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PROLOGUE

    A story has to start somewhere. When the story is autobiographical, the logical place to start is with birth. Except that to understand the context, the reader may need to learn about parents, even grandparents; was the subject born into wealth or poverty, privilege or obscurity? My case is rather different in that this story starts, in explosion and fire, when I was already past my forty-fifth birthday.

    Picture the scene: a flat, fenland landscape typical of East Anglia. The endless farmland stretching to the horizon, dissected by the ruler-straight dykes and smaller drainage ditches planned by the Dutch when this part of England was reclaimed from marshland centuries before. The fields beginning to turn green with the first leaves of the vegetable crops; later, they would be full of potatoes and sugar beet, carrots and cabbage. Overhead, a vast open sky just dimming into dusk, a few wispy clouds high above still glowing in the sun. A straggle of red-brick houses along each side of a straight, narrow road running well above a land sunken by drainage. A white-painted pub, red Bateman's sign swaying slightly in the breeze. At one end of the small village, a house a little detached from the rest, three stories tall but shallow from front to back, set in a square plot bordered by tall poplars to screen the cold north wind, a few remaining daffodils nodding over the lawn. A late spring scene of rural tranquillity, disturbed only by birdsong.

    Inside the house a man is sitting in his study. He is approaching a sedentary middle age and casually dressed, the study furnished in a comfortably old-fashioned style, with several packed wooden bookcases and worn chairs. In complete contrast is the latest style of portable computer which the man is using to finish an article.

          The arguments in favour of Intelligent Design have therefore been systematically countered by scientists such as Dr. Miller. More fundamentally, the principles underlying it have been attacked as unscientific.  The scientific method is an objective process which depends upon observation and analysis. The proposition that life was designed by some superior intelligence, intervening in an undetectable way, is the very antithesis of science. It explains nothing, and cannot even explain itself. Despite this, and the devastating verdict of the judge at the Dover school board trial, the religious basis for ID means that its true believers will not be shaken. They continue to press for it to be taught as an 'alternative theory' in schools both in the USA and the UK. Those who care about the integrity of science need to remain on their guard.

    He reviewed the final paragraph, saved it, and made a back-up copy. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He would email the article to a journal in the morning; not one of the science ones, of course – their subscribers would already be familiar with the issues – but one aimed at a more general readership.

    In the meantime, he deserved his usual small celebration after completing a project. He contemplated a glass of wine before deciding in favour of the grain rather than the grape, as he planned to walk to the pub for his evening meal and a jar or two of ale with the regulars.  He went to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Straffe Hendrik from the fridge. The strong Bruges beer poured pale yellow and frothy into its wide-mouthed glass. The man walked into the lounge, selected his favourite Dave Brubeck LP, and settled in his old leather armchair to enjoy the combined pleasures of mellow jazz and fine ale.

    He was just beginning to relax when he became aware of a rising tension in the room, like a strong electrical field. Puzzled, he turned to look around the room. At that instant, his world came to an end.

    The explosion sent tiles flying from the roof and bricks spilling outwards. The blaze followed immediately, flames roaring through the wreckage. Sounds of alarm, of dogs barking; doors opening and villagers rushing to the scene, only to be held back by the ferocity of the fire. A blackened, charred, figure, crawling from the ruins. The man heard gasps of horror and cries of concern from the villagers: 'For God's sake, call an ambulance!' Then silence, darkness and oblivion.

BOOK 1 – THE SCALED MAN

1

    For a long time, all was dark. All I was conscious of were the smells and sounds which marked out my location as a hospital, the occasional murmurs of voices, sounding concerned and grave. And pain. The pain was universal, inside and out, and at a level which I had never before experienced or even imagined possible. Every now and then the pain receded for a while and I drifted into a hazy sleep, only to be woken again as the pain slowly regaining its ground. I did not know whether it was night or day; the pain cycle determined my timescale. I thought of nothing, remembered nothing, not even who I was.

    An indeterminate period of time passed, a relentless cycle of more pain, less pain. An odd little monorhyme started running through my mind, as if on an endless loop:

Too much pain

Fries the brain

Let cocaine

Take the strain

    I had no idea whether I had remembered this, or just invented it.

    Eventually, at a time when the pain had woken me but had not yet become unbearable, I heard the scrape of a chair and a louder voice, clearly directed at me:

    'Well, good morning! And congratulations – I must say you have astonished us all!' The man's voice had the underlying strain of one who is trying to sound cheerful while feeling exactly the opposite. 'Are you able to talk?'

    A direct question, requiring a response. My mental cogs slowly turned, grinding with rust. I found I could open my mouth, but only a croak emerged when I tried to speak.

    'Let me give you something to drink; it might ease your throat.'

    I felt my head lifted, something bumping against my mouth, then cool pleasure slipping down my throat. I swallowed greedily. A second attempt, barely audible: 'Yes.'

    'Good! Do you remember what happened to you?'

    I thought back, but could only remember pain. 'No.'

    'It seems that there was a fire at your home. You have been badly burned, but you're going to be alright now.'

    A major effort to construct a sentence: 'Why can't I see?'

    'Your eyes are covered at the moment. We're hoping to put that right in a few days.'

    I thought about that. 'Will I be able to see?'

    'Well, we won't know for certain until it happens. But we're hopeful, as you seem to be making a remarkable recovery.' Definitely hope rather than expectation, it was clear.

    The pain, momentarily held back by the distraction of conversation, returned with a vengeance after the doctor had left. Another voice, with a soft, feminine lilt which a random flicker of memory vaguely associated with a place called West Africa, intruded on my suffering. 'Bad again is it? Would you like some relief?'

    All I could manage was a hoarse croak, which she evidently interpreted correctly. I heard her fiddling with something by the bed, felt the soft wash of oblivion spreading through my body, and slept.

    For several pain cycles, the pattern remained the same. Each time I woke I would hear the soft voice as she tended me, encouraging and comforting. My frozen imagination began to melt, focusing on her, wondering what she looked like. Sometimes there were deeper male voices murmuring in the background, sounding puzzled, even excited. They seemed to be intensely debating something; I was afraid that it was probably me. I grew stronger and the general pain reduced, leaving some specific areas of agony behind, like a flood slowly revealing the landscape as it recedes. One of those areas was my mouth; my gums screamed with the pain of universal toothache.

    'What's the matter with my teeth?'

    A hesitation, before the soft voice replied. 'It's really quite astonishing; you seem to be growing new ones.'

    'New ones?'

    'Yes, they're pushing your old teeth out. You lucky man, I wish I had a new set of teeth; I'd take better care of them this time!'

    I thought about that. I'd never heard of such a thing as growing new teeth, although I remembered from somewhere that scientists had been talking about using stem cells to grow new teeth – in a few decades' time. 'What's happened to me?'

    'You were burned, all over. One hundred percent, first degree burns. It's amazing really, most people don't survive even when partially burned as badly as you were, and no-one thought you would last the hour when you were brought in. But look at you now, getting better every day!'

    'I can't look at me now.'

    'You'll be able to soon, I'm sure. The doctor wants to open your eyes tomorrow.'

    'Open my eyes?' I was puzzled at the curious phrase. 'You mean, take the bandages off?'

    'Something like that, yes.' She sounded hesitant. 'Your eyes have a protective cover at the moment.'

    Tomorrow came, and obediently brought the doctor, who I learned was a burns specialist called Brian. I realised for the first time that I always knew when he was there, and whether others were with him. I had no time to puzzle over this before he spoke, his voice showing the usual mixture of heartiness and strain.

    'Before we begin, there are some things I need to explain to you. As you know, you suffered severe and extensive burns. When you first arrived we didn't expect you to survive for more than a day. However, you confounded all of us. Your skin formed some kind of thick protective layer, all over, like a kind of giant scab – I've never seen anything like it before. We've left it alone so far, but it's beginning to break up and there are indications that it may be ready to peel off, particularly over your face. Your eyes have been glued shut by the protective layer, but given these promising signs and your return to consciousness we think this means that we can now clear this layer out of the way.'

    I began to understand the tension in his voice and felt my anxiety growing to match his. While I wasn't an expert on medical science I was reasonably well up on current developments, but had never heard about anything like this before.

    Gentle hands held my head and I felt picking and rubbing sensations over my eyes. Sudden cold struck my eyelids as the fresh air hit them. There was a puzzled murmur, sounding rather shocked.

    'Can you open your eyes?'

    A definite sound of strain in the voice: something was wrong. With great reluctance, I forced my eyes to open. Light flared into my head, glaring and painful. I barely registered the gasps from the small group clustered around my bed. There was a long silence. I concentrated on the light, gradually made out the shape of heads looming over me. One of them spoke.

    'Can you see?' The strain was close to breaking point.

    I looked at the speaker, whose features slowly swam into focus. An apprehensive face, something like panic in his expression.

    'Yes. What's the matter?'

    'What colour were your eyes?'

    Were? I thought about that. 'Brown, more or less.'

