BONE SPURS II

 

BONE SPURS II

Five years on, an update

Fiction by strzeka (12/23)

 

P R O L O G U E

 

Buck Cloutier and Mason Tinsley had been body‑building enthusiasts, leather lovers and successful wannabe amputees until they were reduced to almost complete limblessness by the floriantes barbarosa epidemic of 2035 which compelled the disarticulation of recently amputated limbs due to the uncontrollable growth on bone spurs from the severed bone. Functioning stumps were forfeit. Long legless, Cloutier lost his sole arm stump, leaving him no vestige of arms with two short leg stumps and Tinsley became a bilateral hook user with a torso stump.

 

 

            – I want to be blind, boy.

Derek the houseboy was about to change the torsos’ bed sheets after a virile sex session when Buck called for assistance.

            – Yes sir.

Derek doused his hands in disinfectant gel and fetched the glass vial containing Buck’s opaque white contact lenses. Blindness was his latest fetish. He had been warned by his optician to wear contacts for no longer than twelve hours at a stretch but had never tolerated loss of his sight for so long. He was determined to accustom himself to sightlessness in addition to all his other disabilities. It seemed like a logical progression. If he were not so enamoured of his long wooden stubbies, he would be almost entirely helpless. As a blind man, Buck rarely moved from wherever he sat, his stubbies echoing the bilateral knee disarticulations he had lost in the voluntary amputation craze earlier in the decade.

            – Please tilt your head back, sir.

 

Derek was gentle with both his masters. He realised soon after moving in as a permanent carer that Buck’s bark was much worse than his bite. Mason was much more relaxed about status but more concerned with apparel and appearance. Buck’s facial features were already destroyed by repeated unsuccessful tattoos. He had recently given up wearing his leather hoods at home. Buck leaned back slightly and looked up at the ceiling. Derek pulled the tattooed eyelids wider apart and placed the white contacts onto Buck’s brown eyes. Now Buck was blind until someone removed them. Mason watched the procedure from the other side of the room and decided to take advantage of Derek’s presence and Buck’s imminent quietude.

            – Derek, while you’re here, would you put me by the laptop?

 

Mason had asked to wear his plastic torso socket, a sure sign that he planned to sit stationary rather than move around. His supple leather ‘shoe’ allowed his stumpless buttocks to enable slow progress around the apartment. He preferred manoeuvring around the apartment on his stump rather than use his wheelchair which was relegated to Derek’s room.

 

Mason wanted to try out a few prompts he had been mentally refining. Derek carried the rigid torso to his work desk and positioned the laptop and other equipment conveniently within range of Mason’s large semicircular hooks. Denied the opportunity to progress deeper into physical disability through fear of another bout with bone spurs, Mason found satisfaction in creating scenarios for virtual amputees. He and Buck, together with fellow landlord Harlan Trent and his lover Heath, had started a small video production company, ostensibly as a distraction from their new and unwanted disabilities. After the positive response to the first three uploads, Harlan created a pay‑per‑view and Mason spent many hours each week both prompting the AI bot to create ten to fifteen second scenes of severely disabled amputee leathermen living their lives and exploiting their stumps to the best of their abilities. Buck occasionally provided inspiration for new scenarios after spending hours blind and immobile. Mason enjoyed the freedom to live vicariously through one of the characters he had created which was based on his own limblessness, a legless bilateral hook user who ruled the roost in a commune inhabited solely by triple and quadruple amputees. The series was called Our House and each new episode immediately attracted over a quarter of a million views at twenty‑five quid per view. The episodes lasted three quarters of an hour and accrued many repeat views from subscribers at a discounted price of ten pounds. Mason’s only complaint was the exasperating literalness of the AI engine. Every scene had to be described in exhaustive detail to maintain continuity. Like most prompters, Mason had accrued a collection of cut‑and‑paste commands and descriptions to speed production but was frequently surprised to see video product from the engine featuring limbs or clothing which had long since been discarded. The prompts had to be rewritten and rechecked. Mason was ideal as a prompter thanks to his degree in English literature. A decade ago it had been derided as useless. Now a large vocabulary and concise command of grammar produced lucrative scenes of homosexual amputee raunch.

 

Derek moved around the apartment quietly, continuing with his housekeeping work. The men’s sheets had been changed, an almost daily occurrence. Buck’s queen‑size bed was more than adequate for two torsos. Buck slept at one end, Mason at the other. Their love‑making usually took place in the middle where pools of drying semen and saliva would not discomfort the sleeping torsos. Mason’s leglessness guaranteed that he would not feel the wet spot and Buck’s leg stumps were too short to reach it. Mason often changed position during the night. Having lost only half his forearms, he was perfectly able to push himself onto his left or right side. Buck was condemned to sleeping on his front or back and had to announce to Derek which he preferred before being lowered onto his bed. Derek had come to expect that Buck would masturbate his inch long cock by gyrating it against the bed sheet if he slept on his front. Derek did not begrudge the leathermen their sexual games despite the extra work it gave him. Buck refused to sleep in soiled sheets although he tolerated a considerable amount of dried body fluids on his leathers.

 

Derek himself had undergone a change in attitude since arriving from the remedial care centre in which he had lived between the ages of sixteen and twenty. He had been found guilty of shoplifting for the second time and removed from society. All he wanted was a pair of red thirty‑holer boots with shiny external toecaps. They cost four hundred and seventy which he would never be able to afford. He spent the next years wearing recycled paper flip‑flops and yellow prison trousers and tops. When he was released in response to the sudden urgent need for young four‑limbed assistants to the freshly amputated, he had been cowered into submission, wanting nothing and getting it. He was placed with Buck and Mason and immediately felt at home under the armless Buck’s relentless demands. The leatherman lurched back and forth on short black cylindrical legs, swinging his motorcyclist’s jacket sleeves to emphasise a point. Derek had feared him for his dominating manner and his impatience but gradually his trust in both quadruple amputees grew, especially after Buck spent time with him asking about his past and his intentions for the future. Derek said he wanted to be a skinhead, not because he wanted to join a gang but because he liked the look of the clothes they wore and the big leather boots. Buck was no stranger to the desire to wear big black boots and gave Derek a thousand pounds to be used only for clothes. Derek bought the boots he had been caught stealing and all the other things a true skinhead needed for street cred. He kept his head and face shaved and shaved the heads of Buck and Mason in a ritual of mutual respect.

 

Derek influenced the amputees too. He was not a handsome boy but had adopted the looks of a piercing fanatic. His eyebrows both held three consecutive rings, his septum was pierced and held a wide curling rod of steel, not dissimilar to a buffalo’s horns. His latest addition was a broad labret under his lower lip. The flesh had been sculpted in order to insert it and its presence pushed his lower lip into a sneer. Derek also had his first facial tattoo, a simple black rectangle extending from the outline of his lower lip to his neck. The steel labret contrasted brilliantly with the black ink. Much as he hated to copy the houseboy’s fetish, Buck also lusted after facial piercings as a departure from amputation as a statement of status. He had removed his previous fashionable facial piercings after his first tattoos. Resting in his chair now, blind to his surroundings, he explored the wilder extremes of facial piercing. He pictured himself with grotesquely extended earlobes, the sides of his nose holding expansion rings and his lower lip pierced and stretched to allow a frontal view of his steel dentures. He gripped his micropenis between his leather stubbies and ground his stumps slowly, imagining himself with a rictus forced by facial piercing. All his facial jewellery would be chrome steel. His face would glitter with unnatural additions and his old features would be destroyed as thoroughly as his tattoos had destroyed his skin. He should have his entire head re‑tattooed. Blackwork all over. It was the future.

 

Mason had no doubt that his tattoos, which Buck had insisted on, had influenced Derek. He had long since become used to seeing his drastically altered face with its diagonal stripes and the matching designs around his head and neck. He remembered his tattooed legs and regretted the fact that he had never thought of photographing them. Now his lower body tattoos were lost to time, along with his lower body. It was too bad. Buck had not spoken of his latest inspiration but it was something which Mason would support fully. Mason had unknowingly influenced Derek in another way too. His prosthetic arms with the big curved hooks fascinated the young skinhead, who frequently imagined himself going about his daily chores using a similar pair of hooks. He held the opinion that steel hooks would match his facial piercings. Only the fact that he needed natural fingers to see to things like Buck’s contact lenses prevented him from exploring the notion of handlessness further.

 

Mason worked regularly on the next episode of Our House. Buck reviewed output before Mason was allowed to continue. Derek linked Mason’s laptop to the widescreen tv and the two torsos reviewed and discussed how the storyline should continue. They allowed him to watch if he promised to be silent. He also watched the torsos in their continually varying combinations of leatherwear, torso sockets and prosthetic limbs. Tonight Buck was wearing his cosmetic arms, muscular facsimiles of a bodybuilder’s arms terminating in balled fists. They were connected to a yoke which Derek simply dropped over Buck’s head. The sculpted forearms bent forward at sixty degrees. The fists rested uselessly beside Buck’s leather‑clad stubbies.

            – Replay that last scene. I don’t understand how the blond guy can be on the bed without being lifted onto it. Where’s the servant with the hooks?

            – I don’t see the need, Buck. Viewers will know the guy will have been lifted onto the bed. I mean, how else can he get up there? His leg nubs are too short and so are his arm stumps. I don’t think you need to show every tiny detail every single time.

            – No, you may be right. I like the way you’ve captured the effort he has to make to turn himself. The facial expressions are realistic even through all that beard. Are there going to be situations when he walks on his four nubs?

            – Do you think he could? His leg stumps are too short for stubbies. His dick and balls would drag along the floor even if they were stuffed into a codpiece. I don’t really see how it would be feasible, Buck. Let him enjoy the freedom of his stumps.

            – Alright. I concur this time. This bit is good where he drags himself forward with his arm stumps. It’s horny.

 

Mason wondered what was going through Buck’s mind. He was obviously keenly interested in the virtual blond’s method of propulsion. He might have enjoyed trying something similar himself but he was too disabled for such locomotion. Buck shrugged his shoulders and his rigid cosmetic arms changed position slightly. Mason interpreted the gesture as a request to review the next sequence. Derek was enjoying a short period of relaxation, imagining himself limbless and as virile as the bearded blond adonis on screen which Mason’s fantasy had created. He was as different from Derek’s skinhead persona as it was possible to be.

 

Buck decided the time was ripe to begin his next transformation. He wanted his facial tattoos obliterated by a new layer of blackwork which would transform his features entirely. He wanted his pale skin covered, hidden, negated. Then his reconfiguration with extreme facial piercing could begin. He contacted his tattooist, Zen Bergman, an artisan with thirty years’ experience, a man who had stood on two wooden legs for forty years. Florrie had not affected him in any way. His truncated femurs had healed decades ago and his stumps had become perfect examples of the genre. His amputations were the result of a road accident and hints of scandal occasionally resurfaced on the web referring to the genuine cause of the trauma. The man had already been in a relationship with a legless lover. It was highly improbable that a random accident would result in a similar disability. Bergman had longer stumps and enthusiastically adopted a pair of thick heavy wooden legs which had been refurbished over the decades but which he continued to wear.

            – How are you, old friend? What can I do for you?

            – I need some blackwork done. Face and head, down to my chest.

            – That’s fine, Buck. Drop in on Saturday morning about nine and we’ll get started. How are you doing these days? Still running that bike?

            – No more biking for me, mate. I had florrie. I’m limbless.

            – So it goes. Well, come by at the weekend and we’ll talk about what you want done.

He imagined that Buck had fresh leg stumps, maybe his sturdy thighs had been reduced to hemispherical nubs or similar. He had no idea of the prosthetic torso he was due to meet.

 

Buck placed a call to Peg Leg Heath.

            – Saturday morning? Sure, if Harlan doesn’t need me for anything I can drop you off. I can’t promise that I’ll be able to pick you up though, Buck, so don’t get your hopes up. But it’s probably OK if it’s late afternoon or early evening. Will you be wearing legs?

            – I always wear my legs, Heath. I don’t want to lay around like some kind of invalid.

            – Quite. Well, see you Saturday. Say hello to Mason from me.

Heath terminated the call and wondered what on earth Buck intended to have tattooed.

 

Buck was surprised when Heath turned up. Derek let him in, a tall handsome man with a trouser leg neatly tucked into his waistband, outlining a long thigh stump. Heath stared at Derek’s impressive curling septum piercing and crutched inside on wooden axillary crutches to greet Buck and Mason.

            – Where’s your peg?

            – I snapped it. It caught in a drain and broke. I’m having a new one made, bigger and better than ever. I’ve decided to get one which looks like the old style of peg leg, you know, thick all the way down to where the peg starts, and the peg itself is going to look like it came off an old dining chair, all fluted and carved. And the ferrule is gonna be big enough not to catch in a drain.

            – Wow! That’ll look good on you. Rigid, is it?

            – Oh yeah, of course. No point in having a peg leg unless you go all the way and have it all one piece from stump to stop.

            – Good. I’m ready when Derek puts my jacket on.

            – Do you want your arms, sir?

            – Not today. The jacket is enough.

Derek dropped it over Buck’s head and empty shoulders. It was semi‑permanently zipped up. Even with empty sleeves, Buck immediately resembled the old version of himself, although his stubbies were much shorter now. He rocked himself into motion and Heath crutched slowly behind him as the wooden stubbies struck a hollow rhythm on the concrete floor leading to the lift. Heath manhandled the torso into his electric car, threw his crutches into the back and ordered the car to Bergman’s tattoo parlour.

 

Heath rapped on the door and waited until Bergman rocked over to open it. He stood back as Buck lowered himself onto the threshold and flailed his stubbies, twisting himself inside the shop and gyrating his body until he was able to regain balance on his short legs.

            – Let me know later if you can pick me up, Heath. Thanks for the lift.

Bergman nodded a farewell to the good‑looking man, locked the door and fussed around Buck, who had been one of his best customers at one time and who had then worn a leather hood for years to hide his, Bergman’s, handiwork. Inspecting the irregular chaotic patterns covering Buck’s features, it was not difficult to see why a man might prefer to live hidden from the world.

 

            – It’s quite simple. I want you to cover my head and face and neck with blackwork and the sooner you can do it, the better.

Bergman had done similar work before, including half heads where either the top half of the head from the nose upwards or the left or right side of the head was covered entirely.

            – I understand. I can make a start right now, Buck. I’m not sure how long it will take or whether it will need a second application, but if you’re ready, I can probably do your face and head today.

            – Let’s get started then. Take my jacket off, Zen. Just pull it up over my head.

Bergman did as requested and revealed Buck’s naked shoulders. The sutures had healed smooth. The unfamiliar shape of an armless shoulder was fascinating. Buck sported two. His torso was still trim and muscular despite his lack of arms. The chest was broad and enviable.

            – How far down do you want the blackwork to extend?

            – I thought maybe far enough to make sure that my head and neck is entirely black when I’m wearing a T.

            – Gotcha. Do you want to start now? Shall I do your face first?

            – Let’s get started.

Bergman managed to lift the torso onto his tattooing couch and adjusted its height to make for easier access. He sat on a kitchen stool which had served him well for many years. He spread his wooden legs to each side and began the tedious task of covering Buck’s entire face, from the forehead down, with monotone black ink, an expensive import which was described as thicker and denser, guaranteeing perfect coverage with the first application. Buck lay motionless except for the minuscule movements he made with his leg stumps inside the stubbies as he tried to persuade his inch long erect penis into such a position where he could chafe it with the top edges of his artificial legs. His sexual compulsion to feel excitement and orgasm associated with disfigurement and dismemberment was still as strong as ever and his complete lack of arms emphasized his helplessness. He reached a mental state of nirvana, where all the absent muscles in his non‑existent limbs were firing in futile attempts to excite the stump of his once magnificent penis. Bergman’s tattoo gun gradually darkened the ruined mess of Buck’s previous tattoos while his customer’s penis leaked precum onto Bergman’s couch.

 

            – How are you doing, Buck? Can you stand another couple of hours? I should be able to finish your face by then.

            – I’m OK. I ought to tell the guy on crutches to collect me.

            – Where’s your phone? I’ll dial it for you if you like.

            – In my jacket pocket. It should be unlocked. Just search for Heath.

Heath was heard calling to Harlan that Buck would be ready around six.

            – Just fetch him, mate. I’ll be fine.

Harlan was in a better situation than Buck. He had longer leg stumps with longer stubbies and had retained an arm stump which let him use a functioning arm prosthesis when an artificial stump was attached to his empty left shoulder. It held his prosthesis in place and served no other function than to even out Harlan’s shoulders.

 

            – Do you want your lips tattooed, Buck? You’re going to look odd with black skin and pink lips.

            – Just tattoo them black and have done with it.

Twenty minutes later, the job was done. Buck had completely black lips. More than anything else, they altered his appearance. Not even the darkest skinned African had black lips. Buck was imagining himself after his piercing project was complete. Black lips would be the icing on the cake. That reminded him.

            – Zen, I want some piercings. I want my nose stretched both sides, earlobes stretched and lower lip stretched. Do you know anyone who can do it?

            – Course I do. So these are not your usual decorative rings you’re thinking of?

            – No. I want my face stretched to fuck. I want my nose spread across my face. I want my lip to fall forward with the weight of the jewellery. And I want my earlobes stretched as far as they can go. Great big rings holding the lobes open.

            – I see. Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve recently started a collaboration of sorts with a very successful artist who just came back from Brazil after a very successful visit. His name is Lucien Lamour and he is one of the country’s leading artists when it comes to stretching. He’s been studying the methods the Brazilians use which they have learned from their indigenous people who have practised things like lip stretching for centuries.

            – He sounds like the sort of guy I want to talk to.

            – In that case, Buck, I suggest we give you a three week period to heal from today’s session and when we meet next time, I’ll do your neck and chest and you can get started with Luc.

 

Mason and Derek had spent a considerable amount of time discussing a matter which Derek was reticent to talk about especially in the presence of Buck, whom he regarded as disabled beyond any reasonable limit. Derek’s main interest was Mason’s artificial arms. He was fascinated by the wide hooks which Mason used to type and feed himself. Even though Mason’s body ended at his dick and he needed a plastic corset with a flat base in order to sit upright, Derek thought of Mason as being far less disabled than Buck and gradually he began to accept that artificial arms were merely an alternate way of being, of getting things done. To his mind, a set of artificial arms with a decent pair of hooks would let him experience some of what his masters experienced and become closer to the two men who had taken him in, turned him into a genuine skinhead and reliable servant. He made a couple of lattes late in the morning and broached the subject with Mason.

            – Can I ask you, what would you say if I had hooks like you?

            – I would say who the hell is going to do the work around here. Why? What are you thinking of?

            – Well, I’ve been watching the way you can do most things when I put you down somewhere and I was wondering what it would be like for me to do it wearing a pair of hooks. I really like the look of them, see? I just don’t know how to go about getting a pair now everything has been closed down.

            – I see. What’s to become of me and Buck while you’re recovering from your amputations?

            – I don’t know. That’s what makes it so difficult, see?

            – I dare say we could get Heath around most days, to tell the truth. He took care of us at one stage when Harlan had something going on with Buck. He lent Heath out every morning. Of course we weren’t quite so limbless in those days. Buck still had wooden legs and I still had real ones. But that was then and this is now. So you want your hands off, is that it?

            – Yes, I think so. I’d like to use artificial arms with hooks. And I’d still carry on doing everything around here—you know, the laundry and making the beds. That sort of thing.

            – And you think you’d be able to do all that with hooks?

            –Well, I’ve watched all the things you can do, sir, and I’m sure I’d soon learn if you help me.

            – You know they only do disarts these days, don’t you? It’s to prevent florrie from attacking severed bones. So you could lose your hands at the wrist or your entire forearms from the elbow. Then you’d have a pair of artificial arms like Buck’s old ones. Christ, he used to bitch about them. Not having elbows makes life a whole lot more difficult, see? I can easily get my hooks exactly where I want them and don’t have to think about how to move my elbows to reach something. I just reach out and grab. Buck couldn’t do that. He had to plan how to position his arms and jerk around to get his elbows to lock before he could operate his hooks. He used to get so frustrated. I’m not surprised he’s calmed down recently now he has no arms whatsoever. He doesn't have the same kind of frustration, not since you arrived and he can ask you for everything.

            – Yeah, I understand. Maybe if I had my hands off at the wrist I could still have long stumps to do everything with.

            – I bet you could, too. But Derek, you know who’s the boss around here. You’re gonna have to talk about all this with Buck and see what he thinks. I wouldn’t be surprised if he lets you go ahead, though, but don’t quote me on that, alright?

            – Alright. Thanks, Mason. I appreciate it. I’d love to be a skinhead with hooks. I’d feel like a man.

            – You would look magnificent.

 

Heath was astonished by Buck’s appearance. In place of the familiar blurry chaos of successive tattoos, the man sported a glistening coat of black ink on his face. It was as if he had put his head into a bucket of black paint. Even his lips were black. Buck’s eyes looked at Heath’s expression, reading his thoughts, divining his opinion.

            – Stunning! Buck, you should have had this done years ago. You can say goodbye to that hood now for good.

            – I still want a hood for outings. People expect to see me covered entirely.

            – Let’s go if you’re ready. I’ll get your jacket.

            – Careful! Don’t let it touch my head!

 

Mason and Derek were no less intrigued by Buck’s appearance. His freshly tattooed skin had already begun to ooze fluid as it attempted to heal millions of pinpricks. It would be several days before the scabbing healed enough for a thorough hot shower to remove excess dried ink and emanations. Buck knew from experience that his face would look revolting for at least a week and determined not to see his companions’ curious looks. He would be blind for the next days.

 

It was a frustrating time for the entire household. Immediately after breakfast, Buck demanded his opaque contacts. Derek was impressed at the extreme contrast between his master’s jet black skin, streaked with pus or something, and the unseeing white eyeballs. He would ask permission to take a photograph to show Buck later. He also wanted to discuss his arm amputations. But Buck was already showing signs of impatience and dissatisfaction. Derek asked if Buck was comfortable, if he wanted to wear his stubbies while seated, if he wanted water.

            – No! I’ll let you know if I want something, boy.

Derek had no doubt that he would. He continued with his house duties and spent considerable time in the men’s bedroom, where he had discovered Buck’s superfluous artificial arms in a cardboard box. He had progressed from looking at them to touching them, from handling them to rubbing them against his crotch. The steel hooks would be vicious replacements for his soft feminine hands and he wanted a pair more than anything else.

 

Mason was content to generate more disabled characters for sex scenarios with the four‑stumped adonis. He worked on a detailed description of another quad amputee who boasted four disarts of his knees and elbows. He wore long rigid peg legs and even longer peg arms. He walked on all fours wearing a black leather helmet which almost covered his eyes and which featured tall steel spikes like a metallic mohawk. He positioned his adonis onto the quadruped’s back and created a harness which allowed the rider to bugger him. Their ball sacs knocked against each other in a provocative manner and Mason prompted a fifteen second close‑up of the jostling bollocks. His own penis maintained an uncomfortable erection inside his torso socket and he called out to Derek for assistance. Derek quickly returned Buck’s artificial right arm to its box and hurried to see what the trouble was.

            – I need you to open my socket, mate. My dick is caught at an uncomfortable angle.

Derek carried Mason to the bedroom and lowered him onto the bed. He unlocked the fastenings and removed the front section allowing Mason’s handsome swollen cock to erect to its full height. Without any hint of warning, Derek engulfed Mason’s impressive tool with his mouth and performed one of his best blowjobs to date. His own tool had been leaking precum for a quarter of an hour and he lost control, ejaculating into his bleachers. The wet warm mess soaked its way down his thigh and he would later appreciate how Buck tolerated wearing his soiled clothes and leathers and why other men were attracted. Derek swallowed Mason’s hot cum and still the piquant scent of sex remained. It came from his sodden bleachers.

 

Mason was more than satisfied and asked Derek to carefully replace the front section of his torso socket, ensuring that his penis had freedom to move and to return him to his work desk. Within the hour, the virtual adonis was fellating the quadruped, who lay on his back with all four peg limbs waving in the air. Ejaculate dripped from adonis’s blond beard. Buck called out.

            – Yes sir?

            – I want some coffee, boy. Make an expresso. And after that, I need to piss.

Buck caught the scent of sex from Derek.

            – Have you just cum, boy?

            – Er, yes sir. I came in my bleachers.

            – Why? What were you doing?

            – I saw what Mason is working on and I just came in my pants, sir.

            – Interesting. Off you go.

 

Buck had been imagining ways to alter his physical appearance in the very few ways available to him. He had a longer pair of beautifully tapering stubbies in the closet which he could wear more often. He wanted to brandish cosmetic arms more often although they were functionally useless. He had been imagining a long rigid waistcoat device with two arms permanently attached but was unable to decide between having cosmetic hands or prosthetic hooks. Maybe some kind of interchangeable system would work. And although he was always conscious of his micropenis, he would enjoy visiting the leather club boasting a huge codpiece. Something exaggerated, something conspicuous. Derek arrived back with his espresso and lifted it carefully to Buck’s chapped black lips. They were encrusted with scabs and coffee escaped from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. He grinned, cracking the scabs on his cheeks. Derek misinterpreted it and begged permission to talk to Buck about a personal matter.

            – Is this something to do with you cumming in your trousers, boy?

            – Er, yes sir.

Buck had no interest in listening to Derek fighting to find the words to describe what he wanted to say.

            – I’ll talk to you about it later. Work out what you want to ask, do you understand? Be concise.

Derek was not sure what concise meant but understood Buck’s tone.

            – Yes sir. Maybe later.

Derek returned the dirty espresso cup to the kitchen. Buck leaned back into his chair, blind, amused by the foulness of his boy’s trousers and excited by the inability to move his tattooed lips enough to drink without drooling. He clamped his steel teeth together and gyrated his pelvis in an attempt to find a surface against which to chafe his micropenis.

 

Once again Heath ferried the torso to Bergman’s tattoo parlour for the rest of his blackwork. This time, he was met by both Bergman and his new piercing specialist colleague.

            – I took the liberty of inviting Lucien along. You mentioned wanting some piercing work done last time and I thought you could discuss it with Luc while I work on your neck and chest. I hope that’s alright.

            – Perfect. Pleased to meet you, Luc. Excuse me for not shaking your hand.

Lamour nodded but remained silent. His face and shaved head were covered in an irregular pattern of Amazonian swirls, his earlobes stretched to a painful degree and his lower lip was stretched around a cylinder which extended down his chin and held his lip horizontal. Lamour preferred silence to his distorted speech. The lip extension prevented him from pronouncing labial sounds. He had discovered that those Amazon tribes which traditionally wore them spoke languages without labials. Their speech remained intelligible even with lower and upper lips stretched to hold wooden inserts. Buck was immediately attracted by the device in the man’s face, the like of which he had not seen before nor imagined. He decided then and there that he would have a lip insert like the one Lamour wore. It looked like the cap off a bottle of fabric softener but that was of no import.

 

            – I’m going to take your jacket off, Buck. Lean forwards a little. I see you’re wearing your long legs today.

            – It was time to give them an airing. I’ve been using the short ones for so long, I almost forgot I have these. I might have a longer pair made if I can get used to these. It’s a question of balance.

            – You should have a pair of fake arms, sir.

Lamour spoke for the first time. A ‘hare of wake arms’? Buck stared and suddenly understood.

            – You mean ‘a pair of fake arms’?

Lamour smiled in a rictus and nodded. Buck looked at him, fascinated. He was delighted with the man’s facial deformity and wondered why it had never occurred to him to mutilate his own mouth? Now he had the chance and Lamour was the very man to do it with the other modifications.

 

Bergman suggested an idea he had—that the blackwork on Buck’s back and chest would be rectangular rather than conforming to some imaginary curve reminiscent of a classic photographic portrait. Buck agreed immediately. He had never seen anything like it before and was keen to be a trailblazer once again. He had persuaded many friends and acquaintances to become amputees, some of whom still had their original stumps despite florrie, and now he saw himself showing the way forward again not only with his total head and face blackout but also with the extreme piercings and stretchings he would force himself to endure to enjoy the greatest possible degree of disability. He imagined himself five years hence, stumping along to the leather club on tall peg legs operated by his meagre stumps, wielding cosmetic arms terminating in large steel hooks, his upper body naked under his motorcycle jacket in order to display his rectangular blackwork from his chest to his back, looking around him with a single eye, appraising the gazes of leathermen intrigued by his appearance, not least of which would be his extreme facial piercings. They had hooks and peg legs, cosmetic arms and artificial stumps but none of them had yet disabled their speech with a heavy ceramic cylinder. A cacophony of ideas and intentions! Lamour sat back to watch the limbless leather master as Bergman’s tattoo gun buzzed into action and Buck underwent another major modification.

