DOPPELGANGERS

 

DOPPELGANGERS

 

Fiction by strzeka (12/23-01/24)

Dedicated to sabotq

 

It was inevitable that the two men would eventually encounter each other. Jules Cage was swinging his way back from the boarding lounge near the gate at Charles de Gaulle airport. He noticed another figure, similarly encumbered, approaching him behind a large Middle Eastern family. The bald head and full beard were common enough but the figure also wore a black eyepatch over his left eye. It was like seeing himself in a mirror. Cage was shocked and stopped. He leaned on his crutches while the family passed him, the children pointing and commenting to each other about Cage’s artificial legs which he was proud to display publicly. He watched to see when the stranger, now only five metres away, might notice him. The stranger halted briefly, his rhythm spoiled by the children’s excitement, and looked to see what they were commenting on. He understood enough Arabic to recognise the words “man’s legs”. Standing to his left, looking at him, was his doppelganger. A man who looked so much like himself that they could have been identical twins. Ah, his eyepatch was over the other eye. The stranger waited for the family to advance before speaking but Cage spoke first.

            – If you are going to Gate Ninety, I can tell you that the flight is delayed.

            – Oh! Have you just been there? Did they give a reason?

            – Yes. The plane arrived late and they estimate a two hour delay before boarding.

            – Oh, that’s a nuisance.

            – And to make matters worse, all the seats in the lounge are taken. I’m going to the First Class lounge for a martini and a smoke. Would you like to join me?

            – I don’t think they’d let me in. I’m travelling economy.

            – Don’t worry about that. I’m entitled to bring a guest. Do join me.

The doppelganger heaved his rigid legs around and gripped his crutches more purposefully.

            – I’d be delighted. Thank you so much. Lead the way!

 

Cage thrust his right artificial leg forward simultaneously with his long wooden crutches and swung into action. The doppelganger lifted both legs together, gradually achieving a pleasing cadence alternating between swinging his crutches forward and lifting his legs to follow. They walked abreast, carefully placing the tips of their crutches so as not to interfere with the other’s progress.

            – I’m Jules Cage, by the way. Who are you?

            – Aaron Byrd with a Y. Ha! I always say “with a Y”. It might as well be part of my surname.

            – Where are you off to?

            – Well, Dubai on this flight, obviously. But my final destination is Perth, Australia.

Cage halted his progress and twisted around to look at Byrd. Their single eyes stared into each other.

            – You’re not by any chance going to visit Gregory McPherson, are you?

            – Good god above! How do you know him?

            – He did my amputations for me. I just wondered if you were after the same.

Byrd turned to resume crutching. He was about to divulge something which he would never tell his own family. They knew well enough that he had never recovered use of his legs after a road accident during the pandemic, necessitating his use of long steel and leather leg braces and the omnipresent wooden crutches.

            – This is incredible. It’s like something from the Twilight Zone. Yes, I have an appointment with McPherson in two weeks time.

            – I thought as much. You won’t believe this but that’s why I’m headed there too. Osseointegration. These puppies are good but I tire of the upkeep.

 

He jerked his beard in the direction of his puppies, his custom‑made artificial legs, criss‑crossed with latticework over steel pylons and decorated with long aluminium tubes along his artificial shins. The mechanical knees were hidden behind dark red leather knee caps. Cage was capable of walking without crutches but preferred to be seen as a crutch user. His long wooden crutches were an old‑fashioned nod back to a simpler time when invalids were more restricted in their choice of mobility aids. Cage admired their tenacity and the look of crippled men, otherwise virile and capable, heaving useless braced legs or recalcitrant wooden legs on traditional wooden axillary crutches. They represented an expression of masculinity which he wished to emulate and he intended relying on both prostheses of wondrous designs and old‑fashioned crutches for the rest of his life. They approached the First Class lounge and Cage pressed the door release to open the sliding door.

 

            – Bienvenue, messieurs! Vous avez vos cartes d’embarquement?

They showed their boarding cards.

            – This gentleman is here as my guest.

            – Of course, monsieur. Please, the lounge is yours.

            – Merci, monsieur.

 

They surveilled their surroundings. A suitable corner table was available with room around them to spread their crutches and nonconforming legs.

            – Let’s sit over there. What would you like to drink? Martini? I find a martini a suitable aperitif before a flight.

            – Sounds perfect.

They manoeuvred themselves into positions from which they could lower themselves into two wide leather armchairs facing each other over a low table. Both lowered their crutches and dropped them to the floor and held out their hands to take the weight as they dropped into the chairs. Cage rearranged his prostheses and Byrd unlocked his knees to allow his legs to bend. His heavily booted feet pointed skyward. A server was at their side almost immediately, an elegantly coiffeured blonde hostess direct from the golden age of aviation in the Sixties, before the general public travelled by air. She smiled a genuine smile of welcome and asked what the gentlemen might like. She departed with their order. Byrd stared at Cage.

            – It’s quite remarkable. I wonder if we would still look the same without beards and with hair.

            – I was thinking the same but when you take into account our other shortcomings, I begin to doubt it. Have you heard of doppelgangers? People who are the exact body doubles of each other? I suspect we would look very much the same. Of course, there is always the fact that you have legs and I am legless.

            – Not for long. Why do you think I am going to Perth?

            – No! Really? You’re having your legs off?

            – Well, they’re no use to me. I might as well be rid of them and have a decent pair of prossies. I love the look of yours.

            – Yes, these ones are especially useful when I travel. Do you smoke? Would you like a cigar? We have plenty of time to do a cigar justice.

            – Actually, I’m a pipe man myself but I do enjoy a cigar occasionally.

            – The occasion is now.

 

Cage gripped one of the aluminium tubes on his artificial legs and twisted it until it detached. He shook it gently and a long cigar slid out. Cage placed it on the table and screwed the aluminium tube back into his leg prosthesis. He took his cigar cutter from a jacket pocket and pulled out a short thin blade. He sliced the cigar halfway along its length and use the cutter to clip the ends. He handed one half to Byrd and fitted the other between his teeth. He returned the cutter to his pocket and took out a butane lighter, using its fierce flame to scorch and ignite the tobacco. He sucked and puffed and Byrd admired how manly Cage looked with the thick cigar in his surprisingly familiar face. He knew he would cut a similar impression. Cage handed him the lighter and with his own cigar soon clenched between his teeth, he grinned back at Cage, almost overcome by the situation in which he found himself. Any uncertainty about the reason for his journey dissipated in the swirls of aromatic smoke, whisked away by the powerful extraction fans whirring silently above them. The legless man, his body double with artificial legs concealing large cigars, confirmed in Byrd’s mind that his imminent voluntary amputations in the care of the only Australian surgeon who undertook osseointegration procedures was entirely the correct thing to do. Thereafter, the doppelgangers would resemble each other even more perfectly. They would both be legless with muscular stumps and free to wear artificial legs of outlandish designs, always supported by their trustworthy crutches. The server brought their drinks and left silently.

 

            – Well, cheers. Your very good health. Are you having legs made in Oz?

            – It depends on their timetable. I’m prepared to return in a wheelchair until the osseo heals properly. I’ve used a chair before so it doesn’t pose any great problem for me. I can carry on working from a chair anyway, see?

            – What work do you do, Aaron?

            – I’m an art director in a media office. We have a few regular customers who rely on us for magazine layouts and that sort of thing. But it varies from font design to surreptitious photoshopping of crowsfeet.

            – That sounds interesting. I’m an importer. I import these.

He gestured with his cigar and slapped his tubular shin.

            – Cigars mainly. I have a very lucrative business with a middleman in the Dominican Republic who specialises in these over‑large cigars. The bigger the better for the sort of clientele I cater for. Mainly the sort of daddy figures who appreciate size over all other aspects.

            – Are these Dominican or do they have a connection in Cuba?

            – Ah! The less said about that, the better. I don’t know for sure but I have my suspicions. Let’s say that the price I get them for suggests that the producers are content with very small compensation. I jack the prices up to reflect the cigars’ exclusivity and everyone is happy. It’s what allows me to indulge my hobby.

            – And what’s that?

            – Artificial limbs, Aaron. The more the merrier. I have a guy, some kind of freelance artist, who works out of a little studio in North London. He’s a devotee, see? He has all kinds of amazing ideas for new designs and I’m only too willing to act as a guinea pig for him.

            – Did he make the legs you’re wearing now?

            – Yup. These are the latest ones.

            – You’ll have to give me his number. I’d like to have something a bit unconventional.

            – Dorian’s your man, in that case. Give me your number now and I’ll forward his details later on.

Cage took a business card from his wallet and handed it to Byrd. It had his home and business addresses, email and telephone. The reverse showed Cage without his eyepatch clenching a very large cigar.

 

They sipped their martinis and sucked sweet smoke. They talked about where they lived now, where they had grown up, what they had done at uni and how they had become disabled.

            – So you’ve worn leg braces for many years?

            – Yup. I can walk perfectly well with a walking stick but I prefer these old‑style wooden crutches. They look more assertive than a walking stick and they demand a degree of respect which a disabled man does not always get from the general public. When I heave myself into a meeting on crutches, it automatically makes me the centre of attention and the little adjustments I make to my braces during the meeting keep the other side’s attention on me.

            – That’s a very sneaky thing to do! I’ve never thought of using my stumps for anything like that.

            – Oh, you should! Especially if you turn up wearing legs like those. Don’t pass up on the opportunity to benefit from a bit of stump power.

            – Stump power! Ha! I like that. Sounds like you’ve got the future Aaron all planned.

            – Yes, you’re quite right. I have. At least I hope so. I’ve been after amputations for at least ten years. It’s always been held up by other circumstances but now I’m free to go ahead and have my legs off. I’m sure a pair of prossies will be a lot less trouble than braces, as well as bringing the new experiences which a pair of leg stumps can provide.

            – If you don’t mind me asking, are you a devotee and wannabe?

            – Wannabe for sure, devotee perhaps not so much but if I had a mentor with his own artificial legs, I might be persuaded.

            – Hmm. I shall have to remember that.

 

They sat back and relaxed with their cigars. Their size was such that Aaron’s mouth was held open when his lips were not pursed around the cigar to suck on it. Being unused to the sensation, a stream of drool escaped from the corner of his mouth. Jules noticed it and thought how endearing it looked, a full grown man asserting himself on crutches and soon to boast two stumps drooling like a toddler. If he had any choice in the matter, he would teach Aaron how to clench a big cigar for maximum effect. He had a regular abundant supply of even larger cigars which were difficult to enjoy without removal of the smoker’s teeth. Many men preferred to wear dentures for the opportunity to stuff a one‑three‑five between naked gums. Jules had trained himself over many years to open his mouth wide enough to accept huge cigars. He fondled his stumps with such a cigar in his mouth and succeeded in inducing orgasm every single time. The jingle preceding an announcement broke his reverie.

            – Air Dubai announces the departure of flight AF91 to Dubai. Priority passengers are invited to Gate Ninety.

            – That’s us. Finish your drink if you want. There won’t be much to drink in Dubai.

            – No. I suppose not.

They left their half‑smoked cigars to burn themselves out in the large glass ashtray. They lifted their crutches from the floor and pushed themselves up onto their braces and prostheses, using the crutches for support, dragging their feet under them to support their weight. With delicate positioning of ferrules, they eased their way to the exit and out into the main concourse, swinging themselves in tandem to the departure gate.

            – I don’t suppose we’ll be able to chat before we arrive in Dubai. Wait for me somewhere where I can find you. We have a while to wait before the Qantas flight.

            – Will do.

 

There were few other disabled priority passengers. An obese woman overflowing her wheelchair, a middle‑aged couple with a son on crutches sporting a long leg cast. Cage and Byrd presented their documents and were directed towards the air bridge and the waiting plane. Cage was seated in the first available First Class seat and his crutches were stowed overhead. Byrd was offered the aisle seat in the row of seats over the wing where there was considerably more leg room and easier access. The steward took his crutches to a storage cupboard at the rear of the plane. He was shortly joined by the teenager with the cast and his parents. The father nodded a greeting and sat next to him. The boy slouched in the window seat, extending his cast as far as he could. Byrd knew the youngster was in for an uncomfortable ride and was pleased to have knee joints in his braces. On the return trip, his leglessness would allow him to sit comfortably in the most tightly configured seating. What was he going to do with his braces? It was a problem for a later date.

 

Due to the lateness of departure, the other passengers were hurried aboard. The crew encouraged people to take their seats quickly and to stay in them. The cabin was sealed, the steward made announcements in three languages and demonstrated the emergency equipment. Thirty minutes later, the huge Airbus took to the sky for its seven hour journey to midnight in Dubai.

 

Byrd managed to exchange a few words with his fellow invalid when the father went to relieve himself. The family was French, Parisian, and the kid had broken his leg showing off on his skateboard outside the Louvre, which was a popular place for skaters after the museum closed because skating was strictly forbidden there. He was interested to see Byrd’s steel and leather braces and wondered if he might need something similar. His comment on dit genou was not healing after four months. Byrd said a steel leg brace would be very useful and he should talk to the hospital about getting one. The father returned and the conversation ended.

 

The lighting was subdued. Many passengers slept or napped. The connecting flight to Sydney was due to depart just before six in the morning. Byrd hoped to deepen his acquaintance with Jules Cage in the dark hours. Neither of them would dare to sleep and risk oversleeping, but one might nap while the other kept watch, assuming Dubai airport was the kind of environment where sleep was even possible. Another four hours.

 

Cage had been joined in First Class by a Dubai citizen who wore bilateral artificial hands. Perhaps the airline had a policy of seating disabled passengers together. With nothing in common except their differing disability, it took over an hour before they introduced themselves, the conversation turning naturally enough to their prosthetic limbs. Cage learned that until very recently, the disabled were derided in Arab societies, their limblessness being seen as punishment by Allah. But these days, attitudes were much more accepting and it was rare to meet with disgust when the prosthetic arms were noticed. Cage immediately felt discomfort at intentionally wearing shorts for the journey. He was proud of his stumps and his artificial legs and since meeting Dorian, he had exposed his unique prostheses in public at every opportunity. He could walk on them perfectly well without support but had taken advantage of his genuine disability to use axillary crutches on a permanent basis. These days he simply balanced on them and swung his prostheses in front of him. It was the unnatural cadence which had caught his attention as Byrd approached him at Charles de Gaulle.

 

Cage and Byrd were awoken by another trilingual announcement that their descent had begun and their landing was twenty minutes away. Outside was nothing but darkness. At the very last minute and announced by changes in the sound of the engines, lights were suddenly visible outside which quickly grew into street lights and the glow of an airport. They touched down at twenty minutes past midnight and forty minutes later, the disabled passengers were allowed to exit the aircraft and wished a welcome to Dubai.

 

Cage stood halfway along the air bridge waiting for Byrd. His acquaintance with the am prostheses had been allowed to leave with the full‑bodied passengers. Byrd swung himself up the slanting ramp with a little difficulty, followed by the Parisian family.

            – Did you have a good flight? It was awful, wasn’t it?

            – The first half was OK. The second half was torture although I think I managed to sleep for a few minutes. We have five hours or so. What shall we do?

            – Let’s get some coffee somewhere.

            – I’m with you.

 

The airport was gloriously cool. There were few people walking around, although the waiting areas seemed full of people waiting for morning flights in sleeping bags or huddled together for warmth. Cage wanted coffee and Byrd pointed towards a sign in Arabic.

            – Let’s go over there. There’s a terrace and you can have a smoke.

            – Can you read that?

            – Yup. I read Middle Eastern studies at uni and picked up some Arabic.

            – Wow! You are full of surprises.

They heaved themselves in unison to an automatic door which opened to admit them to a well‑lit terrace overlooking the runways. They found a table at the edge, manoeuvred their legs into position and sat on plush chairs surrounding a round table. A waiter appeared as if by magic.

            – Good morning, sirs. May I bring you coffee?

            – Good morning. Yes, two rich dark coffees in the Dubai style, please.

The boy left and Cage leaned to remove two aluminium cylinders from his prosthesis.

            – Ready for a smoke?

            – I’d love to. Thanks very much.

 

Cage clipped the ends from two fat cigars and offered the first to Byrd who waited before lifting it to his mouth. Cage offered him the lighter and he sucked life into the cigar, its aroma spreading gradually around them. Cage lit his own cigar, clenching it at an erotic angle, a foot long phallic symbol surrounded by his luscious black moustache and full beard. Byrd repositioned his cigar to attain the same effect. The waiter returned with their coffees and could only deplore the cripples’ audacity. In his community, cripples would hide themselves away through shame. The infidels saw it fit to expose their useless limbs and flaunt with tobacco. He bowed and left them.

 

They settled back into their chairs anticipating a long wait before their flight was called. They would be amongst the first to board again. This time, the doppelgangers were travelling in the same class. It might be possible to sit together during the fourteen hour journey to Sydney.

            – I was wondering, Aaron. What’s the reason for your eye patch? You don’t mind me asking, do you?

            – No, of course not. It’s because of defective vision in my eye. There’s astigmatism and severe myopia for a start and I find it better to block all vision rather than have it interfering with sight in the other eye.

            – Perfectly understandable. It might sound conceited but I think the patch completes your look. The big beard and bald head always look great together, I think, and the patch gives it that extra something. As for me, I have an empty socket.

            – Oh! What happened?

            – I had a blastoma when I was little. Cancer of the eyeball. They whipped it out to prevent it spreading to the other eye, which it can do sometimes. I had an eye patch as a young kid and got my first glass eye when I went to secondary school. Wore it for ten years and swapped back to an empty socket with eye patch in uni. It’s a lot less bother and I like the look.