    'Well, they aren't now. Bring a mirror, please nurse.' One of the heads disappeared, returned with a circular mirror which was held in front of my face. I looked at the face, an unrecognisable mask completely covered with dark scabs except for the holes for my nostrils and mouth, and my eyes. I looked at those eyes in disbelief, felt my hold on reality slipping. Around the black pupil, the iris and the white sclera had merged into one. And it was all a vivid gold. They were alien eyes, nothing to do with me.

    'Then there's your eyelids.' His voice was shaking. I slowly closed one eye. The skin of the lid was a gleaming, greenish purple. And covered with fine scales, like a lizard's.

    I was sedated for most of the next few days, remembering only the occasional appearance of the nurse, anxiety visible in her warm brown face. After a while, I recovered enough of my sanity to begin thinking again. 'What's your name?'

    She turned and looked at me. 'Zara. Are you feeling better?'

    'As well as can be expected. Musn't grumble.'

    She giggled suddenly, a flash of white teeth. 'I'll tell the doctor. He wants to talk to you.'

    'I'll bet he does, but not just yet – bring me the mirror, please.'

    She duly obliged, and I looked again at that scabbed face, the alien eyes. I felt my hold on reality slipping again and dragged my mind back with a furious effort of will. There was no point in kidding myself, this was real and it was happening to me. A part of my mind went away into a corner, gibbering quietly.

    My skin itched suddenly, so I rubbed at my face. The surface shifted, and I rubbed some more. Part of the scabs started to come away. I put the mirror down and rubbed harder with both hands, suddenly anxious to know the worst. The scabs peeled off my face and my hands, and I heard Zara gasp. I rubbed until I could feel no more of the hard, crusty scabs, then I picked up the mirror again, took a deep breath, and looked.

    This time I could tell there was quite a crowd of them before they entered the private room I had been put in. My doctor, Brian the ginger-haired burns specialist, eyes worried behind their thick-rimmed glasses, was accompanied by heavier firepower in the form of several older, dark-suited figures, all covered by the obligatory white coats. They all stared at me in fascinated silence as I continued to rub at my body, shedding the thick layer of scabs as if I was clearing off a dried, all-over mudpack.

    It was the same all over my body; the healing was complete, the skin intact. But it was all in various shades of greenish purple, and all covered with scales. They varied in size, being small and fine on the palms of my hand and my face, almost disappearing on my fingertips and lips, larger over my body. I rolled over, with some help, and Zara got to work on my back, tentatively at first, then rubbing vigorously. She revealed a shallow crest of scales running up my spine and over the top of my bare scalp. When she had finished, I realised that I had no hair, anywhere. I rubbed my hand over my chest. The fingers seemed quite sensitive, the scales on my chest surprisingly smooth. My nipples had disappeared, somewhere.

    'How are you feeling?' One of the grey-suits spoke.

    I thought about it. I realised suddenly that the pain had gone, leaving behind only a feeling of weakness, muscles itching from lack of exercise. I turned to the mirror and opened my mouth. A new set of teeth gleamed confidently back at me. They seemed normal enough, no extra-long canines. The inside of my mouth was even pink.

    'Very well, thank you. Considering.'

    He coughed. 'Yes, well. Do you have any idea what happened to you?'

    'Do you know who you are?' A second suit added intensely.

    I thought some more. My memory had been returning in fits and starts, as if a flashlight were being shone around a dusty attic. I began slowly. 'I'm beginning to remember. My name is Matthew Cade Johnson. I write, I think. About science, yes. Popular articles and books, that sort of thing. I live in a village, in the Fens, in my parents' old house.'

    'By yourself?'

    'Yes, for some months.' Since Ros had left me, I recalled, a city girl bored with life in the empty countryside.

    'What happened to you?'

    'I have no idea. I understand there was a fire, but I don't remember anything about that.'

    'It was more than just a fire. Your house blew up. There's nothing left but rubble.'

    I sat up with difficulty, Zara helping with an arm around my back, then turned and looked out of the window. The room was light and airy, with large windows giving views of a nearby clump of silver birch. Their leaves were turning brown. Brown?

    'How long have I been here?'

    'Almost six months. You've been in a coma until recently.'

    While I absorbed that, another suit coughed.  'The police want to interview you about the fire, when you're ready.'

    I grinned wryly at him, conscious of the bizarre impression I must make, an alien nightmare come to life. 'Oh, I suppose I'm ready; do you think they are?'

    Looking back, I am impressed with the speed of my recovery, and even more by the calm acceptance that I seemed to feel. By rights I should have been losing my mind, crazed with horror at what had happened to me, but I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if it was all happening to someone else and I was merely an interested observer. How and why it had happened was a problem my mind was still only prepared to skirt around, cautiously.

    The muscular itch became a burning need to exercise, fuelled by an equally burning hunger. But not for just any food; the first solid meal presented to me – a traditional hospital meat and two veg – made me feel sick just to smell it and I could not bring myself to pick up the knife and fork. Puzzled, Zara went hunting for alternative foods, and came back with a selection. After some experimentation, I discovered that I could eat only fresh fruit and raw nuts. I was even more appalled to find that I could drink only water: alcohol was definitely out.

    My one remaining consolation from my former life was jazz. After a remote tussle with my bank – I could hardly turn up in person to prove my identity – I got access to my account. Zara managed to secure an internet-linked computer for me, plus an MP3 player, and I spent hours downloading and listening to as much as I could. I went through all the classics like a voyage of rediscovery, and have the shades of Bix Beiderbecke, Duke Ellington and many others to thank for my continued sanity.

    The itch in my muscles refused to go away. I cajoled Zara into arranging some exercise equipment in my room, and pounded it with ever-increasing energy and determination. As I seemed to need little sleep, I exercised a lot and my wasted muscles gradually filled out. One day, I complained to Zara that a machine had broken. She looked at it in puzzlement, then returned with some complicated device of springs and levers, and asked me to push and pull it in various ways, as hard as I could, while she took measurements. I obliged, banging the grips against their stops until the metal frame bent. She looked at it in silence for a moment. 'Do me a favour will you? Just be careful how you handle things. And especially people.'

    Handling people. Now there was an interesting problem. After they had recovered from the initial shock of my appearance, it was evident that the hospital hierarchy was flummoxed about how to handle me, or to be precise how to handle others dealing with me. To their credit, they were primarily concerned with my welfare, most anxious to delay subjecting me to the kind of attention which would inevitably occur as soon as news of this weird changeling leaked out.

    For the police interview (which achieved as little as I expected), I was dressed in an all-covering robe, my face was wrapped in bandages and I was given dark glasses to wear.

    Access to my room was severely restricted, those in the know sworn to silence. Brian, usually accompanied by other doctors, came to see me on most days to check on my progress. I had the impression that he was rather proud of me; his private freak show, brought out to amaze trusted visitors. But inevitably, rumours spread. Zara had become my friend as well as my nurse, my link to the outside world, filling me in with the human details of life in the hospital to supplement the impersonality of the news media, which were frequently filled with the usual gloom about impending environmental disasters.

    'The word going round is that there's a monster in this room. So I've been telling them that you're just horribly deformed by the fire, and desperate not to be looked at.'

    'Close enough.'

    'Not really. You know, you're quite beautiful, in a strange sort of way.'

    I looked at her in astonishment. 'Zara, you've been doing this job far too long. It's seriously distorting your judgement.'

She laughed, and went out of the room to return a few minutes later wheeling a full-length mirror. 'Just look at yourself!'

    I looked. As usual, I was wearing only shorts; my new skin seemed oblivious to outside temperatures and I felt comfortable however cold or hot it became. I saw a figure from the cover of a fantasy paperback, gold eyes glaring from a rugged, scaled face, the low crest prominent over my scalp. My body was lean but powerfully muscled, very different from the rather flabby middle age I had been sliding into in consequence of an over-fondness for food and alcohol and a general avoidance of exercise. My skin was in fact not all the same colour; it was more greenish over my chest, and a darker purple on my back. When I moved it shone, iridescent in the light. As I looked at it, the colour seemed to shift. Puzzled, I concentrated on it and heard Zara gasp. My chest slowly changed from greenish purple to pure green. More concentration, and it shaded into red. After a few seconds, I got the hang of it and was able to shift up and down the spectrum, changing colour at will. More effort enabled me to produce crude patterns of varied colours across my body.

    Zara laughed. 'A chameleon! Is there no end to your talents?'

    'Probably not. By the way, you should see a dentist – that toothache won't go away by itself.'

    She looked at me strangely. 'How do you know about that? I haven't told anyone.'

    I shrugged. 'The same way that I know when you're close, that I know when the doctor is coming, and who's coming with him. I just pick it up, somehow.'

    She looked thoughtful and went away. Shortly afterwards, the usual "Consultation" of doctors and other specialists arrived, trailing behind Brian like a comet's tail, and eager as always to try new tests and take new measurements while they tried to work out what had happened to me and what I had become. They had examined and X-rayed my new teeth (flawless), measured the performance of my new eyes (considerably improved in all respects: I no longer needed the glasses I had recently had to start wearing), assessed my strength (very impressive) and speed of reaction (even more so). I had a suspicion that several articles for the medical journals plus a couple of doctoral theses were being worked on. I did my chameleon trick to excited murmurs, concluding with plans for yet more tests.

