Forever

My name is Professor Edwin Price, and I am currently on the verge of a breakthrough in finding a cure for the AIDS virus. However, things have been complicated by the reappearance in my life of a young man called Barnaby Sedge, whose body now lies at my feet. It is the third separate occasion our paths have crossed over the past twenty or so years and to fully understand his effect on my life, I will start with our first meeting in 1979. Barnaby was a first-year medical student who had been sent to me for extra tuition in the evenings. He was struggling with haematology and even back then I was considered the foremost expert in the field. I never usually took on private tutoring as I found it interfered with my research time too much. In this case however it was for an old friend to whom I owed a favour, so I agreed. My colleague said he had seen great potential in this young man and wanted him to have every opportunity to fulfil this. Barnaby Sedge presented himself at precisely the allotted time outside my office door, and unlike most of his generation, he gave two firm wraps on the old oak door and then waited for a response.

“Come.” I replied simply. After summoning him into the room, my first impression was of a quiet, studious, perhaps timid young man. His appearance was completely stereotypical of a medical student as they may appear in movies. He wore round, wire rimmed spectacles, with thick lenses which enlarged his eyes to cartoon like proportions. A thin, sharp nose supported the glasses and drew a line between his rosy cheeks. This was all contained by a thin, but healthy face and topped by a ruffled mess of wavy, brown hair. A brown corduroy jacket with patched elbows, multi-coloured scarf, and baggy grey trousers finished the effect. Under his arm was a clutch of volumes large enough to start a modest book club. He stood before me, one eye twitching nervously, obviously waiting for some form of greeting. I smiled despite myself and offered him a seat. And that was my first encounter with Barnaby Sedge.

I found him an obliging and attentive student, eager to please and quick to learn, the sort of pupil that made teaching a pleasure. Once over his initial shyness, Barnaby proved excellent company and often stayed on after the lessons to share a cognac and a story. We discussed everything from the origins of time, the possibility of existence of various mythical creatures, to Barnaby’s family history. It seemed that he was from a poor family in London and had only achieved his dream of becoming a doctor through a scholarship, which he had deservedly won. His parents were very proud of him, and it was plain that he was under a lot of pressure to do well, from both family and academia alike. One evening we were enjoying a cognac and discussing how medical breakthroughs were resulting in a continually aging population. It was in the course of discussing the ever-rising average age, that he turned the conversation towards immortality.

“Professor, if you discovered the secret of immortality, would you share it?” I considered this for a while, “I believe I read somewhere that no man should live forever, and I think I agree with that sentiment. To live forever would be a curse. And if I shared that secret, it would benefit good and evil men alike, so the balance of life, the Ying Yang would remain unchanged. Also, our planet has a limited supply of everything from, food, water, and air, to physical space. The concept of immortality creates more problems than it solves, if indeed it solves any at all.” Barnaby nodded contemplatively, and then our conversation continued along a different vein. He never did give me his view on the topic and the subject was never raised again.

I won’t deny that I felt some physical attraction to the young man. He was handsome in a bookish kind of way, and his lack of ego and pleasant manner made a change from the usual over-privileged brats that were sent here. In all our meeting I never once made any kind of advance on him, nor reveal my true feelings. Not that I wasn’t tempted and felt he would have been receptive to such attention. He was over eighteen, and his own man, as it were. It was more my moral compass that directed me away from such a path. I believed strongly in the sanctity of the student/professor relationship, and any relationship would breach this trust. Also, always in the back of my mind whether I admitted it or not, was the still rampant anti-homosexual world in which we lived. Any indiscretion could easily see me relieved of my position, whether it was given as the actual reason or not. So my admiration of him remained unrequited.

We continued our meetings, two nights a week, three hours a night (plus whatever social time we enjoyed), between November 1979 and December 1980 during school terms and he made great progress. Towards the end, our meetings served more of a social than academic purpose, as he had caught up with, and overtaken most of his classmates in the subject of haematology. Then, just as winter was beginning to exert its icy grip on the country, three months into his second year, Barnaby had simply stopped coming. I made some enquires but was fairly much stonewalled by everyone I asked. He apparently had made no real friends amongst the other students, he just kept himself to himself. Then I heard a whisper that he had dropped out due to feeling over pressured and exhausted. Strange, I thought, that he had never appeared so to me. Soon my research engulfed me again, and although I did think of him from time to time, I moved on with my life. I was not to see him again for fifteen years and then it would be under drastically different circumstances.