            – Not wishing to sound conceited, I think you look great with it, too.

            – Haha! I have quite a collection. Big, small, black, brown, but always full leather.

            – Same here. There are some nice designs around if you know where to look.

            – Same goes for my legs. I have three pairs of prossies, and I think I’m going to ask my man Dorian to rustle up a new pair. I’m thinking of something steampunky, you know, extra pipes and tubes and dials on them. They needn’t even match. I like being legless and it gives me the opportunity to peacock a little. It’s something normal men can’t do and I know I get admiring glances.

            – I’m not surprised. I haven’t given the design much thought. I guess I’ll have returned home before my new stumps are up to being fitted with prostheses.

            – Are you going to be able to cope in the interim from a wheelchair?

            – I won’t have a lot of choice in the matter. Like I said, I’ve used a wheelchair before and know all the tricks. It is inconvenient, but if what they say about osseointegration is true, I’ll be up and running in three months and it should be plain sailing from then on. I’ll be able to have outlandish artificial legs like yours.

            – You should get in touch with Dorian and work out some designs together. I’m sure you’d get on with him. He seems to regard the prostheses he makes as personal works of art as much as practical equipment for his amputee customers.

            – I’ll definitely get in touch with him. I dare say my first pair will simply be two pylons connected at the knee. That looks fairly stunning too, I think.

            – It does. My first pair were exoskeletal, painted that horrible fleshy colour. They work fine but I don’t like the appearance.

            – Do you always wear shorts?

            .. Yup. Winter and summer, it’s all the same to a legless man.

            – How did you lose your legs, Jules?

            – I paid a surgeon. That’s all there is to it.

            – You wanted to be a DAK and found someone to do it for you.

            – Yup. There was nothing wrong with my legs but the official explanation is a recurrence of cancer, this time in my shin bones. Amputation was the only way to save my life, you see. In actual fact, it was the only way to start my life.

            – How old were you?

            – Twenty‑four.

            – So you’ve been on prossies for…

            – Ten years, almost to the day. And now I’m going back to the scene of the crime to have my stumps sliced open once again.

            – Ouch! Are artificial legs such a bitch to wear?

            – Well, I love the long smooth sockets on my stumps and I love the hard surface but wearing prossies means a lot of washing and cleaning and it can get tiresome.

            – In that case, I’m glad to be getting them right at the outset.

            – You’re doing the right thing, Aaron, believe me. After dragging those braces around for ten years, you’ll love the freedom of a pair of stumps.

 

Boarding started. Cage and Byrd were shown to their allocated seats, five rows apart. They were both assured that they would be reassigned new adjacent seats after everyone was aboard, if possible. An hour later, as the sun appeared over the horizon, the huge plane lifted into the sky and began its marathon fourteen hour flight to Sydney. With the assistance of the steward, Byrd gratefully exchanged seats with a Singaporean woman and sat in the opposing aisle seat next to Cage. Cage had already settled for the long flight by removing his artificial legs, which stood in front of his seat. His stumps, still in liners, were mostly hidden by his shorts. They spoke little, being tired and in need of sleep. Both of them managed to close their eyes for twenty minute intervals.

 

It was difficult to converse about personal matters during the flight. There was no privacy to discuss upcoming surgical treatment or prosthetic limbs. But the presence of the other was reassuring. As the hours passed in increasing desperation to avoid tedium, the prospect of finally arriving in Australia grew ever more attractive. Byrd was due to meet a long‑time correspondent in Sydney and to spend three days as his guest before continuing his journey westward. Cage intended to overnight in an airport hotel before flying to Perth the next day.

 

Ten days later, Byrd arrived in Perth on the Indian Pacific train, after spending three nights aboard and two thousand Australian dollars for the privilege. It was a journey he wanted to experience and was happy to cross it off his bucket list. He was relaxed and happy to finally arrive at his destination where he would lose his legs in order to wear prosthetic limbs. He hailed a taxi in front of the station and rode out to the clinic where he hoped to meet Gregory McPherson and his friend Jules.

 

He crutched into the clinic’s reception to register. Patients stayed in private rooms comfortably furnished with a small living space which made the environment less clinical. Meals were served three times a day, healthy meals tailored to patients’ dietary needs by a professional chef. McPherson called by after the evening meal to welcome Byrd and to explain the anticipated schedule in detail.

            – Is Jules Cage still here?

            – Yes, he certainly is. He mentioned that he had met you on the way out. I can see why you might both have caught the other’s attention. It’s quite a remarkable coincidence in many ways. And you will shortly have even more in common.

            – How is he? Is there any chance of seeing him?

            – He’s fine, making a very good recovery. He’s in Room Twelve and you can nip in to see him any time.

            – Great! Thanks. I wanted to ask about having a pair of legs made here. Who would I talk to?

            – You won’t be walking for a couple of months, Aaron. Our patients who undergo the osseointegration procedure leave in wheelchairs almost exclusively. A simple but efficient model is included in the price, as you must know. You will be given one pair of connectors which any prosthetist can fix to the pylon of a prosthetic leg, so I suggest you wait until you’re back home before being fitted with a new pair of legs.

            – Is it possible to get extra connectors?

            – Of course it is. I’d recommend returning with four, so you could have two pairs of legs. Ordinary artificial legs and a pair of running blades, for example. It’s not difficult to move the connectors to another set of legs but it’s a job best left to a prosthetist.

            – I see. Well, thank you for the info.

            – You’re welcome. Just two more days, Aaron, and you’ll be a new man.

            – I look forward to it.

 

Byrd rocked along to Cage’s room shortly after McPherson left. He walked stiff‑legged without crutches. He knocked on the door and Jules’ voice called out. Byrd entered and saw Jules in a wheelchair, wearing a T‑shirt and shorts. His naked stumps were swollen but a healthy colour. Two metal fittings poked out of the stumps.

            – Great to see you, mate. Did you have a good journey? Was it what you expected?

            – It was brilliant. Absolute luxury the whole way. I met some really interesting people and the staff were always ready to do anything for you. I missed you, though. I’d have loved to have someone to share the experience with.

            – That’s nice of you to say so. I’ve missed you, too. There are a couple of other patients here about our age but there’s a bit of a language barrier.

            – Too bad. But we can be together until you’re discharged.

            – Yup. About ten days, if everything goes well.

 

McPherson invited Byrd for a consultation the next morning. The surgeon was surprised to see Byrd walking on rigid kafos without crutches.

            – You seem to be quite well adapted to your callipers. Ordinarily I would suggest that amputation is unnecessary in a case such as yours.

Alarm bells started in Byrd’s mind. Was McPherson hinting at a refusal?

            – As I understand it, your injuries were due to a road accident. I want you to be honest with me now. Have you ever exaggerated your injuries in order to acquire orthotic equipment which you might not otherwise need? I am thinking of your crutches, for example. You could manage perfectly well without them. Maybe just a cane would be enough for a young man such as yourself.

Byrd thought back to how he had felt after his legs were freed from the long walking casts he had worn for nearly three months after his injuries. He had loved the disability, the difficulty on stairs, the weight of his useless legs, the unnatural gait. He had learned an elegant way of using his axillary crutches and had become as fond of them as he was reliant on them.

            – It’s true. I did exaggerate my symptoms after the casts came off. I was in physical therapy trying to get movement and strength back and although I improved, I stopped trying in the hope that I’d be prescribed some kind of leg brace. I wanted to continue to be seen as some kind of cripple, you see. I wanted to stand out from my peers somehow and I’m sure wearing two leg casts had made me more popular.

            – An unusual centre of attention.

            – Yes, the centre of attention. So when the therapist started making comments about a slow recovery and general weakness in my legs, I thought I’d play along to it and get what I could out of the situation. I’d have been satisfied if my legs were simply recasted. I loved the rigidity.

            – Did you find it sexually arousing?

            – Er, yeah. I did.

            – Don’t be embarrassed. It’s quite common. Go on. What happened then?

            – Well, I knew all about afos and kafos and hkafos, of course. I didn’t think I could get away with hkafos—there was nothing wrong with my hips, but I remember pointing out that the leg casts had made me feel secure and able to use my legs without pain, which I had felt since they were removed. And the therapist suggested I might benefit from leg braces during some kind of transitional period. So I got a pair of thermoplastic braces which enveloped my thighs and calves and were inserted into my shoes. They were useful in their own way but nothing like the steel and leather braces I’d expected and after several weeks, I mentioned that they felt pliable and that I didn’t trust them. I brought up the steel brace alternative and to my surprise, the therapist agreed. I had a pair of steel and black leather braces made for me and a pair of orthopaedic boots with rounded soles like on walking casts and I walked out on a brand new pair of wooden crutches. And that’s how I’ve got around ever since.

            – I assume the braces you’re wearing now are not the original pair?

            – No, these are the third pair. You can see the amount of leather on them is just about as much as can fit. I still have the original boots but this second pair is better. They are completely rigid. I have no foot movement whatsoever wearing these.

            – You enjoy the rigidity. Very well, I understand your mentality. From a prosthetist’s viewpoint, you’ve already succeeded in achieving the status of a bilateral above‑knee amputee. You use only your hip joints to walk, with the additional benefit that your knee locks allow you to sit. I would say that amputations will not significantly change your quality of life as far as ambulation is concerned. You will still have two rigid legs and unbending feet and I suspect that you’ll continue to show your artificial legs off to all and sundry. I want you to describe the kind of amputations you want.

            – I’ve given it a lot of thought and the way I see myself is as a man with the ability to walk on very short pegs or stubbies. If I could have pylons on the osseo fittings which give me a leg length of about twenty centimetres, that would be perfect. And I’d be able to wear longer pylons or even full‑length artificial legs with crutches.

            – You intend using crutches even after osseointegration?

            – Yes, of course. The crutches are so much part of my personality and identity that I feel naked even here and now without them.

            – I understand. It’s a little surprising. Most men want the procedure in order to walk better on short stumps using conventional prostheses. You want the procedure to enable you to walk on very short prostheses. Peg legs, did you say? You’d learn to walk on short peg legs?

            – I hope so. It’s possible, isn’t it?

            – Oh yes, perfectly possible. Short pylons would be integral extensions of your femurs. I know of another patient who has continued to wear training stubbies five years after his operation—short pylons with small square feet. But back to you. Based on what you’ve told me, I would suggest that if I were to trim your femurs to a third the length of your natural thighs, you’d be extremely short on pegs and your normal height with crutches. If you insist on short stumps, you’ll not have a great amount of torque available to power a full set of legs for any length of time. It’ll be fatiguing to operate long prostheses for more than half an hour. But as you intend now to continue using crutches, I see no reason not to amputate quite high up to give you short thigh stumps. What do you think?

            – I think short stumps are the way to go for what I want. I know stumps as short as that make fitting normal artificial legs a bit of a problem because the sockets are so short but the osseo makes sockets redundant.

            – It does indeed. Well, Aaron. You have thirty‑six hours to change your mind, otherwise I will go ahead with preparations to give you stumps about twelve centimetres long plus the osseointegration fittings. By the way, you’ve been talking to Jules Cage, haven’t you? How is he bearing up, do you think?

            – He’s fine. Very pleased with his new look stumps and he says that apart from a dull ache, there’s very little pain.

            – Good. That’s what he’s told me too but it’s good to get a second opinion.

 

Byrd pushed himself upright and balanced on his rigid boots and kafos. He left and returned to Room Twelve.

            – What was that all about?

            – He just wanted to make sure that I genuinely want to lose my legs, which he said work pretty well all things considered. And we talked about stump length and various adaptations available with the osseo.

            – Yeah. I had a similar talk with him beforehand too, not about amputation of course, but about how various kinds of alternatives would be possible for me.

            – I was thinking about how I’m going to get my leg braces and crutches home. I don’t see how I can take them with me if I’m in a wheelchair for the next three months or whatever.

            – Don’t worry about it. You can put them in the same package as mine. I’ve already arranged to have my stuff wrapped up and shipped out by the clinic. You could tell them to put yours in the same package. I bet that would save them a pretty penny on shipping.

            – Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind taking care of my braces and crutches until I can pick them up?

            – Of course not. They don’t take up much room, do they, and I’ve got tons of space at home.

            – Thanks, Jules. That’s good of you.

            – The least I can do.

The men spent more time together and somehow Byrd avoided revealing the severity of his upcoming amputations. His stumps would be only half the length of Cage’s. They would not become identical, after all. And if Cage adopted long fantastical prosthetic limbs sculpted by his artist friend, Byrd himself could learn to walk on minimalist peg legs, little more than ferrules attached to his osseointegration fitting. Three inch long stubbies with hard plastic feet, swinging his arms for balance, wearing extremely short cut‑off jeans. There would be no chance of them being mistaken for each other once they had rehabilitated.

 

McPherson’s well practised hands made light work of Byrd’s leg amputations. The legs were atrophied after years of encasement in steel leg braces and there was little muscle tissue available to pad the stump. Byrd’s stumps were thin appendages hardly thicker than a wrist, as long as a fist. McPherson pounded the spikes holding the osseointegration connectors deep into the remaining femur stubs and closed the wounds. He thought it advantageous that Byrd had spoken positively of walking on short steel peg legs. The strength in his stumps would not suffice to power conventional prostheses. However, it was of no concern to McPherson. He amputated according to his patient’s wishes and ensured that the osseo procedure succeeded. Voluntary amputees frequently requested amputations which would restrict their mobility and their choice of prosthetic adaptations. It was part of the attraction, so he had read. Applicants wished to be disabled and they not only shed their limbs, they also made artificial limbs a challenge.

 

Byrd was returned to his room unconscious and attended round the clock for the first thirty‑six hours. Painkillers ensured that the immediate recovery was as comfortable as possible. He was allowed no visitors and enquiries about his well‑being from Cage were fended off with simple assurances that everything was fine. However, it was not.

 

Cage was allowed to visit during the evening of the third day. Byrd had asked to see his friend and after a brief inspection, McPherson declared himself satisfied with the patient’s progress and called in on Cage, who had spent an exhausting day in rehab going through unnecessary physical exercises designed for new amputees. Having been legless for a decade and more, Cage was far more agile than his physio trainer expected and they spent most of the time playing an impromptu version of volleyball. The trainer was another man who shaved his head but he shaved everywhere else too. Cage thought it was a pity that a man who would otherwise boast a handsome beard and attractive body hair preferred to remove it, but on the other hand, the trainer thought it odd that full‑bodied men preferred to remove limbs. He was never informed of the patients’ back stories but had been told often enough how difficult it was to balance on a new pair of leg stumps, far more than the patient had expected. It was not difficult to decide which of the amputees learning to balance on short leg stumps were voluntarily legless. The trainer playing volleyball accepted their choice. He himself wanted to be deaf and had squirted instant glue into his ear canals several times before he landed his current job. It was effective for a few weeks until the mass loosened and fell out.

 

Jules Cage wheeled himself into Byrd’s room for the first time and stared in horror at his friend strapped into a wheelchair to compensate for his shockingly short stumps.

            – Jesus Christ! What have they done to you? Is that what you asked for? Aaron, you hardly have any stumps left.

            – Don’t worry about it, Jules. Thanks for coming by. How are you doing?

            – Never mind about me. How are you going to walk on those?

            – I thought I’d have a pair of short peg legs and short crutches. Just lift myself around like I have done up until now.

            – Oh god. It looks like you’re going to have to. Is that really what you wanted? I thought you’d have stumps like mine.

            – You want to use artificial legs, don’t you? And you have muscular thighs which can handle the weight. My stumps are just enough to attach little stubbies to, or peg legs about a foot long at most. Don’t worry, Jules mate. This is what I wanted. It’s the way I want to be, a legless man on crutches, dragging a pair of tiny peg legs along for the ride.

Cage was too shocked to stay. He wished his friend well and returned to his room to prepare for departure.

 

Cage was informed that he could leave any time convenient to him. The wheelchair he had used for the previous three weeks was now his and he should have both his and Byrd’s prosthetic legs and crutches soon after he arrived home. He assured McPherson that he understood the regime of upkeep which his osseos required and promised to be in contact if there were any signs of irritation with the skin to titanium interface. He spent a couple of hours reassuring his friend Aaron that they would meet again soon in London and departed for the long journey, initially to Perth airport for a connecting flight from Sydney. Byrd was now in the initial stages of learning how to live as a man with weak, minimal stumps. The trainer was concerned that Byrd’s musculature was too atrophied to allow him to even sit for any length of time. His pathetic stumps were too short and too thin to allow him the same freedom of movement available to other recent bilateral amputees.

 

As a result of his poor progress in rehab, his wheelchair was equipped with Velcro straps which held him in his chair at chest and lap level. Byrd explained to the trainer that his goal was to walk on short peg legs, mere extensions of his femurs, but the trainer was confused by Byrd’s situation. He could explain that even short peg legs would require considerably more power to walk on than Byrd seemed to have available and that crutches would always be a necessary accompaniment wherever Byrd went. Byrd assured the trainer that crutches presented no problems whatsoever. He was prepared to walk on minuscule pegs with short crutches and on long prosthetic legs relying on axillary crutches for support. He mentioned his friend’s Jules Cage’s acquaintance who made unconventional artificial limbs and explained how he envisioned wearing a lightweight pair of artificial legs and manoeuvring himself on his crutches, exactly as he had done for the past few years. The trainer was relieved to know that Byrd would not be disappointed by the lack of advantages which the osseo procedure was designed to provide those with stumps too short for conventional prostheses. The man had walked in on crutches and in a few short months would be back on crutches, a metre shorter in stature. It was a difficult situation to understand.