    I gathered that they were now in something of a dilemma, prizing their exclusive access to such an oddity while recognising that there was no medical reason to keep me in hospital any longer. Sooner or later, I would have to face the public. However, they first wanted to pin down this sensitivity to people which I claimed to have. They ran some tests, hovering outside the door in various combinations while I identified who was there. They were fascinated by my claimed ability to detect when something was wrong with someone, and debated how to test that. After a while, they conceived a plan to take me secretly around a children's ward in the middle of the night, when they would all be asleep.

    I walked around with my little posse, scarcely needing to pause as I passed the end of each bed. I was initially uncertain how to link what I sensed with the medical terms for their ailments, so described the symptoms for the doctors to translate, murmured voices in counterpoint.

    'Something badly inflamed, down in the digestive tract below the stomach.'

    'Appendicitis; being operated on tomorrow.'

    'Something feels wrong with the blood; it seems to be connected with the bones – something not working properly.'

    'Leukaemia; awaiting a bone marrow transplant.'

    'Part of the brain is damaged, it's affecting the use of some of the muscles.'

    'Cerebral palsy.'

    As we approached one bed, a small girl moaned; I sensed she was awake. I walked closer to her head, relying on the dim night lighting to hide my appearance. Her eyes were closed.

    'Massive headache, affecting much of the brain.'

    'She suffers from frequent and severe migraine attacks; she's in for observation.'

    I bent over her head, sensing the strain within her nervous system, the agony she was feeling. I instinctively reached out a hand and placed it on her head. The flow of nervous energy was clear to me, the pressure points glaring as if red-hot. I focused on these, absorbing their details, willing them to cool while rerouting the flow to release the pressure. The moans quietened and she relaxed into sleep.

    'What did you do?' An urgent whisper.

    I shrugged. 'Just untied some knots.'

    The tests became even more frantic, the doctors suddenly realising that I was more than a medical curiosity; I had become a major asset. My ward tours became nightly, I learned which symptoms were associated with which ailment and was soon able to diagnose with precision. I also learned which problems I could help with; they were essentially ones of the nervous system. I discovered that I could stop pain instantly, relax patients and send them to sleep at a touch. I could cure tinnitus (easily), epilepsy (with some effort), and a host of minor afflictions. There was little I could do about most diseases or physical injuries, but I could usually ameliorate the symptoms and speed the recovery. The hospital authorities were overjoyed – I was enabling them to comprehensively shatter their government targets for patient turnover.

    Eventually the inevitable happened; one elderly lady (sciatica) awoke before I could reach her, took one look and screamed and screamed.

    'There will have to be a press conference.' The hospital manager, a plump, bald man with a perpetual and probably justified air of carrying more than the usual weight of care on his shoulders, was glum but resigned. A crisis meeting was being held in the conference room. The Consultation nodded in agreement, with varying degrees of enthusiasm depending, I suspected, on how ready their articles were for publication. He turned to me. 'Is there anyone you want to warn first?'

I had thought about this before. 'No. I have a kind of brother, but we haven't spoken in years.'

    'A kind of brother?'

    'We were adopted as babies by the same couple, but we're not blood relatives.'

    'Very well then, the sooner we get it over with, the better.'

    I'm not sure exactly what the hospital manager said to the news media (or whether Mrs Sciatica's relatives had alerted them first), but they were there in force on the appointed morning, packing the lecture theatre amid a buzz of excited speculation. Television lights glared, technicians frantically gaffer-taped cables to the floor, microphones were tested amid much crackling and feedback whine, the table on the dais had been covered with a cloth onto which some alert PR man had imprinted the name of the hospital trust. Eventually all was ready. I watched from the sidelines, out of sight of the press.

    The hospital manager said a few words of introduction, announcing an important development in his ability to help patients and commendably working in the name of his hospital three times in five sentences. All wasted effort; from my experience with news editors, they would cut that bit out. Then the HM introduced Brian, who gave a dry but gruesome description of what had happened to me in the fire, illustrated by some photographs which I had not seen before. Even a few of the less-hardened hacks gasped at the sight; I was totally unrecognisable, just the charred form of a man. He went on to describe my miraculous recovery from what should have been certain death, and the strange transformation which took place under my all-over scabs. The photos (discreetly edited in the interests of decency) caused a murmur of astonishment and speculation around the audience. Attention became even more rapt when he described my sensitivity to people and their afflictions, and my ability to heal some of them. He paused for a few moments, the press so stunned that it took at least three seconds before they dived into the gap and started a clamour of questions. He forestalled them with raised hands. 'I'd now like to introduce Cade to you.' He turned to face me and beckoned.

    Zara, who was watching from just behind me, had decided to take over responsibility for my clothing and had put much effort into my appearance.

    'You can't go in there just wearing shorts. And you'd look silly in conventional clothes. My sister is doing a course in textiles and fashion, I'll work on something with her.'

    "Something" turned out to be a sleeveless tee-shirt with a deep vee-neck, in an open weave cloth of a metallic grey material. Loose jogging pants in a similar cloth were complemented by silver-grey trainers: I looked like nothing so much as one of the aliens from an episode of Star Trek. Zara gave me an encouraging little push and I realised that I had been hanging back, dreading this moment. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and marched to the dais to a stunned silence from the press. I sat down between the HM and Brian, and smiled. 'Good morning', I said. Then all hell broke loose.

    After a while, the HM managed to establish some sort of order and an agreed sequence for questioning. The first hack stood up. 'Cade, I don't wish to be rude but you really don't look human. How can you prove you are who you say you are, and aren't some alien from outer space?' There was nervous laughter from his colleagues.

    I smiled. 'An understandable question. All I can say is that my memories of before the fire are intact, comprehensive and accurate. The only thing I can't remember is the explosion and fire itself.'

    The HM leaned forwards. 'We did, of course, have some initial doubts about this ourselves, but after draining Cade's memory of all he could recall we checked it out exhaustively and were able to confirm the accuracy of his account. We also did some DNA tests and I can assure you that he is no alien.' I hadn't known about that bit.

    The next part of the press conference was predictable. I did my chameleon trick and answered some learned questions from science journalists, one of whom I recognised from my previous life.

    'Hello Stephen, good to see you again.'

    He smiled rather thinly. 'I'm relieved that you recognise me. But I used to call you Matthew. Should I now call you Cade?'

    I shrugged. 'I used to use my first and last names, but so much has happened that to some extent I don't feel the same person that I used to be, so I prefer to use my middle name now.'

    Stephen continued. 'What explanation do you have for what has happened to you?'

    This was the key question and I could sense interest rising to an even higher pitch. 'Obviously, I've thought about it a lot, and identified some theoretical possibilities. Maybe it's natural; perhaps I'm some earlier or alternative form of humanity and the stress of the fire switched on some dormant genes. But there's no evidence that such a form ever existed, and nothing like that has ever happened before. It could be a new mutation brought on by the fire, but it's very hard to believe so many changes happening at once, all of them functional; mutations don't happen like that. So it seems more likely to be artificial; some scientists somewhere might have been playing with genetic modifications to people, and I somehow got involved. But the science of genetics is decades if not centuries short of being able to achieve this.' I spread my arms wide, then smiled. 'Perhaps I have been got at by little green men in flying saucers.' There was nervous laughter. 'But I don't believe in earth visitations by such creatures for very good reasons, as I've emphasised in articles I've written before.'

    'Perhaps they're getting their own back,' came a voice from the back, to general laughter.

    I smiled wryly, 'Perhaps, but I don't believe so. So I've thought of these four possible reasons, none of which I think is feasible. I believe it was Sherlock Holmes who said something like "eliminate the impossible, then whatever you are left with, however unlikely, must be the truth". The problem is that as far as I'm concerned, they're all impossible, so I've just parked the problem until I have more evidence. If any of you have better ideas, please let me know.'

    Next came a series of rather trivial questions, the press groping for themes and possible headlines. An example: 'Does your skin sweat?'

    'No. In fact, apart from hygiene considerations I hardly need to wash; just a dust and polish every now and then.'

    Then came a hackette from one of the less elevated tabloids: 'You say that you can direct someone else's nervous system, so you can switch off pain. And presumably switch it on?'

    I nodded cautiously, not sure where she was leading. Radio journalists anxiously gestured for me to reply verbally. 'That's right.'

    'So you can do the same for pleasure, too?'

    'I expect so.'

    'Could you give us a demonstration?'

    I smiled. 'Are you volunteering?'

    'Certainly!' She stepped forward promptly, and I had to admire the way she had engineered her moment in the limelight. She was young and attractive, and clearly ambitious. I stood up as she approached, and after a bit of shuffling at the pleading of the cameramen, we were standing side by side.

    'Give me your hand.'

    She complied promptly, curiously feeling my scaly skin. 'It's much smoother and softer than it looks.'

    'Now I'm going to fool your nervous system. First, that it's cold.'

    She gasped and shivered.

    'Now that it's hot.'

    'Wow!'

    'Now it feels wet, and now it feels dry.'

    She gave an amazed laugh. 'How do you do that?'