By 1995 I was practicing as a consultant in haematology for various hospitals. Basing myself in the prestigious Harley Street, I was currently using a laboratory at St. Dunstan’s Hospital in South London for my research. In return for this lab time, I would consult on various cases for them pro bono. In 1980, the HIV virus was barely heard of outside of drug users and homosexual circles. But now, fifteen years later, it had risen to frightening proportions, and this was matched by the paranoia that it induced. The rise and consequent spread of HIV and AIDS around the world had called men such as myself into great demand and I could command an excellent salary. Along with several colleagues, I had been working on a drug combination to combat the advance of HIV and we were making some headway. We advertised in a London newspaper for willing test subjects, guinea pigs, if you will. Applications began to come in, but not in the great numbers we had anticipated. There was still an enormous stigma attached to the disease which deterred many victims. This was particularly true of the gay community, many of whom were still closeted. So it was with some disappointment that, three weeks later, I began filtering through the few dozen application forms for a suitable subject. We had circulated thousands of forms around the area and the response was not encouraging. However, considering the sort of people and the disease we were dealing with, as I have said, many wanted to keep their anonymity, despite the chance of a cure.

We required twelve subjects for a reasonable cross section. The pile of suitable applicants currently stood at three and I was well over halfway through the forms. We needed different blood groups, different backgrounds, and different ways in which the virus was contracted for the tests to be a success. It was as I was thumbing dejectedly through the rest of the dog-eared pile of grubby forms that I laid eyes once again on the name Barnaby Sedge.

I blinked and read the name again, but there could be no mistake. The age and physical description were all in place and I at once placed his form into the yes pile. After a moment’s thought, I retrieved the form and read it more thoroughly; curious to know what had led this former protégé to such a predicament. Under current address was written, in a shaky hand, ‘no fixed abode’ and under the section asking how the virus was contracted, he had written, ‘unsure’. There was a contact telephone number for him, but very little else in the way of information. I picked up the handset of my telephone and began to push the numbers, almost in a daze. I then caught sight of the clock on my desk and replaced the receiver. It was just before midnight and far too late to be telephoning anyone, no matter what the circumstance.

So it was that I found myself in the same situation again the next evening, dialling the number once more. It rang for what seemed to be an eternity before a female voice answered.

“Hello?” it answered tentatively. I was taken aback and took a few seconds to regain my composure.

“Uh, may I speak with Barnaby Sedge please?” I asked, hating my inarticulateness.

“I’m sorry, lovey, this is a public telephone, there’s...” the woman was interrupted and there was the sound of distant raised voices before a familiar, yet strange voice flowed down the line. “Hello, who is this?” he asked. The voice trembled and oscillated with nervousness but was still recognisable as Barnaby’s. I chose not to answer his question but reply with one.

“I was looking for Barnaby Sedge, is he there?”

“It depends on who’s looking for him?” the voice replied tremulously. This was getting us nowhere, Price thought.

“It is Professor Price here, from the haematology clinic at St. Dunstan’s. You applied to come on our drug trials program.” There was a drawn silence from the distant end, then.

“Yes...yes, I did, has my name come up?” he inquired eagerly. I had not detected a glimmer of recognition at the mention of my name. He was probably more interested in the money. Being a drugs trial for a disease that was still basically a death sentence we were offering a sum of five hundred pounds per person to take part. This obviously attracted many undesirable types, so we went through a fairly meticulous selection process. I told him that his details had matched our needs and if he could be at the clinic by seven the next Monday evening, we would explain everything to him. I offered to post him details but he had no postal address, so he made a note of the clinics address and assured me he would be there at the appointed time.

We had made one-hour appointments over the course of the week for the twelve candidates we had finally selected, to be interviewed confirm their suitability. I had left the entire evening free for Barnaby, as I was curious to discover what had happened to him over the past decade and a half. I had bent the rules in his case, as homeless people were deemed unsuitable for the trials as it was difficult to keep track of them and their progress. They were also apt not to keep up with the medication as meticulously as it needed to be for these trials. But I felt, for some reason, a debt towards Barnaby which I could not explain. I suppose, if I was to self-psychoanalyse, we had become fairly good friends over the time we had known each other and I had come to look upon him not only as a companion, but as the son I never had.

The following six days crept past with infuriating slowness, but late Sunday evening I found myself becoming nervous at the thought of meeting Barnaby again. I knew there was a good chance he wouldn’t even show up for the meeting. Drug addicts were notoriously unpredictable, and from our conversation I was fairly sure he fell into this group. He could be high on drugs and forget all about our meeting or had lost the address. A thousand and one scenarios played through my mind, and I reprimanded myself for becoming so obsessed with the subject.

I was in the office at six o’clock the next evening, filing paperwork and trying to keep myself busy for the next hour. By six forty-five I had resorted to rearranging things on my desk and shuffling paperwork around, like a newsreader awaiting blackout at the end of a broadcast. Every few minutes I would leave my desk and peer through the frosted glass panel in the door, out into the corridor. Although only vague outlines were visible through the opaqueness, it was clear that no one was there. At two minutes to seven I could wait no longer and pressed the call button on my intercom.

“Margaret is my seven o’clock here yet?” 1 asked, trying to sound nonchalant. The reply was in the negative.

“Call me as soon as he arrives would you please Margaret.” I responded. I went to the percolator and poured myself a large coffee and sat down to wait, playing over in my mind how our initial conversation might run. Would he recognise me? Would I recognise him? Would he be friendly or hostile? My curiosity was consuming me, and it seemed like an eternity before the buzzer of my intercom snatched me from my pondering. The first buzz had barely started before my finger darted onto the button. “Yes Margaret?” 'I enquired, trying to maintain a tone of indifference. I simultaneously glanced at my watch; it was twenty-two minutes past seven.

