He dismisses this with a headshake. Clearly my contribution to the conversation is not required. ‘No – as in, they all died from conditions where ageing is the primary risk factor. Cancer, neurodegeneration, cardiovascular disease, one of the hepatitises...’
The words boom ominously, reminding me of those old public information films that used to warn kids off attempting to climb pylons, or playing hopscotch on railways.
‘Anyway.’ Wilf nods at the bag between my fingers. ‘Take one of those, and you don’t need to worry. You’ll be preserved as you are for the rest of your life.’
My heart begins to pound. ‘Excuse me?’
‘As in, your body will stop ageing. Instantly. Thereby preventing the diseases that have so far killed off sixty-two point three per cent of your family.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Don’t panic.’
‘I won’t, if you start making sense.’
‘In what way am I not making sense?’
‘Anti-ageing pills don’t exist.’
‘They do now. I invented one.’
I scramble to my feet, drop the bag on to the coffee table as though it burns. ‘Why are you fucking with me?’
He looks genuinely crushed. ‘I’m not.’
And this is how I know he’s telling the truth. Because in all honesty? Wilf would not know how.
We talk long into the night. Twice, Wilf’s phone rings. I know it will be Rachel. But for the first time in my life I ignore her calls.
‘How the hell does it work?’ is one of my first questions. But as soon as he starts talking about cellular senescence and mitochondrial loss and keratinocytes and nutrient sensing – then heads off on a tangent into human cell classification – I have to hold up a hand. ‘Layman’s terms. Please.’
He bristles. ‘I really hate that phrase. The science is the science. Anyway, sorry it’s taken me so long. But, as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s required quite a bit of refinement.’
My mind is swinging wildly between elation and trepidation. It’s making me feel queasy. ‘Have you got anything I could drink?’
He makes to take my empty cup.
‘No, I mean... beer. Or whisky. Or anything.’
He thinks for a moment. ‘I have toffee-flavoured vodka.’
At this, I have to laugh. ‘Fine. Whatever. Bring it on.’
He hesitates, nods down at the pills. ‘Are you going to take one of those? Because I really wouldn’t recommend mixing them with any form of C2H6O.’
‘Don’t be a prat,’ I mutter, the way I do whenever he feels the need to start speaking scientist.
As he heads off to the kitchen, I just sit staring at the pills. My heart rate must be nudging a hundred. Ironic, I think, if the shock of being told I could sidestep an early death might, in fact, be the very thing that ends up bringing it on.
I’m desperate to talk to Rachel. I know she would have something rational to say about all this. But, right now, my brain is still beetling with too many questions.
‘How do you know they work?’ I say to Wilf when he returns.
‘Pre-clinical trials in the lab.’ He hands me a glass containing the novelty vodka.
I take a long swig. It tastes sweet and stupid and is exactly what I need.
‘You did this for work?’