    'Now you've got pins sticking in'

    'Ouch!'

    'Now you've got toothache.'

    'Pleeease…'

    'And this should make up for it.' I carelessly triggered the pleasure centre in her brain, something I'd not tried before. The effect was electric. She gave a loud, gasping cry and slumped against me, head back, mouth slack, eyes staring and pupils dilated. I hastily held her to prevent her collapse, and turned off the pleasure. She came around with a shuddering gasp, unsteadily regained her feet, then visibly collected herself, looking down and nervously tidying her hair, as her colleagues watched in a rather embarrassed silence.

    'I...I…' She took a deep breath, 'you are right,' she managed faintly, 'you've proved your point.' She walked shakily back to her seat.

    The only other interesting question came at the end. 'Cade, how does it feel to be you, compared with the way you felt before the accident? Are you sorry or pleased that it happened?'

    I thought about that for a moment, and responded slowly. 'It's hard to say. At first, I was horrified of course. If I hadn't been sedated for some time I don't know what I would have done. But I seemed to get used to it surprisingly quickly. They tried providing me with counsellors, but that didn't help – the counsellors needed counselling themselves after they'd seen me.' I paused for the laughter to die down.  'Now my feelings are much less clear. There are many things that I miss. Everyday pleasures like a pint of ale in my local, and of course above all the anonymity of ordinary life, the freedom to go where I wish without anyone noticing. But there are some positive sides to my situation as well. As a science journalist, I'm obviously as fascinated as anyone else by what's happened to me. I have to say that I feel better than I have for years, if not decades; healthy, fit and strong. And above all, I'm able to help people in a unique way. That counts for a lot.'

    We all sat in the hospital's conference room that evening, flipping between the news broadcasts on the radio and TV. For once, the world had not been afflicted with too many disasters or political scandals that day so there was extensive coverage of my press conference, but the networks were clearly nervous and uncertain how to play the item, afraid it might be a complex hoax. Some took it seriously, but covered themselves against future ridicule with lots of distancing remarks ("the hospital claims that…"). Others lost their nerve and went for laughs, as an "and finally…" item. One brought in a pundit from rent-a-don who explained why what had happened was impossible.

    However, one consequence rapidly became evident; the hospital's phone system became jammed with callers. Some were journalists, especially from abroad, who had missed the press conference. Invitations to appear on television talk shows flooded in from around the world.

    As reports of the apparently miraculous cures which I had effected were circulated, it gradually became accepted that I was genuine. The local MP and councillors, plus all government ministers associated in the remotest way with the Health Service, started forming a disorderly queue to be photographed with me. I felt a burn of impatience with such self-serving time-wasting and firmly vetoed visits from any and all politicians, somewhat to the discomfiture of the HM.

    'But the Prime Minister!'

    'No!'

    Some callers were cranks, acclaiming me as the saviour from outer space or some such. Some were women – and a few men – wanting private consultations about their "pleasure centres". But most calls were from the sick, desperate for help. It was clear that something had to be organised.

    That "something" took a little while to put into place but eventually a system was instituted. By this time, the hospital was under siege from prospective patients camping out in the car park despite the chilly winter weather and refusing to move until they had received their miraculous cures. Careful public explanations about what I could and couldn't do had no effect – many of the people were so desperate that they would clutch at any straw of hope.

    The system we devised between us involved an insistence on referral by the patients' family doctors to the hospital, coupled with an exhaustive briefing note for the doctors and a strict injunction only to refer patients whom I stood some chance of helping, on pain of having future referrals ignored. Those referred to the hospital then went through a further vetting procedure by the staff to check that the referral was genuine. Then they went on my waiting list.

    Foreign patients were more complex to deal with, as the referral system couldn't work for them. However, as they were not entitled to free treatment on the NHS, the solution I proposed was simple. 'Charge them.'

    'But how much?' The HM was keen but cautious.

    'Ten percent of their annual income. In advance.'

    'But how will we know what that is?'

    'Tell them to bring their previous year's income tax return, plus proof of identity. That should reduce the risk that they will waste my time.'

    It was agreed that I would continue to live at the hospital, as it provided some protection from the mobs of people who wanted to see me. It was a 1960s building, not exactly classical architecture but with big and airy rooms. I was given a rapidly-adapted suite on the highest of the three floors, with wide windows providing a view over the gently rolling countryside on the edge of the fenlands. Whatever crops had flourished in the summer had been harvested and the fields were brown and corrugated with plough-lines. The windows were covered with a silver film against solar gain, which conveniently afforded more privacy. The access to my room was convoluted, through restricted parts of the building. It was about as private and protected as I could hope for.

    There was one downside for the HM; his staffing budget was hit by the need for extra security to stop people from invading the place. All of my mail – which rapidly built up to sackfulls a day, increasingly from abroad – was dealt with by hospital staff. Zara sometimes told me about the choicest letters, which included some astonishingly spicy suggestions. 'And you should see the photographs they send!' Curiously, such letters continued to arrive even after we broadcast the fact that I had no time to deal with them.

    The hospital organised two adjacent consulting rooms for me, so one patient could be made ready while I was dealing with another. I spent the days walking from one to the other, assessing conditions, easing pain, sometimes effecting an instant cure. Some were more difficult.

    'This is a sad case, and I'm not sure if you can help.' Zara was reading the case notes as she walked into the empty consulting room at the start of the day. 'An eight-year-old American girl, Sally, mad about horses, fell off and broke her neck. She's tetraplegic.' The rest of her life spent completely paralysed and helpless, dependent on others for every detail.

    'Let's go and see.' The girl was face-down on the consulting table, her spine uncovered, her parents sitting beside her, radiating anxiety, sorrow and hope. I greeted them, then crouched down beside the girl, turned my face the same way as hers, and grinned. 'Hi Sally! This is your friendly local monster here!' Her lips twitched. 'Let's take a look at you.' I ran my fingers over her neck and spine. Neck vertebrae crushed together, as I expected; nowhere for the spinal cord to find a way through. The nerves on each side of the break were intact, though, so I had an idea. I closed my eyes and focused on those nerves, knew them, became them. And grew.

    I concentrated intensely on growing, on directing growth around and behind the break, both sides working towards each other. There was a flicker of response; very slowly, a micron at a time, the nerves were beginning to grow. I opened my eyes and had to steady myself against the table, my head suddenly swimming. Zara looked on anxiously. I drew a deep breath. 'That'll do for now. Come back in a couple of day's time and we'll see how you're getting on.'

    I sat down and waited until the girl was wheeled out, parents whispering reassuring words.

    'Are you all right?' Concern glowed from Zara.

    'I think so, it's just that such an intense mental effort is tiring. In fact, I've been noticing it even with simpler tasks, if I do too many of them.'

    'You need a break every now and again. They're working you into the ground.'

    'Maybe. But the ones they send, I can really help.'

    'Then make sure you can keep helping them, by pacing yourself.'

    'All right, all right. I'll build in some days off, if that makes you happier.'

    She frowned. 'I'm not sure that will be enough, but it's a start. I think that you really need to get away from this place for a while. I'll see if I can organise something. Is there anything you'd like to do?'

    I thought about it. 'Oddly enough, I've been dreaming a lot about swimming lately. I don't know why, I was never much of a swimmer.'

    Two days later, I was transported in the dead of night to the local swimming baths in the back of a van, with Zara and the muscular and mainly silent Max, who had been appointed chauffeur/minder, in the front. I entered the building to find a fifty metre competition pool, still water reflecting the ceiling lights. As soon as I saw it, I felt an overpowering urge and dived straight in, feeling an inexpressible thrill of sensual pleasure as the cool water flowed caressingly along my body. I glided to the bottom and opened my eyes. To my astonishment, I found that with a slight effort I could focus sharply. Evidently, my eyes had altered in even more ways than I had realised. I pushed off the bottom and swam strongly underwater, loving the buoyancy and the feel of the water, enjoying the strange perspectives caused by the water's different refractive index. I put on a spurt, kicking hard, seemingly flying from one end of the pool to the other.

    Eventually, I surfaced and drew breath, to find Zara and Max peering anxiously down at me. 'Are you all right?'

    'Never better. I think I was designed for this. What's the problem?'

    'You've been underwater for nearly ten minutes, without coming up for air.'

    I absorbed that for a moment. 'Then I was definitely designed for this.'

    'What's more,' Zara added, 'I timed your last few lengths. I used to do some competitive swimming at one time, and I've never seen anything like it. I think a few world records just tumbled.'

    I laughed. 'They don't give any for swimming underwater.'

    I stayed in the pool for a long time, feeling completely at home and at ease for the first time since the accident. I found that I could swim underwater for twenty minutes before needing to come up for air. I couldn't imagine what enabled that; I must be storing oxygen somewhere, which implied some novel internal changes. Eventually, Zara's entreaties about the coming dawn persuaded me to leave. I felt no ill-effects from my long immersion; my eyes were clear, my scales unwrinkled, and I returned to the hospital both relaxed and invigorated.

That was only the first of many nocturnal visits to that beautiful pool. The physical activity of swimming somehow eased my mental tiredness and kept me functioning to meet the relentless demands of the sick. For the time being, talk of a holiday was abandoned.