“Your seven o’clock appointment is here Professor.” Margaret replied, making it obvious by the tone of her voice that seven o’clock should mean seven o’clock and not twenty-two minutes past.

“Send him in, would you?” I released the button, crossed my hands in my lap and waited. The shape of a rough human form began to appear, growing larger and clearer with every step. I saw a hand raised and it knocked twice, somewhat feebly, and then waited. Barnaby! It had to be one and the same.

“Come.’ I responded, just as I had at our first meeting all those years ago. My heart was racing with expectancy. It was somewhat like a horror movie, the doorknob twisted slowly and then swung inwards with its usual creak. If this were the movies, then the monster from the basement/attic/lagoon would have been standing there. But this was a different sort of monster, the ghost of Christmas past. The dishevelled figure that shuffled in was unrecognisable as the bright yet nervous young man I had known half a decade ago. But I knew it was him. His face was sallow and sunken with black rimmed eyes. Once boyish looks were now partially masked by a long grimy beard. His body appeared emaciated, skeletal, with bones showing through flesh where they should not. His once lustrous and out of control hair now lay lank and matted on his scalp, swept behind his ears and down below his collar at the back. The stereotypical students wire framed glasses were bent and twisted, held together with tape over his nose. As I scanned down to take in the entire countenance it was clear that his clothes had not seen the inside of a washing machine for many a long month. He had obviously been living rough for some time.

I was so shocked by his appearance that I found myself struggling for words. How could a human being spiral downward from the brink of a brilliant career so quickly? He looked like a hundred other HIV sufferers I had encountered, but knowing his history made a difference. Unable to stop myself staring, I needed to break the silence.

“Barnaby Sedge, do you remember me?” It was really two questions in one. Confirming his identity and seeing if he had any recall of our history.

“Professor Price...” He appeared to be mulling my name over in his mind, stewing it like a tea bag, extracting all the flavour he could. We stood like two gunslingers, each waiting for the other to make the first move. He reached for his holster first.

“Yes, I believe we were aquatinted once?” he finally admitted, his tone strangely condescending, as if admitting it were a social faux pas, as if he were royalty and I was, well, him.

“We spent many evenings tutoring and socialising at the medical training college in the eighties” I offered, hoping finally for a friendly smile of recognition. I really was prepared for a volley of abuse from this strange fellow that stood before me who bore no real resemblance to the person I had once known. Surely the memory of all those hundreds of hours we had spent together had not been completely leeched from his addled mind by drug abuse. To my relief a semblance of a smile cracked his features, and he strode forwards, revealing a slight echo of the man he had once been. He grasped my hand in a surprisingly firm grip and shook it vigorously; I felt the bones moving in his hand. I squeezed a friendly smile out, forcing myself not to snatch my hand away from his cold, skeletal grip.

After all my anticipations of this moment, none of them had come close to the feeling of emptiness and disappointment I now felt. I maintained a welcoming visage, but felt numb inside, as if this were any other patient who stood before me. I was perhaps, disappointed with myself for my lack of feeling.

“Sit down.” I offered, indicating the seat behind him with my open palm. I had his file opened in front of me and stared at it for a short time. This was completely unnecessary, as I had all but memorised its contents. It did give me time to gather my thoughts before turning my attention to Barnaby. He was watching me intently, eagerly, it bordered on pathetic I thought, with a pang of guilt. I was unsure how to begin, so I tried to remain business like.

“Thanks for coming in Barnaby. It is good to see you again, but before we go on, I must confirm a few details from your application I’m afraid.” He merely nodded, so I continued.

“You have given no home address. Is it correct that you are currently of no fixed abode?” I felt like I was intentionally humiliating him and from the look on his face, he seemed to feel it to.

“Um, yes, that is correct.” he replied humbly. I made a few notes in his file, this was really for show; I had already made my decision.

“There is one other anomaly,” I began. Barnaby looked at me expectantly, slightly concerned. “You have written that you are unsure how you contracted the virus, can you explain this please.” His face fell visibly with shame, and I hastily added, “Please believe me, I am not here to judge you, just to help, but this information is vital as to how we proceed with the trials.” I tried to reassure him. He seemed to take heart from this and began to talk. Barnaby Sedge continued to talk for over two hours, and it felt like he described every hour of his life since we last met all those years ago. It was a depressing and sad tale of circumstance, bad judgement, and personal weakness. I will not bother you with the full gory details, but I think a summary of the events is an essential part of this story.