 

Byrd learned spreading his stumps was the best way to sit. It gave him a wider base to rest on. Several times he toppled forwards, his stumps too short and too weak to hold him upright. The trainer designed a series of exercises to strengthen his remaining muscles but there was little muscle tissue to strengthen. Byrd was going to wear lightweight prosthetic legs which were of little practical use, relying on his crutches for mobility, or on a wheelchair into which he would need to be strapped for balance. Byrd himself realised these shortcomings and masturbated himself to orgasm at the mere thought of being so completely disabled with such radically useless stumps. A half‑man with a metal undercarriage.

 

Jules Cage allowed himself two days to recover at home. He was not only fatigued from the marathon journey, there was also maximal jet‑lag and the contrast between Perth’s sunshine and North London’s damp cloud cover to contend with. A notification from the courier company assured him that a seventeen kilo package from Perth had been cleared by customs and was awaiting collection by a delivery company. Cage was initially amused by the novelty of using a wheelchair in his apartment. There was ample room to wheel around. He had a section of a loft in a former printing house near Hackney Central station. He had forty‑five square metres of space and four metres of height. If he ever found a partner, he could have a second floor deck added. His leglessness had discouraged him from building a vertical extension until now.

 

McPherson had warned him against placing pressure on his stumps while the osseo was healing. He should expect to be in a wheelchair for the next ten weeks and should find a medical centre where his femurs could be monitored. It would also be advantageous to find a prosthetist with experience of catering to patients with osseointegration. Cage heard the advice but decided not to bother unless there was an obvious problem. Medical treatment was expensive and time‑consuming, and once the new connectors had arrived, it would be a simple job for any prosthetist to assemble the minimalist artificial legs Cage intended wearing. Two pylons with a basic mechanical knee joint and a rigid ankle with a rubber foot. Striding along on his long crutches, his legs would play no rôle more significant than mere support. He would contact Dorian when he had new legs and they could talk about ways to customise the lower pylons. The aluminium tubes for his clandestine cigars had been a great success and something very similar might be useful. Ordinarily it was difficult to walk around carrying a large cigar or two but they were perfectly well suited to transporting alongside the pylons of artificial legs.

 

Aaron Byrd was learning the shortcomings of his much truncated body. He was aware of the weakness of his pelvic muscles and his glutes after relying solely on his upper body to lift his heavy leg braces and orthopaedic boots around. He looked down at his lap and experienced yet again the surprise of seeing no legs. Even his stumps were almost hidden. The metallic studs poking out of them looked alien but they would allow him to attach a wide variety of artificial legs and prosthetic devices on which he could rest his torso as he crutched about. He fantasised about having Jules’s friend Dorian making him a device shaped like a wishbone. It would bolt onto his osseos and meld into one central peg leg. A selection of pylons of different lengths would allow him to be as tall as he liked, his stumps held immovable by the peg. The more he thought about it, the more attractive the vision seemed. With four connectors awaiting him back in London, it would be a simple job for any prosthetist to construct his wishbone and two minimal pylons with big rubber ferrules. He might even learn to totter around on them without crutches but even if he did need crutches, it would be no disadvantage. Crutches were such a strong visual statement of disability and part of his image. Two short crutches and two short peg legs were as exciting a prospect as his long peg leg.

 

His rehab trainer had never met a man who had compromised himself as seriously as Byrd nor had he worked with anyone whose attitude to his almost complete leglessness was so optimistic and positive. He had initially been anxious about the man’s obvious difficulties but after a few days, he realised that Byrd saw no drawbacks to heaving himself about with his muscular arms on specially adapted crutches and short stubbies. Their sessions together became less fraught and the two men began to enjoy each other’s company. Most of the rehab patients were considerably more apprehensive, insecure about their personal potential to benefit from the unconventional new procedure they had undergone. Three weeks after the amputations, McPherson decreed satisfaction with Byrd’s recovery and suggested that Byrd could leave the facility at his convenience. Byrd spent the rest of the day researching the best route back, choosing the same route which Cage had recently travelled. Perth to Sydney, Sydney to Paris, Paris to London. Transits of many hours, the advantage being that delays of an hour here or there would be of no consequence. He booked and paid for travel documents, and the following morning wheeled himself to a local Perth taxicab to begin the long trek home.

 

He was befriended on the long flight from Sydney by a short muscular blond steward whose eyes had widened as Byrd rolled onto the plane and his leglessness became apparent. Byrd was seated at the very rear of the plane, the only passenger in a row of three seats, with his wheelchair stashed in a storage cupboard immediately behind him. The steward, who said his name was Baz and whose badge announced Barry Brown, attended him closely without drawing notice. Halfway through the flight, Byrd asked for assistance to the toilet. Baz lifted him in his powerful arms and carried him a few meters to the cabin and lowered him onto the toilet seat. He waited outside until Byrd knocked on the door and carried the half man, whose face and luscious beard had already burned their way into his memory. He wanted to hold the torso close for the rest of his life and to make love to the leg stumps, which were about as short as stumps could be. Byrd and Baz locked eyes with each other when Baz returned him to his seat. Both men felt the wash of perfect calm as the first chemicals of love flooded their bodies. Both men wanted the other. Baz returned to work, watched closely by Byrd. The handsome friendly face and masculine figure in a smart uniform were very much to Byrd’s taste.

 

The long flight seemed much shorter now there was someone interesting to follow. Barry Brown was an attentive steward and paid close attention to good‑looking male passengers. But his overbearing fantasy was to have a crippled husband, someone in a wheelchair or an amputee with artificial limbs. He had a strong natural urge to serve and be subservient and the man whose stumps he had already cradled was by far the most arresting figure he had ever seen. The gleaming dome of his skull with the perfectly shaped jet black beard and enigmatic eye patch were almost more than he could believe. As he served drinks and undertook small favours for other passengers, he had only one thought in his mind. But he had no idea if Aaron, that was his name, would be interested in forging a relationship with an Aussie muscle freak from Brisbane. Qantas had a hub at Heathrow and there were several stewards who lived in the UK, ready to take over from their exhausted colleagues on the return flights home. If Aaron showed any interest in him during the remaining hours, he would apply for a transfer to be based in London, if only to be near his idol.

 

He made his way slowly to the back of the plane and smiled at Byrd.

            – Are you comfortable? Warm enough? Would you like a drink? Coffee? Beer? Just tell me if you’d like something.

            – Baz, I want to ask you something. How often do you get to London? I know the flights from Sydney have been cut back to Paris but there are still some flights from Heathrow, aren’t there? I’d love to meet up with you again if you’re in London. Show you around and take you out for a beer.

            – I’d love that. I’d love to see you again. Aaron, I have to say this. I want to be with you. I don’t mean for sex, although that would be a privilege. I mean be with you always, to live life with you, to share what I have with you. I’m sorry. It’s impertinent of me to say things like that.

            – It’s alright, Baz. It’s what I want too. I’ve never met anyone who I’ve felt more certain about. How are we going to manage it, Baz?

            – I’m not sure but I can relocate and if I can’t work for Qantas, there are other airlines. I have to get back to work and then I’ll be away for two hours for a rest but I’ll be back. I love you.

            – I love you.

Barry Brown cupped Byrd’s cheek and ran his hand down the perfect beard. He stood up, straightened his jacket and resumed his profession.

 

In a rare episode of loneliness, Jules Cage took a break from running his business and contacted the very handsome sculptor who had done such a good job on his prostheses in the hope that the man might again pay him a visit for a discussion about the next pair. He sent an invitation for the following Saturday evening, saying that it would be strictly tête‑à‑tête, just the two of them, and he wanted to talk business. Dorian replied eloquently and thanked him for the welcome invitation. Cage had been one of the most enthusiastic amputees he had worked for and Dorian was pleased at the opportunity to meet him again. Cage assumedly knew nothing about Dorian’s maiming.

 

Cage bought a few drinks and finger food from the one local grocery which was genuinely accessible. Most shops were designed so as to pack as much shelf space into the square metres available and were awkward to navigate in a wheelchair. Cage appreciated being able to roll freely and collect most of what he needed without asking for assistance. The sooner Dorian could adapt his latest prostheses with the cylinders, the better. The upper section would have to be renewed but the simplest naked pylon would be more than sufficient. Cage wheeled around his apartment tidying and straightening. He liked Dorian, not only for the man’s skills and imagination but also for his perfect face. He was astonished on opening his door to be confronted with what Dorian had become.

            – Hello, Jules. It’s good to see you again. Thank you for inviting me.

Cage looked in amazement at the bearded face, still handsome but now more mature, and at the steel hooks which Dorian held linked together in front of him. Recovering from his confusion and surprise, Cage wheeled himself back into his flat to make room.

            – Come in, Dorian.

He remained silent while his guest removed his motorcycle jacket and shrugged to resettle his harness. He held his hooks out for inspection.

            – Am I the man you expected, Jules? You obviously haven’t heard.

            – Er, no. I haven’t heard. What on earth happened?

            – I had an accident in my studio. My hands were caught in some machinery and this is the result. Don’t feel bad, Jules. It’s perfectly alright. I’ve had these for almost a year and I can do practically everything with them. Which is just as well because there’s no alternative, is there?

            – No there isn’t. Well, let’s go and sit down. I had a job for you but I don’t know if you’ll want it now.

            – I can sort of guess. It has to you being in a chair, isn’t it? I’ve not seen you in a chair before. What’s happened to you?

            – I’ve just got back home after having my stumps fitted with osseointegration.

            – Oh! Interesting. So I’m guessing you’d like to have your legs altered. Have they met your expectations?

            – They’re perfect. Very useful and they attract just the right amount of attention. Which is to say everyone gawps at them.

            – Ha! Good! That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?

            – It is. I’m still on crutches, of course. They’re part of my identity so I’ll always be mainly reliant on crutches to walk, I reckon.

            – Yes, of course. You use your crutches very expertly. It’s rare to see a man looking elegant on crutches, but you manage to pull it off. I’ve admired you for it many times.

            – You’re kind to say so, Dorian. How about yourself? How have you coped with the stares and comments?

            – If I weren’t proud of my hooks, I’d despair. Everyone wants to know what happened and how I manage. Of course, my friends were mostly worried that I’d not be able to continue working as an artist but it was precisely my art which helped me discover how to use the hooks best. You were wondering if I’d still be able to work on your artificial legs, weren’t you? The answer is most certainly. There are a few things I’m unable to do—I can’t use a screwdriver, for example, not easily anyway, but I have a special pair of hooks specifically designed for things like metal‑working and I’ve already sold some steel mobiles I made for practice.

            – Well, congratulations. I have to say, Dorian, that your artificial arms are a wonderful contrast to the rest of you. Such a handsome figure, always well‑dressed and well‑heeled.

            – And suddenly the perfection is broken with these shocking ugly steel hooks. I know. I find it fascinating to catch myself in a mirror these days. As for the stares—I’ve always been stared at. I don’t look like most other men. I never have. I’m used to it.

            – I like your beard. Is that what they call variegated?

            – All different shades? I suppose it is.

            – It suits you very well. I hope you keep it.

            – I think I will. It make it unnecessary to shave with these.

Dorian lifted his hooks again and looked at them. He still felt tremendous satisfaction in achieving his stumps at such an early age and looked forward with pleasure to the rest of his life with artificial arms and hooks. He could think of no other destiny which would have completed his self‑image better than a pair of body‑operated mechanical hooks and their sleek black sockets.

            – How would you like to put those to use? I want to show you the connectors which fit on my osseos. Just a moment.

 

Cage wheeled himself to his bedroom and picked up a plastic bag containing two identical connectors. One side slotted onto the titanium fitting in his stump, the other accepted any standard diameter pylon. Dorian might want to check the knee on one of his legs. He picked up the right leg and let the bent knee hang over his shoulder.

            – This is what fits onto my stump and the pylon screws into here. Taking into account the length of the parts which attach to the other components, I need sections of pylon exactly fourteen centimetres long to stay the same height.

            – Ah! Thanks for measuring. It’s always the most critical part of making prostheses, expecially for a man like yourself who uses crutches. I assume you have their length adjusted so they are exactly perfect.

            – I do and they are exactly perfect.

The two bearded men grinned at each other. Dorian let the steel connector ring hang from a hook and peered at it closely. If he supplied two sections of pylon, Cage would be able to adapt his prostheses far more easily than Dorian could. As he had already mentioned, using a screwdriver was not one of his fortes. He suggested it to Cage.

            – We could even use the pylons in your present prostheses, Jules, but I don’t think they’d be quite long enough.

            – No, you’re right.

            – So, I was wondering if you’d agree to doing some DIY. If I supply the pylons, you’d be able to assemble your new legs yourself. I may have mentioned the trouble I have using a screwdriver.

            – I understand completely. Yes, I’m sure I could do it. There’s one other matter. I met a man on my travels who has also had the osseo conversion done and he intends walking on peg legs. Short ones which clip into his stumps.

            – That sounds precarious.

            – I know. His stumps are very short, you see, so he can’t use ordinary prosthetics. Anyway, he got me thinking and I was wondering if you’d be interested in making me a pair of peg legs. You can use your imagination. I don’t want them longer than forty centimetres.

            – You’d be quite a bit shorter.

            – I know. That’s alright. I’m interested in the sensation of walking on peg legs.

            – Do you want them steel or wood?

            – Haven’t decided. I thought I’d leave it to you. Make me a pair of peg legs which you’d like to see me wearing! I can’t say fairer than that.

            – Hmm. Alright. Leave it to me.

            – The other thing is that this other man might like you to make his peg legs for him. You’ll enjoy meeting him, I’m sure.

            – Oh? Why’s that?

            – I’d prefer no to say just yet. I want it to be a surprise. It surprised me for sure. I think you’d do well to get in a supply of big rubber ferrules intended for peg legs, though. Alright, what would you like to drink now we have business out of the way?

 

Dorian was not a habitual drinker and was satisfied with three vodkas in as many hours. Cage watched him gesticulating as they talked. He wore his hooks as naturally as his hands, paying them no special attention. Cage had never met a new amputee so accustomed to prostheses after only a year, although those he knew had gained leg stumps, not shed their hands. It was as if Dorian had planned ahead for a time when he had arm stumps.

 

Aaron Byrd was home, continually delighted with the ease with which he could scoot around his apartment on his hands. His stumps played no rôle in his locomotion. He rolled on his backside from back to front, leaned on his hands and heaved his weight forward. It felt good and it looked good. His minuscule stumps healed according to schedule. He enjoyed gripping the titanium rods extruding from his stumps and moving them around, forcing his stumps to follow. His muscular arms allowed him the choice of hand‑walking or scooting around in the wheelchair.

 

During the first week after his return, he was bombarded with text messages from Baz when it was electronically possible. Even after being apart for many days, the idea of being with the other was still as strong as ever in both their minds. Byrd had already resumed work, and had arranged a regime with his co‑workers which would see him individually responsible for the layout of a West Midlands weekly periodical. He sent print‑ready pdf-files to the printing house at midnight every Thursday. His colleagues were happy to have him back after several weeks but none of them yet knew that their friend had lost his legs almost entirely. Only titanium rods below his buttocks were of any use to him now.

 

Cage made contact, first texting to ask when would be convenient to chat. Byrd replied that seven o’clock that evening would be fine. His phone rang at two minutes past.

            – Hi! How are you?

            – I’m fine. Snowed under with work but I’m waiting on some files tonight so I have an hour or two. How are you? Got your legs yet?

            – Yep. I have one pair. All we needed to do was to swap out the thigh pylons. I’m back on crutches but I have to take it easy. Most of the time at home I use the wheelchair but the osseo is healed enough to let me wear my legs again.

            – Great! I do things the other way around. I hand‑walk at home and only use the wheelchair when I go out. I reckon another couple or three weeks and I’ll be all set for a pair of peg legs.

            – That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. My mate Dorian has done some research for me into peg legs because I decided I wanted a pair too. You talked me into it.

            – Oh! That’s great. So what has he come up with?

            – Well, truth to tell, I don’t know yet. I gave him free rein to come up with something and he said yesterday he’s still working on them. I hadn’t heard but in the time between him making my previous pair of legs and now, he’s lost his hands. He uses hooks now.

            – Jesus! And he’s still working?

            – Yup. I have my suspicions about the way he lost his hands. I’ve never seen anyone flash a pair of hooks like Dorian does. It’s like he’s never known anything else.

            – Well, that’s good, isn’t it? After amputations like that, it’s good he can continue.

            – Of course it is. I mentioned you to him and said you’d spoken about getting a pair of peg legs, so I was wondering if you’d be interesting in meeting him to design something together.

            – I suppose I would. I could have the pegs made even if I can’t quite use them just yet. I’ve not decided if I want a tall pair of legs just yet. I’m always going to have trouble sitting and getting up with a long pair.

            – Yeah but you knew that when you asked for your tiny stumps.

            – I know. I wasn’t complaining. I love scooting around on my arse. I’m thinking of having a torso socket made specially.

            – You’d look good like that, Aaron. Just your body and your stumps hidden inside the socket. I don’t know if Dorian could rustle up something like that but you could talk to him about it.

So do you think you could come round one weekend for a chat? You can pick up your boots and braces too.