    After few weeks of this routine, I had a call from reception during my lunch break (a tasty mix of macadamias and pecans, with an orange starter): 'there's a man here, he says he's your brother'.

    I paused in surprise, then mentally shrugged. 'What does he look like?'

    'Early forties, medium height, lean build, light-brown wavy hair, rimless glasses.'

    I laughed. 'Were you in the police?'

    'No, but we have to be observant these days.'

    'Anyway, that sounds like him so you'd better escort him up.'

    A knock on my door, and Luke walked in, looking much the same as ever, only leaner and rather more suntanned. He was casually dressed, in well-worn clothes chosen for practicality rather than style. He stopped and stared. 'Is that really you, Matt?'

    'More or less.'

    'I really am finding that hard to believe.'

    I thought for a moment. 'We last met at Mum's funeral. We didn't say much then, as usual. You talked about your last mission – in Afghanistan, I think.'

    He nodded. 'Yes, we did some disaster relief work there.'

    'Then you said something about your next task – in Burundi, wasn't it?'

    'Right again, we're carrying out a major educational assistance programme. That's why it took me some time to get to you; I've only just arrived home on leave.' He paused for a moment, then asked, 'do you recall the last time we were together with Dad, and what we said?'

    I could hardly have forgotten, it was a turning point in both of our lives. 'We were arguing, about religion and science as usual. You were taking Dad's side and announced that you were determined to follow him in working for the Church – not as a priest, but for their charity organisation. I ended up telling both of you that I was an atheist and I thought your beliefs were – let me get it right – "the result of a mental virus which has plagued mankind throughout civilised history".'

    He nodded slowly. 'Word perfect. OK, you're Matt. I remember the tone of arrogant superiority as much as the words.'

    I grimaced. 'It seemed to me that the arrogant superiority was more on your side, with a lot less justification.'

    He sighed. 'I didn't some here to start all that again. I just wanted to check that you really are Matt, and – well, to see if there is anything I can do.'

    I was curious. 'In what way? Pray for my damned soul?'

    He grinned wryly. 'The closest thing to a lost cause I know. No, I just thought that you might be suffering some psychological problems, and it might be helpful to see someone who once knew you well.'

    'Thanks for the thought. I won't pretend that it has been easy. For a while I thought I was losing my sanity, but I'm gradually getting adjusted to my new self.' I smiled, 'for the first time in my life, I may even be fitter than you! Run any good marathons lately?'

    He gave a small smile, said, 'no, no time for that. I stay slim because rations are tight.' Then he held out his hand. Rather surprised, I took it.

'I don't have much time now, the project needs me back,' he said, 'but I'd like to keep in touch.'

    'Fine. Do that.'

    He hesitated. 'You are different, you know, apart from the obvious. You were always very enthusiastic and excitable, but now you're much calmer and more deliberate, and you seem – not colder, exactly, I think that "dispassionate" is the word I'm looking for.'

    I shrugged, 'I feel much the same as ever.'

    He nodded doubtfully, then left. We parted on better terms than we had enjoyed in over twenty years.

    One morning, I sensed an unusual diffidence about Zara; by then, I could read her moods with ease.

    'Can I ask you something?'

    'Of course.'

    'My twin daughters go a local primary school, and I've been asked to go in next week to talk to the children about you – you can imagine the level of interest. The trouble is I'm not sure that I should, so I thought I'd better ask if you minded.'

    'Not at all.' I had a sudden inspiration; 'in fact, I'll come with you.'

    Her face lit up. 'Really?'

    'Why not? Just as long as you don't warn them in advance, I don't want the place swamped by the press!'

    So a week later, Zara and I were transported in the anonymous white van to the school. Max drove at the high velocity traditional for such vehicles, grumbling when he was caught for a while behind a slow estate car proudly displaying a "Drive Carefully – Baby on Board" sign. 'What difference is that supposed to make? They think I deliberately drive into cars unless they ask me not to?'

    I grinned. 'It's illogical anyway. In terms of human life, babies are no more valuable than anyone else. And economically, considerably less so – after all, not much time or resources have been devoted to them. Now a sign which said "Drive carefully – expensively trained and newly qualified doctor on board" would be much more logical!'

    We drove into a village and pulled up outside an old school building, with tall multi-paned windows in the traditional brick and flint walls. Christmas decorations were stuck on the windows, reminding me of how much time had passed since my accident. As agreed, Zara went into the school first to collect her twins – nine-year-olds whose initial shyness at meeting me was soon overcome by fascination – and I walked in holding each by the hand. The headteacher was flustered and seemed close to panic at first, but rapidly realised her opportunity and I was soon absorbed with the children, struggling to answer their questions. The young ones were the most natural and, once they learned I didn't mind having my strange skin felt, they were all over me. The older children were more reticent, and I sensed traces of doubt and caution in some of them. Afterwards, I asked a beaming Zara about that.

    'Well, there have been some mixed reactions to you,' she admitted, 'so they're just picking that up from their parents. People are still rather unsure about what happened to you, what kind of person you are.'

    That was the first indication to me of the difficulties which lay ahead.

2

    The next day, I met with Brian and the rest of the Consultation at my request, in the conference room; it had padded chairs around a large table in pale wood, and enjoyed a view into a courtyard with a few neglected plants straggling over concrete paving. The Consultation included a diverse group of specialists, still keen to find any excuse to probe me further.

    'At that press conference, the HM said that my DNA had been checked and that I wasn't alien. But if I recall correctly, he didn't actually say I was completely human either. What did the tests show?'

    They shuffled a bit and looked at the geneticist, a thin, grey-haired man with the studious look of a priest or philosopher. He steepled his hands. 'Well, your DNA is certainly basically human but there are some irregularities; some genes switched on, others off, and quite a few additions that we can't account for. A rather different pattern from normal in various respects.'

    'And I'll bet you've been tracking those changes against the human genome map. What areas are affected, exactly?'

    'Well, we don't have a complete understanding yet about what each gene does, of course. We do know that there is a lot of apparently non-functional rubbish in human chromosomes, but rather less so in yours. Sorry to be so imprecise, but we're groping in the dark here.'

    Brian coughed in a rather embarrassed way. 'I was wondering if you'd agree to another conference? Just of the scientific community, invitation only. You have no idea of the level of curiosity about you.'

    Actually, I had. I was no longer frontline news, even the tabloids had tired of repeating stories of "miracle cures", but the scientific journals seemed able to support an apparently endless stream of articles; some well informed, others more speculative. And I was as curious as anyone else to find out what had happened to me. 'All right then, set it up will you?'

    A few weeks later, after Max's usual white van heroics, I arrived at the venue: a college on the edge of a nearby town, whose much larger lecture theatre had been booked for the occasion. It was a dull, wet, winter day and the college looked appropriately gloomy, dark streaks of water running down the concrete-faced building.

    When I walked in, the theatre was packed, the sense of anticipation electric. Brian chaired the meeting and had obviously established some form of precedence, as the scientists each dutifully waited their turn to ask questions. One TV camera was visible and a few members from the specialist scientific end of the press corps were present, but their uncharacteristic silence indicated that they had probably been told to shut up and listen, or leave.

    To start with, the members of my Consultation took it in turns to give short presentations of their findings. I was able to follow much of the discussion, but some was beyond me. The ophthalmologist's speculation about "changes to the amino-acid sequences of opsins in the photoreceptor cells" was something I had to look up later. My ears did prick up at the mention of high levels of myoglobin in my muscle cells. I knew that some seals had this and that it enabled them to stay underwater for long periods as it was much more efficient at storing oxygen than haemoglobin. My skin caused most interest: in some ways it was similar to a lizard's – with elements like a chameleon's – but with a number of other modifications. It was very tough and an excellent insulator but could also channel blood close to the surface for radiative cooling. There was information about the efficiency of my metabolism, evidenced by the small quantity of food I needed, but only baffled speculation about my drastic change in diet. There was also great interest in the revelation that my body seemed to have become 'zero-timed'; restored at a cellular level to that of a young adult. But no-one had any idea of the mechanism by which I had become so sensitive to people's moods and state of health, let alone how I was able to cure ailments, although there were some impressive-looking brain scans showing a massive level of mental activity while healing.

    The presentations caused so much interest and questioning that I began to wonder if my presence was really necessary. Then they turned their attention to me. Most of the questioning was straightforward and factual, trying to elicit as much information as possible about what I could and couldn't do. I performed various tests at their request, but found it hard to explain how I could do what I did; after all, how do you describe what you do when you lift your arm? You just do it.

    Eventually the focus switched to the causes of my transformation, and the debate grew more heated. No-one had produced any more likely explanation than the four I had identified from the start, but some of the audience had assembled impressive structures of argument to support their viewpoints and rubbish the alternatives, in the true academic spirit. One conclusion they (nearly) all eventually agreed on: there was no way that the changes could possibly have happened by accident. They were too specific, too effective, and outside the normal human genome. As one said, 'It's as if some extremely advanced geneticist sat down to redesign the human body in order to improve various aspects of our efficiency.' The problem being that the current state of knowledge about genetics was – at least – many decades away from being able to formulate the genetic changes required, let alone to re-engineer an existing adult body.

