‘Technically, no. They don’t know yet. But I’m thinking about pitching it to them. I mean, I kind of have to, given I developed it out-of-hours in their laboratory.’
‘But how do youknow? Like—’
‘Computer modelling. Skin cells, grown from human stem cells. The next step would be sending results to the MCA in advance of clinical trials.’
I try to follow what he’s saying. But in all honesty you might as well expect a dog to comprehend a lecture in degree-level astrophysics.
My head is swimming. ‘Wilf... this could behuge. Like, ground-breaking. You could make a fortune.’
He sips his insult-to-vodka. ‘I’m aware.’
I mean, he does get paid a fair whack already. We worked out once that it equated to roughly ten times my hourly rate. Still, Idon’t know anyone who would turn down the chance to become a millionaire if it arose.
Outside, the weather is getting wilder. Rain is beginning to hurtle against the windows. A storm the like of which we haven’t had for years. If this flat were a boat, I’d be prepping the emergency flares.
‘So, listen. I’d be taking this before... it’s been properly tested?’
‘I’ve taken one.’
I stare at him, shock sinking through me. ‘What? When?’
‘A few months back.’
‘Why the hell—?’
‘It’ll work, Josh. Trust me.’
And, in a weird way, I do. I trust Wilf more than anyone else I know. Apart from Rachel, of course.
‘Just so I’m clear: I take this, then stay twenty-nine and can’t die?’
Wilf laughs into his glass, which is the vodka doing its thing, I guess. ‘Well, obviously you can die. If you walk out in front of a bus, or jump off a tall building. But stupidity aside, no. To use your phraselayman’s terms– your body won’t develop any new plaque, or blockages. Malignancies, anything like that. You’ll be immune to illness. So, say you take it tomorrow, and your body is healthy – that’s how it will stay.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I breathe.
My mind races back to Rachel. To how terrified I’ve been, for so long – from the first moment we met, really – of leaving her. How exhilarating it would be, how dizzyingly fucking wonderful, to finally know I might not have to. To be able to live our lives entirely free from fear.
Wilf downs the last of his drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘So, do you want them, or not?’
‘Them?’
‘One for you, and one for—’
Rachel.
6.
Rachel
March 2000
On the anniversary of Josh’s dad’s death – his twenty-fifth year gone – we go to his mum’s house for supper.
A quarter of a century. Twenty-five years of missing out on your wife and son, the life you built together.
Josh has cooked roast chicken, his dad’s favourite. When he leaves the table to baste it, Debbie picks up the card I gave her and says, ‘This is just so beautiful, Rachel. And I know how much Pete would have loved it, too.’
I drew the two of them in pen and ink from a photograph Josh gave me, Debbie’s face upturned to Pete’s. We had it framed, and Debbie couldn’t hold back her tears when she unwrapped it.