 

Firstly Bergman tattooed the outline of the shape to be inked, for which he used his broadest set of needles. There were three rows of seven needles on his tattoo gun and they vibrated at fifteen times a second. A square inch of skin was covered every minute. Buck closed his eyes against the insistent discomfort and the ratcheting noise of the gun. He was thinking about a new set of artificial arms. Assumedly Earl was still in business. He produced good quality leather work. He might have a few ideas of his own about fitting empty shoulders with new cosmetic limbs. Buck also wanted to advance to a longer pair of stubbies. He genuinely missed standing a head taller than other men on his old rigid wooden legs. They were at the back of the closet, never to be used again. They were designed to be worn over his previously long thigh stumps, not the pathetic nubs he had unwisely demanded at the height of the amputation craze. Regardless of the erotic pleasure to be gained by owning and using ultrashort stubbies, he would cut an impressive figure if he stood tall again.

 

Lamour had already acquired the starter jewellery which Buck had mentioned to Bergman on his first visit. In order to save months of painful stretching, he intended to remove disks of flesh into which he would insert the first steel retainers. Every six weeks or so, a slightly bigger retainer could be inserted until the piercing reached the desired size. There would be a long uncomfortable period at the beginning before the flesh became accustomed to being stretched but one grew used to it. He himself was due to advance to the next size of labret, making his lower lip imperceptibly wider. It was a fine feeling to sense the plug resting on his chin knowing the end result. It may take a couple of years but all the stages along the way would be milestones. There was never cause for impatience for a dedicated stretcher.

 

The hapless Heath returned at the end of Buck’s session. That morning he was still peacocking on crutches. The man who entered the tattoo parlour stood on a large wooden peg leg, stained to resemble oak. It extended up to his crotch in one solid piece, narrowing below Heath’s stump to a fluted peg terminating in a hefty ferrule. He spread his legs, crossed his arms and waited for comments. The silent looks on the others’ faces were comment enough. Heath not only looked superb, the prosthesis itself was a wondrous size, thick and smooth. It was unusual not only for its sheer bulk but also because of the craftsmanship which had produced it. Buck determined that whoever had made it would also make his longer stubbies.

 

 They left with Lamour’s assurance that he would visit Buck’s address two weeks hence to administer the initial surgical proceedings. Buck rocked along to Heath’s car, acutely aware of his jacket’s lining clinging to the assaulted skin on his chest and back. Heath pulled his peg leg off and stashed it in the car and the two amputees discussed Heath’s peg leg and its maker while the car navigated its way back.

 

Buck wanted to return to self‑imposed blindness but he was unable to simply relax in a chair. He had to keep upright to allow his blackened skin to heal and lack of vision tended to unbalance him. Derek was especially attentive, saying nothing but approaching his master every thirty minutes or so in case something was required.

 

Several days later when his tattoos had stopped weeping ichor, Buck summoned Derek for a tête‑à-tête.

            – I hear you’ve been discussing amputations with Mason. That’s alright. I’m not surprised. I understand you want to lose your hands.

            – Yes sir. I would like to have two hooks like Mason. Not the same type, sir. I’d prefer to have two of the normal kind of hook.

            – Yes, I know the kind. You do realise that amputations are different now from what they were before florrie, don’t you? You can only have amputations through a joint. Which leads to the question—which joint? Have you thought about it?

            – Yes sir, very much. I would like to have my hands amputated at the wrists, sir. Mason says it would be the quickest way to recover, sir.

            – Does he? I’m thinking you would prefer to have stumps like Mason’s, halfway up your arms, nicely rounded.

            – Er, yes sir. Mason’s stumps are very nice. But Mason says they don’t do those sorts of amputations any more.

            – No, they don’t. So I suggest a compromise. And if you agree, I will pay for your amputations and artificial arms with the hooks you want on one condition. On two conditions.

            – What’s that, sir?

            – One that you promise to remain here working for Mason and me after you become disabled. I don’t want to give you hooks only to see you flee to some other devotee master.

            – Oh sir! There’s no‑one I know like that, sir. I’d love to stay here to serve you two masters.

            – Good. I’m glad to hear it. The other condition is that you’ll have one disarticulation of a wrist and one disarticulation of an elbow. You can choose which arm you want to have the long stump. I suggest your left. I want you to experience the challenge of operating a hook with an artificial elbow and since you’re right‑handed, I believe you’d be more likely to learn to use such a limb if you had merely a long upper arm stump. Do you understand, boy?

            – Yes sir. Thank you sir. The arms which you used were the same type, weren’t they sir? With the special elbows?

            – They were.

            – Then I’d like one of those, sir.

It was the most surreal attempt at flattery Buck had every heard and he exposed his steel teeth in a rictus of a smile.

            – You are a good boy. You shall lose your hands. I’ll let you know when your amputations are.

Derek bowed his head in gratitude and went to the men’s bedroom. He pulled Buck’s old prostheses out of their box and wanked until he finally shot spunk into a socket. All the time he fantasised about wanking with hooks. If Buck really meant it, he was going to have hooks.

 

Buck’s skin healed enough for him to relax leaning back in a chair. Derek blinded him almost daily for many hours and wondered who would do it after he had gained his stumps. Surely Buck realised it was unlikely that he would be wearing contacts after Derek lost his hands. Buck had indeed thought about the situation when the entire household was comprised of bilateral arm amputees. His lust for blindness would be satisfied by the loss of an eye. He wanted the eyeball removed and for the empty socket to remain puckered. He knew someone who understood such matters, a notorious leather sadist who had served prison time for what he did to one of his slaves but that was a while back. Buck intended to have a selection of leather eye patches for both eyes. When he wanted to see, he would wear a patch over the missing eye. When he wanted to be blind, another patch would cover his eye. It was all perfectly logical. Perfectly acceptable and desirable. He had contacted the ex‑con and been assured that success was guaranteed. Removal of an eye would take only twenty minutes. The disadvantage was that the Yorkshireman was also a legless torso thanks to florrie and required his customers to attend his ‘clinic’ in person. He no longer travelled. It would make for an entertaining day out for Buck and his houseboy, who would attend to him on the journey.

 

Lamour arrived on the agreed day at the agreed time and explained that he needed about two hours for his procedures. Mason was perfectly content to be placed at his work desk with his back to the kitchen for the rest of the morning. Derek said he would be busy with other things. He had laundry to do but intended to spend at least half an hour with Buck’s old hooks. Derek lifted Buck onto a chair and made sure he was comfortable and watered before disappearing. Lamour washed his hands and disinfected them with hand gel and positioned Buck to make the removal of a chunk of flesh from Buck’s left earlobe possible.

            – There will he hlood, I’ng ahraid. I will anaesthetise the harts I will he cutting so you won’t heel any hain.

            – Thank you, Luc. I understand.

Lamour set to his work. Buck wished he was blind. He should have asked Derek for his contact lenses. Lamour injected a couple of millilitres of anaesthetic into both of Buck’s earlobes and waited with a scalpel in his hand for a couple of minutes. Soon, both starter retainers were in place. Blood dripped from between the steel rings and soon stopped.

 

Two hours later, Buck had steel plugs on both sides of his nose and one under his lower lip. All the piercings bled for a few minutes until the pressure from the steel inserts persuaded blood to coagulate.

            – This is all, Uck. Let’s give it hive weeks and we’ll see awout the next size.

            – Thank you, Lucien. Derek! Mr Lamour is leaving.

Derek appeared from the bathroom where he had been emptying the washing machine and saw the piercer out. He wished he could have a big pierced lip too. It looked really horny. But he already had his extravagant septum tusks. Maybe a labret would be overkill in addition to his blackwork tattoo.

 

Buck was pleased with his new appearance. His earlobes felt sore but there seemed to be little sensation from the steel rings stretching his nose. Maybe there were fewer nerve endings there. The labret felt taut. Buck could already sense that his speech would be altered as he expanded he piercing. With any luck, by this time next year he would be wearing a cylinder like Lucien’s and be well on the way to reaching his goal.

 

Mason completed his video production. He had created a scenario centred around his bearded limbless adonis who entertained a variety of men variously disabled and assisted by fantastic prostheses, the least of which were the long peg limbs worn by the quadruped lover. The artificial intelligence engine produced images indistinguishable from reality. Only the absence of actor credits at the end hinted at the production’s origin. With Buck’s approval and Derek’s admiration, Mason uploaded the work to the pay‑per‑view channel and bookmarked the page revealing viewing statistics.

 

Derek became anxious about the timetable for his amputations but dared not remind Buck. He need not have worried. Buck had been in contact with an old acquaintance in Gravesend who owned a small private clinic where he had undertaken many voluntary amputations. The man was in Buck’s debt for a favour extended several years previously and agreed to disarticulate the left hand and right forearm of a healthy young man in Buck’s employ. He recommended a two month gap between operations, or alternatively a few weeks after the boy was fitted with his first hook. Buck was now waiting on Heath to confirm a pair of consecutive dates which also suited the surgeon in Gravesend. Derek knew nothing about the machinations going on behind the scenes and ejaculated frequently onto Buck’s old hooks in frustration.

 

Heath came through and reported a free weekend at the end of the month. He would take Derek for his amputation, return home and collect the boy the following day. Buck promised to make it up to him somehow, reminding Heath that the situation would repeat itself a few weeks later when the second amputation was due. Derek’s prostheses might present another series of inconvenient excursions unless a prosthetist closer to home could be found. He could think of only one. Earl.

 

            – How are you doing, my friend? It’s been a while.

            – Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. No new amputations, you see. Until now.

            – Really? What are you having done? I thought you were already limbless, man.

            – I am. Armless, two short leg stumps wearing your stubbies. No, it’s not for me. Our houseboy is about to need artificial arms with Hosmers. I wondered if you’d be interested in making them.

            – Sure, I’m interested. He’s a DBE, I guess.

            – Left below, right above, Earl. Disarts at the wrist and elbow.

            – Ah, I getcha. I reckon I could whip up a pair of hooks for him. What were you thinking of paying?

            – The going price, Earl. What have you been charging lately?

            – Thousand five hundred for leather sockets and hooks. The hooks have to be imported, see?

            – Actually, I have a pair of Hosmers on my old arms you could use. Maybe you could reuse some of the other components as well.

            – Good idea. I’ll take a look at them.

            – Does that alter the price?

            – How does twelve hundred each sound?

            – It’s a deal. And leather sockets, right? They sound cool.

            – Can’t beat leather for a reliable fit, man.

            – I’ll get back to you nearer the date. It won’t be long, Earl. About six weeks.

            – OK. Talk to you later.

 

Harlan called shortly after six o’clock.

            – What are you two doing tonight? Anything planned? How about joining me at the leather club? You’ve not been out for weeks.

Buck knew Harlan would not venture out on his own. He was not reluctant to be seen in public as a quadruple amputee but the leather club could be unruly and Harlan was vulnerable with only a single artificial arm.

            – OK. We’ll need Heath to pick us up.

            – Goes without saying. Shall we say nine?

            – Nine is fine. See you.

 

Prompt as always, Heath called with a few minutes to spare. Derek buzzed him in and listened out for the sound of irregular footsteps approaching before opening the apartment door. Heath stepped inside and saw Buck and Mason in their best leather jackets, Mason sitting upright in his HoldMe torso socket with his oversized hooks linked in front of him and Buck wearing cosmetic arms with balled fists and his longest leather‑clad stubbies.

            – Derek, bring my hood.

            – What’s all that on your face? Have you had piercings done, Buck?

            – Yup.

Buck stared at Heath, waiting for some comment. Heath remained silent but focussed on the small disk under Buck’s mouth. It awakened one of Heath’s fantasies which he had ignored since his teenage years. Derek placed the hood onto his master’s head, tightened the laces and placed Buck’s muir cap over the hood, adjusting the visor to obscure Buck’s line of sight.

            – Ready!

Buck stumped towards the door, the rigid arms swinging unnaturally, followed by Mason in Derek’s arms. Heath pushed off on his heavy peg leg and closed the door after ensuring Derek had his keys. Harlan greeted his fellow leathermen while Heath removed his peg and placed it into the space available on the passenger side. Mason had no need of leg room.

 

Heath carried Mason into the club.

            – Just put me on the floor, Heath. Someone will pick me up soon enough, I reckon.

            – I’ll be waiting outside at closing time, if that’s OK.

            – That’s fine, Heath. Have a good evening.

Heath looked around the musty cellar and took in the leathermen daddies peacocking with huge cigars, one‑legged bikers leaning on crutches holding bottles of beer and a few seated limbless torsos wearing officer’s caps. He wished them the same and went for a beer and pizza in the nearby high street.

 

Buck looked around to see who was present. In the recent past, he had unquestionably ruled the roost. Now there were members whom he had not seen before and familiar faces who merely nodded in recognition. His absences due to losing both arms and Mason’s leglessness worked against him. Leaving Mason and Harlan to fare as best they could, Buck stumped across to a group of five daddies, most of them silent because of the phallic cigars in their jaws. One of them, Chester, removed his with a hook.

            – Hello stranger. Haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?

            – Got caught up in florrie, my man. Lost my arm stumps. How’d you manage to keep your hooks?

            – Disarts. Bilateral disarts. That’s why. Florrie never touched me.

            – I should have done the same but I wanted shorter stumps. Had them too for a few months.

            – You manage OK?

            – I have a lover over there. Guy on the floor with the big hooks.

            – Ah, yeah I see him.

            – And we have a houseboy for chores.

            – Very wise. Well, it sounds like you’re doing well enough, Buck. What happened to your motorbike?

            – Still got it. In storage. I’m unlikely to ever ride it again but I don’t want to part with it. Only the houseboy could ride it but as far as I know he doesn’t have a licence. Plus the fact he’s getting his own disarts soon. Wrist and elbow.

            – Is that your idea?

            – Not really. He wants the amputations. I just decided what he could have.

            – Keep ‘em on a short rein. They get shirty if you start letting them have what they want. Why don’t you wait until he’s got his hooks and then send him on a motorbike course?

 

It was such an unlikely idea that Buck was surprised into silence. Derek riding his eHarley! On the other hand, if they fitted the bike with a sidecar, it might be a useful way of getting about. They would no longer be so reliant on Heath.

            – You know, that’s a good idea. Thanks, Chester.

            – Glad to be of help. Do you still smoke?

            – I can’t handle a cigar these days. I have no arms whatsoever. Can’t even use prosthetics.

            – That’s too bad. These are pretty good.

He lifted a hook to demonstrate the huge cigar gripped in it.

            – I get these at a very reasonable discount from a supplier who wishes to remain anonymous but comes through for me with two dozen every few weeks. I was wondering if you’d be interested in placing an order. I could bring a couple of boxes for you next meeting.

            – Really? How much are they asking?

            – A hundred and fifty for a dozen, one box.

            – At that price, they’re worth it even if you don’t smoke. Alright. Put my name down for two dozen. Three hundred cash, is that right?

            – Yup. I’ll let you have a sample before you leave. I have a box hidden under the counter.

            – Thanks very much.

Chester opened his mouth wide and fitted the cigar back between his teeth. There was no apter way of terminating the conversation. Buck looked around for other familiar faces but returned to where Mason still sat motionless near the bar. Harlan had left him and was standing with two other legless men, a drink in his claw.

            – That was interesting. I’m getting the bike out of storage and taking up cigar smoking again.

            – Wow! How are you going to ride again?

            – Not me. Derek. When he has his hooks, he can get a bike driver’s licence and we’ll have a sidecar fitted. He can drive us around.

This time Mason was too surprised to comment.

 

Harlan rocked back after a while and they spent the rest of the evening talking and watching. Many of those present had Buck’s recommendation to thank for their amputee status. He was one of the first to forego his legs in favour of black leather stubbies and his rollicking gait encouraged other men to have above‑knee amputations. With few exceptions, they now relied on torso sockets. Those with hands could swing themselves about on their body stump. Those, like Mason, with hooks found ambulating difficult and slow. Mason could rock his socket from side to side and twist it forward but it was an exhausting way to move around. Chester remembered he had promised Buck a cigar and handed over a metallic tube, two inches in diameter and thirteen inches long. Mason took it in a hook and inserted it with some difficulty into Buck’s jacket’s inside pocket. His large hooks with a minimum of contact area were not intended to manipulate such objects.

 

The day for Derek’s first disarticulation approached. Buck arranged for Earl to collect his superfluous artificial arms and both men were intrigued to find gobs of what could only be semen both on and in the sockets. Earl found it amusing which persuaded Buck not to interrogate Derek about the matter. It was probably advantageous to maintain Derek’s enthusiasm for prosthetic arms. He would soon have a pair of his own to wank onto as best he could with one stump.

 

Heath arrived on crutches to collect Derek mid‑morning on Friday. Derek was again halfway through washing bedsheets after another session of masturbation. Mason had spent nearly an hour coaxing Buck’s dick head to orgasm with his short arm stumps, simultaneously trying to maintain balance on his torso stump. Buck allowed Mason to copulate between his leg stumps. It was a quick process. They squirmed away from the wet mess in the middle of the bed and fell asleep with cum drying on both their bellies.

            – Hi Derek! All set and ready? Get your jacket and stuff and we can be off.

            – Off where? What do you mean?

Heath knew Buck well enough to realise that he had not told Derek about the imminent amputation.

            – Buck! Will you tell Derek what’s going on?

            – Grab some clean underwear, Derek. Heath is driving you to the clinic for your first amputation. By teatime, you will be a one‑handed amputee.

Derek’s mouth fell open. He looked at Buck and at Heath to see if they were joking and decided they were not. He put a T, socks and underpants into a plastic bag from the kitchen and put his MA‑1 on.

            – Ready.

 

Heath was more communicative on the long drive to Gravesend. He spoke of how he had been a mere fuckboy until he had become an amputee to please Harlan, after which their relationship had matured and become one of peers. Perhaps the same thing would happen with Derek. He mentioned the risk of chronic pain, phantoms and the sensation that the hand was still there. He could still wriggle his toes, for example, even though his leg was removed seven years ago. Derek mentioned how his interest in amputation had grown after watching Buck walking in his stubbies and specially Mason using his hooks to do everything. It looked so cool. When he mentioned wanting an amputation of his own, Buck had talked him into having two hooks. One long stump and one short stump and they were going to be disarts. And one of Buck’s friends was going to make him new arms—at least that was what he had heard from Mason. It was supposed to be a secret.

            – I know the man. You might have seen him yourself. Earl. Tall black man on peg legs. Has a gold tooth.

            – Oh, I know who you mean. I didn’t know he makes hooks.

            – He makes all kinds of artificial limbs, Derek. He made Harlan’s and Buck’s stubbies, as well as his own pegs. You’ll be able to tell him what sort of hook you want and he’ll do his best to make it. Don’t forget you’ll be using a pair of hooks so you’ll want them to be a matching pair, I assume.

            – Yes! A pair of matching hooks.

Derek sat back and stared down at his hands. There was nothing wrong with them. He imagined large hooks like Mason wore poking out of his jacket sleeves and felt the onset of an erection. It was his body’s way of confirming that he was doing the right thing.

 

Heath crutched inside the clinic with a quietened Derek by his side. The surgeon greeted them and after ensuring that he had Heath’s contact details, saw Heath out and took Derek to a small white‑tiled operating theatre. Heath drove back by a different route. He had an appointment with Lucien Lamour.

            – A left hand disarticulation, is that right?

            – Yes sir.

            – Good. It won’t take long. Well under an hour. I don’t think you need a full anaesthetic, do you Derek? I’ll give you a local anaesthetic and you can watch the operation yourself.

            – You mean I’ll be awake the whole time?

            – Yes. Don’t worry. You won’t feel anything. Now, take your clothes off, put this coverall on and come back and sit down.

Derek did as asked. He was naked under the ridiculous paper coverall. The surgeon splashed alcohol onto Derek’s hand and wrist and injected pink liquid into two places on his wrist.

            – We’ll let that take effect for a couple of minutes. You’re the young man due for another disarticulation in a few weeks if I understand correctly.

            – Yes sir. Mr Cloutier wants me to have my right arm amputated at the elbow, sir.

            – Quite so. And how do you feel about that? Becoming a double amputee in such a short time.

            – I think it’s very exciting, sir. I have always wanted to have two hooks, sir, and use them for everything.

            – I see. You do understand that you could have a second wrist disarticulation for the same result, don’t you?

            – Yes sir but Mr Cloutier and me want me to have an artificial arm with a mechanical elbow, sir. And if it is on my right arm, I will learn to use it, sir. That’s what Mr Cloutier said and he had two artificial arms like that, sir.

The surgeon knew very well that Cloutier had been a poor exemplar. He had not learned to use his prostheses and preferred to take advantage of the boy who was shortly to become disabled himself. However, it was no business of his to persuade elective amputees one way or another. He pricked the skin on Derek’s wrist with a probe.

            – Can you feel that, Derek?

            – No sir.

It was odd to see himself being pricked but not feeling anything. The surgeon tightened a tourniquet on his arm, placed his hand onto a block of plastic foam to keep it steady and began to slice around the wrist. Derek stared in amazement and then closed his eyes. He tried not to look at what the surgeon was doing.

            

– Turn your hand over so I can reach the other side. That’s it.

The surgeon changed tools and snipped at the inside of his wrist. Suddenly he sensed that the weight of his hand was gone. The surgeon moved his hand into a small container and covered it. He inspected the gaping wrist and, satisfied, reached for the first of several threaded needles.

            – Hold your stump up for me, Derek.

His stump! He had a stump. He was an amputee like his friends. Now he was one of them. The surgeon sewed a flap of skin which used to be on his palm over the top of his wrist. There was a line of black stitches which looked ugly. The surgeon cleaned the wound site with more alcohol and wrapped it in gauze and bandaged it tight. He took a transparent light blue cylinder with a rounded end and put it over the stump. He loosened the tourniquet and took it off Derek’s arm.

            – Well, young man. You are now an amputee. Congratulations. I want you to rest now. Try to sleep for an hour or so. Your wrist will be sore when you wake up after the anaesthetic has worn off.

The surgeon held Derek’s sound arm as he tottered a few steps to a hospital bed. Derek lay down, holding his fresh stump in the air.

            – You can relax your arm. The incision is safe.

Derek felt light‑headed and was happy to be on a bed. The surgeon pulled a blanket over him and set about clearing the debris of the operation. Derek slept.

 

The car parked itself near to Lamour’s address and announced that Heath was at his destination. He crutched into the apartment block and rang the doorbell. The men had not met previously. Heath was immediately impressed by his host’s stretched labret with its white plastic plug. It was exactly what he had come for. He knew that Buck also intended stretching his own labret. Heath assumed that Buck had no intention of taking it as far as he intended.

            – Cung in, hlease. It’s good to see you. Can I ohher you a drink? Cohhee?

            – Coffee would be nice, thank you.

            – Do sit down. You cung ahout a lahret hiercing, right?

            – Yes. The same as yours.

            – ’Ine is already over a year old. It’s a slow hrocess at first. How har do you want to stretch?

            – A four inch lip plate is what I’m aiming for.

Lamour was surprised. The man sitting at his kitchen table was unusually handsome in a boyishly masculine fashion. It was unusual for a man blessed with such good looks to want to mutilate his features as drastically as Heath professed. His leg amputation was easy to disguise. A lip plate was not.

            – It will he a while hefore you graduate to a hlate, ’ut a cut langret hiercing is the way to start.

 

Heath was fascinated by the man’s inevitable speech impediment which the plug enforced. Even a minor stretch like the one Lamour sported was disabling as far as communication was concerned. He had no doubt that the appearance of a large cylindrical plug in his face would have the same effect socially.

 

They drank coffee and discussed the imminent procedure and the timetable for healing and subsequent stretching. Lamour had a supply of stretchers in black or white which would enlarge the piercing by three millimetres each month. Their size increased gradually from eleven to seventy millimetres in diameter after which the lip would stretch around a genuine lip plate. Some preferred the blocky appearance of the plug. It was a personal choice.

 

Lamour numbed the spot he intended to slice open. He used an adapted piercing gun which would remove a disk of flesh from below Heath’s lip. There would be blood but the tight labret plug would staunch it and the lip should heal sufficiently within a week not to bleed. Heath sensed rather than felt the first of many plugs lock into place. Lamour cleaned his face with alcohol and offered a shaving mirror. Heath grinned at his reflection. The same familiar face but now with a prominent white dot under his lip.

 

Lamour handed him a list of instructions on hygiene and maintenance and assured him that any minor bleeding over the next few days was no cause for alarm. Heath thanked him, placed his wooden crutches under his arms and left for home.

 

Buck and Mason were confronted with considerable problems at home. Mason fared better than Buck. He climbed into his old wheelchair, stored in the bunk room and was able to manoeuvre awkwardly around the apartment. Buck had severe difficulty with toileting and condescended to nakedness under a red silk kimono. Mason determined to replace his impractical broad curved hooks with standard Hosmer versions at the exact same time that Earl had removed Buck’s old pair to reuse for Derek. They struggled through thirty‑six hours without their houseboy who returned on Saturday evening with Heath, holding his stump up in the distinctive manner of the freshly amputated. Derek was welcomed back, his bandaged stump admired, and pressed immediately into service, being charged with ordering two family pizzas and feeding Buck with his one remaining hand. Buck invited Heath to stay after noticing the change in Heath’s face.

 

T H R E E   Y E A R S   L A T E R

 

It was Midsummer, the longest day of the year. They were off for a picnic in Hyde Park, to see and be seen.

 

Derek and Heath collected their vehicles from the shared garage and parked outside the dark and foreboding apartment building which Buck and Harlan jointly owned. The two households had amalgamated into the enormous four bedroom apartment on the top floor which had proved impossible to rent to outsiders for over two years. Derek’s workload was lessened at Harlan’s insistence and a new houseboy, Kieran McCann, took over most of Derek’s duties. It was as Derek had surmised—after becoming an amputee, his status in the tight clique of leather amputees changed. He was not yet a peer, but both Harlan and Heath had persuaded Buck that Derek’s third amputation should allow the man some kind of relief. He was almost thirty and deserved better after years of dedicated toiling for Buck and Mason.

 

Kieran was kept busy while the two men fetched their rides. The three torso men all needed various amounts of preparation for an excursion. Their domestic semi‑nudity was hardly acceptable in public. After feeding Buck and helping Mason, Buck needed help with showering, donning his rocker stubbies, dressing him in black leather and fitting his steel teeth and the white ceramic lip plate into his black face. A white leather eye patch covered his empty eye socket and Buck insisted on being blind while out. Kieran paused in his routine to sterilise his hands and place an opaque contact lens on Buck’s eye. Satisfied, Buck strode away on his new stubbies. He was much more active on the rockers which compensated for his precarious balance without arms.

 

Harlan was more independent. After his shower, Kieran fitted the artificial arm and claw and Harlan was able to don his stubbies and dress himself. Mason could manage his torso socket and don his artificial arms independently, assuming they were placed next to him. One‑legged Derek occasionally showered with Kieran’s help but usually managed with his long arm stump. His right elbow disart was next to useless without a prosthesis.

 

Kieran had been loaned to Buck for a month while Derek recovered from his leg amputation by Chester’s nameless friend who still supplied Buck’s enormous foot‑long cigars every six weeks or so. Due to an unexplained financial catastrophe, Kieran’s return to his former employment was suddenly blocked and he faced imminent homelessness and unemployment. Harlan and Buck reviewed their own finances and agreed to offer the boy a permanent position as housekeeper and general arse wiper. Even Derek occasionally needed assistance with his hefty peg leg when his hooks were insufficient. Kieran liked Derek the most. They were closest in age and admired each other’s appearance. Kieran liked both of the men with peg legs and Derek also had smart hooks. And everyone liked Kieran’s long cock which hung nearly to his knees when relaxed. It was Kieran’s single ticket to fame and fortune. It was no surprise that Buck and Harlan enjoyed a shower every morning with the naked Kieran. Previously once a week had been good enough.

 

Heath and Derek returned to collect their passengers. They were both wearing white shorts and sleeveless T‑shirts and one pair of Nikes. They were in the auspicious position of being able to split a pair of footwear between them. They had the same size feet. Mason wore a peg leg on his left, Derek on his right. They both removed their pegs while driving. Derek stashed his in the sidecar.

 

Mason waited until the last minute before asking Kieran to replace his Hosmers with the rubber blocks turning his arms into crutches which allowed him to swing his torso socket along. Buck and Harlan stumped out together, with Harlan leading and Buck following the sound of hollow footsteps. Buck’s rockers grated on the concrete floor. He felt newly abled again. It was almost impossible now for him to trip and fall. The rocker feet, suggested by and created by Earl, prevented Buck’s torso from falling forward or backward. Watched by Kieran, who was not going anywhere, Mason braced his stumps and stretched his rubber pads ahead. He pulled himself forward and clumped out of the apartment behind Buck. HoldMe torso sockets were not ideal for hand‑walking in but adequate. They offered good back support for the legless who were condemned to a permanent upright position. The drivers checked that everything possibly necessary was packed into a canvas hold‑all and said farewell to Kieran. Heath picked the bag up and carried it down to the car.