    Finally, they remembered me again, and asked my views. 'I don't think that any of them ranks as more than a minus three probability, which puts them all in the bracket of unsupported speculation.'

    Some confused looks for a few seconds. Academics hate demonstrating ignorance of something they should know about, so it was one of the journalists who broke ranks and put them out of their misery. 'What scale of probability is that, Cade?'

    I smiled smugly. 'You evidently haven't been reading my articles. If you had, you would have found the one I wrote a few years ago called, rather ironically in retrospect, "Scales of Belief". It was prompted by the attempt in some states of the USA to accord equal status to the teaching of creationism and Darwinism, on the grounds that both are unproven hypotheses and are therefore equally valid.  I thought that was ridiculous so I looked for a way of classifying beliefs in order to provide a scale of relative probability. So I devised a numerical scale running from plus five for beliefs which are based on incontrovertible, demonstrable fact – that the Earth is a spheroid, for example - to minus five for the flat-earthers.  The midpoint – zero on the scale – would indicate a belief for which there is no evidence one way or the other and which may be inherently unprovable, such as the existence of God.'

I was enjoying getting into my lecture; what communicator doesn't appreciate an attentive audience? The words flowed as I found I could remember the article perfectly. 'So plus four would represent a belief backed by massive evidence, but for which there is a rival explanation which cannot be completely disproved.  Conversely, minus four indicates a proposition which cannot be disproved, despite there being overwhelming evidence in favour of an alternative explanation.  So to apply this to the creationist debate, the cumulative mass of evidence from many areas of research that life, the Universe and all that, have developed over a huge period of time is strong enough to score plus four; the belief that all of this was created in six days about six thousand years ago is therefore clearly a minus four proposition. To continue down the scale, plus three covers propositions for which there is strong evidence. Darwin's theory of evolution is well evidenced and generally accepted.  However, the status of natural selection as the sole driving force for evolution is still challenged by some scientists who fully accept that evolution occurred but dispute the relative importance of the mechanisms involved.  Darwinism therefore scores plus three. Plus two beliefs would be those for which there is some evidence but not yet enough to make a generally accepted case, while plus one would refer to beliefs for which there is no evidence, but which seem very likely on the basis of probability, for example the existence of life elsewhere in the Universe. Minus one beliefs are those for which there is no direct or indirect evidence for or against, but appear unlikely on the basis of our understanding at this time.  Minus two would involve an idea under attack from some evidence but not yet completely dismissed – this could encompass much of parapsychology – while minus three beliefs would be those which are countered by solid, generally accepted evidence, but which can't entirely be ruled out. In the case of what happened to me, every explanation suggested so far runs head-on into strong evidence that it just isn't possible, which is why I classify them as "minus three" probabilities.'

    There was a thoughtful pause, before the emboldened journalist asked: 'you don't believe in God?'

    'Believe? No. Admit the possibility? Theoretically, yes, but I don't think it helps us.'

    'Why not?'

    'I think of human knowledge as being like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. In prehistory, it was an incomprehensible, jumbled mass. When people started to wonder about life, the Universe and so on, they had no information to help them so made it up, inventing a god or gods to explain it all. Over time, the best thinkers of each age began to assemble bits of the jigsaw, so little patterns of knowledge emerged. Unfortunately, the jigsaw is a tricky one so they sometimes assembled bits in the wrong way, but in fits and starts they made progress. As they did so, the scope for a divine creator gradually diminished.     Now, we have assembled enough of the jigsaw to have a good idea of its overall shape, and many parts of it have been completed. Thousands of scientists are beavering away, fitting piece after piece. Despite this, the puzzle is so huge that it will be a very long time before it's entirely finished – maybe the human race won't survive that long. But it's already clear that in principle it can be finished, right back to the Big Bang around fourteen billion years ago which started it all off. Potentially, we can understand everything in the physical Universe which has happened since then. Of course, you can argue that it was some supremely powerful being from another dimension – God, if you wish – who initiated the Big Bang, ensuring that the initial conditions were suitable for the development of the Universe as we know it. Since we have absolutely no idea what happened before the Big Bang – and may never know – that's as likely or unlikely as any other possibility. But where does that get you? It only raises a whole set of unanswerable questions about where God came from, and so on. And all of the evidence of the human condition – the randomness, pain and unfairness – suggest strongly that if there is such a God, He cares no more about what happens to any individual person than a forester does about what happens to a leaf from one of the trees in his forest.' I spotted a glass of water in front of me and swallowed gratefully, glad of the break. No-one jumped in with more questions, so the chairman took the opportunity to close the meeting, which had already overrun its scheduled time by a considerable margin.

    Over the next few days I studied the specialist press with interest. Most of the accounts of the conference were straightforwardly factual, but the additional information also sparked another series of speculative pieces. Some of them were fascinatingly ingenious, but none gave me any feeling of insight into what had happened to me. Disappointed, I turned to the broadsheets to see what kind of coverage they provided. One item caught my eye; a reference to a strong religious reaction from the USA.

    I switched on the one luxury in my room – a high-end computer with a broadband internet connection – and searched for sites containing the words 'Cade' and 'religion'. A torrent of hits flowed down the screen. I clicked on an American one at random. The headline hit me between the eyes:

THE MONSTER REVEALED!!!

At last! The scaly monster pretending to be a human has finally revealed his true colours!! I have warned ever since he first appeared that we should not be taken in by his soft words and deceitful attempts to fool us by so-called miracles – and now he is condemned from his own mouth!!!

'Do you believe in God?' He was asked. 'No!' came the reply!!! Now we know the truth! He is an unbeliever, the spawn of Satan, here on Earth to try to destroy our belief in the Almighty God with his clever words!

Has it not always been obvious? His scaly skin shows him to be the Devil's get! He is evil beyond imagining, and his existence cannot be tolerated!!!

    I scanned several more such sites, and discovered that the first was one of the milder ones. Many of them were calling for my total annihilation, some enthusiastically demanding a nuclear missile strike against the small town close to my hospital.

    I tried some more sensible American news sites, and found mixed reviews. Most just reported the outburst of religious fervour, but many added their own critical commentary. A protest march on the British Embassy in Washington was being organised to persuade them to do something about this monster in their midst.

    A knock on the door disturbed my bleak thoughts. Zara popped her cheerful face around the corner. 'Someone to see you!'

    She opened the door to show a shyly smiling Sally, standing for the first time with the aid of crutches. Several weeks of treatment had completed the new links in her spinal cord, and she would soon be back to normal. Her parents hovered rather nervously behind her. 'We're leaving soon', the father said, 'but we couldn't go without thanking you for all that you've done. You've given our Sally her life back, and ours too.'

    The mother stepped forward and impulsively hugged me. 'I don't care what they say about you, you'll always be an angel to us!'

    Zara gave me a puzzled look as the door closed behind them. 'What did she mean by that?'

    I showed her the American websites and she gasped. 'But that's horrible!'

    'Maybe, but that's what they're thinking. I've always found it bizarre that the most scientifically advanced nation on Earth should have so many religious fundamentalists; you'd think they'd suffer from some sort of collective national schizophrenia.'

    She turned away from the screen shaking her head in disgust, then looked at me worriedly. 'Doesn't this bother you?'

    I grimaced. 'Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering what kind of monster I have become. There are times when I wish it were all a nightmare that I could wake up from. But then my days are filled with helping people like Sally, and that makes it all feel worthwhile. But no, these sites don't particularly bother me; I just find them rather sad.'

    Zara turned and headed for the door. 'Janet was saying that there's an article in a paper about different countries' attitudes to you. I'll go and find it.'

    She returned in a few minutes brandishing a page from the review section of one of the more serious broadsheets. We sat together on the sofa and read through it. The writer had been tapping into polls carried out world-wide, with interesting results.

    Most North Europeans were unconcerned about the religious issue. I expected this, as they are in my experience a pleasantly heathen lot whatever faith they technically profess. They regarded me with interest and generally speaking without hostility, despite the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger criticism from the established churches.

    Further east, views changed. The fundamentalist mullahs and imams of Islam were predictably opposed – I pondered briefly whether they had ever welcomed anything new since medieval times, but soon gave up – with the more extreme ones pronouncing fatwas against me. The Hindis, however, were surprisingly positive, at least in part because of my involuntary vegetarianism. Some even wanted to add me to the pantheon of their colourful gods.

    More remarkable to me was the Far Eastern reaction, especially from the Chinese – or at least, those living outside the People's Republic. I should have remembered that dragons retained a special place in their mythology, and the advent of "Dragon Man", as they called me, had stimulated all sorts of new cults, with "Dragon Preachers" gathering disciples by purporting to be in some kind of rapport with me. Some of them encouraged decidedly peculiar practices in my name (the common factor being, of course, that the fact that I had no material goods meant that their followers should hand over all of their belongings – to them) and I decided that I would have to do something about that.

    Saddest of all was the response from central Africa, in much of which I was regarded with fear and used as an icon of terror, especially to frighten children. I resolved to do something about that, too.