            – Oh god. I’d forgotten about those. Alright. If you’re free sometime next weekend, I’ll try to make time. It should be OK. I usually keep Saturdays free.

            – Great! I’ll tell Dorian and we can have ourselves an interesting afternoon.

 

Dorian already had the inkling of an idea when he left Cage’s apartment with two osseo‑connectors in his pockets. He had two old wooden dining room chairs in his studio, just waiting for some excuse to recycle them. The backs were florid with nondescript vegetation and the legs were intricately carved, narrowing and widening along their length in an orgy of ornate fluting. They were grotesque. The front legs would make superb peg legs for Jules. Dorian attached his robust work hooks and set to work. He removed the legs and ensured the connector would sit flush with the uppermost fluting. The foot needed material removing so a ferrule would slide on. He sandblasted the wood, removing a century of varnish and polish until the bare wood was pristine. Now he had the choice of different stains to change the colour and after some consideration, chose a medium golden stain which would emulate oak. After the legs dried, he applied high gloss lacquer for waterproofing. Fat black rubber ferrules designed specifically for peg legs completed the feet and Dorian spent considerable time manipulating his hooks in order to fix the osseo‑connectors securely to the top of the pegs. He had invested in a set of screwdrivers and wrenches which worked by pulling on a handle which operated a ratchet. It was still not easy but it enabled Dorian to succeed with patience. The finished peg legs looked simultaneously brand new and extremely vintage. Dorian knew only one man extrovert enough to use bilateral antique peg legs and hoped Jules would be proud to wear them.

 

Dorian also bore in mind the other man’s needs. According to Jules, he had only minimal stumps. It was fairly obvious that pegs like the ones he had just made were out of the question. The man would not have enough strength to operate them. Instead, Dorian envisaged two hemispheres of wood or aluminium which would allow the amputee some height and ease of movement, assuming he walked on crutches like Jules, as apparently he did. Dorian was intrigued to discover what the surprise was which Jules had declined to explain. Was the man a bilateral arm amputee like himself? Of all possible disabilities, it was difficult to think of something which would be a genuine surprise. He checked his handiwork yet again and texted Jules to announce that the peg legs were ready. Jules replied with surprised thanks and an invitation for the day after tomorrow to meet his friend at Jules’s home. It was the ideal way to deliver the pegs and discuss the other man’s needs and desires. Dorian began his search for a wooden sphere about twenty centimetres in diameter.

 

Byrd learned from Baz Brown that there was a slight chance that he could relocate to Qantas’s London base before next summer. It would involve a whole load of paperwork and permissions and visas but the airline would take care of most of it. Baz asked if Aaron would help him find somewhere to live, not far from the airport. Aaron replied that he certainly would not. He wanted the diminutive strong man with him in his own Brent apartment. Perhaps he should not think of Baz as being diminutive. He had his own legs, after all.

            – And you can get to the airport from the Underground station just down the road. It only takes forty minutes. How soon will you know for sure? I want you here now!

Baz was overjoyed at the prospect of living with his torso mate with the manly face and eye patch and healthy muscular legless body. He said he would inform the airline that he already had a place to live in London, which was a big advantage for him.

 

Byrd arrived well before Dorian. Cage opened the door, seated in his wheelchair. Byrd grinned as he wheeled his torso into Cage’s now familiar apartment and spun himself around to watch Cage close the door and return into the hallway.

            – How are you bearing up with your little stumps?

            – Fine. No problems. The throbbing pain I felt has stopped and I’m just counting time until I get my first peg legs.

            – You’re physically ready, are you?

            – Oh yeah. For at least a fortnight now. I’ve not been able to test the osseos, obviously, but there’s nothing which would indicate that there’d be a problem.

            – That’s good to know. Aaron, are you really happy to have lost so much of your legs? Are you OK with stumps as short as that?

            – Yes, I am. I always wanted to lose my legs. I mean, as soon as I found out that I wouldn’t be walking again. The leg braces were OK. They were a sort of halfway measure between having my own legs and having artificial legs. But my legs were just a burden. I was just heaving them around on crutches and although I have some decent guns now to show for it, I’d rather have had amputations and artificial legs than leg braces. As I got older, I decided that very short stumps were what I’d prefer. I’d be able to sit, or wear stubbies or just hand walk. When I heard about osseointegration, I thought it would give me the chance to be rid of my legs and have short peg legs instead, which seemed to me to be the best way for a cripple like me to get around.

 

Cage sat back in his chair and fondled his stumps. Byrd looked at them with interest.

            – I get the impression from the way Dorian creates these unique prosthetic things that he’s an admirer. A devotee. What do you think?

            – I’ve thought the same. I’ve also wondered about how he came to lose his hands. You would expect for an artist, the hands would be something to be protected at all costs. And yet Dorian was not only careless enough to injure himself seriously enough to require amputation, he’s also adapted to using hooks like he’d always had them. He doesn’t show any sign of regret about losing his hands.

            – Do you think he’s a successful wannabe?

            – I think he might be. But don’t ask him about it. It’s none of our business and I don’t want to put him in a difficult position, having to explain himself. I’d like to keep a friendly relationship with him.

            – Absolutely.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

            – That’ll be him now.

Cage put his can of lager onto the coffee table and wheeled himself to the door.

            – Hello Dorian! Welcome. Come in.

            – Ah! Still in your chair. I have something for you.

            – Come and meet my friend Aaron Byrd.

Byrd had spun himself around in his wheelchair to face the hallway and squinted to better see the man whom Jules had described as a second Adonis. Dressed in skin‑tight jeans and an off‑white knitted jerkin, Dorian entered the lounge and halted. A mirror version of Jules looked at him. A legless man without visible stumps. The same gleaming bald head, eye patch and the full carefully tended beard. The same face.

            – Dorian, I’d like you to meet my doppelganger. This is Aaron Byrd.

Byrd held out his hand. Dorian held his stare and raised his right hook.

            – I’m very pleased to meet you, Aaron. This is quite extraordinary.

Both doppelgangers laughed. Jules parked himself facing Aaron.

            – There are drinks in the fridge, Dorian. You know where it is. Help yourself.

            – Thank you. I think I need a drink. Good lord. I never expected this. Jules said there would be a surprise but he never said it would be a shock. Jules, open this for me, will you?

Dorian handed over a can of lager and took the opened can in a standard hook. It crushed the can and he quickly sucked overflowing beer into his mouth. His left arm bore a worker’s hook, longer, stronger, uglier, useless for holding cylinders.

 

            – Aaron—may I call you Aaron?—Jules said you gave him the idea for his peg legs. Have you thought about your own?

            – I’d like a pair of short pylons with rubber stops on them and then a long pair of legs but I don’t know what sort I could use. I don’t want anything too long because I don’t think my stumps could take the weight.

            – You used to walk with leg braces, didn’t you? Have you still got them?

            – Oh yeah. Leaning up against the wall in my bedroom. No use to me any more.

            – I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Are they the sort which have knee locks?

            – Yeah, so I could sit down.

            – Good. Because I was thinking that if I welded the struts together at the bottom, we could turn them into something like artificial legs. They wouldn’t weigh much and you’d not only be able to get around again on crutches, you’d also be able to sit by releasing the knee locks

            – Wow! I can just imagine myself on a pair of empty leg braces. That sounds great.

            – I’m going to have to think of a way to fix them to your osseointegrations, Aaron.

            – Oh yeah. I can see the problem.

            – I could bend the thigh struts and weld them to a pylon which connects to your osseo.

            – That would be one way. I was just thinking how trying to control two leg brace peg legs would be a bit of a problem. They’d probably bash into each other. How about adapting just one? I could have just one leg brace and still be able to have the leg bend.

            – That might be a good idea. You’d be able to walk with one brace on crutches and you’re quite used to that, aren’t you?

            – I am. I’m keen to get back on crutches. I don’t care if they’re long or short, but I want crutches under me and in my hands. That’s who I am. Aaron with the crutches.

            – I take full responsibility for getting you back on crutches, Aaron. I’ll collect your brace next week and make a start once we work out what we’re making. And now, just a moment while I get something from my bag.

Dorian fetched Jules’s peg legs and carried them, one in each hook. He held them out for Jules who was too surprised at their appearance to move.

            – How have you made them so quickly? They’re gorgeous!

            – Just an old pair of chair legs, Jules. I just cleaned them up a bit.

Cage took them and examined the connectors, the fat ferrules and ran his hands over the silky smooth varnish. The wood seemed to glow.

            – I’m going to put them on. First time I wear anything on my osseos.

Cage placed one peg onto his seat and opened the clasp on the other. He slotted the connector onto the titanium stub terminating his thigh stump and locked the clasp. The extra weight made itself immediately obvious. He carefully raised his stump and the peg leg pointed skyward.

            – Let’s try the other. These seem to be identical, Dorian. There’s no left or right.

            – No. they’re both the same.

The second peg leg slotted into place just as easily. Cage tidied his shorts and looked down at his new self. The pegs poked into the room, grotesque and unnatural. They looked astonishing.

            – I’m going to need some shortened crutches before I can test these. Dorian, there’s an old pair in my closet on the left. Would you bring them, please?

            – In your bedroom? OK. Just a moment.

Dorian found the crutches easily enough. There were other pieces of prosthetic legs in the closet too, discarded feet, a socket which had split. He let the crutches balance on his forearm and took them to Cage.

            – Thanks Dorian. I reckon these should adjust enough for what I need.

Cage left the crutches leaning against an armchair and picked up his drink.

            – To Dorian! A long life!

Dorian carefully gripped his can of lager and touched it to the doppelgangers’ beers. He lifted it to his lips and tilted back, once again realising the disadvantage of not having a wrist. But the motion accentuated his disability and emphasised his hook. Everything was perfect.

 

            – Dorian, you’re the first person I’ve met who uses hooks. I don’t understand how you open the hook. What muscle are you using? It doesn’t seem possible.

            – There’s nothing to it.

Dorian lifted his left arm, showing the work hook. He slowly moved his right shoulder and the hook’s movable finger was pulled open. Byrd looked at the demonstration.

            – That’s what I mean! How are you doing that?

            – Let me do it again. The hook snaps closed—voilà! Now watch me when I open it again.

This time Dorian exaggerated his shoulder movement. Byrd noticed.

            – You’re doing something with your other shoulder.

            – You got it! If I turn around, you can see what’s happening.

Dorian swung around in his seat and Byrd wheeled himself a little so he could see better. Dorian held his hook so Byrd could see it while he stretched his shoulder forward.

            – Ah! I think I understand. The cable pulls the hook open. Wow! That’s clever. Whoever thought that up must be a genius.

            – Well, he was an American Civil War amputee and he was disabled with two immovable steel hooks but he was an engineer and for twenty years he tried to come up with a system which worked. His brother helped him. He already understood that his hooks could be split down the middle so the two halves could move but it took a lot of trial and error before they came up with the harness and the cable system. It seems so simple nowadays with our electronic bionic hands and arms but they were doing something for the very first time.

            – I didn’t realise it was so long ago.         

            – Yup. Artificial arms and hooks haven’t changed much in more than a century.

            – Why change perfection?

            – Why indeed! I love my new arms and wouldn’t want my own hands back.

            – Dorian, this is maybe an intrusive question and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but you have two sympathetic listeners here. Was it an accident?

 

Dorian suddenly looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He shrugged and lowered his arm and touched his hooks together. Ought he admit the truth? Were these doppelgangers trustworthy? Considering both had shown recent enthusiasm for making themselves more disabled than they were before their osseointegrations, Dorian chose to admit the truth for the first time to outsiders.

            – No. There was no accident. I invited a customer, another amputee, to my studio so there would be someone present to call for an ambulance. And I put my hands under a hydraulic press.

            – Jesus Christ! That must have hurt.

            – It wasn’t as bad as you might think. My hands were trapped by the skin, mainly. Everything else was destroyed, muscle, bone, nerves. The customer had to put his own artificial arms back on and find his phone before he could call. It was a rotten thing to do to him but I couldn’t see any other way and I knew he would understand.

            – You wanted to be an amputee in order to use hooks, is that right?

            – Yes. You see, I have always loved the look of a man wearing two hooks, even when I was a child. I saw a film once and the main character had hooks and after that I was infatuated.

            – So you aren’t the sort of wannabe who wants stumps above everything else.

            – No. The stumps are just necessary so I can wear hooks.

            – I understand. Do you like your stumps, though, Dorian?

            – Yes, I do. They’re both the same length and the same shape but I never show them to anyone else because I always wear my hooks. I know some amputees prefer to use their stumps instead of hooks but I don’t really think that’s something I’d like to do.

            – Do you ever wear just one hook with the other stump showing?

            – Well no, because both arms are attached to my harness and I can’t really use just one.

            – I think it looks horny when a bilateral uses just one hook.

            – Ha! In that case I shall have to ask my prosthetist for a right arm on a single harness.

            – I’d love to see it, Dorian. I don’t think it would be much of an extra disability. It would make you look even more exclusive.

            – Maybe. Can we change the subject? Let’s talk about your future legs. How do you see yourselves in five years time?

            – I’ll be on two full‑length prossies, swinging along on crutches. How about you, Aaron?

            – Hard to say. I want short peg legs. I want to learn to walk on pegs. It’s just a question of balance. But it would also be good to have a pair of long legs which are designed only to rest my weight on. They don’t need to be functional. Just so that when I’m on axillaries, they support me when I swing myself forward. Does that make any sense?

            – We’d be as tall as each other again, Aaron. Both on crutches.

            – As always. Yeah, that’s what I see myself as. A guy on short pegs at home who puts long legs on to go out to meet friends. So I don’t look disabled. Ha ha!

            – I understand. Aaron, you must be very proud of your short stumps now you can have a choice. I’d like to work with you on some ideas, if you don’t mind being used as my guinea pig.

            – Why should I mind? It would be a lot of fun. I am proud of my stumps. I love feeling myself to be a half man at last. My accident was only a rehearsal for the man I want to be. Dorian, I want to see your stumps. Take your arms off, will you? Let’s see what your stumps are like.

 

Dorian had little reason to refuse. He could show the doppelgangers his stumps and replace them. He lifted his arms over his head and struggled to lift the harness from his back. It rose and he ducked his head forward and pulled the harness over his head. It was a simple matter to remove his stumps from the sockets. His gripped his equipment and lowered it over the side of the chair onto the floor.

            – Here they are. Two forearm stumps. Shall I take the liners off?

            – Let me do it for you.

Jules rolled the liners off Dorian’s stumps. The fine hairs on his arms were stuck to his skin with sweat. He rubbed his stumps on his trousers and held them out for inspection.

            – Can you lift your drink with your stumps, Dorian?

            – No problem.

Dorian leaned forward and gripped the can of beer between his stumps. He lifted it towards his face and used his chin to reposition the can so the contents would flow from the opening. And the same in reverse. The stumps were fascinating to see, perfect muscular forearms without hands.

            – They’re beautiful. I understand why you like them. Why you wanted them.

            – It’s the hooks I wanted, Jules. To be a man with hooks is the ultimate version of myself. Does that make any sense?

            – It does. Don’t put your arms on yet. I want to watch you using your stumps.

            – OK. No‑one else has seen me without my hooks for any length of time.

            – You should let the air get to them, Dorian. You look stunning. I think your stumps are perfect with the hair grown back.

            – You’re too kind, Jules. When are you going to try out your peg legs?

            – Right now. As soon as I get my crutches adjusted properly.

Cage reached across and loosened two wingnuts on each crutch to adjust the length of the shaft. The second to last setting seemed to be the most suitable length. The crutches were clearly disproportionate, not intended to be used permanently set to such a configuration.

 

Cage locked his wheels and placed a crutch to each side. He shuffled forward in his wheelchair and leaned forward onto his crutches. His peg legs slid to touch the floor and by repositioning the crutch tips, Cage pushed himself erect and stood for the first time in his life on two wooden peg legs. It was an extraordinary sensation to feel that his stumps continued far past where his knees had been, all the way to mid shin. Byrd and Dorian watched him contemplate how to move. The peg legs were anachronous, almost surreal. Cage moved his right peg forward ten centimetres and followed with his crutches. He lifted the left peg to the side and brought it forward in an arc. It felt like walking on a rigid stump. He could feel the pressure in his femur but there was no pain. He took another step and slowly crossed the room.

            – Would someone video me? I want to see what this looks like.

Dorian gestured at Byrd with a stump and Byrd picked his phone up and framed his body double. Cage turned himself gradually and stood on his peg legs staring at the camera. After a few seconds, he purposefully strode ahead with short steps. He rocked his body slightly from side to side, alternating his crutches each time. To all intents and purposes, he was walking again.

            – I love the way this is so rigid. It’s exactly like having thighs right down to the floor. That’s exactly what it feels like.

            – Are the ferrules alright, Jules? A good grip?

            – They’re fine.

He turned again and made another five metre tour of the room. Byrd followed him carefully with the camera, making sure both peg legs were in shot all the time.

            – I’m going to try something. Just a minute. That’s all, Aaron, thanks.

Cage continued into his bedroom and opened his closet. Neatly assembled in an umbrella stand were several pairs of wooden walking sticks. He picked out one of the shortest and left his crutches leaning against the wall. He returned to the lounge, placing the tip of the walking stick in front of him for balance. He looked magnificent. His shaved head and sleek black beard, his face enhanced by the eyepatch, and two antique peg legs extending from his shorts combined with the unaccustomed walking stick instead of crutches made him look like an Antarctic explorer or a Himalayan mountaineer who had met with misfortune. Byrd took a photo and swiped at his phone to find the video file.