 

Hyde Park had become the place to be seen for voluntary amputees and victims of Floriantes barbarosa. Due to the loss of revenue following the demise of central London as a shopping centre, various advertising drives were tried in increasing desperation by the Mayor’s office to attract a greater footfall in the area. The Don’t Hyde!-campaign from 2034 was aimed at the newly disabled, encouraging them not to shut themselves away but to enjoy the broad avenues and luscious foliage in London’s greatest park in the vague hope that some of them would stumble on further towards Oxford Street with their wallets. Almost immediately, the park was full of fashionable young amputees peacocking their artificial limbs or demonstrating their naked stumps. On a Midsummer’s Day as hot as today promised to be, there would be no lack of interesting encounters with even the most outrageously modified visitors. Buck was certainly one of them.

 

 

Earl had adapted Buck’s shortest stubbies in order to make his painfully laborious gait more stable and secure. Taking his inspiration from a nursery rocking horse, Earl designed and made an extension which offered a broad curved base. The armless such as Buck would stump along in the secure knowledge that they simply could not fall. The rockers were still undergoing trials and provided an interesting sight for onlookers. Buck would not be disturbed by them. He felt the sun on his black face. His white eyepatch and white eyeball were shocking details. Buck’s nose spread across his face, stretched and distorted by steel plugs each side. His earlobes strained around steel rings seventy millimetres in diameter, the same as Buck’s lip plate, which in turn forced a permanent view of his lower steel dentures.

 

Buck’s new cosmetic arms, inspired by Derek’s pair of functional limbs, were designed by Buck and Earl together. Buck wanted something which would make him look less helpless but still prosthetic. Earl suggested leather‑clad cosmetic arms which terminated in large curved hooks, thick and heavy. Buck tried to image himself wearing two and thought, astonishingly, that it was overkill. One would be enough. He suggested the other arm should terminate in a steel sphere on a rod, a little smaller than a golf ball. Old‑fashioned shop window dummies for displaying shirts and jackets had often featured arms terminating in brass spheres. They looked dignified and gentlemanly. Earl bellowed laughter and produced a four inch long steel attachment which complemented the opposing steel hook perfectly. The cosmetic arms were easy to slide into Buck’s jackets and were angled so as not to be unnaturally obtrusive. The hook and ball glinted in the sunshine.

 

Derek strode along beside Buck. He no longer identified as a skinhead but as a budding leatherman. His artificial arms outwardly matched, although his right had an artificial elbow. Derek’s left arm stump extended to his wrist but his entire arm was encased inside the long prosthesis. Earl had suggested making the left arm as restrictive as the right. The upper arm cuff was cylindrical and extended up and over the shoulder. Hinges of mirrored steel featured at the elbow, forcing Derek to perform the same calisthenics to operate both his hooks, taken from Buck’s old set of arms. Derek had asked for his prostheses to be covered with the same cherry red leather which was used for Dr Marten’s boots. Earl had a couple of square metres of the material which he had optimistically acquired years earlier but found next to no demand for. After Derek had healed completely from his elbow disarticulation, Earl transferred the left arm to a double harness producing the set Derek now wore. He was an enthusiastic amputee and wore his artificial arms all day. He learned to operate his elbow and hooks patiently without complaining. Buck had anticipated some degree of resistance but none was forthcoming. Derek rose in Buck’s estimation. He remembered well enough how recalcitrant an above‑elbow prosthesis could be.

 

Earl had designed and made Derek’s peg leg too. Derek wanted something very similar to the one Heath wore but Earl was reluctant to repeat unique pieces. Instead, he designed a peg leg with a long smooth socket painted with high gloss black enamel paint which narrowed into a fairly thick peg with a large rubber ferrule. It was easily as bulky as Heath’s which was what attracted Derek. It was held to the stump by the friction between two surfaces of silicon and was superbly comfortable to wear. Like Heath’s peg, it was rigid from top to tip, providing visual appeal when sitting. The peg leg merely protruded directly in front of its wearer.

 

Mason heaved himself along behind on his peg arms. His striped tattooed face, head and chest were obvious, disguising his natural features. He had undergone the fewest alterations of the men in the combined household. He had exchanged his large curved hooks for a pair of standard steel hooks and found them very much more practical. The hooks functioned to operate touch screens, allowing him to use his laptop far more easily. Editing his amputee fantasies was now a pleasure rather than a chore.

 

Heath surprised everyone with his facial modifications. He had always been admired, by both sexes, for his pleasant open features. Now he wore a short steel cylinder in his stretched septum, between his nostrils. It distorted and broadened his nose. Occasionally he had worn a heavy septum ring in the piercing but thought it looked too conventional. More surprising and shocking was his steel lip ring with a diameter of sixty‑five millimetres around which Heath’s lower lip was stretched. Heath usually held it horizontal but it dropped onto his chin when he ate or drank. Losing the use of his lip meant that drinking could become messy, as Buck had also discovered with his lip plate. Both men had the habit of sucking air sharply between their permanently visible teeth to prevent drooling. Heath’s hazel eyes and long eyelashes remained as handsome as ever but no‑one would think that Heath possessed conventional male beauty any longer. He strutted on his flamboyant oaken peg leg, purposely made more hefty to alter his gait and make walking more effort, more masculine and swashbuckling.

 

Harlan’s empty left shoulder was not unpleasantly scarred or malformed and he exposed it unself‑consciously. The hair which once grew from an armpit tufted below the empty shoulder. His right prosthesis was completely visible. Harlan favoured a voluntarily closing claw which he insisted was less effort to operate than the more usual Hosmer hooks. Harlan was severely disabled with only one claw but had recently become more mobile by ditching his flat‑soled cylindrical stubbies in favour of a new pair, longer and elegantly tapered.

 

The group of five made their way to an area which overlooked both the footpath and the lake, somewhere with a little shade from a tree or two. They were met by others, amputees for the most part, demonstrating their skills. One handsome family made their way towards them. The man was dressed in a white linen jacket and shorts, the woman in a white dress and blouse accompanied by young twins of both sexes. The husband strolled on two aluminium prostheses, relying on long peg arms which extended from his sleeves while the wife held her arms so the children could each grab onto a hook. They wished each other a happy Midsummer and continued. Other visitors passed without comment, young men on tin legs making their way with two walking sticks, a pretty young woman on crutches on one patched‑up artificial leg, two naval officers in full regalia, both saluting with steel hooks. Derek was excited to see a gang of skinheads jostling each other, none of them less than triples. One of the five had a natural arm, another had a leg. Despite the hot weather, they were all wearing MA‑1s and bleacher shorts to show off their metal legs fitted with thirty‑hole boots. It was easy to wear boots like that when all you had to do was put your legs on, as the double‑hooked Derek had discovered. They rocked their way around Buck’s group and Derek wished he could have joined them for a while. He would have loved to show off his artificial arms, the same colour as Doc Marten’s thirty‑holers.

 

They found an apt spot and lowered themselves onto the grass. Heath removed Buck’s rocker stubbies. Buck had become a quieter man since he began to indulge his desire for sightlessness. He was more introspected, less extrovert. His lip plate made his speech indistinct but it was the only way he had to communicate. He had no hands with which to gesture. Buck got a vicarious thrill from the lip plate. It was as life‑changing as any of his other modifications and as shocking. Heath looked to Buck for confirmation that another centimetre or so of stretching would allow him to progress from the hollow steel ring to a solid plate. His own speech had altered too. He intended to accustom himself to his new face for a few months before having a second stretcher ring inserted in his upper lip. His goal was to have lip plates in both his upper and lower lips, the upper one a little smaller. It would be a fascinating transformation and a unique experience. His speech would probably become unintelligible.

 

After a suitable pause, Derek unpacked the picnic food and drink. Everyone had four cucumber sandwiches on white bread and a meat pie each. There was bottled water and a thermos of coffee served in paper cups. Heath offered to help anyone who needed it. He was the only man present with hands. Mason and Derek relied on Hosmers, Harlan on his claw. Buck’s large metallic hook was for decoration only. It looked impressive, a throwback to a time before prosthetic devices became common. The same could be said of Heath’s peg leg. Such a primitive device, such a poor replacement for a limb, so desirable, so erotic. Heath glanced at Derek’s version—completely different yet no less impressive.

 

Shadow from the surrounding trees escaped as the afternoon wore on. Gradually it became obvious that it was time to return home. It had been a pleasant outing. It was good to join with other like‑minded voluntary amputees who enjoyed a decorous way of flaunting their artificial limbs for the pleasure of others. Perhaps they could do the same thing again next year.

 

BONE SPURS II

THE NIGHT PORTER

 

THE NIGHT PORTER

How a man exchanged one disability for another

Fiction by strzeka (11/23)

 

Mr Evans handed Ms White a sheet of paper and murmured something.

            – Oh yes, I was about to forget. I hope you won’t feel we’re intruding but we have to ask. Is your own disability going to present a problem to you if you get the position?

            – I don’t think so ma’am. I’ve had a leg brace for ten years and I’m used to it. I don’t think it would be a problem.

            – It was a traffic accident, if I understand correctly.

            – Yes, ma’am.

            – Very unfortunate but these things happen. I’m pleased to see you don’t let it slow you down too much.

            – No, ma’am.

            – Well, Stuart, I think that’s all for now. We have one or two other applicants to see yet but I expect we’ll be able to let you know some time at the end of next week. We’ll send you a text message one way or the other so you won’t be left hanging, if you see what I mean.

            – Yes, ma’am. I understand. Thank you very much for seeing me.

            – It was a pleasure. Goodbye now. Take care.

Stuart rose and lifted his heavy leg brace into a position from which he could turn toward the door and made for the exit. Both Ms White and Mr Evans watched him leave, twisting his body in order to heave his crippled leg and its built-up boot forwards.

 

Stuart was fairly confident that he would get the job. The health visitor who looked in on his grandparents had promised to put in a good word for him—in fact, it was Mrs Mbona who had originally suggested that Stuart apply to the care home. She was impressed by how his grandfather commended him and had seen for herself how his efforts over the previous six months had made her own work easier. The Robinson seniors, Kenneth and Marjorie, were both disabled and Mbona had started calling in three times a week after Marjorie’s Alzheimer’s disease began to make it too difficult to take care of herself and her newly legless husband.

 

Stuart had had no success finding a job after leaving school. He had few friends, only one to be precise. They dressed like skinheads and shaved their heads to look tough. It was a good disguise for Stuart. When he wore his bleachers rolled up to expose the full height of his thirty‑holer boot, it almost looked like he was an ordinary skinhead from the back. From the side, anyone’s attention would be drawn to the built‑up boot and steel leg brace which allowed Stuart to walk on his short leg.

 

As he had mentioned to Ms White, his left leg had been in a brace since he was ten and had come a cropper when a lorry mounted the pavement and pinned him against a garden wall. He had broken his pelvis, femur and tibia in two places and had worn a long plaster cast for nearly three months until his first leg brace was fitted. It soon became apparent that his injured leg was not growing in tandem with his healthy leg. It was still more or less the same length as it had been on the day of the accident and Stuart had worn a series of ever‑taller built‑up boots which his leg brace slotted into. Now at the age of twenty, Stuart’s boot had a rise of twenty‑five centimetres. The sole curved upwards at the front to make it easier to walk on and to lessen the risk of tripping on something.

 

His mum and dad were upset to learn that their older son’s future would be that of an obviously disabled man. They had hoped that after recovering from his initial injuries, Stuart would regain strength in the leg and return to normal. For a few months, that seemed to be the case. Stuart was the least concerned. His parents resigned themselves to watching their son slowly becoming ever more disabled. On the days when the brace was uncomfortable or in for repairs, Stuart used a pair of long wooden crutches and let the foot on his short leg dangle. The crutches were a nuisance though and Stuart much preferred his built‑up boots. He kept his footwear in good condition. It was what caught peoples’ attention first and he wanted to give a good impression of himself, even when he wore jeans or bleachers with his skinhead jacket.

 

Stuart returned home from his interview at Summerview Court and repeated to his mum what they had told him. That he would have to wait until next week before he knew one way or the other. He had some sandwiches which his mum rustled up and said he wanted to go round his grandparent’s to tell them. He would ordinarily have called in that morning. They lived only three streets away, an easy walk even with a crippled leg.

 

His grandad let him in. He had recently had both lower legs amputated because of diabetes. He had known for a couple of years that he would end up in a wheelchair and saw it as a relief from the ulcers and the mess and pain.

            – Your gran’s feeling more herself today, Stu. She’s in the living room. She even came up with a couple of words when we were watching Countdown a bit earlier. Did you go round to Summerview?

            – Yup. That’s what I came to tell you about.

            – Alright. Look who’s here, mother.

            – Oh Stuart! How lovely to see you. Come and sit by your old nan.

Stuart lowered himself carefully onto the sofa and leaned across to plant a kiss on his grandmother’s cheek.

            – How are you feeling, nan?

            – Oh, mustn’t complain, dear. We had a lovely lunch, didn’t we, Ken?

            – What did you have?

            – Now let me think. I think it was lamb. Lamb cutlets.

            – We had pork chops, love.

            – Oh yes. Silly me. Very nice they were too.

Stuart was used to his grannie’s fluctuating memory. The time would come when she no longer recognised him. But for the time being, everything was fine.

            – So how did you get on?

            – They seemed to think that I could do the work, I think. You know, call in and visit all the residents and see if they need anything from the shops or stuff like that. And sort of keep an eye on them so if they seem a bit off‑colour, to let one of the nurses know. That sort of thing.

            – Well, that’s what you’ve been doing for us, my boy, so they should have no complaints on that score. When will you know one way or the other?

            – They’ll let me know next week, they said.

            – So you might have your first job by the end of the month.

            – Fingers crossed!

 

A short text message arrived on the following Wednesday morning. congratulations. we accept your application. please call for appointment to sign employment contract. It was oddly worded but Stuart got the gist. He was in the kitchen with his mum, having a cup of tea. He handed her his phone without saying anything.

            – Oh Stuart, how lovely! They’re taking you on! I always knew they would. Well done, son.

            – Thanks mum. Do you think I should get some new clothes? I don’t really know what they expect us to wear.

            – Well, if they do, we have the weekend to go into town. You’d better call them and make arrangements to call round to sign your papers and you can ask them then about what they expect you to wear.

            – Alright, I will.

Stuart discovered that any neutral clothing would be suitable. The residents were old and conservative and would not appreciate the presence of a helper in their rooms who looked too unusual. Stuart thought of his bald head but surely baldness was familiar to old people anyway. If he dressed in normal clothes, they should not have reason to complain. He arranged to meet Ms White the next day and decided to wear the sort of clothes he thought might be suitable. Ms White could pass judgment.

 

She was quite satisfied with what Stuart was wearing. A nice pair of beige StaPrest trousers with one leg shortened for the big boot and a light blue woollen pullover. Stuart read through his employment contract and Ms White explained a couple of things, clearing up questions about overtime and holidays.

            – We’ll expect you at eight o’clock on Monday morning then, Stuart. I’ll come with you and we’ll visit all the residents so they can get to know you.

            – Thank you, Ms White. I’m looking forward to it.

            – Good. I’ll see you next week.

 

Stuart called his friend Josh in the early evening and suggested a quick visit to their local pub a bit later. Josh said he could be ready in an hour and they could meet there at half seven. Stuart changed his clothes and put on his skinhead togs. A Fred Perry shirt in navy blue, his olive green MA‑1 jacket and his favourite skinny bleachers. His leg brace would not fit inside the leg of the jeans so he wore it on the outside. It was a bit exhibitionist but he had to wear it unless he wanted to use his crutches. Everyone had seen it anyway.

 

Stuart’s healthy foot was a size ten. Tonight he wanted to wear his ten‑holer Doctor Marten with the steel toecap. He would roll his trouser leg up to expose more of the boot. The foot on his short leg had hardly grown at all since he was ten years old and was still only a size seven. The shortness of his foot exaggerated the height of the boot. He lay on his bed and fed his legs into his bleachers. The elasticated fabric gripped his legs. He pulled the leg brace on, twisting his foot into the boot. He spent a couple of minutes making sure the laces were tidy and pulled them tight. None of his leg braces had had knee joints and this one was rigid from his crotch down to the ends which slotted into steel receptors in the heel of the boot. Stuart cinched the buckles which held the brace to his leg and turned to his DM boot. It was easier to put on than his favourite thirty‑holer. That took ages, especially if he wanted the laces to look smart. He stood up and inspected himself in front of his bedroom mirror. He looked like a pretty decent skinhead. Bald head, the jacket. The bleachers. All tiptop. He checked he had his money and keys and twisted his hips to force the short leg into action. He left the flat and went down six flights of stairs, careful always to lower his rigid braced leg first before bringing his size ten alongside.

 

Josh had already arrived and was halfway through his first pint. He was sitting on a bench against the wall, knowing that Stu’s leg would be in the way if they sat at a table somewhere else. Stuart bought a pint of lager and slurped half an inch before carrying it carefully across to the table. Why did they always fill the glasses so full?

 

            – So my big news is I start on Monday, eight o’clock.

            – Great! Congratulations, Stu. That’s great.

            – I have to wear civvies so as not to frighten the old folk. But I can wear my StaPrest so that’s something. I got permission this morning from the old gal who runs the place. She said the oldies don’t like it when people look unusual.

            – Did she say anything about your leg?

            – No, of course not. It’s like the elephant in the room. Too obvious to mention.

            – I reckon the oldies will all be asking you about it.

            – I suppose so. I don’t mind. It’s alright when they just want to know. It’s when they start asking stupid questions like does the shoe shop give me a discount that I get annoyed.

            – Haha! What do you tell them?

            – I don’t say anything but they can tell what I’m thinking.

            – What sort of thing are you going to be doing?

            – Well, as far as I can make out, I go around knocking on their doors and asking if they need something. They all have their own private rooms, see? It’s just that they get their meals in the communal dining room so they don’t need to cook and there’s always someone around if they fall down or need help in the toilet or whatever.

            – Ugh! Will you be wiping old ladies’ bums?

            – No, of course not. Not my job.

            – So what will you actually do?

            – Well, I suppose if someone wants something from the shop and can’t get out for whatever reason, they’d ask me to get it for them. Or if they want a bit of company, I could sit with them for five minutes while they pour their heart out. That sort of thing. You know what grandparents are like. I just have to keep an eye on them all the time.

            – So you have to be sort of a grandson for them.

 

Josh had inadvertently hit on the exact reason why a sympathetic young man was required at Summerview Court. It was well known that residents of old‑peoples’ homes were often reluctant to complain directly to staff members, partly because of fear of repercussions and partly because it was not the done thing. Grin and bear it. That was the way they had been brought up. But if there was a nice young person who called in every day to say hello, someone like a grandson who they could tell their troubles to over a cuppa and a biscuit, they could pour out their troubles to them, resulting in fewer potential problems overall for the authorities. They could save time and most importantly money.

Stuart arrived in good time on Monday morning. The receptionist, a middle‑aged man in a security company uniform, notified Ms White that the new boy was waiting in the lobby. He asked Stuart what he had come to do, whether he was on the staff or just a visitor and what had happened to Stuart’s leg to require a boot like that. Stuart was halfway through his explanation when Ms White appeared and thanked Greg for his message.

            – I thought we might start off in the dining room. Almost all the residents are in there now having breakfast and I can introduce you in one go. Are you ready?

            – Yes ma’am, as ready as I’ll ever be.

Ms White led the way with Stuart limping behind her. The dining hall was brightly lit, but the green walls and yellow furniture gave it a springlike feel. There were at least thirty people seated, watching.

            – Good morning, everyone. We have a newcomer this morning and quite a lot younger than our usual newcomers. I’d like to introduce you to Stuart who you can think of as a helper for when you need a hand with something. You can call him up by pressing number five on your contact buttons and Stuart will be along in short order to help out. I hope you won’t be shy about using Stuart’s services. Would you like to say a few words, Stuart?

            – Well, I’m very pleased to be here and happy to meet you all and I hope we can all be good friends.

            – Well said, that man. Come and see me first, young man. Room eleven. I have a little job for you.

            – Yes sir, I will.

            – Good lad.

Ms White expected someone else to comment. There were only curious looks. They wanted to continue with their breakfasts before the toast got cold. Ms White guided Stuart off to one side.

            – Have you had breakfast, Stuart? Would you like something to eat now?

            – No thanks, ma’am. I had eggs and bacon at home.

            – Jolly good. Let’s have a cup of tea, or perhaps you’d prefer coffee? Help yourself. The hot drinks are over there. Would you bring me a tea, one sugar?

Ms White sat at an empty table. Stuart clomped over to the drinks automat and selected tea for Ms White. He hoped he had made the right selections and watched anxiously for the steaming hot water to drip into the cup. He picked up a teabag and put it in the saucer. One or two residents who had noticed his limp craned their necks to discern the reason and were shocked to see a big built-up boot, the likes of which they had not seen since the polio scares of the fifties and sixties. You rarely saw them around these days. The second cup of boiling water was ready. Well, they would certainly invite young Stuart and find something for him to do, if only to have a chat with him about why he had to wear such an ugly old thing.

 

Stuart served Ms White her cuppa and immediately learned that if one of the residents asked for tea, he should put the teabag in and let it brew for a couple of minutes before delivering the drink. Some people had arthritis and had trouble tearing a teabag’s envelope open, others would simply leave the used teabag on a table. Stuart nodded. He understood.

            – But I don’t mind my tea this way, Stuart. Thank you. I expect you’ll get quite a lot of invitations today with nothing much to do. The old people are curious for the main part. When we’ve had our tea, I’ll get Greg on the desk to show you around the building from a technical point of view so you know where things are, and then you can come to my room on the first floor and I’ll show you around.

 

They shortly left via the entrance lobby and Ms White asked Greg, the security guard, to give Stuart a quick tour of the building. Greg grabbed his keys and vacated his seat for Ms White who followed their progress around the building on the security camera monitor.

 

            – You have quite a boot there, Stuart. What’s the story with that?

            – Run over when I was a kid and my leg stopped growing. The growth plates were damaged, if you know what they are. So I’ve worn a boot with my leg brace since then.

            – You make it sound so simple. I was at school with a bloke who came off his Vespa and smashed his knee up. They had to freeze it or something so it wouldn't bend and he had to wear a metal leg brace like yours after that. But he couldn’t get on with it and the last I heard, he had his leg off after he left school.

            – Oh, that’s a shame. Mine is alright. I don’t know any other way of walking, I suppose. Was there something you wanted me to see to?

            – Yeah. I need a new bulb in that standard lamp and I can't make out these new lumens or whatever you call them. I want a seventy‑five watt bulb in it.

            – It’ll have to be the new sort, sir. They don’t sell them by the old watt system any more.

            – I know! That’s the problem.

            – I’ll look into it, sir, and ask if we have any suitable bulbs.

            – Good lad.

            – Is that all, sir.

            – Yes, all for now. Nice to meet you, young Stuart. Go and call on Cheryl in number fifteen. I think she might have something for you, judging from the way she was moaning at breakfast.

            – Alright, I will. Bye, sir.

 

Stuart went back to the lobby and informed Greg that the problem was finding a new bulb for a standard lamp. A seventy‑five watt equivalent.

            – Oh, is that all? Alright, I’ll let the super know and hand it to you when he finds one. You know how to change a bulb, don’t you?

            – Course I do!

            – Thought so.

            – I have to go to room fifteen now to see a lady called Cheryl. I wonder what she wants.

            – Only one way to find out, Stuart. Off you go.

 

He knocked lightly on the door and waited half a minute before Cheryl opened it warily.

            – Oh! It’s you! Do come in. I can’t remember your name, I’m afraid.

            – It’s Stuart.

            – Of course it is! It’s nice of you to call by.

            – One of the gentlemen said he thought you were having a problem with something.

            – I can guess who. No, the only problem is that I’ve run out of Earl Grey and my hip is playing up so I can’t get to the shop.

            – Would you like me to get some for you?

            – That would be lovely, Stuart but I don’t like to impose, especially you being disabled.

            – Don’t worry about that, ma’am. I don’t think of myself as disabled.

            – My brother had a short leg like yours. Polio. That’s what caused it. He had a big heavy brace and a big boot and he thought of himself as very disabled.

            – Really? Why’s that?

            – He blamed his leg on not being able to find friends, especially not lady friends. He thought no‑one would ever want to be seen with him. He died a bitter man, Stuart.

            – I’m sorry to hear that.

            – Well, he was always saying he’d rather be dead and now he is, the old bugger. Excuse my French.

Cheryl laughed at her joke and unladylike language. It sounded charming and heart‑warming. Stuart thought Cheryl might not have laughed for quite a while.

            – I know what. Let’s have a cup of Earl Grey now and you can tell me all about yourself.

            – Thank you, ma’am. That would be nice.

            – I’ll get the cups.

She rose with more enthusiasm than she had had five minutes previously. Stuart was also about to find out what Earl Grey actually was. He had not been sure but was reluctant to ask and reveal his ignorance. Cheryl busied herself in her tiny kitchen nook and brought out what looked like the family heirlooms, delicate porcelain cups with intricate flowery patterns. She brought a matching sugar bowl to the table and placed a silver pair of sugar tongs on top. And finally she brought two cups of oddly scented tea, holding each saucer carefully with both hands. She sat down.

            – Help yourself to sugar, Stuart.

He used the sugar tongs to drop a sugar cube into his cup.

            – Yes, you see, my brother always regarded himself as disabled. Back in those days, there wasn’t the same attitude towards the disabled as there is now. You were seen as being very much a second‑class citizen. If you used a walking stick or god forbid you were confined to a wheelchair, you were thought of as feeble‑minded.

            – That’s ridiculous.

            – Well, we know that now, but that was the way people thought of the matter. I see you make no effort to hide your boot, Stuart. I can see you’ve had your trousers altered to fit the boot neatly. It all looks very handsome and impressive. That’s what I think. My brother’s boot was not as tall as yours and he used to let it get scuffed and untidy. But his leg brace was different. Your leg brace doesn’t bend in the middle, does it?

            – No ma’am. It’s always straight like this.

            – Well there you are. My brother’s brace had a joint at his knee and he could bend his leg when he sat down. Do drink your tea before it gets cold.

            – It’s not like ordinary tea, is it?

            – No. Do you like the perfume?

            – I’m not sure. I haven’t tasted it before, you see, so I’m not used to the taste.

            – Really? Is this the first time you’ve tasted Earl Grey? How extraordinary! Well, this is what I’d like you to buy for me. This is the last of the old packet, you see. I’ll give you the money before you go. Don’t let me forget now, Stuart.

            – No ma’am.

            – So anyway, when everyone else his age was out having fun, and the Sixties were fun, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, my brother refused to join in. He never went dancing as far as I know, and he had no friends his age. Everyone else was growing their hair long and dressing up in colourful clothes. My brother kept his hair short and wore grey suits which never seemed to fit properly. It’s not surprising he was always on his own, is it? Do you go out much, Stuart? I hope so.

            – Not really. I’d like to but I haven’t had much money. I can’t afford to go out very often.

            – Well, you should. You’re only young once and you shouldn’t let something like a leg brace slow you down and keep you from doing things.

            – No ma’am. I shan’t. Thank you for the Earl Grey, ma’am.

            – It was delightful to chat, Stuart. You must come again. Let me give you some money.

Cheryl rose and found her handbag and purse. She took out a two pound coin and placed it in front of Stuart.

            – I think this will be enough, Stuart. If it isn’t, you must let me know.

Cheryl watched Stuart’s movements as he rose and the distinctive way the heel of the built‑up boot twisted around as it struck the floor. Such a fascinating detail. How odd it was to think that Stuart’s natural foot was right up at the top of the boot. Such an exciting way to walk. Stuart said Bye bye and closed the door. Cheryl fanned her face with a hand and started clearing the tea things. She noticed with some surprise that she was smiling.

 

Greg asked what the old gal had wanted.

            – A bit of a chat, really. She was telling me about her brother who had the same problem I do but he was miserable about it and let it ruin his life. And she also wants more tea bags.

            – In that case, you can run out and get them. Some time this afternoon when they’re taking a nap. I’ll cover for you.

            – Thanks Greg. Have you worked here long?

            – Three years. I’m not on the staff. I get my wages from the security company. The care home sort of rents my services, see? But it’s a fairly easy job until something goes wrong.

            – What sort of things?

            – Well, not to put too blunt a point on it, death. That can spoil your whole day. You’ll see if you hang around. There’s quite a regular turnover in residents. Sorry if that sounds a bit heartless. You sort of get used to it.

            – Yeah, I suppose so. What shall I do next?

            – Why don’t you start at one end and call in on everyone to ask if they want something from the shops since you’re already going? Don’t promise to get anything on tick.

            – What do you mean?

            – I mean get money up front for what they ask you to buy. Get the money first.

            – Oh, I see. Alright. Can you lend me a pen and give me some paper? I might end up with a shopping list.