    In light relief, those groups in the USA which weren't condemning me as the devil incarnate apparently regarded me as an alien visitor from another planet. Some of the more paranoid warned that I was on a reconnaissance mission to plan an invasion, but most pleaded for me to be welcomed with honour, and were extremely concerned that I would be insulted by the reaction of their more belligerent countrymen.

    Zara produced one of her giggles, together with another article from a rather less intellectual publication. 'This one might amuse you!'

    It was from a women's magazine, and devoted to the possibilities for pleasure which my control of nervous systems promised. They had found a doctor able to pontificate in a mildly salacious way on the advantages of direct sensory stimulation in comparison with conventional lovemaking or various drugs. Somewhat surprisingly, the hackette who had been the sole recipient of such treatment had proved reticent about her experience, but despite this I was voted 'best buy'. It was even suggested, half seriously, that the NHS should authorise sessions with me for women suffering from frigidity.

    ''I've been summoning up the nerve to ask – why haven't you been interested in any of these women who have been trying to attract your attention? Haven't you seen the intense looks you get whenever you walk around the hospital?'

    'Well, yes, but I always suspect they're thinking my skin would make a wicked pair of shoes with a matching handbag.'

    Zara laughed. 'Oh no, it's much more basic than that.'

    'More basic than shoes and handbags? Is there any such thing?' I thought about it for a moment. Despite my joke, it had been something that I had wondered about myself; I would not in my previous life have turned down such opportunities. 'This may sound odd coming from a man, but I don't like the idea of being regarded as some kind of trophy, or a diverting novelty for jaded women who have tried everything else. Also, I have to admit that the nervous energy I burn up in healing people doesn't leave me with much for any other purpose!'

    'They will be disappointed!' Zara was still laughing as she left.

    The winter passed, filled with the steady routine of hospital work. This was interrupted one spring morning when a formally-dressed man of indeterminate middle age, calm demeanour and instantly forgettable appearance was ushered into my lodgings by a rather harassed-looking HM, who promptly departed.

    The stranger, who had been introduced as "Mr Richards from the Home Office" accepted my invitation to sit down and spent a few seconds studying me. I did likewise. He looked smooth, well-fed and well-groomed, but his eyes were hard. I was impressed by the calm certainty in his mind; he was clearly used to being in complete control. He smiled suddenly. 'I'm not quite sure of protocol here – do I call you Mr Johnson, Mr Cade or just Cade?'

    'Cade will do nicely.'

    'I'm here, as the saying goes, on a mission of some delicacy. I understand that you are able to sense the state of mind of people in close proximity.' He had a precise, rather pedantic way of speaking.

    'That's right.'

    'Does that extend to knowing whether they are lying or telling the truth?'

    'I will know if they are deliberately lying, but not necessarily if they are telling the truth – after all, they could be genuinely mistaken.'

    'Indeed. I think that will suffice.' He pursed his lips, then continued slowly and deliberately; I wondered if he was ever rushed.

    'What I am about to tell you is, of course, strictly confidential. It is a matter of national security.'

    I nodded cautiously, feeling a mixture of intrigue and alarm.

    'There is someone high up in our intelligence community who is being considered for a major promotion. On the face of it, he is the ideal man for the job. Unfortunately, some of our sources located elsewhere are hinting that his loyalty may not be entirely undivided.'

    I wondered what shenanigans lay behind the euphemistic words, the spies like rats in the wainscoting rooting out secrets and lies. 'And so you want me to listen in on an interview with him to see if I can catch him out?'

    Richards winced slightly. 'Quite so, although it would be preferable if you could confirm that he is genuine.'

    I shrugged. 'Very well, I see no reason why not. Where is this interview to take place?'

    'In London, next week. We'll send a car for you.'

    In such a casual way was the course of my next few months determined.

    The car wasn't a Bentley, an Aston Martin or even a Jaguar, rather to my disappointment, but an anonymous-looking Ford Galaxy MPV, only unusual for its dark-tinted windows which conveniently concealed my identity. At least, there was plenty of space inside to sprawl. It was a relief to see a change of scenery as the vehicle sped south and I had to admit to myself some pleasure at the prospect of a change in routine.

    The Galaxy ground to a slow pace as it penetrated north London, eventually passing through an area I recognised as Camden. Despite the cold late-autumn weather, the colourful market was in full flow to one side, while the eclectic stalls of Camden Lock stretched away on the other. I caught a glimpse of the pastel green pub opposite the lock with a pang of nostalgia, remembering hours spent on ale-fuelled creative thinking while an ex-girlfriend ransacked the idiosyncratic clothes and jewellery stalls.

    Shortly afterwards the Galaxy zig-zagged through the streets of Bloomsbury before nosing into a short cul-de-sac between a pair of tall, dark-brick, Georgian buildings. A few pedestrians passed to and fro across the mouth of the alley as we got out and stretched after the long journey. One of them turned in and moved towards us. My attention slid lazily across him then suddenly jumped to alertness – he was fiercely focused – on me! I saw his hand coming from under his coat, the straight dark gleam of a gun barrel and then I moved. Suddenly everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, the gun zooming into my vision as it slowly lifted while I leaped across the space separating us. I touched his hand the instant before he brought the gun to bear and the weapon started to fall from his nerveless grip as I collided violently with his body, touching him again on the neck as he fell.

    Time returned to normal. I recovered my balance and stood over the man as he lay on the ground. My driver was rigid with shock, his mouth open. A side door suddenly burst open and Richards was there with two other men. CCTV covering the alley, I realised – they must have seen what happened.

    Richards stared down at my assailant. 'Is he dead?'

    'No, just paralysed.'

    'For how long?'

    'Until I decide otherwise.'

    He grunted and told the men to carry the assassin into the building, scooping up the gun and glancing around to check that the incident had attracted no attention. In fact, it had happened so quickly and silently that no-one had noticed. I followed them in.

    Inside, the building was as nondescript as the outside but more impressive, with an air of faded grandeur. Richards looked at me searchingly, his genuine concern evident. 'Are you all right?'

    'Never better.' A part of me looked on as if detached from the rest, amazed at my calmness. No-one had ever tried to kill me before, yet I felt little reaction apart from a heightened attention, a slight buzz of adrenaline increasing my alertness. I felt more than ready for anything.

    Richards shook his head slightly. 'I've never seen anyone move that fast. I wouldn't have believed it possible.'

    'The prospect of imminent death concentrates the mind something wonderful,' I paraphrased wryly.

    He was atypically hesitant. 'Are you all right to go through with this?'

    'Of course. Why not?'

    Evidently relieved, he led me through tall, dark corridors to a small, dimly-lit room, one wall of which was of dark glass.

    'I hope the glass won't obstruct your senses?'

    'Not significantly.'

    'Good. The interview will be starting shortly.'

    We sat side by side, staring at our dim reflections in the glass. Suddenly, a rectangle of light illuminated the space behind the glass as a door opened, then light flooded the room. Two men entered; one, short and portly, chatting amiably to the second. The sound insulation between the two rooms appeared excellent, but a speaker relayed their conversation.

    'Sorry to drag you in like this Derek, but I something has come up that we need to clarify.'

    "Derek" raised an eyebrow as he looked at the one-way glass, obviously recognising its purpose. 'In an interview room?'

    'Apologies again,' the rather portly interviewer was affability itself. 'But this has the benefit of being entirely secure.'

    'Indeed.' The note of irony carried clearly through the speakers – Derek was not fooled for a moment. He looked like an up-market banker, I thought; trim figure, wavy grey hair, three-piece pinstripe suit. He was radiating watchful, controlled calm.

    'The fact is, we've had a rather disturbing report from our friends across the pond' – I guessed that he was referring to the CIA – 'who have in turn received some reports from a source which they are rather coy about identifying. Anyway, they claim that you have been more than usually friendly with some wealthy individuals in the Middle East who are not, as they might say, exactly rooting for the good guys.'

    Derek's alertness shot up, his tension radiating through the glass. But he showed nothing on his face and his pulse remained steady, his self-control like iron. 'Indeed? Could you be more specific? If I'm being accused of something I can hardly defend myself unless I know more than that.'

    The portly man spread his hands in a nicely-judged and entirely false mixture of regret, embarrassment and sympathy. 'My dear fellow, I only wish we had more! This is really exasperating, of course, but we must find some way of satisfying our American colleagues.'

    I leaned over to Richards and murmured, 'get him to ask a direct question. This guy is too controlled to let anything oblique worry him.'

    Richards nodded and picked up a small microphone. I could see the back of portly man's head and spotted the small wire of an earpiece. Richards talked quietly into the microphone for a moment.

    'I'm sorry to have to be blunt,' the interviewer said, 'but have you ever had contact with any of the anti-Western groups in Saudi Arabia?'

    Derek waved dismissively. 'Of course not,' he said confidently.

    'Liar.' I said to Richards. 'He is hiding something serious and is getting worried.'

    Richards nodded and murmured again into the microphone.

    'Well, that's that then.' Portly man sounded relieved. 'Unless the Americans can come up with something more definite, I think we can forget all about this.' They left the room, still chatting amiably.