 

            – I think that’s enough exercise for today. Mustn’t overdo it on the first day.

            – No, you should take it easy on your stumps. It’ll be another few weeks before the osseo has finished bonding.

            – Quite right. So Aaron—what sort of pegs are you going to have? Any ideas?

            – I want really short legs. I want to be able to stand and walk on them.

            – Like short pylons with some kind of base to stand on?

            – I suppose so.

            – How about your leg braces? We haven’t talked about recycling those yet.

            – I was thinking that maybe it would be possible to adapt one of them into some kind of artificial leg with the knee joint in place. The upper thigh cuff could be removed and the steel shafts welded onto the osseo‑connector. Then the bottom would have a rubber foot or something.

            – That would be quite long. You’d be back on crutches if you had a leg like that.

            – I know. That’s what I’d like. Crutches with an empty leg brace.

            – Just one?

            – Oh yes, just one. One’s enough. Don’t forget that I only need it for support. I’m not going to be actually walking in any normal way. I want to keep using my crutches.

            – I get the idea. I’m sure we can make something suitable. And now, I’m sorry but I have to don my hooks. I need to use the toilet.

            – Go right ahead, Dorian. Thank you for being patient with us.

Dorian gave an arresting smile as he inserted his naked stumps into his sockets. He would have to remove them again later to don his liners and stump socks.

 

            – Show me the video, Aaron.

Aaron activated his phone and handed it to Cage. He watched himself teetering on two pegs and crutches until he spotted the moment when he understood how to kick his stumps forward. By swaying from side to side. The return journey looked a little precarious but he was definitely walking again. The osseos felt secure and sensitive. He could feel the weight of the pegs and the solidity of the floor in his stumps. He had his first pair of osseo pegs and still had another pair of connectors he could have fixed to a long pair of prosthetic legs. If Dorian felt up to it, he could go to town. Otherwise, he could replace the upper section of his existing cigar smugglers with a simple pylon and Cage could resume his life on crutches and metal legs again.

 

Dorian stayed long enough to finish another vodka. He drank slowly, not a huge fan of drinking, wary of becoming too drunk and susceptible to outside threats which a young invalid with a beautiful face might encounter. At nine o’clock, he made his excuses and left. The Overground train was almost empty and Dorian reached his home before pubs began emptying.

 

Cage and Byrd continued their evening. Cage suggested they indulge in cigars and offered Byrd a choice of a short thick Cuban or an enormously fat Dominican. Byrd chose the smaller, Cage pushed a Dominican into his straining jaw and held a fierce butane lighter to Byrd’s cigar. He lit his own, not removing it from his mouth. He blew streams of smoke from the edges. He looked supremely masculine. The angle of his cigar echoed the angle of his peg legs.

 

Byrd overnighted on Cage’s sofa. It was a two‑seater, too short for a normal man to sleep on. It was supremely comfortable for a man with stumps as short as Byrd’s.

 

The doppelgangers both sat in their wheelchairs at breakfast. Cage had decided to ask Dorian to adapt his existent prostheses with a new upper pylon. Byrd spoke of his wishbone idea. He wanted to lock his stumps together in order to swing himself along on one central peg.

            – Would you not prefer two peg legs?

            – I think two would be a little too awkward to use. I have very little muscle control left in my thighs, Jules. If I can have them working in tandem, I can use my glutes to rock a peg leg.

            – Are you going to ask Dorian for something decorative?

            – I’ll give him free rein and see what he comes up with. He’s quite amazing, isn’t he? Carrying on in his workshop as a double amputee.

            – As far as I can make out, it’s something he wanted to do. He does look spectacular with two hooks, not the sort of thing you expect to see on someone as stylish as Dorian.

 

Byrd left around ten o’clock and made his way back home. His journey was longer than strictly necessary due to the inaccessibility of an otherwise suitable station. It would not matter when he had a decent set of pegs under him. He was about to start sorting through a list of articles for the next edition of the weekly when a message arrived from Baz.

            – im in singapore! wish you were with me. application to relocate going through at qantas. will know next week. love you! baz

Byrd set to work with renewed enthusiasm. Life would be so much easier with a man like Baz around.

 

Cage rechecked the length of the replacement pylons for his prostheses. They would require one pair of the osseo‑connectors. The other pair were on his peg legs. He should be able to get by with two sets of legs but he was intrigued by Byrd’s idea of having very short pegs. Cage’s stumps were considerably longer than Byrd’s but the idea of connecting them to a single short peg leg was interesting if only to experiment with even greater disability. A Y‑shaped prosthesis would negate any advantage he had from his more muscular stumps and he liked the image of himself hobbled on crutches with a solitary peg. He sent an email to McPherson asking about the possibility of acquiring more pairs of osseo‑connectors. The alternative was to remove the connectors from his pegs and reattach them. Not a difficult job but it would be more convenient to have several sets of legs permanently complete and ready for use. Thinking about the matter inspired him to roll to his bedroom to pick up his ornate wooden pegs and attach them to his osseos. He had some business to attend to first but anticipated finding time to practise walking again on the pegs later in the day. He wanted to be proficient on them before summer, strutting around, standing precariously, delicately adjusting his balance on the grotesque wooden legs.

 

Dorian readied himself for a working week by donning both worker’s hooks. They were much more robust than his standard hooks and were designed to take the punishment which manual labourers encountered. He was unusually enthusiastic about reaching his studio because he had realised the previous evening that he had a bike frame with a bifurcated handlebar which might be perfect for use by Aaron Byrd. The fork might be close enough to the width between Byrd’s osseos to be coaxed to fit and the screw fitting which had attached to the wheel fork could be fitted with a variety of pegs of differing lengths, all of them threaded to make changing peg length easy. Hurrying through a shower which started as soon as he left the station, he struggled to open his studio door with a stiff key and entered his private space under the viaduct. The first job was to brew a pot of coffee, during which he composed a message to Byrd asking him to join him as soon as possible to discuss the new prosthesis. Byrd replied that he could probably find time during the afternoon. Dorian sat at his work bench, clear of work except for several lengths of aluminium tubing destined to become peg legs for the doppelgangers,

 

Byrd knuckled down to work, laying out several pages of the weekly newspaper. He broke off after ten thirty to make a cup of tea and while drinking it, read through the article he had just positioned. The last third made no sense and referenced something not previously mentioned. It was obvious what had happened. He sent an email to the sender.

            – hi! will you check the bourneville story pls? i think the version you sent is missing a paragraph or two. best, byrd.

There was little point in continuing before he had the entire text. He would be able to amble down to Dorian’s studio ahead of time and maybe they could have lunch together. He wheeled into the hallway, put his jacket on, secured the belts across his chest and belly and left his apartment for Dorian’s studio.

 

Dorian had already made short peg legs for Byrd and was doing his best with his new ratchet screwdriver to attach osseo‑connectors to their upper edges when the buzzer sounded. Dorian glanced at the security monitor and saw a legless figure in a wheelchair. It was Byrd, well ahead of time. He left his work for a moment and went to let Byrd in. By tugging with his hooks on the wheelchair’s armrests, the pair of them got the wheelchair over the threshold. Before Byrd had even removed his wet jacket, Dorian spilled the news.

            – I just finished your peg legs. You can try them out as soon as you like.

            – Really? That’s fantastic! I had no idea.

            – Well, they weren’t very demanding. I hope you’ll not be so reliant on your wheelchair after this, Aaron. You deserve to walk again and these pegs are a good way to start.

 

Dorian led the way back to his workbench and held up one finished peg. The ferrule looked oversized compared with the length of the pylon but Byrd could tell that with a pair of short peg legs like that, he would soon be able to totter around actually using his fresh stumps for the first time. As far as he was concerned, his entire future started now, when he regained legs, albeit twelve centimetre lengths of aluminium tubing with rubber ferrules. It was a start.

            – I’ve done my best to tighten the connecters, Aaron, but you might like to check them. I have to depend on the digital reading the screwdriver shows. My hooks can’t actually feel anything.

            – Don’t worry about that. Give me the Allen key and I’ll check.

Byrd informed Dorian that his digital device was working perfectly. He tightened the fourth screw on the second peg and looked at them laid out parallel on the workbench in front of him. Dorian looked at him with bemusement.

            – Well? Are you going to try them?

            – Give me a minute, Dorian. This is one small step for a man, one big step for an amputee.

            – Oh, well said. You only need to put the pegs on your osseos and you’re ready to go.

Byrd looked at Dorian’s earnest smiling face, impossibly perfect with a beard and moustache men would kill for, the man who had given him back the ability to walk. He set the brakes of his wheelchair and slipped down onto the floor. Dorian handed him the pegs, one in each hook. Byrd fiddled with the connectors until he understood how to align them correctly and pressed the locking clasp home. He heaved himself up with his hands and tottered about for a moment, completely unprepared for the sensation of suddenly having long femurs. He felt as if his knees had been amputated, leaving him with long thighs well suited to walking on stumps. It was a huge surprise and he felt a welling of love for Dorian, who held out a hook. Byrd took it and Dorian guided him slowly towards his pile of junk in one corner of the room. Byrd swung his new peg legs around in a dual effort to remain erect and to follow Dorian. The hook was cold in the studio.

 

            – Somewhere in there—actually, I can see it—is your wishbone peg leg. See that red frame? It’s half a bike. I need to know if your stumps will fit onto the handlebars.

            – Ha! Dorian, you’re going to have to explain it better than that. What do you mean?

Dorian explained his plan. If the bike’s front handlebars did not fit, Dorian could either try bending them a little or welding extensions to hold the connectors. Byrd said his connectors were thirty centimetres apart, more or less, and that the possibility of having peg legs of different lengths was just about the best thing he had ever heard. Dorian set to work extracting the bike’s frame from the tangle of other junk. Byrd watched him working, not bothering even to open his hooks to pull the debris apart. A man with natural hands would have been careful not to injure himself. Dorian had no such compunction.

            – I’ll sandblast this before you get it, don’t worry. Unless you want a red peg leg.

            – It’s up to you, Dorian. I leave the design side to you. If you think I would look good with a red peg leg, that’s what I shall wear.

            – Oh, I think we can do better than that, Aaron. If you want, you could have a peg the same as what Jules has. There’s another chair I could cannibalise. But the thing is, even with a peg leg like that, you’d still be shorter than Jules. But I was thinking that you could have a series of pegs which you would screw into this bit…

Dorian tapped on the bike frame.

            – …and you could hop around on different lengths of peg leg, if you see what I mean.

            – So my stumps would be held rigid at the top of this and I could swap the lower bit.

            – Yes. Would you like that? Being able to change how tall you are?

            – I would! How tall do you think I could be?

            – It’s up to you but I reckon you and Jules could be as tall as each other again. I think Jules is going to learn to walk on two long peg legs, with crutches of course, and you could keep up with him on one peg.

            – And crutches. It sounds wonderful, Dorian. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for us.

Without noticing what he was doing, Byrd waddled around on his minuscule pegs and tottered back to Dorian’s workbench, waving his arms for balance but striking a regular cadence. Without even noticing what he was doing, he had adopted Dorian’s pylons as his legs. It was as easy as one‑two‑one‑two. Dorian watched him, a little unsteady maybe. Byrd was going to make it a success and there was no reason to doubt that the bike frame peg leg would not be as successful with the added advantage of demanding a sturdy pair of wooden crutches. Dorian’s tiny penis was fully erect and he longed to know how his legless customer felt. His hooks were only the first stage in Dorian’s plan to turn himself into the quadruple amputee he wished to be. The man swinging his arms to walk on tiny peg legs was the most masculine image he could imagine. Dorian felt much the same regarding his artificial arms. The problem was how to rid himself of his legs.

 

            – Well done, Aaron.

            – What for?

            – You walked across the studio unassisted.

            – Oh yeah! Shucks! I was thinking of something else entirely.

            – It happens. Before I go any further, would you like to come out for lunch?

            – I was going to ask you the same thing. Let’s go. My belly’s rumbling.

            – Don’t you think you should get in your wheelchair first? I don’t think you should be walking around on your pegs just yet.

            – But that's what they’re for! Oh, alright. I see your point.

 

They ate at the local kebab place which was always open, day and night. Dorian ordered two plates of kebab and chips with hummus and salad. A waiter rushed over to make room for Byrd’s wheelchair. Five minutes later, he brought their meals and a fresh jug of water. Dorian stuck in immediately, using his naked hooks instead of trying to use cutlery. Byrd balanced in his wheelchair, using his fork to spike meal items he could not quite see. His wheelchair seat was lower than the restaurant’s chairs. Despite the difficulties, they enjoyed the food and left feeling sated.

            – I want to take your measurements before you go, Aaron. It’s important to get things fitting properly. That’s why I wanted you to call round. The wishbone peg is going to need some careful measurements.

            – Yes, I see that. I just thought of something. I’ll be able to drop a pair of shorts onto the upper part, won’t I? But the bit where the peg leg joins on will always have to be bare, won’t it?

            – Yes, it will. Is that a problem? Would you like to be able to hide your peg?

            – No, not really. I’m just trying to picture what the wishbone will look like.

            – For a man who wants to use crutches, the single peg leg will be the reason, not the other way round. That you have to use crutches because you have a peg leg.

            – I see what you mean. Yes, please keep me as crippled as possible in all your designs. Don’t forget that my identity is a crutch user, just like Jules. He has decent stumps but will always use crutches, I’m sure of it.

 

Dorian measured the distance between the osseos on Byrd’s stumps as accurately as possible. There was no room for small inaccuracies. The connectors would need to fit squarely onto the titanium lugs. But the bike’s front fork was four centimetres narrower.

            – Aaron, I don’t think this is going to work. If I try widening the fork, it’ll probably split the welds. I don’t want you to walk around on something which might be unsafe.

            – Like a peg leg, you mean?

            – You know what I mean, I hope. I mean your wishbone might snap and bring you not such good luck. What about the leg brace peg you talked about? Would you like me to work on that? The advantage is that it needs only one of the connectors. You’d still have one more for something else.

            – OK. Good point. Alright. I’ll bring the brace around and we can plan something with that.

Byrd checked his phone and saw a reply with an attachment from the correspondent he had contacted earlier.

            – I ought to get back to work now, Dorian. An article I was waiting for has arrived. I’ll text you about bringing the brace in.

            – Great! I look forward to it. I’m sorry if you were looking forward to the wishbone.

            – Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. Thanks for the pegs.

They poked out of his shorts, not touching the wheelchair’s seat.

            – I’m glad you’re not leaving completely empty‑handed. Let me get the door for you.

Dorian contorted his body to open the door lock with his work hook. Byrd thought how disabled Dorian sometimes appeared.

 

Despite discovering that the old bike could not be recycled as a peg leg, Dorian kept the idea in mind. He could understand the attraction of preventing Byrd’s stumps from moving independently, locking them together to control a solitary central peg leg. He would give it more thought. If he had hands, he would easily construct some kind of framework from the junk he had lying around. But he had to take his disability into consideration. There were some work procedures he could not manage, not yet. He looked at his hooks, ugly convoluted things, a cross between a pair of tongs and a pair of pliers. He had no wrists. The hooks were even more difficult to manipulate because of it, as Byrd had witnessed when Dorian scrabbled with the door lock. Dorian’s breathing became shallow and his tiny penis hardened. He massaged his groin with the left hook and leaned against his work bench with the right, gently coaxing himself to an unexpected orgasm. The ejaculate cooled and soaked through his underwear and trousers during the following hour. Dorian returned to dismantling Cage’s artificial legs. He had done a good job of making the knees safe and secure. That was when he still had hands. It was far more difficult to undo his work now. It was more rewarding and fulfilling. His hooks rattled against the metal prosthesis as he positioned it in a vice to continue work.

 

Cage himself was acclimatising himself to his new peg legs. He had inspected them closely several times and was impressed by Dorian’s workmanship and attention to detail. The material had been stripped down to the bare wood and stained to resemble oak. It gave the pegs an air of antiquity, when precious wood such as oak could be used freely for frivolous purposes. Dorian had then coated them with a high‑gloss lacquer. They looked superb. He sat in his wheelchair at his desk reviewing some export invoices in Spanish, lifting one stump and then the other until the peg leg struck the underside of the table. He was in two minds about the peg legs. If he succeeded in learning to walk on them unassisted by canes or crutches—and there was no reason to suppose he would not succeed—his greatest indicator of his disabled status, his crutches, would be superfluous. During the few minutes he had spent in his loft walking back and forth on the pegs with a short walking stick, he had realised how convenient the converted chair legs were. They were a good length for most things and their weight was perfect for his osseos. He could sense in his stumps the firm grip which the big rubber ferrules provided. It was completely unexpected to feel the friction and malleability of materials in something as unlikely as a severed femur, but Dorian’s simple first peg legs were offering up new sensations which he was learning to appreciate not only for their novelty but also for their therapeutic value. Taking a short break from concentrating on a screen with one eye, he rolled himself away from the table and rotated his peg legs, admiring how light caught along their length. He wanted long pegs. That was the way he would walk from now on. Condemned to a life standing, until he released the clasps holding his pegs to his stumps. Then his long wooden peg legs would stand alongside his crutches, a collection of paraphernalia which existed only for one purpose, to allow him to walk with the added advantage of exciting his libido. To increase the effect, he enjoyed one of the larger cigars which he imported. He knew he looked impressive. The cigar, the eye patch, the crutches and peg legs made a uniquely erotic combination and it was uniquely his. His snare. His public proclamation—look at me! He tilted his head and the cigar erected to a suggestive angle. He sucked on it and released tight streams of smoke from his lips.