Barnaby did pass his first year of medicine and he acknowledges the part I played in this success. However, during this first year he also, as the saying goes, fell in with the wrong crowd. They were third year students and misused their positions of trust and availed themselves of certain narcotics of an addictive nature. Being an impressionable sort, Barnaby was drawn into their circle and soon found himself craving ever bigger highs. He was also gay, this I had suspected after our first few meetings, and I had never given it a second thought. However, he had fallen in love with the leader of this ‘gang’ of drug thieves as well as the drugs he provided. It was a one-way love affair and this man, Don, used it to his full advantage. Barnaby was ever eager to please and performed increasingly brazen thefts to appease the object of his affections. Why should Don risk being caught himself if this sad little queer was more than eager to do it for him? When Barnaby was finally caught and disgraced, as was inevitable, he was abandoned and ridiculed by his former cronies. He was also stripped of the scholarship which had been such a holy grail to him, and he was thrown out of the school. Of course, the medical school had hushed the whole thing up, drug scandals were the last thing they needed. Unable to face his family, to whom he had attained an almost saint-like quality, Barnaby chose to disappear. Sadly, he carried his addiction with him and now without the easy supply that he was used to. Money soon ran out and he resorted to prostituting himself and begging to sustain his habit and indeed his existence.

So, the reason for his ambiguity became clear. It could have been the sharing of hypodermic needles or one of the many sexual partners that had passed on the virus. What a waste, what a waste I lamented to myself. At once I became determined that I would be this boy’s saviour. I must point out here, although it is of no consequence to myself, that I no longer hand any interests of a sexual nature towards him. He was frail and borderline psychotic from his years of drug abuse. His body was racked with malnutrition and any number of other diseases that I would hopefully determine over the next few days. Any physical attraction that might have existed previously had long gone and was not a consideration in the offer I was about to make him. The one stumbling block in his acceptance to the trials was his lack of permanent residence, which was a prerequisite for the program. I made a spur of the moment decision and announced, probably rather pompously,

“Barnaby, you must come and live with me, it is the only solution. This will be a purely business arrangement and you must respect the rules of my house of course. I will provide food and board for free, but in return you must complete the trials, regularly take your medication and stick to the given regime.” He looked up at me with cautious hope and then said, “Will I still get paid?” My heart dropped. It was a relatively simple question, but it revealed his motive for applying, and I had no doubt where the money would go. For a few seconds I stared at him without speaking, which clearly made him uncomfortable. He had probably guessed what I was thinking, and too his credit he did show some embarrassment, his cheeks reddening slightly as he squirmed in his seat. I finally said, “Yes, you will get paid,” as I paused, he looked up with renewed hope. I continued, “but only once the trial is completed.” For a second, I thought he was going to object, and am sure the thought had crossed his mind. He opened his mouth slightly to speak, then paused, before continuing. “Okay, if that’s what it takes.”

Over the next week or so I tried to instil some sense of self-respect back into this ghost of a man. I broke one of my own personal rules and supplied him with unlicensed drugs to help his heroin withdrawal, which had been a condition of our agreement. The trials went well and within two months we were seeing regression in the HIV virus in 90% of our subjects. Barnaby appeared to be recovering well from his addiction. I monitored his levels every day and adjusted his medication accordingly. Slowly he grew back to be almost the man he once was. His appetite and therefore his health and stature improved, and we gradually fell back into the routine we had attained all those years ago. After dinner he would tell me all the fates that had befallen him within the fifteen years since we had parted. And every night my heart would sink a little and I regretted not pursuing his absence all those years ago.

Within three months he was recognisable as the young man I had once known. The treatment had made him hopeful. Our discussions of his past seemed to have exorcised those demons, although I discovered that his family was still a taboo subject. He baulked at any attempt to raise the subject and flatly refused to contact them. I decided discretion was the best course and dropped the subject. Things were going well; he was progressing in the trials and was apparently well on the way to being completely weaned from the narcotics. I did not want to upset this finely balanced applecart. This was all to change.

Barnaby had never vowed to change his sexual habits and I had never expected or asked him to. But one night he came to me with a confession which would alter the course of our relationship dramatically. He had met a man with whom he had fallen in love and had asked him to move in. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit to being at least slightly jealous in a parental sort of way, as a father may be jealous when his daughter marries. I did put up several feeble objections but had to concede that he led his own life. The one condition I did insist upon was that they used a condom during any sexual act, probably the ultimate interference, but it was a condition of the trials. Refraining from sexual activity for six months or at the very least using all possible precautions during the act. Barnaby assured me that Matt, his new friend, knew all about HIV and the drugs trial and Matt himself was HIV+, but yes he did know there were still risks if unprotected due to the different strains of the virus. He moved out of my home the very next day, and in with his new beau.

