

“Five pounds for a bottle. Four-fifty for a pint.”

The man pulled out a pile of change from his pocket and began counting. He’d nearly finished, lost count, and restarted. Isidora had already had the time to count twice that he had four pounds, seventy pence in total, but figured it would be rude to interrupt him. Isidora was working on her patience with customers. The questionable people she served at the pub reminded her of the questionable people she used to investigate in her former job.

The greasy man counted the change once more to be sure he’d gotten it right, this time on his fingers. He nodded once he was confident he’d counted it properly.

“Bottle, please.”

Isidora didn’t move. “You sure about that?”

The man looked at the change and hesitated.

“I’ll get you a pint,” said Isidora.

Isidora took a pint glass out of the fridge and filled it with the darkest beer available. She placed it on a coaster and pushed it over to the greasy man.

“I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new?” the man asked Isidora.

“Yes and no.” She hated the small talk she had to make with customers.

“What’s that mean?”

“I worked here until I was twenty-one. I didn’t expect I would be back six years later.”

A Welsh construction worker seated two seats away from the greasy man laughed. “They always come back,” he said.

“So I was told, when I left.”

“What brought you back, luv?” asked the greasy man. He drank a quarter of his pint in one swig and slammed it loudly against the table.

“Got sacked.” Isidora attempted to make eye contact with him, but his focus was on her chest.

“Why’s that? What divvy, that boss of yours,” said the man, looking her up and down.

“My nephew went missing and I couldn’t concentrate on my work anymore.”

“Your nephew’s missing? Is he a Liverpool lad?” asked the Welsh construction worker.

Isidora nodded and took the empty pint in front of him away.

“Another?” she asked. He nodded. She got a new glass out of the fridge, filled it and handed it to him.

“This might not mean anything,” said the Welsh man, “but, over at me neighbours’, I sometimes hear some man shouting things about naughty children at night. Like I said, it doesn’t really mean anythin’, but—”

“Where?” asked Isidora.

He wrote the address down on a napkin and handed it to her. He had added his number and a heart. She put it in her pocket. Though the most likely scenario was that it was an attempt to seduce her, or perhaps murder her in his home, Isidora had already come up with a new theory that her nephew had been kidnapped by a mad man who wanted to punish naughty children. Stanley had never been particularly well behaved.

After her afternoon shift ended, Isidora decided to head directly to the address written on the napkin. It was pouring rain but she didn’t bother to flag down a cab, deciding to walk instead, even though she had neither a raincoat nor brolly. She turned down a narrow alley that smelled of sulphur. The closer she got to her destination, the stronger grew the smell. She arrived at the flat and knocked aggressively.

The door swung open and she looked up at the man standing on the other side of the threshold. His dark, greying hair matched his stubble beard, and the lines that framed the corners of his dark eyes and thin lips conveyed the benumbed maturity born of hardship. The sulphurous odour emitting from the apartment was so strong Isidora chose to breathe only from her mouth, but instantly regretted it after taking in the air that tasted of rotten eggs. She tried not to gag.

“Oi, Quentin! Who’s that?” a voice inside the apartment shouted.

Quentin looked Isidora up and down. “Wow, very nice! I wasn’t expectin’ a woman; I thought only men could be priests,” he said. He turned around. “Eddie, come have a look at this.”

A priest? Does he really think I’m a priest? How could he possibly mistake me for a priest? thought Isidora, looking down at her outfit, wondering if anything about her short, tight, black, soaking wet dress or her bright-red heels gave him the impression she had taken an oath of chastity. Fuck it, just go with it. 

“They’ve changed the rules around a bit,” said Isidora, stepping into the flat. It was small, damp, and in addition to the smell of sulphur, she detected a strong odour of rum and cigarettes. “Got a ciggy?” she asked.

Edward Reid raced over and handed her his entire pack. “All yours, gorgeous.” She began to smoke, waiting for one of them to say something.

“So the ol’ man… not sure where he is, but he’ll pop up soon, he always does,” said Quentin.

Isidora observed him closely. What a harsh look. Must have broken his nose several times. Not bad looking, though, overall. She looked at his tattoos, covering his fingers up to his neck. Prison tattoos. Strangeways? No, probably Liverpool. Hang on, his neck… What the bloody hell is that? 

“Oh, there he is over on the couch, the ol’ man!” said Edward. “Wait, he’s not usually dressed so…”

“What a clean old man!” said Isidora. Holding a book, the old man was sitting with a polite little smile on his face. His beard was gone, and his eyes were a warm green. He wore reading glasses on his crooked nose. He waved to her and went back to reading his book.

“Stan!” Quentin called. “The priest…ess… is here! Come see, she’s really somethin’!”

Stanley Wexler limped upstairs from the basement, a cigarette at his lips and a can of beer in his hand. His entire body was covered in linear red scars, giving him the appearance of a human road map.

“Oh, bullocks,” Stanley said. “That’s no priestess, that’s me bitch aunt Isidora.”

Before she could react, Edward grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head back against his shoulder and pressed a switchblade against her cheek. She could smell the beer on his breath. He cut her slightly along the cheekbone.

“Not a sound or I’ll cut yer tongue out,” he said.

She elbowed him. He let go of her hair and quickly locked her arms behind her back. She struggled against him helplessly.

Stanley laughed. “Do it! Cut her!” he said.

“Look, we can explain,” Quentin said to Isidora. “It’s not what it looks like. It’s all the ol’ man’s fault.”

Stanley was growing frustrated. “She’s a real bitch and deserves to lose her tongue for all the shit she says. Do it, Eddie, or I’ll do it me’self!”