 

Barry Brown was not faring so well in Singapore. It was nearly midnight when the cocktail bar he was in with another Australian man was attacked by an ultra‑nationalistic group of assailants dressed in black, wielding machetes and screaming vitriol in Chinese against foreigners and white devils. One spotted Brown and his new acquaintance and screamed hatred, brandishing his vicious weapon above their heads. Brown jumped up from the table, well trained in reacting to threats from violent passengers, and placed his left forearm onto the counter for temporary support. The machete sliced through the air, through Brown’s forearm and deep into the counter top. The severed hand fell to the floor and was trampled by panicked customers seeking escape from the violent confusion. Suddenly the attackers retreated, leaving fifty or sixty weeping traumatised customers, several of them seriously injured. Brown’s companion had suffered nothing worse than a dislocated shoulder. Brown himself huddled in a corner near the bar, holding onto his stump, grimacing in pain. Just as suddenly, the place was full of paramedics tending to the injured, moving the deceased to one side. Brown was guided, half‑carried, to an ambulance and arrived at a local hospital ten minutes later. A doctor asked Brown if he had the severed hand and received a shake of the head in reply. After making a quick check with the medics about other potential victims, the doctor decided that Brown was probably one of the more serious living victims and ordered him taken to theatre for a medically precise amputation. He would be left with an arm stump fifteen centimetres long with ulna and radius bones of twelve.

 

Doctor McPherson had made a few enquiries on behalf of his recent patient and informed Page that it was indeed possible to order further pairs of osseo‑connectors, and at a reduced price so soon after the amputations. He was intrigued to know what adaptations they were being used for at such an unusual rate. Cage declined to explain but promised to send photos of his adapted prostheses as soon as possible. He ordered four pairs of connectors and intended selling two pairs on to Byrd, if he wanted them. Otherwise he would keep them for himself for his future collection of fantastical artificial legs. The adapted pair of wire mesh legs which Dorian was currently working on was only the first of many, if Cage had anything to do with the matter. He would soon have two pairs of peg legs, too. He sent a text to Dorian asking if he might take the man out for dinner one evening. Dorian replied that he would be delighted, on one condition. That Jules wore the converted pair of prostheses he was currently working on. Cage would look exactly as he had before his trip to Australia.

 

The Singapore atrocity was one of several which made international headlines that week. There were many victims, some of them seriously injured. Byrd heard nothing of the outrage nor would he have paid it special attention even if he had. His friend was kept sedated to ease both his mental and physical trauma.

 

Dorian made steady progress dismantling Cage’s prostheses. He began to remember the order in which he had assembled them and the second leg was easier to take apart. He set the long handsome sockets to one side and removed the short sections of pylon. The new sections were cut to size, all burrs removed and edges carefully rounded. Dorian’s imagination replayed the sensation of wearing prosthetic legs. He had no interest in osseointegration. He loved the look and feel of the black carbon fibre sockets and yearned for the day when he would pull his own custom‑made pair onto fresh stumps for the first time. First grappling with two artificial legs and then swinging round to snatch up his harness bearing his artificial arms, pushing his arm stumps again into them to feel the rigid solidity, enabling him to move one solitary steel finger on each hook. So much equipment for such a seemingly minor movement. He grinned to himself and tilted his body, the better to allow his right hook to access another component. It was not easy to work without wrists.

 

Cage finished packing several boxes of enormous cigars, his largest one‑three‑fives, and called his courier company for a collection. The cigars would be available to dedicated smokers in private leather clubs around the country in time for Saturday evening. Cage himself had never smoked one. They were too valuable and his mouth would not stretch beyond a one‑two‑five. The daddies who bought the larger ones were all probably toothless, possibly by choice in order to smoke over‑sized cigars. He checked his expected profit again on a spreadsheet and compared it with the amount he had promised to pay Dorian. At this rate, he could have four pairs of legs before summer was out. He slapped his thigh stumps, turned the computer off and closed the lid, and carefully lowered himself to the floor. He held onto the table until he had positioned his peg legs to bear his weight and strutted carefully to the kitchen to open a beer. He deserved a drink after clearing three week’s worth of outstanding invoices in two languages. He leaned against the kitchen cabinet and peered down at his wooden legs. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. He wanted full length peg legs, perhaps vintage like these, unique in any case. He envisioned himself crutching with one peg leg. Using two was overkill with a pair of crutches. It would be good to be able to alternate and maybe he would learn to walk on two peg legs without crutches. He had had a pair of wooden stilts for a couple of years when he was a boy. He smiled at the memory. It was not so long ago, really. What would he have thought if he knew then he was practising how to walk on rigid legs? He could not remember exactly when his fascination with amputated legs had begun but he knew it was in his mind as the eight year old Jules teetered around the back yard.

 

Singaporean authorities had worked with accustomed efficiency to inform family and employers of the fate of the patients which they currently tended. Qantas assured the hospital that it would communicate directly with victim Barry Brown, assuming he still had access to his phone. Otherwise they would request further information from the hospital. Brown’s phone was by his side. It had been deep in a trouser pocket while he chatted to his fellow countryman in the exclusive mid‑town bar. It had been protected from the following violence. His nurse had recharged it twice already for the new amputee, who had told his family and friends that he had been injured in the attack and would see them soon. He could use his heavily bandaged stump to steady the phone while he typed on it. The nurse was attentive and charmed by the handsome amputee who never complained or demanded extra attention. Brown had not yet sent news to the one man who filled his mind, the legless Londoner who he hoped would share his life with him. How would a man with the shortest possible leg stumps react to hearing that his most devoted friend had lost an arm? He dared not admit his injury until he had run through all the possible outcomes in his mind. The painkillers made it an uphill battle.

 

Barry Brown was a passionate devotee, hence his excitement at meeting the half‑man Aaron Byrd, but he had never envisioned becoming an amputee himself. It was a life‑altering injury. He would certainly never work as a steward again. Qantas could not terminate his contract solely because of his new status. A new position should be found, maybe an office job or something in logistics. The first emails Brown received were compassionate, asking for reassurance that the man was recovering well and the enquiring after the nature of his injuries. Human resources allocated his case to a senior employee, Helen Newman, who had found positions for injured colleagues in the past. She was intrigued to see that Brown had recently enquired about relocating to London, where he apparently had lodging ready and waiting. He might very well provide the solution to a difficult position which the company was eager to fill as soon as possible. One of the HR workers at the London base was retiring at the grand age of fifty‑five in several weeks and a volunteer had not yet been found to take up the position. London was no longer such a popular station with the Paris hub gaining greater significance. Perhaps Brown could consider retraining. It was worth a try as a strictly stopgap measure. In close co‑operation with the hospital, Brown’s transfer was arranged for the sixth day after the attack. A Qantas steward would accompany Brown back to Sydney, where a local surgeon would assess whether Brown needed more hospital care or whether he could be treated as an out‑patient.

 

Dorian completed the conversion of Cage’s prostheses. They stood next to his workbench, wearing a pair of Timberlands. The tangle of wire sculpted to resemble a muscular man’s calves disguised the central pylon and led up to the red leather knee cap which was not only decorative but also prevented the metallic knee from chafing against the inside of a trouser leg. However, Cage wore shorts and his distinctive artificial legs were always on display. Now the thigh socket had been replaced with a long aluminium pylon, bare and unadorned, terminating in an osseo‑connector. Cage need only insert the titanium lugs on his stumps into the connectors to regain his legs. Dorian invited the doppelgangers to call in during Friday afternoon. It was more convenient to get customer visits out of the way as efficiently as possible. Byrd could bring his leg brace, Cage could collect his legs and they might end up dining together. Dorian sent two messages and shortly received two enthusiastic replies. Both doppelgangers would come to the studio under the viaduct on Friday afternoon.

 

Both men arrived in wheelchairs. Only Byrd wore peg legs, the minimal stump extensions he had learned to walk on. He leapt from his wheelchair as soon as he arrived and greeted his double and Dorian. It was astonishing to see him walking. The legs of his shorts hid his pegs from view. He was adapting well to being so short. It was not something he had given a great deal of thought to but he relished the sensation of being so completely legless yet mobile. His right leg brace hung from the back of his wheelchair in a canvas bag which he handed to Dorian. Byrd reached into a pocket, withdrew an osseo‑connector and placed it on Dorian’s workbench.

 

            – I think this is all you need, Dorian. There’s no rush for this, by the way. If you have other projects under way, you can leave this until you have a moment.

            – Oh, I always have other projects but some of them I look forward to more than others. I’m very keen to see what kind of leg we can make from this.

            – Are you going to have just the one, Aaron?

            – Yeah, I think so. I just want one long peg to rest on when I’m on crutches and I know I can rely on this to hold my weight.

            – What sort of a base are you going to have on it to walk on?

            – We thought of having a rubber block attached to the lower bar. I’m going to weld the two halves together, you see. We could add a wide strip of rubber across it or screw a cylindrical stopper on. Just something to prevent the base from slipping.

            – I think a wide strip would be more in keeping. Better for stability too, I should imagine.

            – Yes, I agree. Dorian, let’s go with a wide piece of rubber attached to the bottom of the brace as a foot.

            – Right. Now Jules, thank you for being so patient. Now’s the time to test your osseos with your old legs.

            – Oh! Are they ready? Jules, surely you weren’t waiting for me to arrive?

            – I suggested it. I wanted you to see them. You remember how I walked when we met at the airport, don’t you? Let’s see if anything’s changed. You can be the judge.

 

The doppelgangers laughed. It was a private joke. Dorian fetched the legs from where he had stashed them. They were light. He carried both in one hook with no effort. Cage took them one by one and stood them next to his wheelchair. He pulled the trouser legs of his shorts up to his groin, exposing his stumps in their entirety. The incongruous metal lugs marred their perfection. He slotted the left leg onto his stump and lifted it, testing its weight. He repeated his action for the right leg and sat back to inspect the altered legs. It felt odd to feel the presence of his prosthetic limbs without seeing the carbon sockets. His stumps merely segued into steel pylons leading to his red leather knee caps. He rolled closer to the table and parked the chair. He held onto the edge of the tabletop and lifted himself onto his legs, wary of how the alignment had probably altered. He swung each leg to check that the knee mechanisms operated normally.

            – These seem OK. Let’s see if I can still walk on them.

            – It’s been a while since you used them last.

            – Yeah. The peg legs have been a big help in reconditioning my stumps. Which reminds me—Dorian, I’m waiting for some more osseo‑connectors from Oz and as soon as they arrive, I’d like you to make me a new full‑length peg leg. Black and gold and antique, something really eye‑catching.

            – Just the one?

            – Yup. If Aaron can get around on one, there’s no reason I couldn’t learn.

            – Come on, Jules! It’s not exactly difficult for an expert crutcher like you to swing a peg.

            – We shall see. Anyway, consider that to be a new order.

Cage took a step holding onto the table and then released his hand. He took a couple more tentative steps, feeling his new centre of gravity, the balance, the weight. Short sections of pylon were visible inside his shorts. Dorian’s creations were as hyper‑masculine as ever. Cage’s legs looked muscular and healthy, long straight and powerful. Coupled with a pair of axillaries, he would be the old Jules Cage again. The osseos allowed him the freedom to experiment with deviant designs such as his chair leg pegs, which he had adopted as homewear or the ornate peg leg which he imagined Dorian would create.

            – These are very good, Dorian. Many thanks.

He did not mention the uncomfortable pressure on his femurs caused by the legs’ misalignment. It was inevitable and Dorian could not be expected to either understand the need to maintain precise angles or to be able to make the necessary adjustments himself. Regardless of how capable Dorian was becoming at handling his familiar workshop tools, he would never use his hooks for fine mechanics. Cage returned to his wheelchair and sat.

            – I’d like to invite you both for lunch at my expense to celebrate me getting my legs back.

            – Well said, that man. I could do with a kebab about now.

With Dorian’s assistance over the threshold, they returned to the ever‑popular kebab joint and ordered pizzas. Byrd cleared up a couple of requirements for the leg brace peg with Dorian and they all contributed to ideas for the wondrous black peg leg which Cage intended wearing. After the meal, Byrd scrubbed congealed cheese from Dorian’s hooks with a paper napkin and they departed in their own directions.

 

Baz Brown was back in his apartment, a two room rental in a block owned by Qantas a couple of kilometres from the airport. All of his neighbours were work colleagues and shocked to see Brown in his mutilated state, a fat bandage covering the stump of his left arm. Several neighbours who fancied spending an evening with the miniature muscleman offered their assistance and Brown took them up on it. His immediate convalescence was eased by people dropping in to hear what had happened and to help out with a spot of cooking or cleaning. He was driven to a nearby hospital and accompanied by a colleague when he visited for a quick inspection of the stump and a change of dressing. He felt pampered in a way which only an airline steward could appreciate. His neighbours gave their professional best to one of their own.

 

            – This is healing very well, Brown. I’m going to have you wearing a shrinker soon to shape the stump and a coupla three weeks after that, you can be fitted with a prosthesis. Have you given any thought to what sort of arm you’d like?

            – I’d like an artificial hand which looks as natural as possible.

            – Fine. We can do that. It won’t be exactly the same size or shape as your other hand but it will look like a hand and you’ll be able to use it for simple things. How are you managing at home?

            – Fairly well, thanks. My neighbours call round fairly often when they’re on furlough to help out.

            – That’s good. Alright, Brown. Keep it up and I’ll see you next week and we can look at some artificial arms for you.

Brown left, satisfied to know that he would soon have some kind of artificial hand but still wary of letting Aaron know what had happened. He could imagine turning up at Heathrow and only then revealing that he had become an amputee. The transfer was moving ahead behind the scenes. Qantas had a chronic need for more of its own logistics workers at Heathrow. Amputee Brown could start in the office for evaluation and if deemed suitable, he would undergo an express course on logistics and dropped in at the deep end. He would learn on the job. The lack of a hand would scarcely make any difference to undertaking his responsibilities. It was a decent job for an intelligent man as popular as Baz Brown and he should make a success of it if he was determined.

 

Dorian set to work, converting Byrd’s leg brace to a minimalist peg leg. It was a robust piece of equipment not intended to be easy to dismantle. The leather thigh cuff was easy enough to cut off, leaving strips of leather attached to the steel shafts by rivets. They could be ground off, leaving unsightly holes. They would annoy Dorian, who always sought perfection in his work as he saw it. He was already annoyed by the tendency of his work hooks to scratch the mirror steel surface of the brace. He reached a compromise in his mind, regarding this job as experimental. It could be that Byrd disliked using the peg and extensive efforts on Dorian’s part to deliver something aesthetically pleasing as well as physically practical were unnecessary.

 

Cage resumed life as a man on two prosthetic legs and crutches. His osseo lugs had bonded to bone securely and painlessly. Cage was capable of wearing his adapted limbs all day. He wore them with shorts at home and rarely used crutches but he never left home without them. He relaxed his stumps and allowed his prostheses to take his weight as he swung himself along between his wooden axillaries. It was at such times that he found the greatest fulfilment in disability. Regardless of whether he wore shorts or long trousers, the random motion of his artificial legs touching the ground made him seem especially crippled. It was the true Jules Cage. If he wanted to feel crippled, he swapped his legs for the two chair leg pegs. They looked shocking and caused him to totter precariously, swinging his arms for balance. But he was improving. He looked forward to the full‑length peg leg he had on order. Perhaps the time might come when he preferred to use the single rigid peg leg with his crutches. His osseos made it possible to experiment with a huge variety of prosthetic devices.

 

Byrd felt similar pleasure on his own peg legs. They were little more than ferrules locked onto the lugs in the remnants of his stumps. It was good to be independently mobile again, able to walk about under his own power. His steps were no longer than fifteen centimetres, exercising his glutes to the max. Byrd looked crippled, almost completely legless, until he pushed himself erect and began to thrust his stumps forward rhythmically, propelled by effort and determination.

 

Dorian battled on, discovering new problems with the leg brace conversion. Somehow the osseo‑connector had to be incorporated across the top of the brace. Something practical had to be found to stabilise the lower shafts. Suddenly Dorian realised that the leg braces would slot into a wooden shoe. They need not be welded together after all. The shoe itself need not be shoe‑like. He kept an eye out for something suitable which would complete the leg brace to make it look unique. He wanted something like a foot or shoe which would accept a rubber heel. He found what he wanted on‑line. Someone was selling wooden hands and wooden feet which had been part of window displays for a defunct tailor. Some of the hands had wrists and looked quite lifelike. Others were mere stubs, sleeve‑fillers. Similarly some of the feet were realistic with toes and ankles. Others were symmetrical and toeless, intended to wear shoes. A toeless foot would look wonderful at the end of Byrd’s empty leg brace. Dorian placed his order for sixteen wooden hands and twenty‑four wooden feet in the certain knowledge that he would use all of them.

 

Baz Brown was feeling on top of the world. His stump had healed well enough for his first fitting. His prosthetist, Jeb Slowe, was clearly in love with him from the very outset, impressed with the amputee’s positive attitude and friendly nature. He also fancied Jeb, a thirtysomething with a handsome stubble and a slightly shy way of glancing at his patient, never quite meeting the gaze. It was charming. He had long fingers and Brown loved how Jeb held his stump. They discussed Brown’s prosthetic options for an hour, looking at catalogues from various manufacturers, all showing impractical spindly contraptions masquerading as replacements for hands. Brown was reluctant to wear a hook because he felt that it would draw too much attention to his amputee status. He asked if it were possible to use a mechanical hand on a body‑powered harness.