Barnaby and Matt came to visit me on several occasions, but now it was as if he was visiting a favourite uncle rather than one of his contemporaries. Matt was a pleasant enough young man, not only HIV+ like Barnaby but also an ex-drug user. On the face of it he seemed the ideal partner, but there was something about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I suppose to put it simply, he was too smarmy, too slick. I was to discover the truth when I went to visit them unannounced one Friday night after Barnaby had missed an appointment. I discovered their love nest’ to be a squalid dump, a squat, obviously shared with several other drug users. I moved through the house with distaste until I stumbled upon the pair. Scattered around were obvious signs of heroin abuse and sitting in the corner, still filling his syringe from a dirty looking spoon over a candle, was Barnaby. I fell into a fury, unable to contain my anger at this betrayal. I had virtually put my career on the line for this ungrateful junkie who had lied his way back into my life. I looked around for something to smash, to take my anger out on, but so pathetic was this abode, there really was nothing to break. Calming down I snorted a derisive laugh and looked down on the tragic creatures huddled fearfully in the comer.

“If you come back with me now and turn your back on all this,” I gestured around the room with distain, “then I will get you back on track.” Barnaby looked up at me with empty eyes. Oh, it’s you? Professor. Hi. I can’t leave Matt, he needs me, he loves me, I love him.” Barnaby babbled on, occasionally giggling the inane and irritating giggle that only people high on drugs seem able to attain.

“Right, on your own head be it. I suppose you’re still sharing needles?” My disgust was making me tremble and when he merely giggled in response, I feared losing control, but I managed to contain my composure long enough to say.

“I’m walking out that door now and I never want you to contact me again,” I commanded, doubting this was even registering in his drug doused mind. I knew I sounded pompous and self-righteous, but damn it all, I felt I had a right. Having said my piece, I turned and left and that was the end of phase two of our complicated relationship.

Trials for the HIV inhibitor continued to go well, and we produced a drug combination which sold worldwide. Within one month of its issue, I was approached, or head hunted, by a private drug company called Chem-way. It was here that I was still working two years later when I encountered Barnaby for the third and final time. Things had stagnated in the HIV/AIDS research field, we had reached a plateau and a major new break through was needed to advance things further. Although nothing was actually said, the general feeling amongst researchers was that something was needed soon, or financing may be cut. Funds were not bottomless and unless the investors had something to show for their money soon, they would start to get twitchy. It was at this pivotal point in our research and my career that Barnaby Sedge appeared back in my life, as he seemed to have a knack of doing.

I had been working late. I always preferred to work during the evening and nights. This suited both my colleagues and I, as we did not get in each other’s way. I was alerted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside my office. However, it was strange, they did not steadily approach from afar, growing louder, but started right outside my lab. Perhaps I had been concentrating so intently on my work that I had missed their approach. Alerted by the footsteps, I looked round to the door, usually only the security staff were still here this late. Sure enough, a figure was silhouetted through the opaque glass panel by the hall lights. Whoever it was now faced the door, not moving, as if on sentry duty. I waited a moment, expecting either Paul or Ron, the security guards, to open the door and check in on me as they occasionally did. But the shape remained statuesque, motionless. Puzzled, I pushed my chair away from the desk and spun it round square to the door.

“Hello, who’s there?” I called out, but no answer was forthcoming. I took a step towards the door, and then hesitated; thinking a call to security may be a wiser option. However, I was distracted from this course of action by some movement through the glass. An arm was raised, and knuckles rapped twice on the glass. Thrown by the peculiarity of the situation I was unsure how to proceed. Should I invite in this person, whoever it was, knowing that access was extremely limited, and no one should be in the building except security and myself? The knuckles rapped again, then curiosity and instinct got the better of me. It was like trying to ignore a ringing telephone. Surely if this person meant me any harm, they would have just burst into the room. The door was not kept locked.

“Come,” I finally called out, then waited. The doorknob turned slowly, and I was reminded of another time, another place. Would there be another monster from my past to greet me this time? Of course, I should have known, the knock and then the wait. The door swung inwards to reveal Barnaby Sedge.

Simple words cannot begin to describe the emotions that consumed my mind in the next few seconds. He looked perfect. There was no trace of the sunken eyed, sallow skinned Barnaby I had last met. He was a new man, in no hollow sense of the phrase. He stood taller than I remembered, but then policemen were also looking younger these days. There was a vitality and vigour about him, he just radiated good health. Then I noticed the major physical difference which initially passed me by. He wore no glasses, and his eyes were nearly entirely taken up by the pupils. They were jet black. Was this some side effect of his illness or the drugs I wondered? Taking in the whole effect was quite overwhelming. He was recognisable as Barnaby Sedge, but like one from an alternate reality. He was the Barnaby Sedge who had never taken up drugs and had instead fulfilled the potential of the man he should have been. He was physically impressive, what one might call a swimmer’s physique, well-toned and muscled. This was offset by his attire, which was, in old-fashioned parlance, dapper. He wore an equally opulent smile, enjoying my obvious shock and surprise. It was he who spoke first, echoing my sentiments.

“Surprise!” He took a step forward into the room and I automatically matched it in retreat. “I bet I was the last person you were expecting to see.” There was a self-assured cockiness about him that he had never had before, his mere physical presence was bordering on threatening. Finally, I managed to stammer out,

“Barnaby, yes, it is a surprise, you appear to have improved your health considerably since I last saw you.” It was lame and we both knew it. His smile broadened, which I thought would have been impossible without the top of his head falling off.