            – Here you are. Don’t let them drag you inside for more cups of tea this time of morning or you won’t get anything done.

            – Alright, I won’t.

Greg watched Stuart walk away. The boot was shocking, fascinating. He had always been strongly attracted by physical disability and imagined himself with one, usually a leg amputation. But Stuart’s set‑up was just as horny. It would be interesting to see the leg brace in its entirety. Greg fondled his erection and returned to watching the security cameras.

 

Stuart visited most of the residents during the time leading up to lunch. They were pleased to be asked if they needed anything and Stuart’s shopping list soon filled with requests for sundries such as biscuits, instant coffee and more tea bags. The kinds of thing any bedsit without an ordinary kitchen might contain. He took their money and soon had enough coinage to give people change there and then.

 

Ms White found him at Greg’s security desk when they were looking for a carrier bag which Greg was sure he had seen.

            – Stuart, here’s your pager. Carry it with you always and try to answer as soon as possible so the caller doesn’t become frustrated. Old people can sometimes be rather impatient, I’m afraid to say. You see the display here? If there are two or more callers, the numbers will cycle. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.

            – Yes, ma’am. I should think so. We were just looking for a bag. I’m going shopping this afternoon, you see.

Stuart showed the long list of names and payments and produce which he had collected.

            – Good heavens above! Stuart, I have to commend you on your resourcefulness. The residents usually have to wait until they have a visitor before they get any outside things. I can see you’re going to be very popular, young man. Don’t let the residents take advantage of you, though. I suggest you shop for them, say, twice a week.

            – I will. Greg suggested I go this afternoon after two o’clock.

            – Yes, that’s a good time. Most of them will be asleep in their armchairs after lunch, I should think.

 

Stuart left mid‑afternoon with a large carry‑all which Ms White discovered and a long list of purchases. The closest supermarket was in a shopping centre about half a mile away on the other side of a main road. Not being familiar with the layout of the shop, Stuart spent nearly an hour collecting everything on his list. The large bag filled out with bulk. It was not heavy, merely awkward to carry. Stuart held it in his right hand to counter‑balance the weight of the leg brace on his short left leg. The rigid leg struck the ground with a regular rhythm, rocking slightly from left to right on the cast‑iron horseshoe cleat circling the heel. The boot looked heavy but its interior lift was sculpted from cork and it weighed little more than an ordinary boot.

 

Greg suggested waiting until the afternoon tea break before distributing the purchases. Stuart still had nearly a pound in small change in his pocket which he owed the customers. Ms White looked at the bewildering amount of groceries which her wards had ordered and began to consider arranging regular deliveries. Stuart might be willing to run errands a couple of times a week but that was not why he was employed at Summerview. One by one, his customers appeared for their afternoon coffee and slice of cake and Stuart handed over their purchases. Almost without exception, he was allowed to keep the change.

 

Six o’clock rolled round. Time to leave. Greg asked Stuart to sit at his desk for a few minutes while he changed into his street clothes and warned him that the night porter would be arriving at any minute. Stuart looked at the large monitor which showed cctv camera pictures in sixteen locations both inside the building and in the forecourt. The sound of a motorcycle caused Stuart to search the images to see who was arriving. He could see someone dressed in an MA‑1 jacket identical to his own dismounting from a Kawasaki. The arrival switched his bike’s motor off and moments later, the front door swung open. The night porter was barely on time to start his twelve hour shift.

 

He held his helmet in his left hook and noticed a new face.

            – Where’s Greg? Who are you?

            – Greg’s changing. He asked me to sit here until the night shift arrives. I’m Stuart. I started work here today.

            – Oh, gotcha. Wait a minute while I change.

He marched off to the small side room which the security staff used as a changing room.

            – Hi Paul. You OK?

            – Yeah. Nothing special. Who’s that on the desk?          

            – New guy, started today. Been making friends with the oldies all day. I think he’s supposed to be some kind of surrogate grandson who spies on them for the admin.

            – Sneaky. What’s he like?

            – Young, enthusiastic, personable. I like him. And he’s a crip like you.

            – Crip! For chrissake! One lousy stump and I have to listen to that. So what’s wrong with him if he’s a crip, as you say?

            – He’s got a built‑up boot on a leg brace.

            – Really? Jeez. My favourite.

            – Yeah. I thought you might like the sound of that. Don’t let on I told you.

            – No, I won’t.

The two security men returned to the entrance hall and Greg waved to Stuart. Then he was gone.

 

            – So you’re the new boy. First day and all that. How’d you like it? I’m Paul, by the way. Nice to meet you.

            – Stuart. Do you want to sit down? Here.

Stuart stood and moved away from the chair. Having been forewarned, Paul was prepared to glance at the new bloke’s leg and was amazed to see a braced built‑up boot the size of the one on Stuart’s leg. Built‑up boots were his great interest, after all kinds of amputation, and the only one of his fantasies which he shared with Greg—a fact which revealed itself in conversation after Paul returned to work following his amputation three years ago.

            – Oh! I didn’t realise you’re disabled. Well, that makes two of us.

He held up his left arm, displaying his farmer’s hook.

            – Wow! I didn’t notice that when you came in.

            – I don’t suppose you were expecting to see it. And you’ve not got the training that security guards have. We’re taught to look out for distinguishing features, see? How old are you, Stuart?

            – I’m twenty‑two. How old are you?

            – Twenty‑five. So. Are you going to stand there all night or have you got a home to go to?

            – I might stand here all night.

            – Ha! I wouldn’t mind. I could do with some company. It gets very quiet here in the small hours.

            – When does your shift end?

            – Six. Greg should be here by then. There’s a third guy who turns up sometimes when we have a day off. I don’t suppose you’ve met him yet. Tall guy with a goatee.

            – No, I’ve not seen him yet. Can I ask you how come you have a hook?

            – Sure. I caught my hand in a lift mechanism I was supposed to be checking. The thing had got stuck until all of a sudden, it wasn’t and the cable trapped my wrist and practically severed my hand. They wanted to try reattaching it at first but I told them to lop it off.

 

It was a credible story and one which Paul had repeated so many times that he almost believed it himself. In reality, he had used a surprise inheritance from an almost unknown great aunt to pay a Bangkok surgeon to amputate his left hand three inches above his wrist. Paul had a strong urge to appear as an amputee to all and sundry and a hook was the best way he could think of to start. Now much of his imagination was occupied by thoughts of a leg stump. That might present problems with employment at the security company so for the time being he walked on two flesh legs. There was still time. He wanted at least one leg prosthesis by the time he turned thirty. He would start with a peg leg on a below‑knee stump. Stuart’s enormous boot suggested that he might also be extrovert enough to consider converting to amputee status.

 

            – Have you always had a short leg, Stuart, or is that the result of an injury?

            – I was run over when I was ten and the growth plates were damaged.

            – Ah, so your leg is a ten year old’s leg.

            – More or less, yeah.

            – Why don’t you have it off and use a prosthesis?

            – I don’t think they let you do that sort of thing. I’ve never been offered an amputation.

            – Have you ever suggested it?

            – Well, no, not really.

            – Well, you should. A boot like that is OK on a young guy like yourself but you can’t go through life heaving a useless leg around. Have the whole thing off and get a thigh stump. You’d do much better on an artificial leg, that’s for sure.

            – Really? Do you think so?

            – I’m sure of it. Who’s your orthotist?

            – Clive Jackson at Mount Pleasant.

            – Well, tell him you want the leg off and make him give you the name of a prosthetist.

            – Actually, I think he does that too.

            – Then there’s no problem. You’d be off work for six weeks, on crutches for another six and then you’d have an artificial leg which matches the other one for the first time in your life. I bet that would feel good seeing yourself in the mirror with two legs the same length.

 

Stuart fell silent, imagining himself with two full‑sized legs. It would probably be less effort to swing an artificial leg along compared to his leg brace. Paul seemed quite certain that he would be better off and that an amputation would be possible if he demanded it. He would bring the matter up again with Dr Jackson next time he had reason to visit him. He looked down at his boot and the steel bracing reaching to the heel. He lifted his thigh and repositioned the enormous boot, ready to leave Summerview to Paul. It was already twenty past six. He already felt the chance of a new friendship with Paul. Paul was a little older, but seemed less serious than Greg and he had the advantage of having something in common with himself. An immediately visible physical disability. It was great that neither of them allowed it to slow them down.

            – I have to go now, Paul. My parents will be wondering what’s happened to me.

            – Alright. See you tomorrow.

Paul lifted his hook as a farewell and returned to watching the security camera monitor.

 

Stuart’s parents were interested to hear their son’s experiences at his first day in his first job. They were concerned that he had volunteered to go grocery shopping. His father pointed out that if something happened while he was out, his workplace would not be responsible. Stuart promised to bear that in mind next time and said that Ms White, his supervisor, had already suggested a different scheme. He mentioned the help and advice he had heard from the two security men who sat in reception and that everyone had been friendly, including the old people who were curious to know about his leg brace and boot. Many of them said that they had not seen such a thing for more years than they cared to remember.

 

By the end of the week, Stuart found he looked forward to seeing Paul every day for a few minutes. Paul was friendly in a non‑committal fashion and always asked how Stuart’s day had gone. Stuart thought he was the sort of person he would like having as a friend. He was reliable and honest, which his job depended on. And he wore the steel hook which was always a shock to see. Paul was the first man Stuart had ever met who had lost a hand but seemed quite nonchalant about it.

 

Ms White organised a regular delivery of tea bags and biscuits to the kitchen so the residents could have a reliable supply without Stuart needing to go shopping. She agreed wholeheartedly with Stuart that he would not be insured or in Summerview’s jurisdiction if he left the premises and thanked him for reminding her of the regulations. One afternoon, she sat with Stuart for a few minutes and asked a few pertinent questions about how he found the work, if he had heard any complaints from the residents about the way things were run and how he enjoyed the work so far. Stuart was reassured by her concern for his well‑being and honestly explained that he felt he was doing something useful and actually learning something. Ms White seemed pleased and told him to carry on in the same way.

 

Stuart received his first fortnightly wages. He checked the amount in his account and was amazed to see his balance in three figures. He had never had so much money before. Paul announced that he had Friday and Saturday off and would not see Stuart until the following Monday, unless he wanted to come out for a beer on Friday night. Paul wanted to go for a pizza first, then to a jazz club to see what it was like and then to a pub. Did Stuart want to join him? Stuart thought it sounded like a fabulous night out with someone he trusted and said he would ask his parents if it was OK. Paul said he should just tell them that he would be home late. He was an adult now and could make his own decisions without his parents’ permission. Stuart knew that but still lived at home and there were certain ways of going about things. But he said it would probably be alright. Paul and Stuart arranged a meeting place for six thirty on Friday evening in the town centre. Paul said he would wait ten minutes max and then he would leave. Stuart promised to be punctual.

 

He was. Paul was leaning against the wall by a bus stop, hands in his olive green MA‑1 jacket pockets. He was wearing skin‑tight jeans which emphasised his genitals. He had turned the cuffs of his jeans up a few inches to expose his blood‑red Dr Marten boots. It was almost the skinhead uniform. Stuart came in what he had worn at work, hoodie, jeans, and his olive green MA‑1 jacket.

            – I didn’t know you liked the skinhead look, Stuart. I approve fully. A man should dress good. Are you ready for a pizza or would you like a beer first? There’s no hurry.

            – Let’s have a beer.

            – Good thinking. Let’s go over there.

There was a busy pub with high prices and a reputation for violence on the other side of the street. It would be safe enough at this time of evening.

            – Let me get these. Go and find a table somewhere.

Paul thought seeing Stuart approaching a semi‑vacant bench somewhere would be enough to persuade its occupants to shove up to make room. Even in a crowded room, Stuart’s exaggerated lurch clearly signalled his disability. Luckily there was a small table free, covered in spilt beer and empty glasses, but Stuart settled himself onto a chair and positioned his boot so no‑one could trip over it. Paul spotted him and lowered two pints of lager into the mess the previous occupants had left. He had exchanged his working hook for his drinking hook—a light symmetrical steel hook designed for handling cylindrical objects like glasses of beer.

            – Down the hatch, Stuart.

He waited for Stuart to pick his beer up and gestured towards it. The glasses were too full to clink together without spilling even more liquid onto the table. Paul gulped a good amount, Stuart sipped his, not sure what it might taste like. He rarely drank anything alcoholic and was so unused to beer and lager that he had no preferences or favourites. He licked his lips of foam and saw Paul watching him.

            – Something tells me you don’t like it.

            – Oh no! It’s fine. I’m just not used to the taste.

            – You don’t drink much, I’m guessing.

            – No. This is the first time I’ve been in a pub without my parents.

            – Really? Stuart, you’ve led a very sheltered life. We’ll have to do something about that.

Paul smiled. It was both devilish and reassuring. Paul would get him tipsy but keep an eye on him.

 

Stuart recovered from the odd taste of his first mouthful and gulped another.

            – Careful, Stuart. Don’t rush it if you’re not used to it.

            – OK. Is this very strong?

            – Not really but it will be if you gulp it down.

            – Paul, can I ask you about your hook? Like, what’s it like to use a hook instead of a hand?

            – It’s fine after you get used to it. The most difficult thing is knowing when and how to twist the hook around so it can grab things. Like this, look.

Paul demonstrated how he turned the hook to open so he could turn the page of a book, for example, and then twisted it ninety degrees so he could pick up his glass of lager. He did so and leaned back to drink.

            – I don’t have a wrist, see, so I have to tilt my body. But it’s not difficult. It’s just a matter of getting used to it.

            – Don’t you mind that everyone stares at it?

            – Do they?

Paul glanced around the pub. No‑one seemed to be paying them any attention.

            – Well, this bunch don’t seem too bothered. Is that what you feel about your boot? That everyone is staring at it?

            – Yeah. They do. I notice it a lot but it’s OK. I’m used to it. I suppose it’s unusual and people are interested in that sort of thing.

            – It also looks very impressive. You keep it well polished and for what it is, it’s a handsome shape and size. See, I’ve been looking at it too! I like seeing it, to tell you the truth. And I like the way you walk on it.

Stuart was surprised. No‑one had ever told him that the orthopaedic boot for his crippled leg was handsome. Everyone expressed pity and commiserations if they mentioned it at all. Stuart thought they were insincere. People had no understanding about what it was like to have a heavy steel brace, rigid from top to bottom, connected to a wide leather belt around his waist so it could not slip off his short leg.

            – The reason why I asked is because I don’t know how it would be if I had a stump.

            – Have you been thinking about what I told you?

            – Yeah. I was wondering how it would be to walk on an artificial leg which bends at the knee and looks like a leg.

            – If you want to know what a stump feels like, I’ll show you later on. Not in here. Too many people. But having a stump is funny at first because you feel like your hand—or in your case, your leg—is still there. It just doesn’t do anything. That’s why it’s good to have an artificial limb to replace it. Some people don’t even bother with that. As far as my stump is concerned, it’s just my ordinary old arm. Nothing special.

 

Paul was minimising the satisfaction he still felt from being a relatively new voluntary amputee. His stump was exactly the length he had wanted and by luck or design the surgeon had crafted a beautifully rounded shape no more offensive than the tip of a finger. In certain company, Paul bared it with pleasure, enjoying the attention which the phallic stump attracted. For the rest of the time, he enjoyed using his artificial arm with all its restrictions and was proud of how dextrous he had become with his hook.

            – It’s good you’re thinking about an amputation. I really think it’s something you should look into. But we haven’t come here to talk about that. Do you want another one or shall we look around for a pizza?

            – Can we have another one?

Stuart had almost emptied his first pint without even noticing. It was fun discussing something which he could never talk about with anyone else. His appreciation of Paul rose another notch. It was fun being out with someone a bit older than himself who he could talk to.

 

Paul returned with two more pints. The barkeep toured the tables, finally removing empty glasses and wiping the tables. The evening progressed to the stage when after‑work drinkers had left and the regular pub‑goers had not yet arrived. The place quietened a little and Stuart relaxed, due jointly to his gradual intoxication and the growing trust in his new friend. Paul asked Stuart if he felt up to walking to the jazz venue and paying the stiff entrance fee. Stuart was not keen.

            – I don’t really feel like walking that distance, Paul.

            – It’s OK. I understand. Shall we go and find that pizza instead?

            – Yeah. Let’s do that.

 

The pizzas were excellent. They more than covered the plates and there was a generous filling on both. They washed them down with another lager and sat back in comfortable booths for as long as they dared. Paul looked around at other customers, not ignoring Stuart but not concentrating on him either. Stuart found it reassuring. When Paul’s attention was elsewhere, Stuart stared at the hook and imagined the stump of arm inside the black socket. What would it be like to have a hook for a hand? It must be OK, judging from the way Paul behaved. He used the hook when it would be normal to use his left hand and never tried to hide it. Neither did he show it off. It seemed to Stuart that amputation was a transition to something different, not a curse of disability. He tried to imagine what his short leg would look like after an amputation. His thigh was skinny. Maybe if they cut it off just above his knee, he would have a stump long enough for an artificial leg. It seemed so simple. He would definitely discuss it again with Dr Jackson the next time they met.

 

Stuart had the opportunity sooner than he expected. The following week, he answered a call from one of the residents and, on leaving, knocked his braced leg against the trolley used by the cleaning staff. He could sense that something had broken or come loose but was unable to know which without removing his trousers. But whatever it was, he could still walk on the brace and boot. He would check it later after Paul arrived.

 

He had caught one of the brace’s cuffs on the edge of a steel tray on the trolley and it had ripped the leather cuff away from three retaining rivets. The leather would need to be replaced. His gait was normal but it felt odd not to have the pressure on his leg which he was used to. He made an appointment with Dr Jackson and was informed of a time in a fortnight. It was long enough for him to develop a convincing argument for an amputation. He talked about it with Greg, who said he could charge Summerview’s insurers for the cost of repair and with Paul, who was more adamant.

            – Now’s your chance, Stuart. Don’t let them give you any old guff about why they won’t do an amputation. You have to insist on it. Tell them you’re getting back pains from the weight of the brace.

            – How do you know about that?

            – Stuart, it’s obvious that a man who has to put all his strength into swinging a useless leg and brace forward is going to have back problems. I wonder that you haven’t brought it up yourself.

            – Well, it’s true that I do get a sore back sometimes but I’m used to it.

            – It’s not supposed to happen at all, Stuart. You’re not supposed to get used to being in pain. It’s the job of people like Clive Jackson to give you equipment which doesn’t make you sore. Kick up a fuss and say you’ve had enough of a heavy brace and want an amputation so you can use a lightweight artificial leg.

            – Do you think he’d believe me?

            – I’d say you’ll have to present a good case. Tell him about your back ache, the inconvenience of having a rigid leg, the look of the built‑up boot and the unwelcome attention it gathers. Then say that you’ve been talking to amputees about their experiences and looking into what kinds of prostheses are available for above‑knee amputees. You could also point out that to all intents and purposes, you’re already in the same one‑legged situation as you would be after an amputation, so there’s no psychological impact.

            – That’s true.

            – And before he can come up with a refusal, ask him for the name of a reliable surgeon who you can talk to about the procedure. Just keep up the pressure and don’t take no for an answer. If he does refuse you, tell him you’ll be looking for a new ortho guy.

            – Alright, I’ll do that. Thanks Paul. I’ll still be able to carry on here afterwards, won’t I?

            – Of course you will. You’ll probably find it even easier. You’d better talk to admin, Ms White, about the amputation once you have a set date. I’m certain they can manage without you for a few weeks. Tell her that it’s a once‑in‑a‑lifetime opportunity to improve your situation.

 

Stuart repaired his leg brace with duct tape. It was a strictly temporary fix and depending on what Dr Jackson advised, the brace might never need to be repaired properly. An artificial leg would replace it.

 

Stuart prepped for his upcoming consultation. He read about phantom pain, apparently almost inevitable, the change in balance, the potential skin problems and the never‑ending need for cleanliness and fresh stump socks. He was prepared to tolerate some discomfort. It was inevitable after a major operation but the prospective advantage far outweighed any short‑lived pain. As far as artificial legs were concerned, there was a meagre choice available unless he wanted to go private and splash out on an expensive imported knee joint with microprocessor control. He decided to choose the simplest mechanical knee joint and learn to use it to its best advantage. After two weeks of enthusiastic study, Stuart felt he could converse knowledgeably with Dr Jackson about what he wanted and was well prepared to insist on the procedure.

 

Jackson was impressed. He remembered Stuart as a schoolboy encumbered by a short leg and resultant old‑style orthopaedic solution. The young man who appeared before him was in a job and seemed far more confident and knowledgeable about his prospective options. Stuart was of an age when his physical appearance played a big rôle in his self‑esteem. Jackson held some sympathy for Stuart who had always accepted the ever‑growing boots and heavy bracing while he was a schoolboy. According to his notes, this was not the first time that amputation had been requested but it had been refused earlier due to the fact that Stuart was still growing. It had been preferable to wait until he reached adulthood. That time was now. Jackson toyed with a pencil as he listened to Stuart’s carefully rehearsed presentation.

            – I have to say, Stuart, that I agree with you. You have no physical need of an amputation. You walk well with the brace and boot and it seems to me that your disability does not interfere with your daily life. However, as you point out, your short leg is functionally useless without orthotic equipment and the same would be true of a leg stump. I am going to put your name forward on the list of prospective elective amputees. This means we cannot promise a date although of course we will try to accommodate you as soon as possible. I’m of the same opinion that a lighter artificial leg would go a long way to easing your back pains. You should have let me know about that before, Stuart. Don’t let other problems slide like that.

            – No, I won’t. Well, thank you for all this. What about the cuff on my leg brace?

            – Repairing it would take several days, Stuart, and I don’t believe you want to be on crutches for that length of time. If the brace is comfortable enough, I suggest you continue with your temporary repair until we know more about the timetable for your amputation. Elective amputations are usually quick and easy to recover from because the patient is healthy beforehand, rather than recovering from trauma, you see. I would guess that when there’s a bed available for a few days, we’ll be able to fit you in.

 

Stuart spent much of his free time without his leg brace. His socked foot dangled uselessly from the end of his atrophied shin and trembled as he strode around on crutches. He was practising for the few weeks when he would be genuinely one‑legged when he returned from hospital. His parents were surprised to hear that their son had made enquiries about an amputation. They had gone through a similar process when Stuart was fifteen and unhappy with his crippled status. But he had bucked his ideas up and later seemed to enjoy sporting the enormous black boot on his rigid leg. It was so much part of Stuart’s identity that it was difficult to imagine him walking on two full‑length legs, even if one of them was artificial. Stuart was now an adult and his own man. His parents’ opinions carried no weight and they encouraged him to choose the path which seemed most promising.

 

Stuart arranged to have an afternoon off work and discussed his needs and wishes with a sympathetic surgeon at the hospital. He was of the opinion that disabilities such as Stuart’s were best dealt with through the type of orthotics which Stuart was already familiar with. However, due to the extraordinary height of Stuart’s built‑up boot and the weight of the leg brace affecting the patient’s lumbar region, the surgeon stated that he was willing to perform a trans‑femoral amputation approximately five centimetres above Stuart’s knee, leaving him with a stump of eighteen centimetres in length and twenty in circumference. He would be fitted with an artificial limb, starting with a rigid peg leg and progressing to an articulating limb with a mechanical knee joint. Stuart listened carefully, nodding to show his understanding, relieved to be rid of his useless leg in favour of a long thin stump. His stump would not be strong nor would it permit activity more strenuous than walking but he would certainly appear more normal with two legs wearing ordinary shoes. If Stuart was agreeable to the timetable and procedure, he should sign these papers and wait for the invitation for his procedure, some time within the next three months, which would be forwarded seven days in advance. Stuart shook the surgeon’s hand and left with a smile on his face, relieved and excited that his amputation was finally on track.

 

With the process under way, it was time to warn his employers at Summerview. He brought the matter up with Ms White at the end of their weekly hour long review on Friday afternoon. Stuart reported on issues and potential problems which the residents had mentioned to him during his visits. Everything from how one of the visiting medical staff was too brusque and unsympathetic to a lack of salt in the potatoes. Small annoyances which could be easily remedied. Stuart also kept an eye on the residents’ well-being and mental health, reporting on everything from the sniffles to back pain and dizziness when standing up. The old people revealed the oddest things to the crippled young man who they had come to regard almost as a grandson. Stuart promised to see what he could do and his reports always resulted in suitable action. Summerview had a reputation to maintain and Stuart’s input was invaluable.

            – There’s something else I ought to tell you. It’s a personal matter but you ought to know. You see, my disability is becoming more of a burden. I’ve had back pains because of the leg brace for the past few months and I’ve been talking to my orthopaedic doctor.

            – Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Stuart. I expect it does take quite a toll on your back. And what did the doctor say, if I may ask?

            – Yes, of course. You see, my heavy steel leg brace could be replaced with a lightweight artificial leg. But of course, I would first need an amputation. And that would require some time off work—but not for long! Don’t worry about that. I’d be back as soon as possible.

            – Well! I don’t know what to say. What an awful thing, to lose your leg.

            – Ms White, it’s not worth saving. It’s too short. It’s already like being one‑legged.

Ms White was feeling distinctly out of her depth. She admired Stuart for his resilience in the face of a disability which would send most people into the depths of depression.

            – We’d be very sorry to lose you, even for a few weeks, but I understand that the operation takes time to recover from. How long do you think it might be?

            – Recovery time or the operation date?

            – Oh, both.

            – I dare say I’d be back at work in six weeks, although I’d still be on crutches. But I wouldn’t mind that. I’m quite good on crutches already. And the operation date is supposed to be within the next three months but I don’t know exactly when. They’ll let me know a week ahead of time, you see.

            – I see. We certainly don’t want to lose you, Stuart, so on my part, I can say that I’m more than willing to allow you the time off, although I’ll have to inform the board. I’m not sure if they would prefer to terminate your employment until you are fitted with an artificial limb, which might take months, mightn’t it?

            – Yes, it might. I hope I can keep my job, ma’am.

            – So do I, Stuart. So do I.

 

Paul was due another two consecutive days off. Thursday and Friday.

            – Do you fancy a drink on Thursday?

            – Thursday? That’s an odd day to go out.

            – I know. So are you coming or not?

            – OK. Pizza and beers?

            – Yup. I’ll let you buy ’em this time.

            – Oh, alright. I’ll meet you outside Luigi’s at six thirty.

            – Or inside.

            – Don’t be drunk when I get there.

            – I am never drunk, Stuart.

            – Haha!

 

It was a nuisance, Thursday evening. Stuart and Paul had not shared a pizza for three weeks. Their friendship had grown more intimate with regular evening sessions in each other’s company. They told each other ever more private thoughts. Paul had even once hinted that his amputation was voluntary but Stuart had not picked up on it, for which, in the light of day, Paul was grateful. Paul was comfortable enough with his hook after four years that he had begun toying with the idea of having his other hand replaced with an identical hook but had not mentioned anything to Stuart about it, for obvious reasons. He was certain that he could continue his employment as a bilateral amputee. A night‑watchman hardly needed hands for anything more demanding than calling for assistance on a smart phone. Steel hooks would suffice. Paul kept all this to himself but wanted to tell someone he could trust to get some kind of feedback. Someone who understood. So he was grateful that Stuart agreed to meet on a Thursday evening. He wanted to talk about amputation and needed some Dutch courage.

 

Stuart arrived a few minutes after Paul. Paul watched his arrival from a window seat. Even from this distance, Stuart’s gait grabbed attention. The huge boot with its steel bracing seemed to anchor the leg to the ground with every step, twisting slightly as the weight on it changed. Stuart insisted the boot was light and that the inside was just cork. The rigid brace made it appear solid and heavy and Stuart’s exaggerated effort to swing the useless leg forward always brought Paul to the start of an erection. Having Stuart near him and being able to look at the boot close up never failed to cause him to drip precum from his dick. Every single time. He pivoted himself around on his hook to face into the room and took a sip from his fresh pint of lager as Stuart spotted him.

            – Been waiting long?

            – Just arrived. What sort of a day have you had?

            – Pretty much the usual. Mrs Winters wanted me to rub some salve into her shoulders.

            – So did you?

            – No! I’m not supposed to do that sort of stuff. I told her to ask the nurse.

            – She’s got the hots for you.

            – She’s not the only one.

            – You don’t mind though, do you?

            – No. It’s funny in a way. The way they think of me as a family member, sometimes. I know they don’t always think as clearly as they used to but they’re fairly sharp once I’ve arrived.

            – They want to look at your boot. That’s your main attraction. That and the way you walk.

            – Yeah, well, you like it too. Don’t deny it, Paul. I know enough about you and your tastes by now. Don’t try and deny it.

            – True enough. Without your ginormous cripple boot, you would be nothing. Do you want a beer before your pizza?

Paul waved his hook at the barkeep without waiting for an answer. He stopped what he was doing and raised his eyebrows.

            – Bring us another beer please, mate.