            – Of course it is. The fingers move against the thumb in a pincer movement, which is not especially strong or especially suitable for many things but the advantage is, in your case, that it is easier to disguise an artificial hand like this with a leather glove. Wear a black leather glove on it, Barry.

            – Yes, I think I will.

            – But I think you ought to have a hook or two. You ought to learn to use the different types to see what kind suits you best. I think a man with your panache could get away with sporting a steel hook in public with no problem. If you attract attention, it won’t be because of your hook.

            – You are kind to say so.

Brown departed feeling grateful that fate had seen fit to lead him to meeting Jeb. Regardless of how gently he had been treated, he could sense a growing infatuation which was familiar from similar transitory meetings with handsome passengers. Those days were behind him but his knack for reading peoples’ emotions was as strong as ever.

 

Two weeks later, he took possession of his first arm prosthesis. Jeb Slowe intentionally made the harness too tight for the pleasure of adjusting it across Brown’s broad shoulders. The stump felt sensuous inside the skin‑tone socket. With a silicone liner and cotton sock, the stump was held firmly onto the prosthesis and Brown loved the wristless motion of the rigid hand. He learned how to tense his shoulder to operate the fingers. They pinched, they did not pinch. They pinched again and opened again. The position of the thumb and fingers was unnatural but the hand was pink, looked like a hand and Brown was keen to discover what it could do. Jeb allowed him to leave wearing it and encouraged him to return at any time for adjustments or to collect a hook or two. He held his patient’s short‑sleeved shirt which did nothing to disguise the prosthetic arm and the light square‑shouldered jacket. Brown looked superb. He arrived back his apartment building and checked his postbox. There was a letter from an insurance company. Brown pinched it with his artificial hand and carried it upstairs. It explained the compensation he would receive for his maiming. He had more to come from Qantas’s worker’s insurance and quite possibly compensation from Singapore. The amount he received from his personal insurance was enough to guarantee a new start in a distant country with his legless idol.

 

His idol was no longer legless. He was walking on crutches again, privately amused to be so tall again, almost at his former height. The astonishing peg leg which Dorian had crafted, and which he insisted was just a trial, was perfect in every way. It was light and attached to his stump with a quick twist of the hand. The drop locks were as secure as ever and the rounded block of rubber which Dorian had shaped to fit onto the sole of the wooden foot allowed him to move silently and securely. The foot was held onto the brace in the same way as his boots. A chrome‑plated chain encircled the steel shafts, preventing them from slipping out of the slots in the wooden ankle. Byrd adopted the peg for normal everyday use in conjunction with his wooden crutches. When he sat, he simply released the knee locks and the curved rubber base rested on the floor. The leg looked surreal with a naked wooden foot, which Dorian had sandblasted and polished to look like new. The rubber block on its sole looked like the foot of a walking cast. Byrd could only rest on its rounded base, relying on his crutches to support him. His empty left leg stump remained naked and occasionally felt the movement of air across the skin, now covered with black hairs again. Walking on his uniquely disturbing peg leg was one of his greatest pleasures and he revelled in the effortlessness of swinging it between his crutches. The weight of the rubber sole under the approximate facsimile of its wooden foot was perfection itself.

 

Barry Brown was called in to Qantas HQ in Sydney for an appraisal. He dressed slowly and carefully in his Qantas uniform, anxious to demonstrate that he was very much a company man. One of his sleepovers had done him the service of knotting all his ties so he could slip them over his head but he had spent a quarter of an hour with a tool intended to allow one‑handed men to handle shirt buttons. He nipped it in his artificial hand but it slipped around and fell often. He looked at his reflection and judged himself to be more than presentable. He made his way to the meeting, full of trepidation but hoping that there would be good news about his transfer to the London branch. He was met in the foyer and escorted to a meeting room on the fifth floor.

 

 

            – Ah, there you are. How are you doing?

            – Very well, thanks. Looking forward to getting back to work, as you can imagine.

            – Right. Well listen. We need to wait for a couple of other people but why don’t you help yourself to coffee and cake? Help yourself.

The speaker waved a hand in the general direction of the refreshments. Brown looked around and saw his first test. They would watch as he poured himself a coffee and dealt with slicing a Victoria sponge with his artificial hand. They wanted to see how well he had adapted to the disabled life. He poured a cup of coffee first and then cut a slice of cake onto a plate. He put the plate over the edge of the table so his wooden thumb would close on it, supported by the rigid curved fingers. He carried the things back to his seat, lowered the cup and then took the plate from his prosthesis. It looked perfectly normal and natural. Where should he put his wooden hand? In his lap or on the table? He decided there was nothing wrong with displaying it. The fingers supported the hand against the tabletop. He had adopted the habit of placing both hands on a table and holding the artificial hand with his right. It looked perfectly natural, the way any man prepared to listen to another might sit. He liked feeling the solidity of his prosthesis. It was like a hand in some ways, a similar size and shape but it was hard, cold and it was impossible to link fingers. The four fingers were individually formed but immobile. Only the thumb moved. The entire prosthesis existed to move the wooden thumb a couple of centimetres.

 

            – There’s a position opening up as a trainee logistics supervisor at our London base at the end of this month and we’d like to suggest that you apply for it. There’ll be a short course here first so you know what the job entails and your predecessor in London will guide you during his last month of service so you become familiar with the practical side. After that you’ll be on your own for a probational period of three months, after which the position will be made permanent with a twenty percent pay increase. I understand you already have accommodation arranged in London, is that right?

            – Yes sir. I would be sharing an apartment in north-west London with a companion.

            – Excellent. Qantas has apartments near the airport for its permanently resident staff members but private accommodation is always more comfortable. If I may, I have a suggestion regarding your disability. Do you have another terminal device other than that hand prosthesis?

            – Er, no sir. I prefer the hand because it does not attract so much attention.

            – You may well be right. However, your position would at times be what they call ”hands on”. It would almost certainly be the case that you would fare better with a prosthetic hook, specifically the so‑called worker’s hook design. I should explain that I have some knowledge of such things because my son‑in‑law is a bilateral amputee and runs a station in Victoria. He wears two worker’s hooks on the job, in fact.

            – Oh, I see. I could talk with my prosthetist and get a worker’s hook, I’m sure.

            – Please do and ask him about other hooks. I’m sure you’d find them more practical for everyday use than that hand.

            – I will, sir. Thank you for the advice.

            – Don’t mention it. Are you interested in applying for the job, Mr Brown?

            – Yes sir, I am. Thank you for the opportunity.

            – Well, we’ll leave you for a few minutes to fill out the application and take it from there.

He reached into his briefcase for two sheets of paper, an application for logistics supervisor. Brown reached into his jacket for his pen and filled the questionnaire neatly while his interlocutors sat in a nearby office discussing the son‑in‑law’s hooks.

 

Brown was privately coached over the following ten days, familiarising himself with everything from software to acquisitions procedures and liaison with technicians and aeromechanics. It was best to have some knowledge of their spheres of responsibility, just as it was necessary to know who to contact if things needed attention. He contacted Jeb Slowe in order to make an appointment to talk about prosthetic hook options. Jeb was delighted at the prospect of seeing Baz again so soon and made an appointment for five thirty. By the time they had finished, it would be early evening and they might spend the evening together.

 

Jeb Slowe had a worker’s hook and a standard hook available for purchase and the two men left together. Brown was now wearing the standard hook and his prosthesis had been altered to accept the tighter fitting required. The standard hook could easily be substituted for the worker’s hook but the artificial hand demanded another involved readjustment.

            – I wouldn’t be surprised if you keep the hand only for special occasions, Baz. It’s a bit if a nuisance to change a hook for the hand because of the length of the cable but at least you know how to do it yourself now. When you get to London, you ought to link up with a local prosthetist because a man in your position is going to need one, mark my words. Those things wear out, see? If the cable snaps or frays, you’re gonna need a new one pronto.

 

They dined together in a Cambodian restaurant and later shared Brown’s bed. Brown touched Slowe’s stubble and eyes and chest and genitals with his stump. Slowe savoured the sensations with his eyes closed. It was a gentle night, skin on skin, of masculine aromas and virile attraction, tinged with regret that their relationship, professional and otherwise, would soon end.

 

Aaron Byrd was too excited to sleep. His Australian mate was arriving the next day, touching down around ten after an exhausting overnight flight from Oz. Byrd made sure the flat was clean, that there was room in the closet for another man’s clothes and that the bed had clean sheets. He removed his peg legs and fed the leg brace with the wooden and rubber foot into a new pair of jeans. He slotted the connector onto his stump lug and pulled the jeans up over his waist. He folded the left trouser leg neatly into his belt, giving him the appearance of a one-legged man. He reached for his crutches and left home for a long journey by public transport, first to Harrow on the Met and then on the express bus to the airport. He wanted to time the journey. Baz would do it every day.

 

Byrd arrived just as the jet landed. He had been travelling for eighty‑three minutes. The express bus from Harrow was not so fast. On the return, they could take the train part of the way. Byrd found a good spot to stand where he could see arriving passengers. He took a comfortable tripod position, peg leg slightly in front, crutch tips slightly behind. The rubber and wooden foot was visible and attracted attention from waiting hosts. Other men admired his shiny bald dome with the strap of his eye patch dissecting it and his luxurious full black beard. Legless or not, the cripple was one of the most handsome figures most men had seen in quite a while. A rush of new arrivals burst through the door from customs dragging huge wheeled suitcases, all of them looking around frantically for familiar faces. Then Baz Brown appeared, almost hidden behind a family of over‑excited children and their exhausted parents. He dragged his case with his farmer’s hook, hidden from Byrd’s view. A quick glance at those waiting was all Brown needed to find Byrd. He walked more quickly. Byrd watched him with pleasure and shifted a crutch tip to face him more directly. As Brown approached, he opened the hook to release his grip on the case and hugged the man he had travelled from the other side of the earth to meet. Byrd allowed him to bury his head in his chest. His own hands gripped the crossbars of his crutches.

            – I’m so glad to see you. Have you been waiting long?

            – No. Your plane was just arriving as I got here. What do you want to do? Shall we find a place for coffee or do you want to get home right away?

            – Up to you, Aaron. Shall we have coffee?

Byrd had still not noticed Brown’s hook. They had been standing too close for it to be in Byrd’s line of sight and he had not been looking for anything unusual. Brown was intensely conscious of his stump and wondered if he had done the right thing by not telling Byrd about it. Byrd rearranged his crutches and lifted his peg leg, turning it to face away from the arrivals channel and towards the row of competing coffee houses lining the terminal.

 

Byrd concentrated on placing the rubber ferrules in a regular rhythm. There were others in the way, crossing paths with him. The light steel frame of his peg leg moved easily and the rounded rubber sole gripped the floor. Even so, he had no chance to look at his mate striding along beside him, the hook again concealed from view.

            – How was the flight?

            – Not too bad. I got some sleep for a couple of hours. I look at the time to see it’s eleven and I feel like it’s eleven at night.

            – Ha! You can have a nap when we get home. Shall we sit here? What do you want?

            – I’ll get them. Couple of lattes OK?

            – Fine.

 

Byrd rested a crutch against the rim of a potted yucca and leant on the other as he released his knee locks. He lowered himself onto a seat and looked around. His mate was talking to a barista and indicated a chalked table of fare with his left hook. Byrd was not quite sure what he was seeing. He blinked and twisted his head and looked again. The left hand was not visible. Brown waited for the two coffees and then lifted his left hook again to take a credit card from his wallet. Byrd was not seeing things. Brown was wearing a hook. He picked one latte up and brought it over, placing it in front of Byrd with a smile. He returned to bring his own.

            – I’ve seen it. Why are you wearing a hook?

            – I was just about to tell you. I’m sorry for keeping it from you. I didn’t want to worry you. I was injured in that terrorist attack in Singapore a few months back. Do you remember?

            – I’ve never heard of it. What happened?

            – Well, some ultranationalist Chinese group attacked the nightclub I was in with machetes and one of them sliced my hand off. I’ll tell you the details later if you’re interested but I was patched up and this is the result.

He put the tangle of prosthetic steel onto the tabletop next to his latte for inspection. Byrd recognised the design from Dorian’s hooks.

            – I know another man who wears hooks like those. He made this peg leg.

Brown glanced under the table to see the wooden foot clamped onto steel braces. The cuff of Byrd’s trousers had ridden up when he sat.

            – Wow! That looks amazing. I’d like to meet this man.

            – I’m sure you will. Are you OK now? Your stump’s healed alright, is it?

            – Yup, no problems. A bit of a twinge now and then, nothing serious. Lucky, really.

            – So are you still working as a steward?

            – No, no. I’m here to take up a position as a logistics controller. I’ll be working here at the airport and be home every evening. Qantas more or less had to find something for me to do. They couldn’t just kick me out.

            – No, obviously. And you don’t mind?

            – No, of course not. It means we can be together more. It’s what kept me feeling positive over the past months.

He picked his hook up in his right hand and fondled it.

            – It’s not so bad, really. You don’t mind, do you? That I’m an amputee too, I mean.

            – No, of course not. It’s just a surprise. You don’t mind either, do you?

            – Nope. I never expected to be an amputee myself but having my own stump feels great. I’ll show it to you later.

            – I know. Drink your coffee and we can make tracks. The journey back is a bit of a bitch, I’m afraid.

 

It was. Train, bus, Met, Underground to Dollis Hill. An hour twenty‑seven. Something would have to be done.

            – Don’t worry if you can’t remember the route, Baz. I’ll come with you the first few times, if you like.

            – I wouldn’t dream of it. But I can tell you right now that the first thing I’m buying is a motorbike. That’ll be nippier than anything else. Keep an eye on the satnav and I’ll be there in no time. Do you mind if I sleep as soon as we get to your place, Aaron? I can hardly keep my eyes open.

            – It’s our place, Baz. It’s home. You can sleep as long as you like.

 

Byrd removed his converted leg brace and took his jeans off. He put on a pair of shorts and his short peg legs. Brown took off his jacket and short‑sleeved white shirt and lay on Byrd’s bed. He shrugged his prosthesis off and allowed it to drop to the floor. He was asleep within seconds. When Byrd tottered in to check on him, the fresh stump was across Brown’s belly. Byrd stared at it, still surprised that the superbly proportioned muscleman had not only lost a hand but had welcomed gaining his own stump. It was a beautiful example of its genre, rounded, scarless, half the length of the former forearm. Byrd found a light blanket in his closet and covered his admirer and lover with it. He returned to his work, laying out fresh news articles which trickled in, converting camera snapshots to print‑worthy images, holding his tiny peg legs when he leaned forward to inspect copy on‑screen. Baz slept on.

 

Brown acclimatised quickly to his new routine. Byrd accompanied him to open a bank account, buy a new phone, explained how public transport worked, showed him a few sights from the top of a double decker bus and allowed himself to be pampered by his one‑armed admirer. As the weather warmed, Brown frequently left his hook at home and bared his stump, now covered once again in thick blond hair. He joined a gym recommended to him by two work colleagues and worked out for an hour or two several times a week after work. Brown tolerated the awkward commute for two weeks before buying an electric bike with two batteries and fat tyres. He kitted himself out with a full‑face helmet, motocross boots which held his ankles rigid and a motorcyclist’s glove. There was room to store the bike in the apartment where it was easy to recharge. Byrd often looked at the bike and wished he could ride it. It would be next to impossible for him to mount a bike even with a pair of conventional artificial legs. His stumps were simply too short for cycling.

To celebrate Midsummer, Cage invited a few friends for a dinner party. He rarely hosted since becoming more disabled but thought that a few amputee friends might forgive any shortcomings. He planned on serving a top quality summer salad, maybe with fresh salmon, a few bottles of white wine and if there was a thirst for more, they could find a bar somewhere in the vicinity for drinks. Dorian replied that he was delighted to be invited and would certainly attend. Aaron replied on behalf of himself and his companion and thanked Cage for his offer. They would be happy to come. Cage moved around his loft apartment on his solitary peg leg inspecting its layout, ensuring that there was room for two men on peg legs and that as much as possible would be accessible for hook users. Cage had already made significant changes to his décor since adopting a peg leg. He had mastered his short pegs, made from an old kitchen chair and his second pair, much longer with fat black ferrules, simpler in design. It was a challenging way to walk. He wanted to use them in public but realised that he needed a walking stick to negotiate steps and kerbs while hobbled with two hingeless pegs. He was looking for a shoulder high walking stick with a crook handle. He wanted a walking stick which was as extravagant as his general appearance. Smith’s in Holborn had informed him that he would be notified if such an unusual item appeared for sale. However, Cage felt most comfortable on Dorian’s latest peg leg, a rigid wooden leg, craftily hollowed for lightness and with an opening in which to hide one of Cage’s enormous cigars. The peg tapered to a ten centimetre wide rubberised base and was coloured with a dark wood stain and an ultragloss acrylic varnish. There was one golden appliqué design on the shin which lent the entire peg leg an air of opulence and majesty. It was actually plastic but Dorian covered it in gold leaf. Cage found the peg’s weight perfect and preferred mobility on the single peg with crutches to that provided by either set of his other peg legs. It looked no less shocking, and it was more comfortable and secure for all its disadvantages. It was almost impossible for him to sit.