The old man put his book down and made his way over to Stanley, who turned away.

“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” said the old man. Stanley tried hard to hold back tears, sniffling and cowering. The old man bent down to Stanley’s eye level and moved from side to side, trying to make eye contact, but Stanley kept avoiding the old man’s eyes. “I think that kind of language deserves punishment.”

“Christ, not again,” said Quentin.

“Sir,” Isidora said to the old man. “These men have kidnapped my nephew. Please, help us!”

The old man turned around and made his way over to Isidora. There’s something strange about the way he walks, she thought, and looked at his feet. He was hovering slightly, gliding over the floor. She looked back up and his face was now only half an inch away from hers. His green eyes slowly began to fade away.

“If you’re his aunt, why didn’t you discipline him?” he said, his voice booming and resonating around the room. His eyes had emptied of all colour.

Isidora swallowed but managed to maintain a steady voice. “He’s not my child. He’s not my problem. I’m only here now as a favour to my sister.”

Edward’s grip softened. He slowly moved his arms and held her gently over the shoulders and across the chest, protectively. The old man’s beard began to grow back, and his little reading glasses disappeared. He grimaced, showing her his rotten, yellow teeth.

“With your hair and beard like that, you look a bit like Karl Marx. Has anyone ever told you that?” said Isidora.

Quentin laughed. Edward and Stanley looked at each other in horror, imagining how the old man might react to her attitude. In a split second, his mouth opened wide enough to swallow her entire head. His breath’s cold, misty texture against her face burned her eyes and skin like bleach and its sulphurous smell made her stomach churn. He emitted a piercing cry, and suddenly vanished. Stanley limped over to Isidora and wrapped his arms around her waist, in tears. She didn’t hug him back, although she patted him twice on the head.

Someone knocked on the door. Edward gestured for Isidora to remain quiet, opened the door and stood face to face with Father Peter. The priest wore blue jeans and a leather jacket. He smiled, flashing his perfect, straight, white teeth. It made Edward jealous. The priest’s curly hair had been flattened by the rain, and his bright blue eyes playfully scanned the flat. He held in one hand what looked like a toolbox with a large white cross painted on it. In the other, he held a pack of beer.

“Someone called for an exorcism?”

* * *

“No, not this one,” said Darcy, as yet another candidate for human trials walked into Dalton’s office for an interview.

Dalton, Karl, who was acting as legal counsel, and Dr. Fanny Whalen, the neurosurgeon, were meeting with each candidate one at a time. After the first dozen meetings, they brought in Darcy for security. The team had learned that it is not always Great Britain’s most mentally stable citizens who sign up for such experiments.

“Seriously, Darcy, you’re going to have to stop doing that every time a candidate walks through the door. It messes with our judgment,” griped Dalton.

“I felt the energies of the ones you’d end up choosing and this isn’t the right energy!”

Dr. Whalen looked at Dalton, and then at Karl, widening her eyes, hoping to find they agreed that Darcy was just as mad as she thought. They ignored her. A plump woman with an entirely pink face sat in front of the three, waiting for her interview to begin.

“Sorry about that, Ms. Brighton. It’s been a long day. I’m Karl, and these are my colleagues, Dr. McGovern and Dr. Whalen.”

“Oh, aren’t you a handsome devil, you!” said Ms. Brighton, leaning forward to pinch Karl’s cheek. “After me heart with that cheeky little grin and sweet little accent!” She tapped his cheek twice and giggled.

“That will be all. Thank you for your time,” said Dalton through his teeth.

Ms. Brighton stayed seated. She’d hardly had time to process Dalton’s immediate rejection when Darcy showed her out of the room.

“Go along now, your energy’s all wrong,” Darcy said, escorting Ms. Brighton to the door. “Have a lovely day!” she added, as Ms. Brighton shuffled off.

Darcy brought in the next candidate. “This one too, he’s all wrong, his aura is much too string-like. The ones you will pick are more circular.”

A dapper older man shook hands with all three and sat down. He apologized for having his hat on indoors, removed it, and lightly dusted off the elbow patches of his navy-blue sweater.

“You must be Mr. Owens,” said Dr. Whalen, picturing how she’d slice up his brain should he be selected for human trial.

“Oh, why, you can call me Don!” he said. “Not sure if it’s me real name, but I like the sound of it.”

After a brief pause, Karl decided it was his duty to ask the next question, as the only person in the room with social skills. “So… Don… what interests you about the work we’re doing here?”

“I read the ideal candidate was someone older, or near death, so that you yourselves could oversee the initial human trials when the time should come.”

Dalton nodded with some excitement. Finally, a promising candidate. 

“I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease last year, and I’ve made me peace with death. It would mean the world to me to be able to meet me grandchildren one day, even in a virtual world.”

“No, no, definitely not,” said Karl. “He doesn’t have the capacity to consent. We’ll get sued. Darcy, please, if you will,” he said, gesturing towards the door.

He felt terribly guilty immediately after the words had slipped out; Mr. Owens’ eyes welled up with tears. Legal paranoia trumps good social skills, apparently, Karl thought.

“Your grandchildren will certainly enjoy photos and videos and plenty of other lovely memorabilia,” Karl added. “You seem very kind, Mr. Owens, I’d love to get to know you better!”

Mr. Owens walked away with his head down. Darcy put an arm around him and consoled him as she escorted him out of the building.

“And you say I’m bad with people,” said Dalton. Karl held his head between his hands.

“I just want to get in there, already. Cut cut,” said Dr. Whalen, making a sawing gesture with her hands.

Dalton leaned slightly away from her, toward Karl. “Perhaps we should call it a day.”