“I know you said never to contact you again, but you will be pleased I did.” he assured me.

“I already am glad you did,” I replied, fairly honestly, “I have often wondered what became of you.” His smile faltered slightly I felt, but he quickly recovered.

“You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve been off the smack for eighteen months now, and Matt, he left me soon after you and slightly before the money ran out.” I was slow to respond, struggling for the right thing to say.

“I won’t pretend I’m sad, it’s what you needed to do. Matt was never the man for you, and he was only prolonging your struggle with addiction.”

“Ah professor, so succinctly put as usual. Yet you still don’t understand the nuances of life do you. Everything is clinical, black, and white for you, isn’t it? If it doesn’t fit in one of your preconceived pigeonholes, then it simply doesn’t have a place in the world” Barnaby visibly reined himself in, regaining control of his runaway verbosity.

“I am sorry I abandoned you in your hour of need, if that’s what you think, but I had given you every chance and you threw it back in my face.” I replied. Now I was becoming angry, how dare this upstart march into my place of work, after all I had done for him? But I calmed myself, discretion was the key here, obviously there was more to this meeting than just a happy reunion. As I was curious to find out about his astonishing return to health, I held my tongue. Getting off the drugs was a big factor of course, but he was looking supremely fit, more than he had any right to. Sixty seven percent of my patients had declined notably after eighteen months. Barnaby took a step towards me again and this time I held my ground. We locked eyes for a while and I broke the deadlock,

“Come in and sit down, I really would like to know what’s happened to you since we last met.” He stared at me for a minute longer and I thought for a moment he was going to turn tail and flee. But he broke into that full, crocodile smile again and took up the offer of the chair next to mine. He assumed a defensive poise, ankles crossed, tucked beneath the chair and hands resting in his lap, fingers interlaced. Just in that moment he lost all the arrogance and anger and reminded me of any number of interns who had sat in that same chair, nervous and seeking residency or employment. Again, we sat in silence for a while. I felt the need to prompt conversation once more. I was feeling braver now and curiosity really was getting the better of me.

“Ok, here we are, just like old times, won’t you tell me what has brought about this remarkable turn in fortunes for you.” He smiled his head-splitting smile again, as he contemplated his response.

“Ok, why not, it’ll be fun, who knows, maybe I’ll learn something as well.” Was his intriguing answer.

Apparently the first six months after I last saw Barnaby Sedge ran pretty much as I had pictured them. He had spiralled down into the depths of depravity. Drugs had become the be all and end all of their existence, there was nothing he and Matt wouldn’t do for the money to obtain them. Theft, mugging, prostitution, eventually Matt had been arrested during a burglary and when several other stolen items had been discovered in their squat, he finally came to the end of the road. After serving a short term of incarceration, Barnaby had wandered the streets for a while, taking what scraps he could find. As he spiralled downwards, his ability to attract clients to pay for sex diminished and he reached new lows, anything for a fix. It was when he was at his life’s nadir that he met Sylvain.

He had taken Barnaby under his wing, showing him all the tricks, dodges, and hustles, introducing him to his motley crew of friends. Strangely, as their relationship continued, Barnaby began to lose his craving for drugs. There seemed to be no real explanation for it, Barnaby had initially put it down to his renewed interest in life.

“Another oddity which struck me after a while,” he continued in his mocking, superior tone, as if he had a huge secret which he enjoyed me not knowing, “was that their social life completely revolved around darkness, and I found myself sleeping more and more during the day.” He paused for a while and smiled, staring off into the distance as if enjoying a fond memory. “It wasn’t until I went for a check-up that I discovered my HIV had gone into remission.” The look on my face must have given away my thoughts.

“I know, you’re thinking that it would be impossible. But it’s not. In fact, that was eight-months ago. Now you would find no trace of the virus in my body. I’m cured.”

“But that’s imp...” I began.

“Impossible?” Barnaby finished for me. “I knew that would be your response Dr Price.” His voice held a mocking tone, the suggestion of a smile dancing across his lips again. I pondered his proclamation for a while. There was no doubting that he currently looked the very picture of health, but cured?

“Sometimes the virus can go into remission to such an extent that it may appear to be beaten, but...” Barnaby interrupted me again.

“No, you are not listening to me professor, there is not one trace of the HIV virus left in my system there is no question about it.” I pondered the situation for a while, several questions and thoughts swirling through my head. The strangeness of this reunion and situation mostly forgotten scientific intrigue had taken hold. I eventually spoke, being careful not to play my hand too early, curious as to why he had stepped back into my life at this particular time.

“You realise, of course, that if what you say is true, and we can identify what caused the elimination of the virus, it could be the biggest medical breakthrough ever, bigger than penicillin.”

“And the biggest money spinner since politicians invented taxation.” he returned, grinning his shark like grin. “That is why I sought you out again, Edwin. You see you are ideally placed to exploit this situation, here at the research centre. No one will question your breakthrough, where as I, well questions would be asked that we could ill afford.”