    I turned to Richardson; 'What happens next?'

    'Nothing. He'll be slipped into a suitably prestigious job where he can do no harm.'

    'You'd do that because of one word spoken by me?'

    'Well, not only that,' he smiled wryly, 'there is the small matter of why someone wanted you dead. The fact that you were attacked just before witnessing that interview is highly unlikely to be a coincidence.'

    I mulled over that for a moment. 'Then you've got a leak, somewhere.'

    'So it would seem.' He paused for a moment. 'Could you locate him for us?'

    'With pleasure. But first I'd like to take a look at my assassin'.

    Richards nodded and led me down into a substantial basement and through a very solid and well-insulated door. The man lay on a bare, steel-framed bed, the two men who had brought him there sitting to one side. They stood up as we entered. 'Hasn't moved a muscle sir.' One said.

    I walked over and looked down at him. Now I could see him clearly in a bright light, I was not surprised to see that he was of Middle Eastern appearance. His eyes gleamed with terror at his paralysis.

    'Any chance of finding out who sent him?' Richard's voice was like his mind; the epitome of studied calm.

    I reached down and touched the man's head, freeing his vocal cords. I hesitated for a moment, reluctant to inflict pain even on a killer such as this, then thought of another way. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his mental pattern, extending my sensitivity past his conscious mind and into the subconscious. I burrowed deeply, heading for the horror zone, where all nightmares lurk. I filled him with a nameless, formless dread, which reached up and swamped his conscious control, drowned his beliefs in a sea of terror.

    'Who sent you?'

    His mind gibbered back at me, but I didn't need to hear the answer – it was writ clearly enough in his emotions for me to see.

    'He doesn't know. I sense that he has had training in killing – he has the mindset of a soldier – but I suspect he was given his instructions anonymously.'

    Richards grunted again. 'More or less what I expected.'

    'Do you want him active or paralysed?'

    He considered for a moment. 'Might as well leave him paralysed for now. He'll be less trouble that way.'

    I spent the night in a nondescript room in the nondescript building, after phoning the hospital to warn that my stay would be a little longer than expected. The next morning, the process of spy-hunting was simple. Richards led me through his organisation, passing through a large and surprisingly ordinary open-plan room; it could have been any commercial office. I had made no attempt at disguise and monitored the various emissions of surprise and fascination radiating from the minds of the staff. Suddenly, there was a flare of alarm and guilt. I turned and followed it to its source, wading through the growing panic as I approached. I stopped at the desk and looked at her, saying nothing. She was staring open-eyed, her pulse beating wildly in her throat.

    'Miss Samuelson, would you come with us please?' Richards was courtesy itself, but the iron command was unmistakable.

    She got up rather jerkily, spilling some papers, and followed numbly behind us as we left the room, accompanied by waves of intense and speculative interest from the staff.

    This was no hardened killer, and my specialised interrogation techniques were not required. All I had to do was sit silently facing her, commenting, 'that's a lie,' from time to time, and she soon cracked under Richards' persistent questioning. It was a predictable tale of a single, rather lonely woman approaching middle age, who had been swept off her feet by a handsome and wealthy Arab.

    After she had been taken away, Richards sighed wearily. 'Terrible shame, she was a competent officer. You'd think that a woman in this business would know better than to fall for a classic honeytrap, but it keeps on happening. I'm beginning to think that we shouldn't employ staff unless they are always engaged in at least one active sexual relationship that we know all about.'

    I smiled wryly, 'I can just see that one getting past the Equal Opportunities watchdogs in Human Resources!'

    The journey back to the hospital later that day was conducted in a more sombre mood, with elaborate precautions being taken to ensure my safety. I left the building via a service tunnel, emerging heavily disguised into another street before being bundled into a car – and switched to another one a short distance away. The rest of the journey was uneventful but despite the bright sunshine my mood was dark. A newspaper had been left in the car for me and I read through it in the hope of gaining some distraction, but it was full of stories about environmental deterioration, water shortages and mass-migration from famine areas in Africa. I thought of Luke and wondered what he was doing.

    I was left with much food for thought. I had been identified as a target by a hostile organisation, which meant not only that my life was in danger, but that others around me could be as well. The hospital was a fine place for keeping out the idly curious, but a trained killer was a different matter. I would have to be much more careful.

    I was used to shutting out the mental signals from those around me, unless I had to focus on a medical case, as they caused too much distraction. The situation had changed drastically, however. As the car dropped me off close to a rear entrance to the hospital, I tried extending my sensitivity and scanned the area. The babble of mental noise from the hospital roared like surf, containing all of the varied emotions of humanity. I tried to tune that out and swept my attention outwards, towards the surrounding countryside.

    Contact! The mind was cold, clear and deliberate, the attention focused on me, the pressure on the trigger tripping the sear NOW! I dived to one side as the bullet cracked past, instantly followed by the flat 'bang' of the muzzle blast. I was immediately on my feet and racing towards the gunman who was concealed in a small copse less than a hundred metres away. I sensed his dismay and growing alarm as I hit a speed which Olympic sprint champions would have traded years of their lives for. He fumbled with the rifle's bolt action, chambering another round and hastily taking aim as I rushed towards him. This time it was easy, I jerked to one side as he fired and came straight on. He was now in a complete panic and dropped his rifle, pulling out a pistol as firing almost blindly as I hurtled through the air, sending him into oblivion as I knocked him to the ground.

    I dropped to my knees to examine him but as my reactions slowed to normal I felt a sudden, deep pain. I looked down and realised that the pistol bullet hadn't missed after all – there was a hole in my tee-shirt, and the material was darkening with blood. As if following some basic instinct I immediately lay down so I could focus entirely on the wound. The pain was dismissed easily enough and I concentrated on the deep wound channel which penetrated my body, passing through my liver. I found I was able to stop the blood flow, sealing off the countless blood vessels sliced through by the bullet. The liver repair took a little longer.

    I was then left with a bullet buried in my body, and a hole running through me. Still not sure what I was able to do, I focused on the flesh around and in front of the bullet, and forced it to close, slowly pushing the bullet backwards. After ten minutes of effort, the bullet popped out of my abdomen, and the hole sealed behind it. I slowly got up, feeling a little weak and tired but otherwise unaffected, and examined the bullet. It had a coppery-coloured base but the nose was of lead and had been expanded into a broad star shape by the passage through my body – a hollow-point, I guessed.

    I knew something about guns from friends in America who had taken me down to a firing range on more than one occasion to try out different weapons. I picked up the rifle and worked the bolt, ejecting the fired cartridge case. I examined the headstamp and winced. The lettering spelled out "norma 7 MM REM MAG". I recalled that the 7mm Remington Magnum was a high-velocity hunting round which normally fired expanding bullets. A hit from that would have been much more difficult to repair – it would have blown a large hole right through me.

    I looked down at the paralysed assassin, who was clearly going nowhere, and went to the hospital to find a phone.

    Richards came personally that night, accompanied by the usual pair of silent men who quickly loaded the assassin and his weapons into the back of their vehicle. He was full of concern and apology for the danger he had exposed me to, and anxious to make amends.

    'I need to get away from here, quickly.' I said. 'I'm putting my friends in danger by staying here. I need to leave tonight.' I had had time to think this through, and knew that my stay at the hospital had to end.

    He blinked in surprise, then thought quickly. 'Very well, we have some discreet accommodation we can offer until we can sort out something more permanent. You'd better come with us.'

    'First I have some people to see.' I went into the hospital and, after warily scanning the area, entered my room. No-one had been there, I could somehow tell. I picked up my spare clothes and stuffed them in a bag, added some fruit and nuts, glanced around, then left. There was nothing more I needed.

    Brian had gone home for the night but Zara was still on duty and after tracking down her mental signature I met her in a quiet corridor. She gasped when she saw my bloodied and perforated shirt but I pulled it up to show my unmarked skin and she relaxed a little.

    'Zara, I'm afraid I have to leave, now. I've become a target and I'm putting everyone in danger just by being here. They've tried twice in two days with guns, the next time it might be a bomb.'

    She grimaced, shocked and angry. 'Who's "they"?'

    'I didn't stop to ask. I expect I've accumulated quite a range of enemies. But whoever it is, they've taken a serious and determined dislike to me.' I was reluctant to involve her in any speculation about security services; as far as she knew, I had gone to London to advise on some medical issue.

    'What about your patients? We've got the usual week's worth stacked up in a holding pattern around the hospital.'

    'I know, and I will get to them, I promise. They'll just have to wait until I can operate from somewhere more secure.'

    She looked at me, radiating anger and sadness – and something more. 'I knew this would happen some time, but not so soon. I'll miss you,' she said softly.

    'Me too.'

    She was suddenly in my arms, hugging me tight and trying not to cry. I held her for a while, soothing her mental turmoil, and she gradual relaxed into acceptance.

    'I hate goodbyes. Just be very careful, all right?'

    'All right'.

    She turned suddenly and walked away down the long corridor without looking back. I stood and watched her go, realising with sadness that yet another turning point in my life had been reached. And the next stage was likely to be a lot less pleasant.

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