Stuart looked at the red and white chequered tablecloth and at Paul’s hand and hook.

            – I told Ms White about my amputation.

            – And what did she say?

            – That it’s alright. Probably. She said she understood but she’d have to run it by the other admin. I mean about being able to keep my job while I’m recovering.

            – I reckon they will. They want to keep you on their good side. I mean, you’d be fairly pissed off at them if they terminated you, right? So I don’t reckon they’d do that.

            – Anyway, I said I could come back on crutches. ’Cos I’ve been on crutches for years. It’s not like it would be something new for me.

            – Not for you but the oldies would be surprised to see you on crutches, especially the ones who like seeing your big boot.

            – I know. They’d just have to get used to me having a stump. I guess it would be a month or two before I got an artificial leg.

            – Probably. So when is all this going to happen?

            – Couple of months.

            – Great. I wish I could have this off in a couple of months.

Paul lifted his right hand and splayed its fingers. His hand was wide with short fingers. The nails were trimmed but it was not a well‑proportioned hand. Stuart understood why Paul might like to be rid of it. He had seen Paul using his hook often enough to understand that another one would present no great challenge to him. Replacing one’s hands with steel hooks was a tough process to undergo but the end result looked fantastic and living life with artificial arms sounded like something which would be interesting to try. But there was no going back if you did not like the lifestyle.

 

Paul showed his interest in leg amputation during the evening. They finished off the pizza and spent the rest of the evening in a comfortable bar where they could both watch people and be seen. Paul gradually asked more revealing questions about prospective amputation and disability. He noticed that Stuart was becoming more open and possibly more enthusiastic. It was an unusual coincidence for there to be three co‑workers who all shared the same interest but the presence of an amputee and a cripple inevitably led to acceptance and normalisation. Towards the end of the evening when alcohol had loosened their tongues, Paul spoke of his thoughts about having his hand off before long. Stuart nodded wisely. He tried to think of something to make light of Paul’s statement but his friend looked quite determined. Moments later their attention shifted to something else but the matter had surfaced far enough to be open to discussion.

 

Stuart received a text message from the hospital and a printed letter with the same information. He was invited to arrive on Thursday the twenty-third for an above‑knee amputation of his short leg the following day. He informed Ms White immediately and let all his senior friends know that he had to go into hospital for an operation and would be away for a few weeks. Without explaining any further, he was wished all the best and good luck. Most of the residents had some experience of hospital stays and felt genuine sympathy for the crippled boy who brought a little sunshine into their lives.

            – Cheryl dear, has young Stuart said anything to you about what he’s going in for?

            – No and I didn’t like to ask. You know how it is. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it was something to do with his leg.

            – Yes, that’s what I was thinking. I do hope it’s nothing serious. It’s so nice when he drops in for a chat. It would be a shame if he’s away for any length of time.

            –  I’m sure it’s just a check-up, Joyce. Like you, I don’t like to pry.

 

Greg was encouraging.

            – You don’t have nothing to worry about, mate. They do hundreds of amputations every year so they must know what they’re doing. You’ll be up and out on crutches within a fortnight and on a leg after another month, I bet.

            – Well, I hope so, Greg. I don’t mind crutching it for a few weeks but I’m really looking forward to having two long legs for the first time in my life.

            – I bet it’ll feel odd at first, having only the stump left but with a long leg attached.

            – I know. My nub’ll look more like a baguette than a leg stump but if it can swing an artificial leg, I’ll be happy.

            – You’ll do grand, Stu. When do you go in? Thursday? I’ll try and call in to see you the following weekend, see how you’re doin’.

            – I’ll show you my stump.

            – Well, I should hope so. Jokin’ aside, mate, I hope everything goes well for you.

 

It did not. Stuart’s mother packed a case for him with clean T‑shirts, a couple of hoodies, a pair of pyjama trousers with the left leg cut off halfway and the new hem neatly sewn. He was placed on the amputee ward, half empty, with another patient waiting for his procedure and three others who had lost feet to diabetes. A large screen on the end wall showed the national news channel with the sound off, an easy distraction from the tedium of hospital recovery.

 

His surgeon visited for a few minutes. He explained what he intended to do, how the residual limb would be cared for post‑op and an estimate of the time between discharge and the start of physical therapy. Stuart listened carefully, trying to glean some nugget of information about what it really meant to have a limb reduced to a stump. His short leg was useless and often a nuisance but it was his and after tomorrow, he would never see it again. He would be a different person.

 

The operation went well. As with all elective amputations, the patient was healthy and fit, and the surgeon’s prognosis accepted by all concerned. The stump of the disabled limb was long but especially narrow with little chance of it gaining extra muscle mass. But it would be an excellent length and shape for the suspension of a prosthesis and the surgeon nodded his approval and left the theatre staff to suture the wound. Stuart was returned to the amputee ward to recover from the anaesthetic at nine in the evening.

 

The night nurse was the first to notice a rise in Stuart’s temperature. It was nothing to be worried about but unusual enough at this stage of recovery for her to mark it in the ward log. Two hours later, Stuart’s temperature had risen by a further half degree and the nurse decided to keep a closer eye on him. By eight o’clock, Stuart was running a fever and she raised the alarm. Senior members of staff rushed about and convened in small frantic groups. Stuart was lifted onto a gurney and transported to another room, isolated from the rest of the wards. His extremities darkened. A nurse who arrived to attend to the fresh stump was brusquely instructed to remove herself from the room. Stuart seemed to be sinking deeper into unconsciousness rather than recovering from his anaesthetic and natural sleep. Two hours later, a doctor suggested that septicaemia may be the culprit. This was hotly contested by senior staff who insisted that there was no possible way that septicaemia could be responsible for the patient’s symptoms. Hospital staff watched Stuart’s deteriorating physical condition with increasing concern, desperate in their imposed denial of blood poisoning, which implicated the hospital and its standards of hygiene.

 

Junior staff replaced those who had worked through the previous night and much of the morning. The patient appeared stable, they judged. Hours passed before a senior doctor, who had seen Stuart that morning, realised that the boy’s three extremities were showing signs of tissue death. He was one of the most unpopular members of staff, young but officious, overweight and he drove a second hand Volvo. His opinion was ignored.

 

Stuart’s body fought to repel the toxins destroying his hands and foot. It shut down blood supply above the wrists to avoid the rotting flesh in his hands and above his ankle to save his leg from the toxic dead flesh in his foot. Nurses measured his temperature and placed repetitive pleas for assistance to senior doctors who assured them that the boy’s condition was under control. One nurse had seen another young man’s limbs be destroyed by septicaemia and she fell across her desk and wept for Stuart. There was nothing she could do for him.

 

The following day, Stuart’s surgeon demanded to know why his patient had been removed from the amputee ward for recovery and where he was. On hearing that Stuart was in isolation, he rushed from the ward, his coat billowing behind him and found Stuart on the edge of survival, his limbs blackened with necrosis and three nurses trembling and weeping with fear and horror. They had been ridiculed, threatened and silenced. The surgeon roared his anger at everyone present and demanded that every procedure for which he was booked be either cancelled altogether or transferred to colleagues. He ordered Stuart to be wheeled immediately to the operating theatre and began preparations to amputate the boy’s arms and remaining leg.

 

Stuart had been given high doses of two different antibiotics in a desperate belated attempt to arrest the disease killing him. His internal temperature had risen as his body battled the infection. The surgeon estimated the amount of viable tissue still available to close the stumps and performed three emergency amputations leaving Stuart with two short forearm stumps and approximately half his right shin. Stuart’s skin was mottled with livid sores which would leave permanent scarring.

 

The surgeon finished his work, leaving an assistant to suture Stuart’s wounds. Now an investigation would start to discover the source of the boy’s infection. Woe betide the hospital if the surgical theatre was found to be the source.

 

Stuart was moved to intensive care and kept in an artificial coma while his destroyed limbs settled from their surgical assault. He was fortunate in that the surgeon had acted when he did, allowing him to keep a vestige of stump below his elbows. It would make the future prostheses easier to use. The first stump, the left thigh, was ironically untouched by the disease and showed no deterioration, although its recovery had not advanced due to circumstances. Over the following ten days, no further tissue destruction became evident and his body temperature gradually returned to normal. Stuart had beaten the disease. Now he had to beat limblessness. He was transferred back to the amputee ward and allowed to regain consciousness.

 

He awoke and was immediately conscious of his bandaged arms. It was dark and he had no idea where he was. The night nurse heard his incoherent cries of confusion and hurried to sit by him, reassuring him that he was safe and in good hands. Stuart lifted the stumps of his arms and looked at her for an explanation.

            – Stuart, you have been very ill with blood poisoning. It was affecting your limbs so badly that the surgeon was forced to amputate your hands and right foot.

            – I’m limbless?

            – Yes, but your stumps are healthy and in no time at all you’ll be all set with a pair of strong artificial legs and two artificial hands.

            – Or hooks.

            – Yes, or hooks.

            – I want hooks, nurse.

            – I expect that’s what you’ll have then, Stuart. Don’t worry about that for now. Just concentrate on building your strength up. We almost lost you, you know. You’re lucky to be alive.

 

Stuart could sense that his right foot was missing. It was difficult to know what the stump looked like. His almost healed left thigh stump was naked under the bed clothes. He could swish it from side to side. It felt wonderful.

 

            – Go back to sleep, Stuart. You need your rest.

Stuart placed his arm stumps on his chest and settled into a more comfortable position. He imagined himself walking out of the hospital on two new artificial legs, swinging a pair of hooks. Paul would be jealous. He would have exactly what Paul hankered after.

 

Pandemonium had reigned behind the scenes while Stuart was in coma. His parents were shocked and horrified, fearful of losing their son, fearful of how he would react when he learned what had happened to his body. Hospital admin was in chaos shoving responsibility for the lack of sanitation from one department to another. The legal department sought precedent from similar cases in order to evade legal responsibility. The senior surgeon was apoplectic with indignation at being suspended while enquiries continued. The timetable for surgical procedures went out the window. The lab assistant who had caused Stuart’s septicaemia remained silent, not realising his rôle in the affair.

 

Stuart regained his health and his strength. He was allowed visitors, usually his parents who could do nothing to cheer him up or reassure him that everything would be alright. They had no idea of what life might be like after losing all four limbs. They had no idea that Stuart regarded the near future as a time for exploration and discovery. Gradually word filtered through to Summerview, where the senior citizens were as upset by the news as anyone else. The general hope was that Stuart might somehow make a return before long. They missed his cheerful companionship and an artificial limb would hardly make any difference after the tribulations the boy had already been through with his dreadful built‑up boot and stiff leg brace.

 

A new doctor took the lead role in Stuart’s rehabilitation. His skin had healed enough to make it possible to begin fitting artificial limbs. The sutures had healed well and the stumps would be useful appendages for the suspension of prostheses. He was looking forward to the beginning of the following week when he had a consultation with his prosthetist.

 

A nurse wheeled Stuart into the prosthetics workshop and left him in the company of Jared Fitch, an enthusiastic young prosthetist and orthotist who usually managed to impart some of his own enthusiasm to morose recent amputees. He was of the opinion that his expertise could replace any limb with a prosthesis which would provide the same function as the lost limb. The only disadvantage was its upkeep and that of the stump. He introduced himself to Stuart and gave a brief explanation of what they would be doing during the morning. Stuart was eager to begin, thinking that his artificial limbs were off‑the‑shelf items, almost ready to wear. Fitch went through the process of casting each individual stump and optimising the relevant socket before proceeding to the next limb.

 

            – I can see your thigh stump is the best healed. Shall we start with that? How are you feeling, Stuart? Are you up to a long session?

            – I’m fine, thank you, doctor.

            – Good. You can call me Jared, if you like. First of all, I’m going to make plaster casts of your stumps so I can use them to make your sockets, the bits you put your stump into. It’s important to get this bit right so the sockets fit you properly and don’t come loose.

            – I understand. I’ve been watching some videos about how to make an artificial limb.

            – Oh good! In that case, you’ll probably know more about it than me. Shall we get started?

Each cast took ninety minutes to apply, harden and remove. Fitch worked quickly, with practised efficiency. He inspected each stump closely as he worked, noting any irregularities and the condition of the skin. Stuart’s stumps were still covered with the scars which his septicaemia had left in its wake. They would fade but never disappear. Ugly as they were, Stuart was the only person who would ever see them on a daily basis. His artificial limbs would cover much of his skin from now on.

            – I suggest we take a break. Are you hungry? I could order some food in or we could go to the canteen together if you feel up to it.

            – Can we eat here?

            – We can. What would you like?

            – Sausage and mash.

            – Ha! I’ll see if it’s on the menu.

Fitch lifted Stuart back into his wheelchair and called the canteen to enquire whether they had sausages on offer today. They did and shortly two portions arrived. He used the intervening time to explain how he intended proceeding with Stuart’s rehab.

            – From what I understand, you’ve walked on a rigid leg brace for several years. Is that right?

            – Yeah. I had a short leg due to a road accident and I wore a brace for twelve years. And a built‑up boot.

            – OK. I’m going to start you off with a peg leg on the left because you’re used to a rigid leg and I want you to learn to use the short prosthesis on your right leg. I don’t think it will take very long or very much effort. For a young man like yourself, a below knee prosthesis is easy peasy. When you feel comfortable with that, we’ll take a look at some alternatives for a prosthesis for your thigh amputation.

            – I’ve been thinking that maybe I could just have a peg leg on the left.

            – The thing is, Stuart, that a peg leg is always rigid and it always sticks out when you sit. It’s rather inconvenient and most people can’t wait to progress to a standard artificial leg.

            – But my leg brace was just the same. Rigid, inconvenient and it stuck out. I’m used to it.

            – I see what you mean. Alright. Let’s see how it goes. Anyway, after we’ve got you onto your feet again, we’ll look into what kind of artificial hands you’d like.

            – I already know. I want hooks. Two hooks.

            – Wow! You have been thinking this over. Alright. Nothing wrong with that. Ah! Here’s lunch.

Fitch fed Stuart between bites of his own meal. It was something he had done for many arm amputees and his no‑nonsense manner reassured newly helpless patients that help was at hand.

 

After lunch, Fitch checked on the four casts he had made. They were drying evenly and would soon be ready to accept a positive casting which would be an accurate replica of Stuart’s corresponding stump. He collected a couple of binders and brought them to the table where Stuart still sat watching him.

            – Let’s have a look at these catalogues and you can pick out what sort of arms you want.

He opened the first brochure and allowed Stuart a minute to read through its introduction. Its hyper‑optimistic copy promised a return to productive life with the company’s latest advancements in biotechnology and photographs showed a young woman and middle‑aged man wearing respectively one and two bionic hands attached to glistening black sockets, big smiles of gratitude on their faces.

            – They look like they’re happy enough but I don’t want artificial hands, Jared. I want a pair of hooks, you know, the usual kind. Have you ever seen the film “The Best Days of Our Lives”? There’s a man in it who had lost his hands. He’s a sailor who got torpedoed and his hands burned. At least, that’s the story. In real life, he lost them when he was in army training. Anyway, I want the same sort of hooks like he got.

            – I’m very impressed that you know that film, Stuart. I know exactly who you mean. The actor was Harold Russell and he won an Oscar. He was quite impressive when you realise that he lost his hands in June forty‑four and the film was released in forty‑six. He had pretty basic hooks and arms.

            – I know. I want the same sort of thing.

            – OK. The material will be different but the hooks will be almost the same, made by the same company. I assume you don’t want anything like articulating wrists to let you bend the hooks to different angles.

            – No, nothing like that. Just hooks on sockets.

Fitch looked at Stuart’s determined face. He had been nonchalant about his prospective leg prostheses but seemed very determined to acquire and use extremely basic traditional arm protheses.

            – OK, I understand. Have you thought about the sockets? We could make them the same shape as your arms, more or less.

            – I think I’d prefer it if they looked sort of artificial too, if you know what I mean. Just like tubes ending in the hooks.

            – Cylindrical, you mean?

            – Yeah. Just completely round.

            – Alright. I understand. Your stumps are short enough for most of the sockets to be cylindrical. I have to say, you make my job a little easier. But your arms will make you look especially disabled.

            – I’m used to that. So can you do it? Can I have just hooks at the ends of cylindrical arms?

            – You can. What colour do you want for the sockets?

            – Black! That pink colour looks terrible.

            – I have to say I agree with you. Alright Stuart. I have a pretty good idea of what you want. The only thing left for me to do now is make the things.

            – How long will it be, do you think?

            – I’ll invite you back for test fittings every so often but I should think about three weeks.

Fitch purposely stated a time far beyond what it usually took to manufacture prostheses but he did not want to raise the patient’s expectations too high. Sometimes there were problems. Stuart nodded his head, a little disappointed.

            – I’m going to make your right below‑knee leg first and then your peg leg. So I reckon in three days you can come for your first fitting.

            – Thanks, Jared.

 

Stuart returned to the ward in his wheelchair and sat in it for the rest of the day watching tv in the patients’ rest area. If he had his hooks, he could work his phone and sit in bed watching something interesting. Instead, he made do with the company of mainly pensioners who had lost one or both feet to diabetes. There was no‑one else remotely the same age. The old folk looked at him, legless and handless, and returned their blank gazes back to the screen.

 

Stuart was in for a surprise a little later. Paul had phoned the hospital to ask if his work colleague was on a normal ward and if he was allowed visitors. Hearing that Stuart was indeed back on the amputee ward, Paul decided to pay Stu a visit. He was curious to know what was taking so much time for Stu to get back to Summerview. The oldies often asked if he had heard any news about Stuart and he had to disappoint them every time. Paul arrived when Stuart had returned to his bed when his most unfavourite soap began. Even the theme tune made his stomach turn and he asked another arm amp to push his chair. A nurse assisted Stuart back onto his bed and a few minutes later, Paul strode in, looking around for his friend.

            – There you are! How’s things, mate?

Stuart was overjoyed to see his friend and twisted around in his bed trying to make room for Paul on the side of his bed. Paul chose instead to sit in the wooden chair reserved for visitors.

            – I’m fine. Thanks for coming. Look!

Stuart raised both arm stumps. Instead of the long forearms Paul knew Stu had wanted, he saw bent elbows with a couple of inches of forearm.

            – Wow! They really short‑changed you, Stu. You never wanted anything like that, did you?

            – Paul, be quiet. No. You know I had blood poisoning. It shut down my arteries and stopped blood supply to my hands and foot. So I didn’t have any say in the matter. They had to come off so that the surgeon could work with some skin to close the stumps with. It’s alright, mate. I don’t mind. I’ve just been measured today for a pair of hooks. I’m gonna have mine before you get yours.

            – It looks like that. How are you feeling?

            – I’m OK. Bored as fuck but it can’t be helped. I’m getting my new leg next week and then I’ll be able to scoot around in my wheelchair. Oh, and I’m gonna have a peg leg on the left where my boot used to be. I know the limb guy wants me to have an artificial leg instead but I’m going to make him let me have a peg.

            – It sounds like you’ve got it all worked out. How long before you get your hooks?

            – A couple of weeks, I suppose. We went through all the different designs this afternoon and I chose the most basic design. Just like yours, in fact. No extras, just the hook on a socket. Except I’ll have two. I can’t wait.

            – It’ll feel great to use two hooks with those short stumps of yours. Once your body gets used to having short stumps, it’ll feel brilliant to reach out with the sockets and use the hooks for everything. I really wish it was me in your place. I’m really desperate to get rid of this.

Paul lifted his right hand.

            – Well, whatever you do to get rid of it, don’t choose blood poisoning.

            – No. How are your legs?

            – I have a thigh stump for my peg leg and stump about halfway down my shin for an artificial leg. Apparently the prosthetist says it’s easy to walk on one.

            – I guess it is. You’re only missing one joint at the ankle, and that doesn’t matter. Are you going to be able to pull the leg on with your little arm stumps?

It was something Stuart had not considered.

            – Don’t know. I suppose so.

He lifted his stumps and looked at them and at the distance to his leg stump. It might be a problem. Whatever. It was something to worry about when the time came.

            – Tell me about Summerview.

            – Everyone keeps asking for news about you and when you’re coming back.

            – How about the admin? Do they want me back too? Do they even know what’s happened to me? I don’t even know if I still have a job there.

            – If no‑one has told you that you don’t, you still have a job here. Stop worrying about it. I reckon as soon as you can walk again on your new legs, you’ll be able to come back to chat with the oldies. That’s what you’re there for, isn’t it? And they all say they miss you.

            – Really?

            – Yes, really. And I reckon that when you get your hooks, they’ll all be dying to see you using them. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said ‘dying’. Not the best turn of phrase. But you know what I mean.

 

Stuart was pleased to hear that he had been missed. He wanted to see the oldies again too. They had become almost friends in the months during which he had worked at Summerview. He was certain he would be able to continue work there with two hooks, walking around on an artificial leg and a peg leg. Stuart tried to imagine what he would look like striding along with an artificial foot and peg but it was difficult to picture. He would find out soon enough. He knew that anyone who saw him walking would realise he was disabled. No change there. Just a different kind of disablement. It was going to be fun trying out different combinations of artificial legs. But his hooks would always stay the same. He was sure of that. Paul stayed about forty minutes and promised to drop in again the following week.

            – Come at the end of the week and I might have my new foot.

            – OK. I’ll do that. See you, Stu.

            – Say hello to the oldies from me!

            – I will.

 

Stuart’s parents visited every evening at the same time and stayed for as long as possible. His mother had been weepy during the first days but had come to realise that Stuart’s attitude toward his maiming was such that she no longer feared he would spend the rest of his life as an embittered invalid. His father had been more pragmatic. Like Stuart, he regarded the new leg stumps as little more than a variation on what had gone before. He was more concerned about Stuart’s arm stumps. He could see they were rather short but had done some private research and discovered that there was no reason to think he would be additionally disabled after receiving his first pair of hooks. Stuart enthusiastically described his experiences during his first session with Jared Fitch and by the end of the evening, both his parents felt better for knowing that Stuart was positive about the future and looking forward to being fitted with artificial limbs. From now on their visits would be insights into rehabilitation and they too would share in the excitement of wearing prostheses for the first time, not one but four, although Stuart did not regard his new peg leg as a genuine prosthesis. There was something otherworldly about a peg which set it apart from the mechanical precision of his other equipment.

 

Fitch did his best to ensure that the four prostheses for Stuart would be ready as quickly as possible. The generic components for the arms were on order. Only the forearm sockets need be custom made. He already had the positive moulds ready and waiting. But first, Stuart would get to test the socket for his right leg stump. Fitch placed a call and a nurse wheeled Stuart into the lab. Fitch wasted no time and showed the transparent test socket to his patient, explaining what it was for and how its purpose was to fine tune the fit on the stump, although shrinkage in the limb would mean that it was a strictly temporary piece of gear. Fitch had decided to use vacuum suspension because he reasoned that Stuart would be able to grip a suction liner more easily with his short arm stumps. He removed the pressure bandage and rolled the silicon liner onto the stump.

            – You need to moisten these rubber flanges to make a strong seal, Stuart. You could use hand gel. Use one stump to squirt some onto your other stump and slap it on. Then you insert your stump into the socket and push down so the socket is seated firmly. And then you close a valve on the bottom to make it airtight and Bob’s your uncle. This one doesn’t have a valve, but the proper socket will. Are you with me so far?

            – Yep.

            – Let’s see how the fit is. Hold your stump out straight.

Fitch demonstrated how hand gel was applied and then pushed the test socket onto the stump. He peered at it and made a couple of markings with a red felt tip pen. The socket rose up Stuart’s leg to his knee where indentations on the socket would sit firmly under the kneecap. Fitch took measurements and studied the knee from both sides.

            – How does that feel?

            – It’s tight and firm and I can feel it pressing into my knee but it doesn’t hurt anywhere.

            – Good. I can see a couple of places where it needs to be altered but the proper socket will fit properly. You really need to stand and walk around for a while before you can be completely certain of a proper fit. The most important thing, Stuart, is that none of your prosthetics should hurt or make you sore. If you feel anything is not right, get in touch before you injure yourself, alright?

            – Alright.

            – Well, that’s all I have for you today. I’ll let you know when the leg is ready and you can come and test it.

            – When will my peg leg be ready?

            – If all goes well, the socket will be ready for testing by the end of the week but the peg itself won’t be ready until some time next week. I’m sorry it takes so long, Stuart, but these things have to be done right. They are your new limbs to replace the ones you lost and I want you to feel comfortable wearing them. They’ll be part of you every day for the rest of your life so be patient for a couple of weeks.

            – I’ll be patient. I’m just excited.

            – You don’t mind the idea of having artificial limbs, do you, Stuart? I’ve noticed how you seem to look forward to having a pair of hooks, for example. Most arm amputees look at them with horror.

            – That’s ridiculous.

            – Ha! I think so too. By the way, I’ve ordered a pair of similar but not identical hooks. You’ll have a standard hook on the right and a symmetrical hook on the left which lets you pick up cylindrical objects more easily.

            – Oh. That sounds like a good idea. For when I go to the pub.

            – To tell you the truth, Stuart, that is exactly the reason why I always try to make sure young men like yourself have one. That’s all for now. Let me get on with your leg and I’ll call you again when it’s ready to try on.

 

The nurse took Stuart straight to the dining room and parked him at a table.

            – Someone will be along in just a moment, Stuart.

Stuart had recovered well enough to be allowed to eat his meals from his wheelchair in the dining room rather than propped up in bed. He still needed help, naturally enough. The young assistants were happy to chat to Stuart as they fed him. He was much closer to their own age than most of the other amputees who needed a hand. After lunch, Stuart was pushed to the tv room for some afternoon entertainment. It was not totally different from being brain dead. If only Jared would hurry up.

 

Fitch worked late on several evenings to ensure that young Stuart would be up and walking as soon as possible. The below knee prosthesis was ready for testing the next morning and the socket for the peg leg was curing. It would also be ready the next day. It was one of the oddest sockets Fitch had made. It was slender, far more tube‑like than ordinary sockets. Stuart’s thigh stump, the remnant of his short leg, was weak with minimal musculature. As he worked, Fitch began to understand Stuart’s determination to wear a peg. The stump would be of little use with a standard prosthetic limb. It had meagre strength to propel the limb forward in such a way that a knee mechanism would work reliably. Stuart was completely used to swinging his limb from his hip and the peg leg would allow him to do the same. It was ironic that the surgical intervention to allow Stuart to walk more naturally on a single prosthetic limb had resulted in his total disablement and the original disabled limb would be replaced not with an inconspicuous prosthesis but with an attention‑grabbing steel peg leg. But it could not be helped. Fortunately it was the patient’s own suggestion and Fitch himself had no desire to interfere. He knew of other independent prosthetists who would flat‑out refuse to make such a simple, traditional peg. There was no money in them. Only microprocessor‑controlled knees and ankles promised any profits. Stuart subconsciously knew that and insisted on body‑operated artificial limbs. Fitch saw no reason why the young man should not succeed. He had the determination to make the best of an appalling situation.

 

Stuart eyed his right leg prosthesis and was proud that he would be wearing one from now on. The socket shone and the steel pylon was perfect. The foot was bolted to it with no ankle mechanism and was angled upwards slightly to compensate for the motion of his leg when walking. It would guarantee him the unmistakable gait of an amputee. Fitch once again asked Stuart to fit his stump into the socket.

            – How does it feel? Is it pinching anywhere?

            – No, it feels fine.

            – Stand up for me.

Fitch held onto Stuart’s elbows and supported him. Stuart had not stood for several weeks and it called for some effort. He felt pressure on his knee cap and instability due to standing on one artificial leg.

            – OK, sit down.

Fitch examined the socket closely and asked if it seemed secure.

            – I’m afraid you won’t be walking on it before the peg leg is ready. I’ve got the socket ready and we can test it now.

Fitch brought the long narrow socket and Stuart lifted his stump to accept first a silicon liner and then the hard black socket. It extended into his groin.

            – Stand up again for me.

Fitch made another inspection and was assured that the socket fit well and was comfortable around the top rim.

            – When you wear the peg, the rim will rest on your pelvic bone, the ischias, so it won’t hurt the tip of your stump. If you’re happy with this, I’ll finish it for you and you should be able to try walking on it tomorrow afternoon.

            – With the artificial leg?

            – Oh yes. Neither is much use without the other.

 

Stuart returned to the ward for the last time as a legless man. Tomorrow he would have two legs again, albeit artificial.

 

Jared Fitch attended to another patient for much of the morning. Stuart waited impatiently, expecting to be called for a fitting at any moment. Finally, a nurse collected him in his wheelchair and left him in Fitch’s capable hands.

            – Sorry to make you wait, Stuart. But you’ll be pleased to know that your peg leg is just about ready.

 

It looked more like a crutch than a prosthesis. A steel pylon extended from the socket and terminated in a thick rubber tip. Fitch carried it and the lower leg prosthesis to Stuart and fitted both to Stuart’s stumps. The peg leg pointed into the room horizontally.