“ ‘We’ can ill afford?” I questioned, ‘Who else is involved in this?”

“Still as sharp as ever Edwin, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose the identity of my colleagues.” Still the continuing undercurrent of superiority in his tone.

“Is this Sylvain part of the ‘we’? You haven’t told me much about him, how could he be involved in your cure. Is he a doctor, a scientist?” I tried to sound in control, knowing it was Barnaby who really held all the cards.

“Do you really want to know the whole truth professor? I’m not sure you could handle the truth, to quote the admirable Mr. Nicholson. You see, if I told you, I may have to kill you.” He laughed a hollow, humourless laugh, still fixing me with his unblinking, reptilian eyes. I decided silence was the best option, let him make the decision. He seemed to be considering the matter and then said,

“I suppose you will have to find out sooner or later,” He paused, considering how to begin. It started with a question. “Do you believe in life after death, Edwin?” His persistent use of my first name had thrown me slightly, as did the question. Ours had previously always been a master and student relationship. Things had obviously changed. I responded with a question of my own, buying some time to consider my answer.

“It depends on your meaning of life, as in ghosts and spirits, reincarnation or actual resurrection?”

“Hmm, an interesting point and not an easy one to answer. I suppose the closest to what I have in mind would be resurrection,” he replied, apparently relishing this verbal jousting.

“I suppose one would have to hope that resurrection may one day be possible. There are people around the world who have been cryogenically preserved with the hope that a way to bring them back may be discovered. And if one believes the bible, Jesus raised Lazarus from death. Indeed, Jesus himself returned after apparently being killed. So, I would have to say, depending on the cause of death, yes. As a scientist, I believe in the possibility of resurrection.” Barnaby widened his grin at my reply.

“Scientists are so much like politicians in many ways.” He replied, but now he seemed to be musing, voicing long held opinions aloud. “You never give a straight answer for fear of being proven wrong, leaving your options open. I like that.”

Silence hung in the air between us, like a storm cloud waiting to burst. I was the first to snap once more, although it went against the grain to do so, but this had gone on long enough. “Look Mr. Sedge, I’ve had enough of this beating around the bush. Just tell me what the hell is going on?” Barnaby appeared taken aback by my outburst. I was glad. I felt I had regained the upper hand in some small way. However, he quickly regained his composure.

“My, my, Edwin, I never suspected such a temper.” He mocked, “right then, let’s put our cards on the table. Please try and keep an open mind, try and curtail those scientific prejudices of yours.” He stood up abruptly, startling me, although I tried not to show it. After pacing the length of the lab twice, he turned and approached me.

“I have been studying the species Homo Vampirus for almost a year now. Indeed, I am one. But we have made a remarkable discovery. We have a cure for AIDS, cancer, Alzheimer’s, any disease you care to mention. Imagine the power it gives us. An all-encompassing cure. Have you any idea of the control this would give us over the humans?”

This was too much information to take in from one short statement.

“Homo Vampirus?” I managed to stammer out. “Are you saying...”

“Oh, come on Edwin, put two and two together. Vampires do exist. Not only do we exist, but there is a lot to be learnt from us. We’ve been around a long time.” Barnaby looked pleased with himself, having delivered his dramatic coup de grace. “Ironically enough,” he continued, “vampirism itself is like a virus, but a symbiotic one, rather than parasitic. I managed to isolate the specific viruses which cause the mutation. That’s what it is you see, professor, a mutation to the next level of evolution. It can re-write sections of your genome, your very DNA. The virus is unique, it also changes and evolves itself, adapting to any challenge. It becomes your protector. It needs you to provide sustenance and you need it to maintain your existence. Let me tell you about the vampire virus, or V2 as we call it.” He was hitting his stride now and there was no point stopping him. In truth it was fascinating listening to this outpouring. I would be a liar to say I wasn’t interested. He continued,

“You see, the virus multiplies voraciously and infiltrates every single cell in the body. Can you imagine what a feat this is? From snout to anus, as butchers are so fond of saying. It then sets about eliminating and replacing any faulty genes or deceased cells. It is at this stage that the body ‘dies’. The transformation requires a great amount of energy. The stomach and digestive tract have to be mutated to process the fuel.”

“Blood.” I interrupted, speaking for the first time in a while. He was pacing up and down the room and he seemed put out by my interjection, like an actor being heckled might be. He shot an irritated glance at me with those piercing black eyes, but once again he quickly regained his composure.

“Excellent Edwin, you’re catching on.” He seemed to enjoy the role reversal of student and tutor. “The body for all intents and purposes, is dead. Brain activity ceases, the heart stops, blood ceases to flow. But all the time the V2 virus is working and sustaining the vital organs. It’s ingenious really. The body itself no longer requires blood. The cells are transformed so as to survive on an absolute minimum of oxygen, which they can absorb via osmosis through the skin. Although the blood does not flow, the virus is capable of moving through the cardiovascular, nervous and lymphatic systems to control the body. It is an amazing thing professor, like a caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly. We do need blood, as you so astutely pointed out, but that in itself has its own ironies. V2 is essentially a healer. When we take blood from a source the virus heals the wound, via our saliva. Even if we damage an artery, 2 seconds later the wound will stop bleeding and within 10 minutes it will be completely healed. Of course, the donor is then infected with the V2 and will eventually turn. But so, legends are born Edwin. Talking of legends, perhaps you might be interested in some of the vampire legends which were propagated by the V2, or not, as the case may be.” Barnaby was manic, ranting like an actor on drugs. He had a story to tell and come what may, it was going to be told. Far be it from me to interrupt his rhetoric which made it no less fascinating.

“When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. The heart is the usual target for vampire slayers, and this is where the virus remanufactures itself. It’s true we cannot go out in daylight, that is the sole weakness of the virus. Ultraviolet rays instigate the destruction of the V2 cells. I’m working on that one, but it is their only weakness and if we can conquer that we will be unstoppable. We would of course seem supernatural to humans, as any wounds would be healed almost immediately. Also, the physical features which are improved by the V2, such as the teeth and eyes. The virus also enhances the brain, so we do have some psychic powers, hypnosis, some telepathy, control over some basic life forms. Hence the use of rats, bats, snakes, and the like, it’s all there in the legends. Some authors took poetic licence, we cannot turn to smoke, or bats for that matter. There are no religious connotations, no cross or crucifix would have any affect. This was a fallacy substantiated by the church to recruit disciples. I suppose in some ways we do look slightly demonic, a gift for them really.

There is one aspect of legends which may amuse you. Garlic does have an adverse effect on the virus. It is not usually fatal but causes a severe allergic reaction, much like an anaphylactic case in humans. Curious I know, and I have yet to isolate the reasons for this. But surely a life without garlic is better than death?” He took a dramatic pause, then looked towards me with his totally black eyes, another side effect of the virus. “You must see the financial and political potential of mass producing V2? We would rule the world. Any disease, any ailment cured. Mankind could live forever.” He looked directly at me for the first time in over ten minutes, “But, we need a front man. As we are limited by the inability to go out in daylight, we would need someone to present these finding to the relevant pharmaceutical industries. Also, someone finding such a cure from out of the blue, with no research history would most likely raise too many questions. But a man who has been researching the HIV virus for many years, almost decades, this would not arouse suspicion.” Again, he turned to me expectantly. “Imagine it professor, all the money in the world, no fear of death, there is no limit! What do you say Edwin? Do you want to live forever?”

Barnaby Sedge was a driven being, he had everything planned out, to him it was simple. Vampires were the future; mankind was the food. However, there was a fatal flaw in his plan. A food source needs to be replenishable and it also must not realise that it is a food source. Giving humans the V2 would be fatal. It is a fact that we don’t want to destroy the human race, we want to control them, we need them for our sustenance. But if we simply gave them the virus, where is the control? Not only would it reveal our existence, but it would also eliminate the need for vampires, for surely, they would find a way to manufacture the V2 artificially, they were a resourceful breed. Keeping it dangling on a thread gives us a lever and also helps to purify the humans, eliminating the weak and unworthy.

That is why Barnaby Sedge lay at my feet in an unpleasant state of decomposition, a crudely fashioned wooden stake protruding from his chest. The stake was probably a little melodramatic, but in truth it is one of the most effective means of killing a vampire. And I should know, I’ve been studying the anatomy and weaknesses of my own race for the better part of five centuries now. An interesting thing about V2 is that once the heart is destroyed, the body reverts to its natural state, as it would be, had the V2 not mutated it. In Barnaby’s case that was eight months dead and made the body somewhat easier to dispose of. Who would give a second thought to another homeless junkie found after eight months, when no one had missed him?

There were others before who had thought they might make their fortune once they had discovered the V2. It is far less obvious to release these cures for financial gain in small parcels. That way we are able to maintain anonymity as well as increasing our returns. Barnaby was not the first, nor would he be the last, but I had hoped he would not be consumed by the greed and join us. My colleague who had recommended him for tutoring all those years ago, had seen a potential in Barnaby. A potential for becoming a vampire. He had been an intelligent young man and would have been an asset. In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t realise my true nature before, let alone after his transformation. We never once met in daylight, not even for the drug trials when he was deep in his addiction. He must have thought it strange surely. Or maybe he just didn’t give it a thought, as so many don’t.

The profession of a haematologist is an ideal cover for one such as me, an endless supply of blood and the chance to research and experiment. I would have liked a chance to groom and train Barnaby, tell him all the things I have found in my research. How we can control the V2 and use it for our own purposes, change our appearance over years to maintain anonymity. Disguise the black-ringed-eyes and enlarged canines that was easily and quickly done. He also needed educating in the ways of the vampire, the true, old ways. But he was a loose cannon and we had to police our own race. I suppose now I must seek out the rest of his clan. Any collusion between humans and ourselves would be our downfall; we should remain in the shadows, a legend, a myth...forever.