            – I’m going to let you have these today, Stuart. You’re going to need a footplate on your chair for the artificial foot. I think the best thing to do is to get you a new chair rather than try to find the footplate which came off that one.

            – Am I going to have a wheelchair when I leave?

            – Well, do you want one? Is there room at home for one?

            – Oh, I’m not sure. No, I don’t think so.

            – And you’ll be better off if you get a custom wheelchair. These hospital issue chairs are a bit heavy and clunky, not the sort of thing a young guy would want. OK, let’s get you standing and we can see how you get on.

 

Stuart placed his right prosthesis onto the floor and Fitch supported him as he placed his weight onto it. The tip of the peg leg automatically dropped to the floor. Stuart lifted his left hip out of habit and the peg straightened. He looked down to see his new legs. Fitch watched his expression of concentration and sensed how Stuart sought his balance.

            – When you’re ready to take a step, lean on the peg and lift your knee forward. I’ll hold you. You’re quite safe.

Stuart imagined the movements he needed to make. Lean to the left, raise his knee and step forward, move his weight to the right and kick the peg leg forward. And repeat. He leaned and felt the support of the rigid peg, very similar to the leg brace he had worn for years. Only the sensation of the liner on his stump and the weight around his buttock was really new. He moved his foot forward and felt how pressure returned onto his kneecap. The foot wanted to roll forward, thanks to its slight angle. It would help things a little. It would be easier to maintain a regular momentum. With Jared by his side holding onto his right elbow, Stuart haltingly made his way across the floor towards a full‑length mirror. Stuart stared at his reflection. The peg leg looked stunning, a perfect pairing with the short prosthesis on his right stump. The peg’s narrow profile was its most unusual feature. The socket was only slightly thicker than his new thigh stump.

 

So the rest of the afternoon continued. Stuart began to learn the movements necessary to step forward on his prosthetic foot and how far ahead to place the rubber ferrule of his peg. Fitch murmured encouragement from time to time, otherwise they walked in silence. Stuart placed more trust in his artificial legs and relaxed a little. Fitch noticed that the foot tended to rotate slightly as Stuart’s weight transferred onto the heel. It was a common feature of a new prosthesis and Fitch personally allowed it rather than try to eliminate it immediately. The sole of the shoe made full contact with the ground at the end of its range of motion.

 

            – Are you getting tired, Stuart? Would you like a rest? Let’s take a break, or if you like, we could stop for today. Sit in the wheelchair.

Stuart lowered himself into it and was amused to see his peg leg. It could never bend, never be anything more than the most basic replacement for his short leg which had required such convoluted bracing and orthotic care in the form of the built‑up boot. The peg leg looked powerful and commanding.

            – When you have your hooks, Stuart, I think you’d better practise donning and doffing that peg. There are times when it simply won’t be possible for you to sit with it extended like that.

            – You mean I’ll have to take it off every time I want to sit down?

            – Well, not every single time but often enough. If you can get it on and off quickly, it’ll be less of a hindrance. That also means that you’ll do better with trousers which have the left leg sliced off at the knee so you can grab the peg more easily.

            – So I’ll be walking around with my peg leg on show?

            – Yes. Isn’t that why you wanted one?

Stuart looked at Jared in surprise and chuckled. It turned into an honest burst of laughter and Jared joined in.

            – Come on. I’ll wheel you back to the ward unless you want to go to the tv room.

            – No thanks. I’m ready for a snooze. Tiring work, this peg leg business. When are my hooks going to be ready?

            – Three more days before you have the finished product but one of the sockets will probably be ready for testing tomorrow. It won’t have a hook on it yet so don’t get your hopes up.

            – No, I won’t. Thanks Jared.

            – You’re welcome, Stuart. Ask for help getting your legs off if you can’t manage or if your arm stumps are sore.

            – OK. See you.

 

 Stuart sat in the wheelchair for a few minutes until one of the other patients called out to him to demonstrate his new legs. He leaned against his bed until his prosthetic foot was firmly on the floor and the peg leg was under him. He spread his arm stumps for balance and made a tour of the ward, concentrating on his gait, knowing that all eyes were on him. He was wearing a hoodie with white soccer shorts. The artificial foot was visible in its entirety but the shaft of the peg leg disappeared into the leg of his shorts and there was no telling how high it extended. It looked shocking, both for being an unusual object in and of itself and also because it was the last thing a young amputee such as Stuart might be expected to use. It already felt familiar to him. Its sturdy rigidity was similar to what he was used to with his leg brace. The artificial foot felt odd. Its weight was different from what he was used to and the ankle did not flex in any way. It felt artificial and Stuart was beginning to enjoy operating a completely rigid foot which wore the eight‑holer boot he had entered hospital with. He had no idea what had happened to his leg brace and built‑up boot. He received encouraging comments from his fellow patients and returned to lie on his bed.

 

Fitch continued his work on Stuart’s arm sockets. He had made an alteration to the original design which he intended incorporating into the definitive sockets. They would extend up over the elbows, making their fit more stable on Stuart’s short stumps. Many amputees made a habit of slipping their stumps in and out of their sockets when they knew a naked stump would be more efficient than a steel hook. The socket and hook hung down their sides and could be easily donned again. But the secure design for Stuart was intended to hold his stumps firmly in place while he learned to operate the hooks with the added advantage that his elbows would be protected if he were to stumble and fall, something which was unfortunately almost inevitable as Stuart acclimatised himself to leglessness. It was getting late but Fitch continued his work on the second test socket and left shortly after ten, leaving the left socket to harden and cure overnight. If it was solid enough the next day, Stuart could test fit them and with luck, his completed bilateral prostheses would be ready by the end of the week. Fitch had been told by admin that Stuart’s bed was needed as soon as possible, so his long hours were not only due to admiration and goodwill.

 

His young assistant at breakfast was impressed to see Stuart arrive on foot instead of in his wheelchair. He was wearing a pair of jeans this morning with the left cuff turned up twice to display forty centimetres of pylon. Other patients noticed and watched Stuart with interest. He sat down and moved closer to the left edge of the chair so his peg slanted down onto the floor rather than sticking out ahead.

            – How does it feel to be walking again? You look amazing. What do you want this morning?

            – Just the same as usual, please. Two slices of toast and a mug of tea.

            – Jam or marmalade?

            – Jam.

Stuart was used to being fed. He rested his stumps on the tabletop. They were so short. He had watched videos of men using forearms stumps for everything from quaffing a litre of beer to erecting a tent but he doubted that his own short versions would ever be up to the task. He would forever be condemned to using hooks or claws for everything he ever did, although condemned was maybe too strong a word. The more he watched Paul using his hook, the more he realised that it was an alternative way of doing things. Paul was not condemned to using a hook. He liked it. He had wanted it and now he wanted another one. Stuart hoped Paul would not be jealous or see Stuart as having beaten him in a perverted game of one-upmanship. Stuart was becoming impatient to get his hooks. He had spent enough time in hospital to last him a lifetime. If all went well, he would never need to return for more surgery on his stumps. Especially not on his arms. He had seen the difficulty men had after losing an arm above the elbow.

 

A team of independent investigators had uncovered a group of medical assistants who had collaborated in purloining hospital equipment and medicines for sale outside. One of the most pernicious tricks was recycling needle syringes. Instead of being discarded after one use, as was prescribed in law, they cleaned used needles under a running tap and sterilised them in boiling water before returning them for reuse in the operating theatres. They pocketed brand new needles and sold them to addicts or used them personally. One such recycled needle, among others used on Stuart during his amputations, had carried the bacteria which caused septicaemia. DNA testing had determined that the exact same strain of bacteria was discovered in three other patients around the same time as Stuart’s illness. Only Stuart had sickened dangerously. The perpetrators, young lab assistants, were arrested and hospital admin learned that they would indeed be liable for monetary reparations to those patients affected. The most seriously affected victim was a young man, a worker in a care home, who had become a quadruple amputee due to the toxic effects of septicaemia. Hospital accountants saw bright red seven figure numbers dancing across spreadsheets as compensation.

 

Fitch arrived and checked on Stuart’s arm sockets. The left arm test socket looked the same and sounded the same when tapped as the right socket which had been ready for thirty‑six hours. Stuart checked his schedule. First patient ten o’clock. It was nine fifteen. He called the amputee ward and invited Stuart to fit the test sockets.

 

            – I want you to wear these for a few minutes. I know it’s difficult to judge when you’re wearing liners on your stumps but this is very important to get right. Try to feel how the socket grips your arm. Does the tip hurt? Does it seem loose in any way?

            – OK, I understand.

            – Oh yes, I almost forgot. Your final sockets are going to come up behind your elbows to protect them. If you’re like any other person, you’ll be leaning on tabletops and your sockets will protect your elbows, OK? And they’ll make for a firmer fit because of the length of your stumps.

            – Because they’re too short, you mean.

Fitch looked at Stuart and debated whether he should say what he wanted to.

            – Stuart, your stumps are very short. The main problem is that your forearms, your sockets, are not going to be handle anything heavy because the weight will pull the sockets off your stumps. Do you see? So one way of making that less likely is to make the sockets fold up over your elbows so they can’t get pulled off so easily. It also means that the sockets are a little more difficult to squeeze into but a man in your situation won’t be doing that more than once each morning. There’s only one drawback.

            – What’s that? I can’t imagine there would be a drawback if my elbows are protected and I can carry heavier things.

            – Well, it’s this. Because your elbows are held firmly, your artificial arms are always going to be angled forward about twenty degrees. You won’t be able to let your arms hang vertically. They’ll always be pointing forward. So your hooks will always be on display when you’re walking along. You won’t be able to hide them by putting them in your trouser pockets like you might have done.

 

Stuart considered his options. He would be walking along with his peg leg on display and his two hooks would jut forward at an odd angle even when his arms were relaxed. For the first time since his amputations, he felt the beginnings of an erection. He thought more of what he would look like with hooks and peg leg, being admired by Paul and the oldies, complimented on his prowess at wielding his hooks. His penis stiffened and the need for a wank pounded in his groin and his brain. The idea of using hooks to wank made him harder.

 

            – Let me get the test sockets and you can try them on. Don’t forget, Stuart, I want you to tell me if they’re uncomfortable somehow.

 

The sockets were fine. As with his first leg socket, they were transparent plastic and Jared made a few markings on them. They felt odd on his stumps. He had never felt anything like it before. They emphasised the sensation of having short stumps instead of arms and hands. Plastic shields over his stumps.

            – Jared, can I keep these test sockets? They feel sort of—right, somehow. I can’t explain it.

            – Yes, I suppose so. Usually they go for recycling but there’s no reason why you can’t keep them if you want.

            – Good. Thanks.

Stuart imagined himself wearing transparent stump shields when he wanted to play at being disabled. They would protect his stumps when he was not wearing his hooks. His artificial arms. His prostheses. They had many names. Paul would go apeshit when he saw them.

            – Jared, is it going to take long for you to make my hooks?

            – No, not long. I have most of your prostheses ready for testing. But the most important bits are still missing. That’s what we’re testing right now. How do those sockets feel?

            – They’re warm and tight but not too tight and they stop me from moving my elbows very much.

            – OK. We still have twenty minutes before my next patient, so keep still and stay calm. I know how much you want to try out your hooks. You know you’ll be discharged as soon as you get them, don’t you? I just have to tell admin you’re fitted with bilateral arms and they’ll give you your discharge papers.

            – So I have to clear out straightaway?

            – I think the usual system is that you have to clear out before midday the next day. But your mum and dad would come and pick you up, wouldn’t they?

            – Yeah, of course.

            – Nothing to worry about, then.

 

Twenty minutes passed before Jared activated his professional attitude and demanded a serious report from Stuart about the suitability of the sockets he had hurriedly made from the plaster casts. Stuart lifted his stumps and appraised the transparent plastic sockets.

            – The one on the left feels very slightly looser than the other one. But it really doesn’t matter. With an extra sock, no‑one could ever tell the difference.

            – Are you sure?         

            – Yup.

            – Thank god. Alright. You’ll have these back when you get your arms. Two days tops, alright?

            – Yeah. Thanks, Jared.

Fitch worked the test sockets off Stuart’s stumps and walked him back to the amputee ward. He was astonished and pleased to see how well Stuart was faring on his prosthetic legs. Perhaps his experience with his leg brace assured him that he could place his trust in the artificial limbs. There was none of the tentative hopping and limping he saw so often with new amputees as they took their first steps.

 

Once again, Stuart was tortured by the interminable boredom of hospital life while he waited for his hooks. He spent much of the time walking around the ward, becoming more acquainted with his artificial foot. His peg leg already felt like an old friend, lighter than his leg brace but no less reliable. The rubber ferrule squeaked on polished hospital linoleum, especially when he spun himself around on it. It was a good trick, something which normal bodied men could not do. He wore his trouser leg at half mast, turned up to knee‑height. Strangers who saw him walking immediately assumed he was missing a leg. The peg leg was blatant and conspicuous. No‑one noticed that the booted foot was also oddly rigid.

 

Jared Fitch examined the pair of prosthetic arms he had crafted. The patient’s choice of narrow cylindrical forearms emphasized their artificiality. The arms weighed slightly less than a typical pair and Fitch had shortened them by twenty mil for balance. All that remained was to adjust the harness as well as possible and send the patient on his way. Stuart’s equipment had taken up much of his time over the previous weeks. He hoped Stuart would fare as well with his hooks as he obviously did with his new legs. He messaged the amputee ward and waited for Stuart.

 

            – There you are. Come in. Today’s the day, Stuart. Take your hoodie off and we can get started.

Stuart scrabbled around with his stumps and pulled the hoodie over his head. The stumps were quite well healed from the amputations but the mottled scarring from the septicaemia remained. But if Stuart wore artificial arms from dawn til dusk, no-one would see his ruined skin. Fitch inspected the stumps and ensured that the range of motion of the elbows was satisfactory.

            – These are your liners. You have to roll them up your arms almost to your shoulders. If the upper edge causes discomfort, ask someone to cut them back slightly. I’ll check the upper cuff doesn’t interfere with the liners before you go but only time will tell. OK? Lift your stumps out for me.

 

Fitch worked Stuart’s stumps into each socket. The opening extended back to cover and protect Stuart’s elbows should he fall. The design forced the elbows to a twenty degree angle, rather more than that of natural arms which rarely hung perfectly straight. Fitch lifted the straps of the harness over Stuart’s head and tightened them across his back.

            – How does that feel? Shrug your shoulders a couple of times to make sure the harness is seated properly and we can check the hooks.

 

Stuart felt the pressure of the sockets on his stumps and sensed how his range of motion was altered. He looked down to see his narrow black forearms poking forward and the steel hooks pointing in random directions. The harness seemed to hug him firmly. It felt quite good. He had not been expecting anything like it. Fitch pulled him this way and that, checking the fit, checking cable tension.

            – Stretch your right arm and push against the socket, Stuart.

He did so and watched the hook open.

            – Hold it there!

More checks. Stuart repeated the action with his left arm and hook. Satisfied for the moment, Fitch led him to a seat in front of a table covered with various items, all intended to demonstrate some aspect of hook use. By the end of the session, an amputee should have an understanding of what his prostheses were capable of and what he should bear in mind to operate them usefully. For the next two hours, Stuart tried lifting simple objects before graduating to plastic beakers, pens and cutlery. They stopped for lunch and again ate in the lab, secluded from other hospital inmates.

            – How do you feel about your hooks now you’ve had a chance to use them?

            – It’s not as easy as it looks, is it?

            – No, it isn’t. It usually takes about six months to really get to grips with them, Stuart, to know how to use the hooks without having to think about them. One day you’ll suddenly notice yourself simply doing what you want to do without consciously moving them or having to plan your actions. All of a sudden, it starts to come naturally and after that, you’re well on the way to being a confident and skilful hook user. So don’t feel despondent if you have trouble during the next few days. It takes time. We’ll practise some more after lunch.

 

The afternoon session was more difficult. Fitch made Stuart remove and replace his arms several times, including the liners. They were the most awkward to don with his short stumps but they had to be worn in order for the hooks to fit securely. He learned to use surrounding surfaces against which he could lean to help with the task.

            – Don’t be afraid to do things in an unconventional manner. Amputees invent all kinds of uses for things which were never intended.

 

Last of all, Fitch asked Stuart to remove his peg leg and foot prosthesis including their liners and replace them.

            – If you want to take your arms off, do it. Your stumps are probably better at donning the liners than your hooks.

It was difficult getting his trousers off. His hooks were angled away from his body and he had to pull his arms back and twist them outwards to reach the brass button at the top of his flies. Fitch watched his motions and also his expression. Stuart was showing signs of frustration, indicating that it might be time to stop before he became angry. But the man had to learn. These were all quite ordinary things he would have to do every day and the sooner he discovered the things which he needed to work on and practise, the sooner he would become proficient with his hooks. They were the result of eighty years of gradual development and refinement as suggested by a million handless men all over the world. It was quite possible to use split hooks with their single moveable steel finger to succeed in life and accomplish everything the amputee desired. But it took time. Stuart was becoming acquainted with that fact.

 

Stuart knocked the valve on his peg leg’s socket closed with a hook and looked up at Fitch with an expression of resignation.

            – Well done, Stuart. I’m glad to say you’ve passed the test. In fact, you’ve done better than most bilateral arm amputees manage on their first day, especially as they don’t usually need to see to donning artificial legs. I think you’re doing very well. The only way is forwards. Keep practising and you’ll get there. Oh, another thing. People will often offer you their help, which of course is very kind of them but tell them that you can manage, thanks. The more you do things for yourself, the sooner you’ll be an expert.

            – Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.

Stuart leant back in his chair and lifted his elbows. His hooks pointed into the room. He tried to lower his forearms to improve his appearance but could not. The carbon fibre elbows were rigid when he relaxed, holding his stumps safely in their grip.

            – I might not see you again before your discharge so I’d like to wish you good luck and do remember to get in touch if you have any problems with your new limbs. If you have any discomfort, don’t wait until you make yourself sore. Get in touch and I’ll see to you as soon as possible, OK?

            – OK. Thanks very much, Jared.

            – That’s all then, Stuart. Goodbye. Good luck.

 

The head nurse swooped on Stuart soon after he returned to the amputee ward with his discharge papers. He would be allowed to stay overnight if necessary but had to be out by noon the next day. He would leave with his mum and dad when they came to pick him up that evening. They arrived at the usual time and heard that Stuart was free to leave with his new artificial limbs after the discharge papers had been signed. His father scrawled signatures onto various papers and took them to the ward nurse. He looked back at his son sitting in a wheelchair with two hooks poking out of his hoodie and a peg leg jutting out in front of him. His wife stared at the hooks and tried to avert her eyes. Stuart did not look especially happy about leaving. The nurse accompanied Mr Robinson back to his family and after they had collected their belongings, pushed Stuart outside onto the forecourt. Stuart rose from the chair and lifted his right hook.

            – Thank you for everything.

            – Take care, Stuart. Come and see us again sometime.

Stuart spun on his peg and strode along to the nearest tram stop with his parents, intensely conscious of how oddly his hooks hung by his side. He was aware of how the prostheses gripped his elbows and longed to straighten his arms to appear more normal but he could not. Neither of his parents had anything to say. He concentrated on walking on a slightly uneven footpath until they arrived at the brightly lit tram stop, where three teenage girls were smoking, staring at Stuart until the tram arrived. Stuart leant on his peg and lifted his artificial foot into the tram and used a hook to catch hold of the steel pole by the door. He pulled himself inside and leaned against the back window. It was not possible for him to sit on the tram with a peg leg. He had to hold onto a fitting as the tram swung around corners. The sound of his steel hooks rattling against steel fittings was incongruous and called attention to them. It was a little embarrassing but, at the same time, it was exciting. Everyone would soon know he used hooks, wherever he went. Always. He would become the best hook user in the world and give them something to wonder about.

 

Next morning, Stuart dressed in his skinhead uniform again for the first time in over two months. The booted prothesis did not fit through the end of his bleachers foot first so it had to be fed up from the bottom. There was no such problem with the peg leg. He wore a white T‑shirt under his arm prostheses and tried on his olive green MA‑1 jacket. His hooks were barely visible. Fitch had made the arms slightly shorter than his old flesh versions. If he wanted to use his hooks, he would have to push the sleeve up. His narrow forearms had plenty of room inside the sleeves. They looked formless. He looked at his reflection. His hair had grown back during the hospital stay. He doubted whether he could maintain a chrome dome with his hooks. Shaving his scalp was something else he would have to practise. Perhaps he could persuade Josh to do it.

 

Stuart felt lonely. His parents had both left him alone the previous evening. He managed feeding himself supper with a spoon—it was one of the first things Jared had taught him. The symmetrical left hook was good for holding a glass with and he could take a drink without too much difficulty. Now, with his parents at work and dressed in his proper clothes with all the time in the world, he wanted to get outside to confront it. If Josh was free, maybe they could drop into a Spoon’s for a pint. If not, maybe Paul was free if he had the day off. Stuart took his phone to the kitchen table and slowly tapped a message to Josh. r u free wanna beer? A reply pinged back within a minute. Busstop 10 mins.

 

Stuart made sure he had his keys and wallet. He put his keys in the zip pocket in his left sleeve. His arm was as if made for the purpose. He nipped the tip of the zipper and pulled it closed. His wallet was in his jacket’s left inside pocket where he could reach it easily. And his phone went into his bleachers’ pocket. It took too long to open the front door. The hook slipped around on the lock until he leaned against the door to relieve pressure on it. He thrust his peg leg outside and strode along to the end of the street to meet up with Josh. He leaned back against the glass wall of the bus stop with his weight on his peg leg. His arms were relaxed and the hooks were scarcely visible.

            – Hi Josh. What kept you?

            – What the fuck happened to you? What?! Two hooks? Oh man! What happened?

            – Didn’t you know? I went in for an amputation and got four instead. Look at my feet. I’ve got a peg leg and an artificial leg on the other side. As well as these.

Stuart lifted his arms and jerked himself forward to stand on his two ‘feet’. He opened and closed the hooks for Josh’s astonished inspection.

            – Man! I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?

            – I’ve only just got my hooks. I’ve had to make do with two short stumps for eight weeks and they’re no good for messaging with. I thought you might come and see me.

            – I didn’t even know where you were.

            – Really? My mum and dad could have told you.

            – Yeah.

Josh could hardly take his eyes off the hooks.

            – So where do you want to go?

            – Have you got any money?

            – Enough for a beer.

            – Good. Let’s have a coupla pints and I’ll tell you all about it.

A bus flapped its door open and the two skinheads boarded. Josh fumbled with a card by the fare machine.

            – Pay for two will you? I can’t do that and hold on.

Josh would ordinarily have dashed upstairs but went instead to the back of the bus, to sit on the long bench. Stuart could sit in the middle and stretch his peg leg into the aisle.

 

They went into The Speckled Hen and the regulars looked warily at the two skins. It usually meant trouble. Stuart’s peg leg was the first odd thing they noticed. The way it pressed against the lad’s trouser leg. No‑one had ever seen anyone using a peg leg before. Then Stuart’s hooks caught the light. The way he held his arms like that. Two hooks! People turned and craned their necks to see what their mates were gawping at. Josh said Hi to the barkeep as Stuart stumped along behind him.

            – I’ll get these, Josh. You paid for the bus.

            – Oh alright.

Stuart looked at where his right hook was and opened it by shrugging his left shoulder. It closed onto his wallet and Stuart dropped it onto the counter. It was easy enough to flip it open and extract his debit card. Two pints of beer in straight glasses appeared in front of them. Stuart raised his left arm to take it with his symmetrical beer hook but it pointed the wrong way. Stuart worked out how he could grip the glass. Josh was about to carry his pint to a table.

            – Hey, wait a sec. Don’t go yet. I want you to twist my hook around.

Stuart lifted his arm out to the side from his shoulder and placed the hook onto the counter if front of his pint.

            – Can you twist the hook around so that the prongs point up, Josh, please?

Stuart turned slightly, keeping his arm raised. Josh put his pint back on the counter and peered more closely at the hook.

            – You’ll have to hold onto my arm and then turn the hook around. That’s it.

Stuart made another attempt at grabbing hold of his glass and this time the steel fingers closed around his beer. He lifted his arm and turned, keeping his arm in the same position and stepped away from the counter with his peg leg leading. Josh grabbed his own pint and hurried ahead to pull a chair away from a table so Stuart could sit.

            – Take my beer, will you?

Josh put both drinks onto the table and watched Stuart position his peg leg so he could lift it and sit. Thank god he had kept his other knee. It was the same motion he had always used when he had his brace and boot except now he felt nothing. He relied on his artificial leg not to let him down. The foot tilted at an unnatural angle as he sat, after which he lifted his thighs one by one to allow his peg leg and fake foot to settle where they would. Stuart kept his right hook in his lap and reached out again with the beer hook. The fingers were again at the wrong angle. The table was much lower than the counter. Not having a wrist, Stuart had to alter the angle of his shoulder. By now everyone in the Speckled Hen was watching the contortions of the limbless skinhead, including the barkeep. Josh leaned over the table and straightened the left hook so it pointed upwards again.

            – Thanks, mate.

Stuart gripped the pint and brought it slowly towards his face, praying not to spill it. He leaned forward as the rim of the glass approached and sipped a mouthful. Josh watched him. Ah! The first beer for many weeks! It was a bit flat and he could taste the chemical which cleaned the plastic tubes the beer was pumped through but it was his first beer after his release from hospital and it tasted grand.

            – Tell me what happened, Stuart. Why have you got hooks?

            – Do you like them? I think they look alright. The arms feel a bit funny though. They way they sort of point forwards and upwards.

            – When did you get them?

            – About this time yesterday.

Josh could not have looked more astonished if he tried.

            – I’ve been practising. Alright, here’s what happened. I went in to have my short leg amputated at the thigh so I could start wearing an artificial leg as long as my leg ought to have been. It would have had a bending knee and it would have made me look like I had two legs. But from what I can make out, I caught some kind of blood poison bug during the operation and it blocks the arteries to my hands and feet so they had to amputate them too.

            – That’s awful. Are you going to get compensation?

            – Don’t know yet. It depends whether they can prove it was not their fault. If it was natural, like. Otherwise I might get some compensation but I haven’t heard anything about it yet.

            – You should. I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you expect to happen, is it?

            – No, not really. But it’ll be alright, Josh. I don’t mind having two artificial legs. It’s not much different from having the leg brace and boot. And the hooks are OK. I like having them. Don’t tell anyone I said that!

            – No, I won’t. Why, though?

            – I don’t think you can understand but it feels so good to have stumps instead of arms and still being able to do stuff with hooks. They look really cool and I’m learning to use them.

            – But you can’t even turn them around yourself! I had to do it for you.

            – I know. I’ll find a way, don’t worry. My mate at work is going to be jealous. He already has one hook but he wants another one. We were talking about it. And now, all of a sudden, I beat him! I have two and he’s left with just one. Ha!

Josh was bewildered. It was the most insane conversation ever. It sounded like whatever had caused Stuart to lose his hands had also caused him to lose his mind. It was too much to take in. Josh gulped a mouthful of beer.

            – So are you going back to work? Have you asked?

            – No, not yet. I still have this and next week off. Then I suppose I can go and tell them I’m ready to come back.

            – If they’ll have you. They might say you’re not able to do the job any more.

            – No, that wouldn’t be the reason. There’s nothing I did before which I couldn’t carry on doing. I was a sort of companion for the old people. I used to check on them to see if they were alright or if they wanted anything. I could still do that.

Josh nodded, not really convinced. He watched Stuart’s contortions as he angled his left arm so the hook could hold his glass of lager. He tried to imagine how it felt for Stuart, having to rely on a pair of hooks for everything. It was not something he would like to try but Stuart seemed to be managing. Stuart himself was pleased with himself. It was not quite as difficult as he had feared and he had watched Paul enough times to realise that a hook always obeyed. You only needed to open it and it would grip by itself.

 

They had their fill of beer. Before Stuart became unable to walk, Josh suggested they leave. Stuart agreed and rose onto his artificial foot. He planted his peg leg at a jaunty angle and waited for Josh to put his jacket on. Josh held the door and the two friends returned home.

 

Stuart was conscientious during the following days about following Jared Fitch’s advice and practising with his hooks. He was learning not only how to handle everyday objects but also discovering things which demanded two natural hands. At the end of the week, he picked up a pen and began to write. The pen slipped around in his hook. It needed better support. He did not want to add an extra rubber band to the hook because it was otherwise suitable. It was so annoying that he sent a text message to Fitch explaining the problem.

            – go online and look for a pack of foam rubber grips. they’re hollow tubes and you can put them on a pen or knives and forks. if you have two‑sided tape, wrap some around your pen.

It was good advice. A few minutes later, Stuart had tapped out an order to Amazon and shortly received confirmation that the packet was on its way. He had no double‑sided tape so he left his writing practice for the time being and set about getting his lunch, which needed only reheating. His family’s microwave oven had touch‑pad controls which Stuart’s hooks did not operate until he learned to dip his hooks into water first and then they worked.

 

Monday morning. Stuart rose much earlier than he used to, simply because it took time to don his liners and artificial limbs. He was getting better at it. It took less time now than at the beginning as he learned better ways of handling his thick stump socks. With his peg leg and artificial leg in place, it was a relief to shrug into his artificial arms and give the hooks a quick test. The dual clicks of the hooks closing in unison signified that he was ready to start the day. The next thing was dressing. He was grateful for not needing to struggle with putting socks and shoes on. His skinhead boot was still firmly in place on his artificial leg where Jared had fixed it weeks before. Stuart had not yet attempted to remove it. The row of tight laces deterred him from trying. He was not yet ready to tackle lacing up his twenty‑holers with hooks.

 

Paul contacted him in the evening, asking when he was free. Paul had shifts over the entire weekend but had Tuesday and Wednesday off work. Stuart replied he was returning to Summerview on Monday morning, although it was not certain yet whether he would still have a job. Paul told his that many of the oldies had been asking after him. They all knew that he had lost his hands to a terrible disease but Paul assured them that Stuart missed them too and was eager to return to his old job.

 

Greg stared in surprise at the odd figure who entered Summerview. He had already spotted the hook with which Stuart pushed the door open and now looked in astonishment at what had replaced the usual leg brace and built‑up boot. Stuart was wearing ordinary jeans but he had only one foot. The other was just a rubber stopper. Stuart strutted up to the counter.

            – Hi Greg! How’s things?

            – Hi yourself. What are you doing here?

            – Asking for my old job back.

            – I don’t know about that, Stuart. They’re making some changes around here. And I’m leaving in two weeks. Paul is taking over the day shift. But that’s nothing to do with Summerview. I have to go where Securiteam sends me.

            – Oh! Where are you going?

            – I’ve no idea. Have to wait and see. Do you want me to message Ms White?

            – Yes please. Let her know I’m back.

A few minutes later, Ms White appeared and took in Stuart’s new appearance. The dreadful built‑up boot was gone but in its stead, she could see a rubber ferrule. Surely Stuart was not wearing a peg leg? That was too shocking. His other foot seemed quite normal. She took a quick look at the bilateral hooks held at an unusual angle. They looked as shocking as the peg leg.

            – Welcome back, Stuart. Before you start today, I’d like to talk to you about some changes we’re planning for the near future so if you come along to the conference room at half past, you’ll hear all about it. Why don’t you go to the dining room and have a coffee while you’re waiting?

            – Yes, I will. Thank you. Half past in the conference room?

Ms White nodded and continued on her morning rounds.

            – I wonder what they have up their sleeves for you, Stuart.

            – I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. I’m going to get some coffee.

Greg watched Stuart limp towards the dining room, now almost empty of residents after breakfast. Stuart entered and looked around. The old gentleman whose electric light bulb he had changed was sitting by the window peering at a newspaper. He looked up to see who had entered and called out.

            – Come and sit here, m’boy. Haven’t seen you around for a while.

Stuart, intensely conscious of his hooks, jerked his head and lifted his eyebrows in greeting. The old man saw little of it. He was wearing the wrong glasses to see clearly much beyond the edge of his paper. Stuart stumped over to the coffee machine and carefully bent his right knee to lower himself so his left hook could grip the cup. He took short strides on his peg so as not to slop his drink. The old man folded his newspaper to make room. He watched the young man concentrating.

            – Where have you been? By God! You’ve lost your hands! What the devil happened?

            – I was in hospital for an operation and I caught blood poisoning and no‑one knew what it was until it was too late to save my hands and feet. So I’m now what they call a quadruple amputee. I don’t think you noticed when I came over but I’m also wearing an artificial foot and a peg leg where my big boot used to be.

            – Well, I’ll be blowed. And you’re back now, are you? All healed up and fitted with new limbs?

            – Yes sir. All ready to carry on where we left off. But Ms White wants to talk to me about some new arrangements or something.

            – Oh that. They’ve been swapping the staff around. You remember the tall cook who made decent food? She left. And I heard that the chap on the desk is leaving and the night porter with the hook is taking his place.

Stuart had not heard anything about Paul switching to the day shift but it sounded logical enough. It had not occurred to Stuart that they would prefer to have someone knowledgeable about Summerview on the front desk. Paul was the only one, not counting himself.

            – How have you been, sir? No more trouble with the lights, I hope.

            – Oh, nothing like that. I got new lights all throughout the room and a very nice light they give too. I can see much better to read. My old eyes aren’t what they used to be.

            – I suppose not, sir. I suppose our bodies change as we get older.

            – Well, coming from you, I’d say you’re right on the button. Try not to change any more, young man. There’ll be nothing left of you. How are you finding those hooks? Getting used to them, are you?

            – Yes sir. I knew a lot about how to use a hook because Paul—the night porter— showed me how his works one night when we were in the pub. So when I got my own ones, I knew exactly what to do.

            – It must have been a shock waking up after the operations to find yourself with four stumps though, eh? I must say, you don’t seem too put out by it all. I know men who it would drive to madness and beyond.

            – It’s not so bad, sir. If you remember, I was a cripple before. Now my leg brace is a peg leg and the artificial foot is almost the same as having my own foot, so I wasn’t worried about my legs, if you see what I mean, sir. And I knew from Paul that it’s alright to have one hook. I just thought having two would be twice as good.

            – Ha! Twice as good! And is it?

            – I think so, sir. I can already do lots of things.

            – I’ve known men in your situation, young man. There’s nothing you won’t be able to do if you set your mind to it. Think of it as a challenge to overcome, something to show you’ve the guts to overcome something like losing your hands. You have lost just your hands, I take it? You’ve still got some stump in those arms, I hope?

            – Yes sir. My stumps come down to about here.

Stuart tapped his right socket with his left hook to show how long his stumps were.

            – Should be able to manage with stumps that long, I reckon. Well, my boy, it’s grand to see you again and I hope you make your case with Ms White. You know what they’re like. Don’t let them sell you short.

            – No sir. Thank you, sir.

            – Give over with the ‘sir’, Stuart. My name’s Andrew. Alright?

            – Yes s.., Andrew.

            –Good lad. Come and see me when you get out of your meeting.

Stuart said he would and made his way to the conference room with five minutes to spare. He was wondering how old Andrew seemed so matter‑of‑fact about his limblessness. It was as if he had some kind of experience with disability. People usually reacted quite differently, either genuinely shocked and horrified or shocked and pitying, which was even worse. Andrew just asked how he liked his peg leg.

 

Ms White was nowhere to be seen but Mr Evans was there with three other new faces.

            – Ah! There you are, Stuart. Come in, come in. Sit down where we can see you. How are you? All set and ready to return to work?

            – Yes sir. I’ve been learning to use these hooks so I’m ready to help the old people again.

Stuart lifted his prostheses so those present could see the results of his bilateral arm amputations. They looked for a moment at the hooks and at Stuart’s serene face.

            – Quite so. We need for Ms White to join us and then we can begin.

The group sat in silence. Stuart shifted his left stump to lower his peg to the floor and placed his hooks on the table in front of him. With seconds to spare, Ms White hurriedly entered and fumbled the door closed.

            – Sorry to keep you all waiting.

She sat down at the far end of the table, opened a folder and extracted several sheets of paper.

            – Now, to start, I assume you’ve already acquainted yourselves with Stuart Robinson, who has been away on sick leave for the past two months. Stuart was working as our liaison representative until he went into hospital for revision to his disabled leg, which unfortunately led to blood poisoning and the loss of all four limbs. As you see by his presence here today, he has made a wonderful recovery and wishes to pick up where he left off. But the general opinion of the board is that it would not be auspicious for Summerview to be known as a retreat with a severely disabled assistant. People want to know that their elderly relatives will be cared for by actively able staff members. I am sorry to say this, Stuart, but it has been decided that we can no longer employ you in your previous position. So unfortunately we must terminate your employment as a liaison rep as of today. Do you understand, Stuart? You won’t be allowed to continue where you left off.

 

Stuart had expected something like this. They were letting him go. They did not believe that he could continue helping the oldies. He looked down at his hooks.

            – But we do believe that you would be able to train as Summerview’s new night porter, to take over from Paul Knight, who has been on the front desk at nights for two years. We have recommended to Securiteam that Paul be transferred to the day shift, meaning that we need a night porter. And the board has suggested that you, Stuart, take on the job of night porter in place of Paul. I’m sure you know the work. I understand you’ve spoken with Paul about his work previously.

            – Yes, ma’am. I know what he does.

            – And do you think you would be able to do it?

            – Yes ma’am.

            – So does the board. So what we propose, Stuart, is that you attend a short course for security personnel where you’ll learn more about the technicalities of being a security guard. The only disadvantage to the job, of course, is that you’ll be working from six in the evening to six in the morning for three or four nights a week. You’d be working a three week period totalling one hundred and twenty hours, so you’d be granted days off quite often, although they would vary.

            – I understand. Paul’s told me how his shifts vary.

            – Good, good. So what do you think? Would you be prepared to take over from Paul?

            – Yes, ma’am. I would. I think it’s the sort of work I could do as an amputee.

            – So do we, Stuart. So here’s the plan. If you agree to our new offer of employment, you will sign these papers and then, starting this week on Thursday, you’ll attend a short course for new security personnel applicants in Hendon on Thursday and Friday of this week and next week on Monday, when there’s a written test.

Stuart was crestfallen. He could barely scrawl his signature. A written test was too much for him.

            – I can’t write, ma’am. I haven’t learned to write with my hook. Not yet.

            – Don’t worry about that for the time being, Stuart. I’m sure one of the adjudicators will be willing to write down your answers for you.

 

The matter was settled. The representatives of Summerview watched Stuart sign three papers for the new conditions of employment. After successfully completing his security course, he would be paid half as much again as he had been earning before. He would have to get use to a new routine, catching up with his sleep during the day to be ready for twelve hour night shifts but he would also have a lot of free time. He would get used to it.

 

The meeting finished with coffee and Danish pastries. Stuart once again demonstrated his improving skill at handling a cup, fortunately one with almost parallel sides, but declined a pastry because he knew he would crush it into a thousand flakes. The Summerview board members all wished him success in his new work and good luck on the three day course. They watched Stuart limp out before muttering amongst themselves whether the severely disabled young man would prove capable.

 

Stuart exchanged a few words with Greg on his way out. If things ran as planned, they would probably not meet again. He explained how he would be taking on Paul’s position as the night porter and that he had to attend a course first to learn about security.

            – Are you going to Hendon for it? I was there too. It’s quite easy really but you have to pay attention to what they’re saying ’cos they don’t waste time repeating everything for the slow kids like in school. And you already know some stuff and a lot of it is just common sense. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.

            – Thanks Greg. We might not see each other again so I want to say thanks for your help. I hope you like your new job.

            – Thanks. It’s the same old job, just in a new place. I still don’t know where.

            – Funny, that. OK, take care.

            – Good luck, mate.

 

Stuart returned home. Instead of starting back at his job, he had landed a new one. He knew the ropes—keep an eye on the monitors, handle enquiries and deliveries, make sure visitors left on time. That sort of thing. He assumed he would have a new uniform and hoped he would not have to wear a tie. Or even a shirt. Buttons were really difficult to handle. He would have to ask Paul for advice on staying awake all night when there was not much happening. He remembered that Paul had the next couple of days free and sent a message saying he was also off work for at least the next week.

 

Stuart spent the entire day in Paul’s company. There was an exhibition of motorcycles in Olympia which Paul had promised himself and the two amputees travelled into town on the tube and spent three leisurely hours looking at a bewildering variety of two and three wheeled motorbikes. Some of the new electric bikes were streamlined beauties and Paul assured Stu that he would easily be able to drive one if he wanted. The peg leg might make mounting it a little precarious but there was no reason that bilateral arm amputations should hold him back. Stuart was encouraged to hear it but could not imagine himself on a bike. He would much prefer a small electric car. But they were all far too expensive, way out of his budget.

 

They took the tube a few stations westbound to the big mall in Shepherds Bush and spent the rest of the afternoon window shopping. Paul persuaded Stu to try on some smart polo neck pullovers which he might be allowed to wear with his new security guard’s uniform. It would do away with the need to button up a shirt and tussle with a tie while still looking tidy. They found a pair of cargo pants whose legs were detachable from the knee. Paul told Stuart that if he wore a pair like that, he could have his artificial legs on display. Or one artificial leg and his peg leg. It would look fantastic. Stuart grinned and agreed and decided to come back when he could afford a pair. Paul treated them both to a big hamburger with chips and a pint of lager. Stuart discovered it was easy to hold the burger in his hook.

 

Paul wanted to meet Stuart again the next day and suggested another visit to the pub after a pizza somewhere. Stuart would have enjoyed it but said that his first day of the security course was the next day and he wanted to have his wits about him. Paul laughed at him but said it was probably for the best. Stuart spent the day at home practising writing with pencils and ball pens. The foam rubber tubes he had ordered made it easier for the hook to hold a pen. It no longer slipped. It was odd to try to write by tiny movements at the elbow but after a couple of hours, Stuart began to get the knack. He wrote his name dozens of times, trying to create a semi-legible signature. His initials were the hardest. Curved letters were awkward. Stuart compared his last examples with those on the first page and thought that he could see some improvement. He would get there but there was no way he would be able to tackle the written test next Monday. He hoped he would be able to dictate his answers to someone.

 

Stuart realised that he would be sitting for much of the day and decided to wear a pair of bleachers which had the left trouser leg cut off at the knee. The peg leg would be on display to all and sundry but he would have easy access to it if he wanted to take it off. Otherwise, he would wear a white T‑shirt so his hooks would be visible when he took his MA‑1 off. His artificial foot still wore his Doc Marten boot. He had no idea whether there was a sock in there too. He liked the way the rigid foot pointed up when he sat. It was usually a clear sign that the wearer had an artificial leg. He left home at eight in order to be on time at the Hendon centre where the course was being held. He had over an hour to get there by Underground. His peg leg attracted considerable attention from other rush hour passengers. He kept his hooks hidden in the jacket pockets.

 

There were about twenty other students due to take the course. They were young people, some straight from school, who had chosen or been forced into becoming security guards. Their prospective employers financed the three day course and would take on successful applicants. Stuart’s case was a little different. His employer was Summerview but they wanted Stuart to learn aspects of his night porter job which he might not yet be aware of. Stuart strode in to see his classmates sitting around sipping water or energy drinks, all eyes on him and his shocking peg leg. He looked around at them, bemused.

 

            – Am I in the right place? Is this for the security course?

A short muscular man with a blond crewcut answered.

            – Yup. You’ve come to the right address.

            – Oh. Good. Can we leave our jackets here, do you think?

            – Sure. Over there.

Stuart took his hooks out of his pockets and struggled out of his jacket. People gasped. He put his wallet and phone into his bleachers and lifted the jacket onto a hook. The crewcut guy walked over and held out his hand to shake.

            – I’m Ross. If you want any help, ask me, alright?

            – Stuart. OK, thanks Ross. I will.

            – Come and sit down. Do you want a Red Bull?

Stuart debated whether he wanted one. He was not fond of the taste but Ross looked keen on offering him one. Stuart lowered himself onto the couch where Ross had been sitting, demonstrating his rigid peg leg to all present. It poked into the room. Ross opened the can and handed it carefully to Stuart, who accepted it into his symmetrical left hook. His drinking hook. He looked up at Ross who was standing near to him. Ross looked like he spent a lot of time at the gym. His arms were muscular and his T‑shirt was tight over his upper arms. He was wearing a pair of skinny jeans which emphasised his muscular thighs and calves. The outline of his penis was also clearly visible. He had an erection. Stuart tilted his head back and poured the sugar concentrate into his mouth.

            – Who’s your employer, Stuart? What company do you work for?

            – I’m going to be a night porter in an old people’s home. I was working there before I got ill. And they said I can go back if I do this course and change to the night shift. Our old night porter is leaving, you see, so they want someone who already sort of knows the job.

Ross could not imagine a security guard with a pair of hooks but anything was possible.

            – So it’s not a proper security company, then?

            – No, nothing like that. I think they want me to learn the theory or something.

            – I getcha.

 

Ross could not take his eyes off Stuart’s hooks. He had a strong amputee fetish and ran a blog called Amp Heaven where there were hundreds, if not thousands, of photos of amputee men in various muscleman poses. Some of them were electronic surgery which he had done himself but most were the genuine article. Legless men lifting weights, arm amputees with prosthetic claws for weightlifting. That sort of thing. Stuart was no bodybuilder but his amputations made him extremely desirable. Ross wanted Stuart as a friend he could meet and look at and admire more than anything. He suspected that he would not be paying much attention to the security course if Stuart’s prostheses were in his line of sight.

 

Two instructors entered and wished everyone a good morning. They let the students into an adjacent room where there were desks in rows. Ross and Stuart marched to the front. Ross was myopic but rarely wore his glasses. If there was text on a whiteboard to read, he had better be as close as possible. Stuart found that his peg was perfectly comfortable on the chair. At least for the time being, he did not feel the need to remove it. His hooks rested in his lap.

 

One of the instructors took charge and introduced himself and his colleague. He explained the rough sequence of events over the next three days and what information for their careers the course was intended to give. These were the basics which all security personnel should know in order to keep themselves on the right side of the law and how to persuade others to do the same. He caught sight of Stuart’s peg leg and fell silent for a few seconds. His colleague had been staring at it for over a minute.

            – If you’re ready, let’s get started. First of all, physical limits. While you are working on your employer’s premises, you have the same legal protection as police officers. That means other members of the public—and from now on I shall call them customers—have no right to touch you or defy you or interfere with your duties. The area of your authority is outlined in law to extend no further than three metres beyond the physical limit of the employer’s property, for example a fence. So you can escort a customer off the premises but not as far as across the road.

 

Stuart leaned forward and lifted his hooks onto his desktop. The shape of his socket caused the hooks to point upwards and out to the sides. The instructor was about to continue but noticed the hooks and his mouth fell open. He had seen a man wearing a hook once and was horrified by it. He had suffered from a fear of disability and dismemberment ever since. His mouth dried up and he gulped. He took a swig of water. His students waited for him to continue. Stuart shifted position slightly and the hooks stirred in the air. It was extremely disturbing. The instructor tore his eyes away and stared at his notes. He had no idea what he had just said. His colleague saw the man’s confusion and stage‑whispered ‘physical limits’. Ironically, the words were no help. The student’s physical limits were the whole problem. Ross, sitting next to Stuart, had a front row view of the instructor’s line of sight and knew very well what he was looking at. Unlike Ross, who still nursed an erection inspired by his new acquaintance’s artificial limbs, the instructor was fighting to overcome his shock and impending nausea.

            – Can you take over? I don’t…

The other instructor stepped forward and took the notes. He glanced down the list of bullet points and moved away to one side of the room where Stuart’s artificial limbs would not distract him further. There was plenty of time to ogle the guy over the next few days. He had already taken a few surreptitious photos with his phone to appreciate later.

 

The explanation continued. Permitted methods of self‑defence. Code words to summon police assistance. How to react to threats of violence, actual violence, who to alert and how to react to fire or structural damage. The class was suddenly alarmed by the realisation that they would quite possibly be thrust into such situations. Stuart, almost uniquely in the group, remained calm and interested. He could not envisage any such dangers facing him during a night shift at Summerview.

            – You are allowed to use pepper spray or a retractable truncheon for self defence. You are not allowed to use weapons such as firearms, knives or even knuckledusters.

Stuart grinned. He wore the equivalent of knuckledusters on his arms permanently.

 

The lesson continued with other examples of threats and dangers and how a security guard was permitted by law to react to them. It soon became clear that instead of being supermen who could swoop in to save any situation, their jobs were to alert the relevant authorities who would do all the dangerous bits. Many egos almost audibly deflated during the morning. The instructor rekindled their enthusiasm with a few anecdotes and examples of recent news items in which security staff had raised the alarm and saved the day without ever getting acknowledgment in the news reports.

 

They broke for lunch. The two instructors concocted a plan to get Stuart out of his front row desk to somewhere where he would not distract the delicate instructor. One of the young women, a dumpy example of modern femininity without make‑up, was persuaded to ask Stuart if she could take his place because she was severely short‑sighted and wanted to see the whiteboard. Always the gentleman, Stuart agreed immediately. Ross had her as a neighbour and Stuart sat three rows back, to the side. The first instructor continued in the afternoon, much chirpier and energetic now he had only an ordinary female to ignore. Ross felt jilted and his desire to be with Stuart grew during the afternoon session, which dealt with responsibilities relating to maintenance of customer properties.

 

By the end of the afternoon, the students were giddy from the flood of new knowledge. The instructors had exhausted their repertoire by three forty‑five and called an end to the first day. Seeing everyone suddenly leaving, Stuart positioned himself so he could use his hooks to push himself into a standing position. Before he knew it, Ross was by his side.

            – How did you like that? I never knew we were supposed to know even half of that.

            – It seems like a lot. What are they going to tell us tomorrow?

Stuart lifted his right leg with his hooks away from the tubular leg of his desk. Ross noticed and realised immediately why.

            – Stuart, is your right leg artificial too?

            – Yup. Lift me up, will you?

Ross knew exactly what to do. He held firmly onto Stuart below the man’s armpit and pulled up. The peg leg struck the chair but Stuart was erect and thanked Ross for his help.

            – That’s alright. Don’t mention it. Are you off home now?

            – I suppose so.

            – I was going to ask you if you wanted a burger. There’s a place round the corner if you like.

Stuart thought quickly. There was no rush to get home. His parents would not be home until after five.

            – OK. Let’s have a burger.

            – Great! Come on. I’ll help with your jacket if you like.

Ross began to feel the beginning of another erection as he guided Stuart’s prosthetic arms into his MA‑1. He had not handled an artificial limb for many weeks and the sensation excited him.

 

Ross was a head shorter than Stuart. He was self‑conscious about his stunted stature and this drove him to try to develop his body, to grow his musculature so he would not appear weak. His fetish for disability was in direct contrast to his appreciation of his own body. Having just learned that Stuart’s booted foot was artificial, he tried to imagine how Stuart felt walking alongside him. The peg leg looked amazing. Why was the trouser leg cut short? Was Stuart simply being extrovert? Ross glanced up at Stuart several times and saw the concentration on his face. It must be difficult for him to walk, although the peg leg swung forward with a regular beat. Ross’s four inch penis was rock hard yet again. He held the door of the burger place for Stuart and they both ordered a burger and fries. Stuart was content to show off his prowess to Ross, who watched Stuart manipulating a hook to eat the chips one by one.

 

The second day of the course dealt more with various undesirable encounters with customers and the practical ways to deal with them while remaining strictly within legal restraints. It was a little tedious and lunchtime came as a welcome break. Stuart and Ross were sitting on the extreme right of the room and both instructors were able to complete their spiels without any sign of the previous day’s distress. In the afternoon, the students were surprised to be asked to make their way to the yard behind the building. They found a fireman waiting for them with several fire extinguishers and were taught how to use one. The fireman set fire to oil in a fire pit and everyone took turns to operate one of the extinguishers to douse the flames. Stuart doubted whether he was up to it but when his turn came, the fireman quietly encouraged him to lift the canister with one hook and remove the safety ring with the other. Then he should place that hook under the operating lever and let the weight of the extinguisher do the work. His other hook should aim the nozzle toward the flames. Stuart directed the blast of frozen carbon dioxide from side to side, front to back and the flames were out. He put the canister down and appreciated for the first time how the socket extensions over his elbows had enabled him to handle the heavy extinguisher.

 

The afternoon session ended with a reminder that they would be tested on Monday afternoon. It was a written test with the exception of Stuart Robinson, who would be tested orally in a separate room. That cleared up one problem. One of the instructors handed out copies of notes containing brief reminders of everything they had heard over the past two days. They were advised to read and think about them. The students were dismissed. Once again, Ross helped Stuart stand and helped him guide his unfeeling hooks into his jacket sleeves.

            – What are you doing over the weekend, Stu?

            – I don’t know. I haven’t made any plans. Read this through, I suppose.

            – Listen. I’m having some friends around for drinks tomorrow night. Would you like to come?

            – Where do you live?

            – Uxbridge. I can meet you at the station if you like. It’s not far to walk. Just behind the shopping centre.

Stuart thought quickly. Uxbridge was quite a way but he could get there easily enough on the tube.

            – OK. I’d like that. Thanks for asking me.

            – Great! Come any time after about five, OK? Message me when you get to Hillingdon, OK?

 

Ross had not actually made any plans to have friends round the next evening but he knew he could easily persuade a couple. He had two in mind he would especially like Stuart to meet. He had a session booked at the gym from one until four. There would be just enough time to get home, have a quick shower and nip across to the station to collect Stuart. The others could come at six.

 

The two new friends walked to a bus stop. Stuart’s express bus arrived first and Ross watched until Stuart was safely seated, his peg leg poking into the space reserved for prams. He bought several litres of beer and bottle of vodka in Uxbridge and went home. He texted his two best mates, both of them bodybuilders like himself. It would be great if they could persuade Stuart to join them some time. It was a logical way for Stuart to expose his stumps.

 

Stuart’s parents were interested in the security course and were pleased that he had shone at using a fire extinguisher. His father looked at the print‑outs Stu had brought home and was surprised at the range of subjects on the agenda. He had no idea security people had to know so much stuff. It seemed they were much more than glorified bouncers. Stuart had already assured them that he would not need his new powers to remove unruly people from Summerview. The unruly ones lived there. It was where they were supposed to be. His father laughed, remembering how his own grandparents had become increasingly cantankerous in their later years.

 

Stuart did his homework. He read the notes several times, trying to remember other points the instructors had made. At the back of his mind was the knowledge that his new friend was beside him. He felt more like one of the group in Ross’s company instead of like a disabled outsider. It occurred to him suddenly that Ross was the first person to befriend him after his amputations. He sensed that his hooks had attracted Ross’s attention and he accepted that.

 

Stuart left home on Saturday afternoon dressed in bleachers with both legs intact, a red hoodie and his MA‑1 jacket. The black ten‑holer was still on his foot. His thin peg leg was almost invisible, disguised by the irregular pattern on his jeans. With his hooks shoved into his jacket pockets, Stuart strutted to the bus stop looking very much like any other young man. He decided to stand inside the bus and grip a pole with his drinking hook. There were only a few stops before he needed to change to a Met train.

 

There was only one seat in the first and last carriages in which Stuart could sit without his peg leg being in anyone’s way. He walked along the platform to where the first carriage would stop. It would make it quicker to leave the station in Uxbridge. Stuart boarded and moved to the furthest seat on his left next to the door to the driver’s cab. His peg stretched horizontally partly blocking it. At this time of day, there were few other passengers. He linked his hooks and placed them between his legs. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of the cables along the track outside the carriage. As the train left Ickenham, he carefully extracted his phone, typed the single word hillingdon and sent it to Ross’s number. Moments later, Ross replied with a smilie face.

 

Ross was standing in the middle of the station entrance hall. He was wearing black leather trousers and a white hoodie, its cowl on his head. He grinned on seeing Stuart approach, thrusting the peg leg forward, hooks held out to the side for balance.

            – Hi! Thanks for coming. It’s good to see you.

            – Thanks for inviting me. Listen, I haven’t brought anything. Is this a bring‑your‑own‑bottle sort of thing?

            – No! You don’t need to bring anything, Stu. Everything is ready and we’re having food delivered later on once we decide what we want.

            – Great. Who else is coming?

            – A couple of guys from the gym. You’ll enjoy meeting them, I hope. You already have something in common with each other.

            – How so? What do you mean?

            – Wait and see! Come on, let’s cross the road and nip through the shopping centre.

 

The two men made their way through the bustle of late shoppers and negotiated a slope down to a subway. The exit was by the forecourt to Ross’s apartment block. Ross held the door for Stuart and pointed towards a bank of lifts. Their mirrored surface spoke of opulence. This was nothing like the building in which Stuart lived. The lift was lined in what looked like leather with another large mirror on the back wall. It was spotlessly clean, too. Ross pressed the button for the seventh floor.

 

There were two doors on the seventh floor landing. Modernist oil paintings hung on the wall between them. Ross typed the entry code onto a number pad by his door and pulled it open.

            – After you, kind sir. No need to take your shoe off. Boot, I mean. You can keep it on.

            – Thanks.

Stuart looked around. The entrance opened onto an open plan living room and combined kitchen area, divided by an island ringed by transparent acrylic stools. There was a zebra print mat on the living room floor and a huge spherical chair, its brilliant glossy red surface easily making it the centre point of the room. There were two long low sofas facing each other across a black ceramic coffee table. A row of healthy rubber plants lined the window. There were no curtains. Two large op art paintings set the theme. It was an astonishing interior. Stuart had expected nothing of the sort. Ross watched him looking around and at the inert motionless hooks. A man with hands would be pointing at things, gesturing. Stuart’s artificial arms did not allow gestures, not the kind which could express emotion. Ross took Stu’s jacket and hung it in the recessed garderobe.

            – What a brilliant place! Ross, you’re so lucky. How come you can afford a place like this? Sorry, it’s bad form to ask things like that.

            – Don’t worry about it, Stu. I’ll tell you later. Shall we get down to business? I’ve got lager and India pale ale or vodka or gin. And that’s all. Haha!

            – Can I have a gin and tonic, please? Can you put it in a tall glass so I can hold it?

Stuart lifted his left drinking hook and demonstrated by opening it how a cylindrical glass would fit in it perfectly. Ross noticed the symmetrical shape of the hook for the first time and thought what a good idea it was.

            – Coming right up. Shall we stay in the kitchen until the other guys get here? If you sit by the edge, you can stretch your peg leg out past the corner. Ha! Listen to me giving you instructions. Do you want ice? Lemon? I’ve got everything, don’t worry. You only have to ask.

            – Ice would be good.

Ross took a stainless steel ice bucket from a shelf in the kitchen island and held it under an opening at the side of his freezer cabinet. Seconds later it began to spit ice cubes into the bucket. Ross waited half a minute and put it on the table.

            – What’s this tabletop made of? I’ve not seen anything like this before.

            – It’s polished concrete. I was going to get marble but that always looks so old‑fashioned somehow. How do you like the rough edges?

            – Well, now I know it’s concrete, I think the edges look great. Ross, tell me who else is coming.

            – Peter and Will. My mates from the gym. Don’t worry, they’re just regular guys. About our age. Actually, they only met when I invited them for drinks one evening. They hadn’t met before. And now they’re good mates so I do some good in the world, you see.

            – Ha! You’ve been good to me this week on the course. I’m glad they sent me now.

            – Stu, what’s it like at the care home?

            – Well, I’m going to be the night porter. But they want me to be an official security guard so that’s why I’m on the course.

            – I see. Is that the sort of work you want to do?

            – Ross, look at me. After my amputations, there’s not a lot else I can do. I can be a night porter because the job is to watch the monitors and alert help if there’s a problem. I’m just a pair of eyes.

            – Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But don’t sell yourself short, Stu. You’ll be important when something happens and there are other jobs where you can do the same sort of thing. The Underground has a load of controllers who have to watch screens showing where the trains are and where there’s a delay or whatever. You should write to them and apply. You won’t have to work nights, either, I bet.

            – Mmm. I’ve never thought of that. I might do that.

The doorbell sounded. Ross went and seconds later, Peter appeared and went straight to a kitchen cupboard for a glass.

            – Hi! I’m Peter. Nice to meet you. Fuck me! You’ve got two!

            – Yup. Sorry to shock you.

            – Yeah, well, Ross never said nothing. You alright?

            – I’m alright. Yourself?

            – Never better. What are you drinking? Gin? Alright. I’ll join you. Can’t stand the stuff myself, but if it’s got alcohol in it, it can’t be all bad, right?

            – Pete, this is my new friend from the Securiteam course. Stuart. Stu for short.

Peter held his glass in his left hand and held out his right to shake. Stuart lifted his hook and Pete took hold of it and shook gently.

            – That’s cold! Have you just arrived?

            – Twenty minutes ago. Stuart lives in the back of beyond in Willesden or somewhere.

            – Harlesden. Not the most scenic part of London, I suppose.

Ross poured Peter his g&t and encouraged him to sit.

            – So you met on the course, did you? I can see why Ross has invited you.

            – Shut up, Pete.

            – Well, why try to keep it a secret? No‑one cares.

            – What do you mean?

            – Haven’t you worked it out yet? Ross here only makes friends with amputees. He is infatuated with stumps, aren’t you, Ross?

Stuart stared at Ross in surprise. It was an outrageous thing to say. Ross blushed.

            – I’m sorry, Stu. I suppose it’s true. When I saw your hooks, I wanted to help you and I wanted to have you as a friend. Not just because you have hooks! After we talked, I thought you and me could be friends. I got that right, I hope.

            – Yes, of course. I know my hooks have an effect on people. Some hate them and some people want to help, and I’m grateful. I’ve only had them for about three weeks.

            – What? You must be kidding!

            – No, honest. It’s true.

Stuart looked at Peter’s face and at Ross watching both of them. Ross was still embarrassed by what Pete had claimed but felt vindicated. Pete had arrived too recently for Stuart to realise anything was amiss about Pete. Ross glanced at the artificial leg with its rigid foot pointing up in the tell‑tale fashion.

            – What’s it like living in, where was it? Harlesden?

            – Well, it’s where I’ve always lived. I know it’s ugly and people make fun of it but it’s not really all that bad. There are still shops around and it’s easy to get a bus to a station. But I have to admit there’s not much going on otherwise. I just live there with my mum and dad. I don’t know what to tell you otherwise.

            – Do you still live in your parents’ home?

            – Yeah.

            – Bugger me. Isn’t it time you got your own place?

            – Pete! How can I? I have four stumps and I need all the help I can get.

            – Four? You have artificial legs as well? Fuck me!

Peter got up from his stool and walked around the table to see Stuart, sitting on the corner. He saw the peg leg first and raised his eyebrows. He looked at the other leg and saw exactly the same angled rigid foot with which he was so familiar.

            – Bloody hell, Stu. What happened to you?

            – Blood poisoning. It’s a long story but I had septicaemia and my hands and foot had to be amputated.

            – What do you mean ‘foot’? Did you only have one?

            – By that time, yeah. Can we talk about this later?

            – Sure. No sweat. Man oh man. You sure know how to find ‘em, Ross.

            – Shut up, Pete!

            – Stop telling me to shut up! You don’t mind talking about it, do you, Stu?

            – Not really but I don’t want to have to tell Will separately.

            – OK. I can understand that. I don’t like repeating my story over and over either.

Ross had recovered from his embarrassment and offered another drink. His guests both held up their glasses in their own way. There was another knock on the door and Ross asked his guests to help themselves. Will stood at the door and Ross invited him inside. A few moments later, Stuart was introduced to the latest guest, who made no effort to shake hand to hook.

            – Drink, Will? G&T alright?

            – Yes please. Have you been here long? Sorry to be late.

            – You’re not late. We’ve only just got here.

            – Gotcha. Is anything special going on? What are we celebrating?

            – No, nothing special. I thought you might like to meet Stu and vice versa. We’ve been on a security course in Hendon this week and needed a bit of a break. At least I do. Let’s take our drinks into the living room.

Peter carried his and Will’s glasses and placed them on the coffee table. Its surface lit up with blue rings surrounding the glasses. Will followed and sat next to him. Ross and Stuart sat opposite them on the other sofa. For the first time, Will noticed Stuart’s peg leg. He gestured towards it.

            – I didn’t realise you’d lost a leg too, Stuart.

            – I’ve lost both.

Will stared at him in surprise. He had not been warned that there would be another quad present.

            – What happened, Stu? Was it frostbite by any chance?

            – No. Just plain old septicaemia. You see, I was in a road accident when I was ten and the growth plates in my leg stopped growing so I was left with a short leg. I wore a leg brace with a built‑up boot until someone at my job persuaded me to have the short leg amputated above the knee to give me a stump I could use with an artificial leg. So after a few months’ wait, I had my leg off but I caught blood poisoning in the hospital and they had to amputate all my limbs to save my life.

            – Fuck me. Have you had compensation yet?

            – No, not yet. I haven’t heard anything.

            – Why do these things always take so much time? So how are you getting on with your prostheses? I have to admit, I really like your peg leg. Very sleek and smart. And your other foot is a prosthesis too, is it?

            – Yup. Below knee. Just a rigid pylon and foot, no special ankle.

            – That’s what mine are. Basic stuff.

            – Oh! I didn’t realise!

            – Did you notice these?

Will held his hands up and wiggled the ten tiny remnants of his fingers and thumbs. They were all shortened to the first distal joints.

            – I got mine through frostbite. I was with a group climbing in Switzerland and we got caught in a storm. It took three days to rescue us by which time everyone had frostbite and most of us lost our hands and feet. I was lucky I suppose to keep these stumps but I’ve watched my mates using their hooks and I’d rather have had my hands off so I can use them too. I really like the look of yours, Stu. You seem to be very skilful at using them. Have you had them long?

            – About three weeks, that’s all.

            – You are kidding me! Wow!

Stuart chuckled and picked up his drink with the drinking hook. Will watched him and demonstrated how he handled a drink. He gripped the glass between his stumped palms and tilted it towards his face. It looked so awkward that Stuart could easily understand why he might have preferred amputations. His hands were almost useless. The short finger stumps had difficulty in gripping almost everything.

 

Ross was fascinated by the conversation. He had heard Will’s explanation several times and always wondered why Will did nothing about elective amputations. After meeting Stuart earlier in the week and seeing how practical his hooks were for many things, he had come to the conclusion that Will would also be better off with bilateral hooks. He had invited Will tonight specifically so he could meet Stuart and hoped that they would discuss their disabilities and finally assure Will that amputations were the future. He would love to see Will with two forearm stumps to match his leg stumps.

 

Stuart turned his attention to the surface of the coffee table, gleaming like obsidian except where an object touched it. An electrical circuit caused a network of tiny LEDs to illuminate the immediate area from below.

            – How does this work, Ross? I’ve heard about these but this is the first one I’ve seen.

Ross explained as best he could.

            – Run a hook along the surface and see what happens!

Stuart did so and laughed as a streak of blue light followed the point of contact. The others had seen it before but were no less impressed. He wondered again how Ross could afford such things if all he did was work as a security guard somewhere. He was about to ask again but thought better of it. Ross would tell him later in his own good time, he supposed.

 

Pete sat nursing his drink. He was a quiet man, taking in everything, saying little. He was amused that even after hearing of Ross’s attraction for male amputees, Stuart had not asked him anything about his own amputee status. He had had a mid-thigh stump for six years after colliding with a bus on his racing bike while intoxicated. Charges were dropped when the police learned of his injuries, believing that his disablement was punishment enough. Peter sported a modern prosthesis with microchips to control his knee and ankle. The foot still poked up in the tell‑tale way but Stuart could not see it from his viewpoint.

 

Stuart relaxed and listened to the others chatting. They were all older than himself, Ross by a year, Will by three years and Peter by about five. One of the things that Stuart had already learned about adulthood was that ages did not play such an important rôle any longer. In school, tiny differences in age were vastly significant in the pecking order. As an adult, Stuart still felt deference in talking to someone like Peter but the mere fact that he could was tremendously liberating.

            – Can I have another drink, please?

            – Sure. Help yourself.

            – Er, I don’t think I can.

            – I’ll help. What would you like, Stu? Another g&t?

            – I’d like a beer, please.

            – I’ll get it.

Peter rose and went to Ross’s fridge. He took two beers out and opened them. Finally, Stuart noticed something odd about his gait as he returned and handed Stuart the beer.

            – Are you an amputee too, Peter?

            – Yes, of course. I thought you knew.

Peter continued no further. Stuart thanked him for his drink and tried to discern what Peter’s disability was. He had two hands so it must be his legs. Maybe he had two leg stumps like Will and himself. No, he walked too well for that. Maybe he had a computer leg. That must be it.

            – Have you got a computer leg, Pete?

Peter laughed at the description but admitted that he did indeed have a computer leg.

            – I’ll show it to you later on if you like. You might like to have a similar one instead of your peg leg.

            – Oh no! I like my peg far too much for that. I wouldn’t like to learn how to use a computer leg with my skinny little stump. The peg leg is perfectly good.

            – And it also looks fantastic. He’s been wearing cut off bleachers on the course so everyone can see his peg leg. It looks amazing.

            – Is that so you can whip it off when you want to sit somewhere, Stu?

            – Yeah, sort of. But mostly I just like to show it off. I know it makes me special and people look at me.

 

Stuart was falling under the influence and becoming garrulous. Will was astounded that a young guy with two unmistakably prominent hooks would also call attention to his missing leg. He tried to imagine himself standing on his prostheses wielding bilateral hooks like his climbing partners. Most of them were miserable and morose about their disablement but Stuart showed enthusiasm and pride in flashing his hooks. Certainly the hooks looked much better than his own stumped hands. Ross announced that he had some new equipment and invited the others to inspect it. He led them to a corridor to the right of the living area which led to three bedrooms and a walk‑in closet. One of the rooms was Ross’s bedroom, another was full of his gym equipment and a third was empty. He demonstrated a new leg press and said that it would probably work just as well for Will.

            – I think it would. I want a try of that.

Will pulled his trouser legs up as far as possible and squatted onto the bench. He looked at where his legs were until they had both slid under the bar and tried lifting it with his remaining muscles.

            – It’s too stiff.

            – Let me change it. Try it now.

The weights were much easier for Will to lift. Stuart looked at his bilateral prostheses, very similar to the one he was wearing and wondered if he could do the same wearing a peg leg. Somehow he doubted it.

 

Ross showed him the other equipment he had and used regularly. It was not surprising that Ross looked like a miniature version of Charles Atlas. It must be grand to have a handsome body. But it was also grand to have a pair of hooks. You could have one or the other. Was there any more to drink? Will and Pete had returned to the living room and Ross opened the door to the third, empty bedroom. He said nothing and Stuart did not quite understand Ross’s intention. Ross closed the door and put his arm around Stuart’s waist. The four discussed whether to order food in and if so, what. An hour later, they were devouring two family sized pizzas in the kitchen.

 

Pete left after ten o’clock. Ross suggested that Stuart let his parents know he would be staying at his friend’s flat overnight.

            – You mean I can sleep here?

            – Of course you can. And you, Will. Plenty of room.

 

Towards midnight, Stuart finally asked Ross how it was possible for him to live in such a brilliant flat.

            – I won the lottery. I had to share the money with five others, though. But it was enough to buy this place with some left over. So now you know.

            – You were lucky. I don’t think I could afford to move into my own flat, not with rents as high as they are.

Ross was amused that Stuart still had not picked up on his hint that the empty bedroom was there for the asking. When Will suggested it might be time to get some shut‑eye, Ross found a spare blanket and offered a choice of either sofa. Will wasted no time. He removed his trousers and his lower legs and curled up immediately. Ross dropped the blanket over him and wished him pleasant dreams.

            – Come on, Stu. Let’s go to bed. You can share with me. It’s alright. I won’t bite.

 

After a visit to the bathroom, Stuart sat semi‑conscious on the side of Ross’s wide bed. Ross pulled Stuart’s trousers down to access his prosthetic legs. He saw both sockets were held on by suction and released the valves on both. He pulled the peg leg off and stood it against the wall. The lower leg soon joined it. Stuart looked up at his assistant, barely recognising his friend. Ross helped him remove his hooks and put them onto a chair. He stripped down to his underwear and pulled back the covers. He slid onto his bed and Stuart fell against him. Ross was shocked to see the livid scars on Stuart’s stumps. They were nothing like the stumps he had seen before, nothing like Will’s tidy rounded leg stumps. Stuart’s stumps spoke of pain, severe disability, horror. Ross felt deeper empathy for his new friend who, he realised, was probably still struggling to use his new artificial limbs. Despite that, Ross was obsessed by having this quadruple amputee with two hooks for hands and a steel peg leg close to him. If Stuart really wanted to move out of his parent’s flat, Ross would have to redouble his offer. Maybe in the morning. The two friends drifted into unconsciousness with Stuart’s left arm stump across Ross’s tight belly.

 

Will left shortly after breakfast. He thanked Ross for his hospitality and hoped they would meet again before long. Stuart and Ross were alone. The idea of inviting Stuart to move in was at the front of Ross’s mind but he really did not know what Stuart’s circumstances were and he did not want to appear pushy and so said nothing. Ross escorted him back to Uxbridge station and waited until the train was departed. He returned home and began tidying before spending two hours in his private gym.

 

Stuart’s parents were inquisitive to know where exactly he had been. He explained that he had met some bodybuilder friends one of whom was on his course. He had a very nice flat in Uxbridge which he bought after he won some money on the lottery.

            – It seems strange to me that he would want to work in security if he already has a pile of money.

            – I think he just wants to have a job where he can meet people. It’s not fun to sit alone in your nice flat and not go out because you don’t need to.

            – I suppose you’re right, Stuart. How old is this Ross?

            – A year older than me, I think. Twenty‑three.

            – He’s very lucky to be able to buy his own property at that age. I wish I had been able to.

 

Stuart studied his print‑out again in his room but it seemed familiar and he put it aside. So much of it really had little bearing on the work routine at Summerview. He was fairly certain that he could remember the most important points the group had been taught. His parents commented on his sojourn.

            – I’m glad he’s found a new friend, aren’t you? I think it must take a very generous mind to befriend someone as disabled as Stuart—don’t get me wrong, he’s doing fine, but you know what I mean. It’s just that you wouldn’t expect a twenty‑three year old bodybuilder to befriend a chap with hooks and a peg leg. I wish Stuart would get a proper artificial leg, don’t you? That peg is so shocking somehow.

            – I know. Sometimes I feel I’d like to ask him to think about getting a leg but it’s really none of our business and we can’t really know how it feels for Stuart to use his artificial limbs. I’m only happy to see him adapting so well.

            – Things are still difficult for him but he doesn’t complain, does he?

            – Not to me, at least.

 

Stuart himself was perfectly content with his artificial limbs. The only time he thought about his artificial foot was when he put it on or took it off. It was comfortable and reliable and he need not give it a thought. The peg was what he was proudest of. He had never seen anyone as young as himself with a peg leg. It attracted attention everywhere he went and although people stared, no‑one had ever been rude enough to pass comment on it. Not in his hearing, at least. His hooks were becoming more familiar now after several weeks. He was quite good at using them once he had set them at the correct angle. It was becoming easier to do things too. He no longer had to think about how to operate the hooks. He was used to either stretching his arm out or shrugging the opposite shoulder. It seemed fairly logical. He was a little sorry that his arm stumps were so short but the special design of his sockets meant that he was able to lift quite heavy objects, like the fire extinguisher, without the socket dislodging.

 

The Hendon course continued at nine o’clock the next morning. There was a three hour session until lunchtime, after which they could revise for an hour or so until the exam at two. The latest session dealt more deeply with the legal aspects of handling members of the public and they practised searching each other for planted weapons such as knives and knuckledusters and various ways to avoid physical attacks. Stuart was excused from the exercise because he claimed he was unable to feel anything with his hooks. The more sensitive instructor almost retched at the thought of being searched by a guard wearing two hooks.

 

Ross was as helpful as ever during lunch. They sat together and Ross dissected the greasy chicken thigh they were served. Stuart could have held it and nibbled at it but it would have made a spectacular mess.

            – We won’t see each other for a while after today, Stuart. You’ll be working nights and I’ll be working days.

            – I won’t be working every night, Ross. I’ll have time off during the week but it depends on my work schedule what days they are.

            – I wish I could see you more often. Even just being with you is all I want to do.

Stuart was flattered but thought Ross was exaggerating.

            – Is that why you want me to move in with you?

Ross was surprised that Stuart mentioned it. Obviously he had got his point across on Saturday evening without stating it explicitly. Ross put his cutlery on the table and twisted around to face Stuart directly. He spoke softly.

            – There’s nothing in this world I want more than to have you by my side. You would make my life perfect. I would help you when you need it. We would help each other.

            – What help could I give you? You have the perfect body. You’re strong and independent. You don’t even need to work, as far as I can tell.

            – I don’t have any friends. You’re the first friend I’ve ever had I wanted to be with. It’s not easy for a man in my position to know he has a genuine friend. You’re the first friend I’ve made after my lottery win who doesn’t see it as more important than me.

Stuart was surprised and impressed. Ross’s sentiment reflected his own almost exactly, albeit for quite different reasons.

            – Would you really let me share your flat with you? In the spare room?

            – Yes I would. Please come. Please say you’ll move in with me to share.

            – Can you let me think about it, Ross? I’ll have to ask my parents what they think—tell them, I mean.

 

The exam started at three. Students had an hour to answer fifteen questions. Stuart and the unsqueamish instructor went to a different room and Stuart answered the questions orally. He deduced from the ticks the instructor put on the exam paper that he was answering correctly. The instructors had discovered that Stuart was on the course only in order to gain a professional status for his existent job in an independent care home. It was not the intention of the young disabled man to work for a security company. The instructor could see that although his student was encumbered with a peg leg and two steel hooks presently clasped in his lap, there was nothing wrong with his brain. Totting up the results as the exam progressed, he announced that Stuart had scored an impressive eighty‑five percent. They returned to rejoin the other students, who were dismissed for the rest of the afternoon, although they should wait until five o’clock if they wanted to hear their results. Ross offered Stuart a Red Bull and they went to the entrance lobby.

 

            – How did you do, Stuart? Was it difficult?

            – No, not really. The instructor made a few notes while I was answering and I could see he was marking ticks.

            – Do you know your results already?

            – Yup.

            – Ha! Go on then. Tell me.

            – No, not yet. I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you.

            – Alright, I won’t press you.

Ross was impressed with Stuart’s integrity. He waited a few seconds before changing the subject.

            – Is there an Underground station near your workplace, Stuart?

            – Yeah. Preston Road is at the end of the road, not far. Why?

            – I was wondering how you would get to work from Uxbridge. It sounds like you could get there easily. You don’t have a car, do you?

            – No, I don’t have a car. I’d have to get a car and then spend more to have it converted. It would have to have hand controls and even they would have to be adapted to use with these.

Ross reached out and took one of the hooks between his hands and looked at it. He traced the curve of the steel finger. Stuart watched him. He could imagine the warmth of Ross’s hand. He would have liked to be able to touch Ross too, feel the powerful muscles in his arms and back with a palm, or trace the man’s eyes and brow with a thumb. He felt sorrow again for his loss but Ross’s appreciation for his new artificial limbs was almost worth it. He did not find Ross’s odd enthusiasm distasteful any more than he himself found his new limbs distasteful. They were an acquired taste and he felt lucky to have found a friend like Ross who appreciated the new Stuart.

 

The instructors marked the twenty or so papers before five o’clock and distributed them to their students. All but two had passed and were now qualified to work as security officers. Ross had a score of eighty percent and Stuart claimed he had scored the same. They left together and walked to the bus stop. Ross again made sure his friend was safely on board before catching his own connection.

 

Stuart reported back to Summerview the following day. Ms White congratulated him and announced that his first shift under his new conditions of employment would commence at six on the following Sunday evening.

            – One other thing, Stuart. We want you to have your uniform right from the start so if you could drop in one day later this week, we can get you kitted out. Do you know what size jacket you take?

            – Yes, it’s forty‑eight. And trousers waist forty‑eight, leg seventy‑eight.

            – Lovely, thank you Stuart. There’s one other thing—it’s possible to get trousers where the leg zips off from the knee. Would you like a pair like that?

            – Oh, those would be ideal.

            – In that case, we’ll order a pair of those. Now, a white shirt and tie is part of the uniform but do you think you would be able to manage all the buttons?

            – Well no, not really.

            – No, I thought not. So if you like, you could also wear a polo neck shirt, either white or black, under your jacket. I’m sure you would still look very smart like that. The only thing is, you would have to buy the polo neck shirts yourself.

            – That’s alright, Ms White. I can do that.

            – Very well, Stuart. I’ll let you know when your uniform has arrived and you can come to collect it and we’ll give you your first three week schedule. Did you have a good time on the course?

Stuart immediately thought about meeting Ross.

            – Yes, thank you, Ms White. It was interesting and it was good to meet new people. They were surprised at first when they saw me but they could understand better when I explained about Summerview. Everyone was very kind and helpful.

            – I’m so glad. You make an impression wherever you go, Stuart, and it’s not because of your appearance. We are very glad to have you. So I’ll see you later this week. Do make the time to chat to some of your old friends. Everyone is so anxious to know how you’ve been getting on.

            – Thank you, Ms White. I will.

 

The postman made one of his biweekly deliveries and Stuart spread his peg leg and artificial foot wide in order to pluck the envelope from the hall floor. It was from his hospital’s solicitors. He opened it and his mouth fell open. He had been awarded the sum of three hundred thousand pounds for each of his lost limbs. The hospital was culpable. He was instructed to contact the following numbers to arrange acknowledgement and receipt of his compensation. Stuart was uniquely incapable of jumping for joy but he raised his hooks and waved them in triumph. His future was secure. He would never have to work again unless he wanted to—and his recent phone call with Ms White had assured him that he very much wanted to. Best of all was the realisation that he could now forge a life with Ross as an independently wealthy partner. Ross’s own unknown wealth was now immaterial. They were equals. Despite what Ross had said about appreciating Stuart’s reaction to learning of the lottery win, Stuart had doubted that Ross might one day suspect that Stuart stayed with him because of his money. Now there was no danger of that. It was perfect. Stuart could move in to share Ross’s beautiful flat with him and be together with him, helping each other and being together all the time, both men free to do whatever they wanted and always being together. Stuart pressed his hooks against his waist and laughed for joy.

 

Ms White was waiting in the entrance lobby chatting with the new temporary daytime receptionist. Greg had left and from Sunday, Paul would take over the day shift. Stuart arrived slightly early, as was his habit, greeted Ms White and the new man.

            – Come with me, Stuart, and you can try your new uniform on.

They went to the conference room. The fresh new uniform jacket was black with the word security embroidered over the breast pocket in red silk thread. The trousers were as Ms White had described—the lower legs could be unzipped turning them into knee‑length shorts. She anticipated that Stuart might want to remove the left trouser leg to display his peg leg.

            – You can manage, can’t you, Stuart?

            – Yes, thank you, Ms White.

Stuart shrugged his shoulders to tighten his harness and lifted his elbows to test his hooks. Ms White left him to change. Stuart was wearing elastic sports trousers which were quick and easy to remove. The cuffs on the uniform trousers were too narrow to let him pull them over his artificial foot so he doffed his prosthesis and fed the trouser cuff over the limb from the top. He poked his peg leg into the other leg, donned his artificial foot again and pulled the trousers up. There was a metal clip fastener instead of a button. The zipper closed easily. Stuart looked down to judge the length of the trousers. The cuff broke on top of his boot in exactly the correct fashion. His peg leg was hidden by the cuff. It would be apparent enough when he strode along, making the material hug the inch wide peg. He shrugged his hoodie off, revealing a new white polo neck cotton pullover of which his mother had bought three during the week. He resettled his harness and poked his hooks into the jacket sleeves.

 

He felt the wave of confidence which falls to a man when he knows he is well‑dressed. The jacket felt comfortable and his hooks glistened at his cuffs. There was no mirror in the conference room but Stuart could sense that anyone who saw him would recognise an official in uniform. A few moment later, Ms White knocked on the door. Stuart called out for her to enter.

            – Oh Stuart! You look remarkably smart. It certainly seems a good fit.

She was carrying something wrapped in tissue paper and unwrapped it.

            – We weren’t exactly sure if you’d like this and we’re not going to insist that you wear it but at least you have the choice.

She handed over an officer’s cap with a high front and patent leather visor. Stuart grinned and took it by the brim, lifted it onto his head and pushed it on more firmly. The visor cut off his vision letting him see only directly ahead and below eye‑level. Ms White looked at him with an expression of satisfaction and pride.

            – Let me look at you.

 

Stuart turned to face her and put his hooks behind his back. Ms White took out her phone and took several shots of the smiling security guard peering out from below his severe authoritative cap. She reviewed the pictures and showed them one by one to Stuart who hardly recognised himself. The photos showed an impressive man, someone with authority and self‑assurance. With the other events that week, Stuart felt that his life was as perfect as it could ever be. He had achieved a new professional status, that of a quadruple amputee security guard, he had been awarded a huge sum of money to compensate for his artificial foot and two hooks and he was about to move from his childhood home in Harlesden to Uxbridge to share a new life with a new friend who worshipped him. Ms White produced a print‑out of Stuart’s schedule for the following three week period, which, she explained, could be regarded as semi‑permanent. It reflected a system which had been worked out with the security company and the guard who would substitute for Stuart when he was absent.

            – It’s a fairly easy‑to‑remember routine. You’ll be working the night shift Sundays and Mondays with Tuesday off, then Wednesdays and Thursdays again, with Friday and Saturday off. Does that sound like something you could manage?

            – It’s perfect. Thank you.

            – We’re more than glad to have you, Stuart. Before you change, why don’t you go and see some of your friends? I’m sure they’d love to see you in your uniform.

 

He did. He called on four of the residents, all of whom were delighted to see him again and to hear that he would be taking over from Paul from Sunday evening. When he had changed back into his street clothes and hung his uniform in the small changing room, he stood for a moment contemplating his good luck. He knew what he wanted to do next and sent Ross a text message suggesting that they spend Saturday together in Uxbridge because there were one or two things Stuart wanted to tell him.

 

THE NIGHT PORTER