 

The evening was thoroughly enjoyable. Dorian and Barry were introduced and spent much of the evening together discussing and comparing upper limb prosthetics. Brown was hugely impressed by Dorian’s nonchalant use of his hooks. The man seemed to use them as naturally as he would his own hands and after the initial surprise of seeing susomeone so unusually handsome so severely disabled, it began to seem as if he had somehow been destined to become a prime example of mutilated beauty. Dorian for his part was no less enchanted with the short muscleman who wielded a hook with assurance but without the finesse which Dorian prided himself on. Before the evening had advanced very far, Dorian had promised to deliver a purely cosmetic hand of pristine wood, fitted to Brown’s stump on a chrome socket.

 

Brown was confirmed as a logistics controller after his three month trial period. His London employers had tendered a report on the amputee’s progress and made special mention of the fact that the man’s disability in no way held him back nor prevented him from undertaking any of his responsibilities. Qantas HQ in Sydney reviewed his case and increased his salary by twenty per cent. Brown was naturally pleased and celebrated with Aaron the following weekend. Coincidentally, Dorian had informed Brown that his wooden hook was ready. It was light but much larger than his normal split hook and was covered with gold leaf, which Dorian had bought for Cage’s peg leg. He had discovered that a little went a long way. The lovers debated whether to involve Dorian in their special weekend and decided it would be churlish not to. And so Cage was also invited.

 

Cage was delighted. He had not met Aaron or Barry since Midsummer. There was a practical reason why he wanted to meet Aaron. It had to do with his left osseointegration. The skin was discoloured although there was no signs of infection. He treated both stumps in the same way each evening with antibacterial creams and kept the lugs disinfected. But the weight of his adapted original legs was uncomfortable and even wearing his short pegs presented problems. Cage wondered if Aaron had experienced anything similar and how he remedied it. It was not a huge problem. The stump hung empty and unused. Cage wore his black and gold peg everywhere except occasionally at home when he used the shorter set and his cut‑down crutches. Even then, he wore only one peg. He was more agile on the short crutches with only one peg. He had thought about adopting the short peg for everyday public use, but his identity was that of a tall man. His imago, including the full beard, chrome dome and eye patch, required him to be of a certain height which imparted élan and, together with his features, a degree of dominance. Regardless of how active he was thrusting his stump with the short peg, the more sedate pace demanded by the weight of the antique black peg was more in keeping with Cage’s self‑image.

 

Brown took on all responsibility for organising the evening session with friends. He knew Dorian was a light drinker but he allowed himself a drink now and then and knew that both doppelgangers could drink most men under the table, chance given. They would order food in later from the trusty kebab place across the road.

            – Are you going to wear your long peg or the little ones, mate? Cos if you’re gonna be standing around with Jules, we won’t have to shift the sofa.

            – I don’t know, Baz. We can shift it later on if we have to, can’t we?

            – I just want the place to be tip‑top when they arrive.

            – Don’t worry about it. The main thing is people have a place to sit and rest their glasses. How about you? Are you going to wear your drinks hook?

            – You betcha!

 

Byrd was referring to a symmetrical hook which was ideal for picking up cylindrical objects, like a tin of Italian espresso or a bottle of vodka. They both referred to it as the drinks hook. The flamboyant golden hook with the wooden and leather socket which Dorian had spent a month making would probably make an appearance. Cage had not yet seen it. It was functionally almost useless but it looked stunning when paired with Brown’s cycling leathers. He had occasionally worn it on short bike rides and found it capable of operating the front brake.

 

As he had intended, Cage and Byrd retired to the bedroom and Cage dropped his trousers to reveal his naked left stump.

            – Jeez! Jules, you really ought to get that seen to. It looks like you’ve bruised it.

            – I haven’t worn anything on it for months. Not only because I don’t want to, but because it feels quite painful after a few minutes,

            – You’re an idiot for not getting it seen to. What are you waiting for? You have a surgeon, don’t you?

            – Well no, not since we got back from Oz. There’s been no need.

            – There is now. Make an appointment and get it seen to, mate. It’s not supposed to look like that and it’s not supposed to be painful. You know that.

            – Yeah. Yours are OK, I hope.

            – Fine. I can wear either pair of pegs or my long peg with no trouble. You need to get yourself seen to, Jules. Don’t waste any more time.

 

It was a successful evening. Even Dorian stayed the night, sharing Aaron’s and Baz’s bed with Baz. The legless doppelgangers slept at each end of the sofa, their stumps almost touching. Baz dropped a blanket over them and joined Dorian for some erotic stump play. Both men were infatuated with the other’s appearance and Baz had begun to imagine how life would be with two hooks. If Dorian could earn a living independently with two hooks, Baz Brown could too.

 

Cage took Byrd’s advice and contacted his prosthetist, whom he had not met in two years. He turned up for a meeting wearing his black peg leg.

            – That didn’t come from the health service! Where did you get it?

            – There’s an artist who specialises in custom protheses. He’s an amputee himself and seems to have a fairly wide range of customers. He made this along with several other pegs and did some alterations to the original pair of legs I got from you after I had the osseos done.

            – Interesting. So what can I do for you?

            – I’d like you to take a look at my other stump. The osseo has been playing up and it’s beginning to be painful when there’s any weight on it.

            – OK. Let’s have a look.

Cage, still standing on his peg leg and crutches, allowed his trousers to drop. The naked stump, obviously inflamed and discoloured, appeared and Cage lifted it towards the prosthetist for closer inspection. The man recoiled.

            – Can you not smell that, man? That’s gangrene. The smell of gangrene. Without putting too fine a point on it, that stump has to come off and the sooner the better.

            – What do you mean ‘come off’?

            – Another amputation. You’ll be lucky to keep an inch or so of femur, Jules. I wouldn’t be surprised if they take the whole thing and leave you with a fleshy stump with no femur at all.

            – Jesus. I’ll be completely one‑legged.

            – Yup. I’m going to try to squeeze you in as soon as possible. Are you free to spend a week or two out of it in the near future?

            – Any time is fine. I can take a day or two off any time.

            – You’ll need longer than that to recover, my friend.

            – It’s no problem. I work from home anyway.

            – Ah, OK. Less of a problem. You don’t seem too bothered about losing your leg, Jules.

            – Well, I half expected something like this plus the fact that I’ve not use the left stump for a year or so. Not since I got this peg. I’ve been on crutches for many years. The single peg leg just makes everything perfect. It’s the way I’m meant to be.

            – I won’t pretend I understand you, Jules, but it’s all for the best if you’re happy to use crutches. You will hardly be able to use a prosthesis after your next amputation.

            – It’s alright. Let’s get it over and done with.

 

Cage’s left leg was amputated three days later. The femur was disarticulated from the pelvis completely and muscle tissue from the thigh and buttocks repositioned to provide a bulbous cushion of flesh as padding. He would rely on his solitary long stump for mobility from now on and as soon as the after effects of his anaesthesia wore off, he began to imagine new prostheses which Dorian might consider making. He snoozed or slept for much of the time before he was allowed to sit and dreamed of elaborate mechanical contraptions attached to his stump, metallic creations too abstract to be called prostheses. He dreamed of meeting his doppelganger, both of them on crutches, both wearing one fantastical peg leg to take their weight with each step.

 

Cage had been at home for a month and well on the way to recovery before he contacted his doppelganger and related the news of his ever‑intensifying disablement. He had been advised to exercise for an hour or two each day, which in his case entailed using a single chair leg peg. Its ornate curvature looked even better when unencumbered by the distraction of its pair on the other stump. Cage wore it while using his wheelchair. The peg leg was not long enough to be an inconvenience. He had not yet dared risk falling while wearing his tall steel mesh prosthesis. There was time enough to practise strutting on a full‑length leg later when his fresh stump had healed completely.

 

Byrd was concerned for his friend and Cage heard him speaking sotto voce to his lover. They were both willing to make time to help Cage out at home, but Cage assured them that he had been managing perfectly well, that he was working again and planning a business trip to the Dominican Republic as soon as his surgeon gave him the all clear to travel. The inevitable happened and Cage agreed wholeheartedly to host another evening where only amputees were welcome. Byrd insisted that from now on, they ought to keep in touch more frequently and their get‑togethers should be strictly bring‑your‑own‑bottle. Cage laughed at the idea of behaving like a bunch of impoverished undergrads but concurred with the arrangement. Dorian arrived wearing a purple velvet jacket and a white shirt with ruffles. The steel hooks looked even more incongruous. Brown wore the beautiful wooden hand Dorian had crafted and its chrome socket occasionally flashed at the wrist. Byrd relied on two simple tubular peg legs and heaved himself along on shortened crutches. He found it amusing to be slightly shorter than Baz Brown. Although he had been legless for quite a while, he still had the mentality of the tall man he used to be, albeit encased in unforgiving leg braces for most of his life. After arriving, he left the crutches and demonstrated his skill at walking on two pegs and balancing perfectly when standing still. Cage congratulated him on mastering the art, something which he used to do himself. Byrd’s minuscule stumps were far more demanding than his own long one.

 

Baz Brown was again infatuated with the way Dorian gestured and used his hooks exactly as if he had hands. He had worn the wooden hand that evening to show it off to Cage and to confirm that he genuinely wore it to Dorian. However, an idea which had been brewing for months now finally erupted and he drew Dorian to one side.

            – Dorian mate, I watch you and there’s only one thing I want. I want my other hand off. Have you got any ideas how I could go about it?

Dorian had a very good idea, having destroyed his own hands deliberately nearly three years previously by crushing them in his studio under the hydraulic press which he had bought for the purpose. He wanted to suggest that Brown do the same thing but the thought of being dragged into another enquiry which sought to establish blame and demand compensation was too much. The official enquiries after Dorian’s maiming had determined that misadventure was the cause and that the promising young artist who had recently gained some fame as a photographer was entitled to prosthetic care from the state. He was fitted with the most basic prostheses with standard hooks and continued to wear them. He placed a hook onto each knee and leaned forward conspiratorially.

            – You really want this, don’t you, Barry?

            – Yeah. It feels so wrong to have a hand here and a stump here. I want two stumps. I’d like them to look the same but I don’t mind if they aren’t. I mean, they’d be hidden in my sockets, right? No‑one would ever see them.

Dorian needed no persuading. Barry was obviously convinced of the mental advantages of severe physical disability. His hooks were recalcitrant extensions of his stumps, unwieldy to use, disturbingly ugly to outsiders, impractical for so many things. He loved the sensations of his rigid unfeeling forearms, operating steel hooks with his shoulders instead of doing everything precisely and delicately with his old flesh hands.

            – Do you know how I lost my hands, Barry?

            – Aaron said in an accident in your studio.

            – Aaron is half right. It happened in my studio but I’m not sure whether to tell you—it was not an accident.

Dorian lifted his hooks to admire them and to demonstrate to Brown exactly what he was talking about.

            – I destroyed my hands on purpose. I wanted hooks.

            – So do I! Dorian, you look so perfect with hooks. I just want what you have. To use two hooks instead of just one for the rest of my life. Is it so much to ask?

Dorian held Brown’s shoulders between his hooks to reassure him. He was almost in tears.

            – Look, you could do what happened to me but I must not be seen as responsible for any part of it, do you understand? There’s a hydraulic press in my studio which I rigged to disable all the safety features. After the accident, the manufacturer checked the system to make it safe. If you want, we could arrange it so that you organise another accident with it. But I won’t be present. I will have no part of it, other than allowing you into my studio. You’ll have to come up with the scenario and the explanation, do you understand?

            – Course. Dorian—did it hurt?

            – Yes but not as much as I expected. Or maybe it did. I don’t remember.

            – Are you sorry you did it?

Dorian lifted his hooks again and turned them from side to side to catch the light.

            – Just look at them, Barry. Of course not.

 

Cage later spoke of the fantastical dreams he had during his recovery. He was enthusiastic about possessing a pair of feet again which he could use with crutches. The right foot would be attached to a pylon which clipped onto his osseo. Halfway down, an L‑shaped attachment, bearing the left foot, would branch out from the long pylon. He would rest on both feet which, he suggested, would be similar to that on Byrd’s peg leg. Dorian nodded his understanding and made suggestions about terminating both pylons with wooden feet from the collection he had purchased from a defunct tailor’s stock. It would be easy to add thick rubber soles, smoothly rounded to make progress easy. If he used aluminium pylons, the whole contraption would not weigh more than a couple of kilos, well within the weight‑bearing limit of the osseointegration lug. It would be an amazing double peg leg with handsome wooden feet on roller soles, ensuring the user remained unable to stand without crutches. Dorian assured Cage that he would do his best to source suitable materials from his pile of discarded metal.

            – I’d love to come and help you, Dorian.

Dorian looked up at Brown in surprise and they exchanged a brief conspiratorial grin. Cage’s peg leg with a second foot was under way, as was Brown’s re‑conformed body with a second hook.

Brown was excited by the prospect of gaining a second stump. He was practical enough to realise that he would have to rely on a solitary hook for a couple of months while his fresh stump healed and a new prosthesis was made. He paid special attention to his customary work processes, much of which was digital and most of that could be operated by voice command. The few times he did any manual work were occasions when his help was strictly voluntary. He believed he could assist just as well with a pair of hooks. His mind was preoccupied with concocting a reason for him to use Dorian’s hydraulic press. He could think of no logical reason why he would need to be near it.

 

But Dorian could. As part of the manufacturing process, a few centimetres of aluminium pylon needed to be flattened and bent before attachment to the wooden foot. It was not implausible that Brown might be left alone in Dorian’s studio for an hour or so while Dorian was out on some errand. It was difficult to imagine why a one‑handed man should be so careless to place his hand under the press but it was Brown’s problem. Dorian had already found and collected all the necessary components for Cage’s bifurcated peg leg and sent a text to Brown asking if he would like to assist, as he had kindly offered. Brown replied that he would be proud to, and after an evening discussing his plans with Byrd, explicitly explaining that the intention was to destroy his right hand, he felt a sense of inner peace for knowing that his mental turmoil was over.

 

Brown’s presence was a genuine help to Dorian. Regardless of how determined he was to use his hooks for complicated mechanical manufacturing, Brown’s assistance was invaluable. The two men, otherwise the complete opposites of each other, worked together on a fantastical project for a mutual friend, both of them similarly disabled and admiring the other’s appearance because of it. At midday, Dorian knocked his vice open with a socket, extracted the item he was working on and explained the following work stages. He was leaving on an errand, in fact to have lunch in a greasy spoon nearby, and would be back no later than one thirty.

            – One thirty. OK.

            – Have some cord or something to wrap around your arm, Barry. Don’t bleed to death before I get back.

 

Dorian shoved his artificial arms into his jacket and left, leaving the door to his studio unlocked. The caff was full of construction workers wearing hi‑vis gear and hardhats. They watched the bearded guy in the motorcycle jacket enter and gawped when they caught sight of his hooks. Dorian ordered his usual sausage egg and chips and sat a small two‑seater table where he could be seen well enough but also stare out of the window, imagining what Brown was doing in the studio. The cook brought him his meal in the time it took to fry the egg and Dorian picked at his meal with his worker’s hooks, chips with the right, sausage with the left. The construction workers were fascinated. One or two had seen Dorian before and would have liked to know more about why the most handsome man they had ever seen had hooks and ate fry‑ups in a caff but they were too shy in front of their mates to talk to him. Dorian’s appearance often worked as a deterrent. He was a lonely man, and many of his acquaintances were voluntary amputees like himself. It was an odd circle of friends with exorbitant entry requirements. He twisted his left hook to check the time on his watch. There was time for a slice of apple pie with ice cream and after that a cup of coffee, assuming they brewed a fresh pot in the next twenty minutes. He glanced at a trio of workers getting up from a neighbouring table. He made eye contact with a young guy, face handsomely stubbled except for a dark moustache. Their glance lasted three seconds, long enough. If the youngster ever spoke to Dorian, his fate would be sealed. He would be a bilateral amputee within a year. It was the effect Dorian had on his admirers, useless to deny. Dorian tarried a little longer. His coffee was potable. He saluted the crew as he left, a gesture learned from watching fellow diners, working men. The staff had long since run through predictable questions of how a man could look like that, how he could use a pair of hooks like that and why did he have them. Instead, they called out ‘Bye now. Take care’ not daring to use the word ‘mate’.

 

Dorian poked his hooks into his jacket pockets and sauntered slowly back towards his studio. There were no ambulances nor police visible, not yet. Bracing himself for the almost inevitable gore, he pushed his way inside. Brown was sitting with his back to the door, hunched over, his head moving from side to side describing the shape of infinity as he compelled himself to tolerate agony. Dorian glanced at the hydraulic press, stuck in the down position. Brown must have sliced his arm free. Dorian vaguely remembered being held firmly by trapped skin and severed tendons. Brown’s arm was wrapped with an elastic cord.

 

            – I’ll call an ambulance.

Two medics arrived after twenty minutes. Dorian did his best to tighten the makeshift tourniquet. Without inspecting the gore too closely, he thought that Brown would end up with a serviceable stump and if the surgeon had any sense, he would make it as long as the other. His own stumps were mirror images. Brown was escorted to the ambulance and Dorian was left to clear up the mess.

 

Byrd was informed the next day when a nurse asked Brown if there was anyone the hospital could notify of his injury. Brown mentioned his employer and his flatmate. The Heathrow office informed Sydney, who decided to wait for four weeks before making any permanent decision about employing a double amputee. He was allowed visitors on the third day after the amputation and Byrd turned up on short crutches wearing one peg leg, causing some initial consternation by being confused with an out‑patient. Byrd revisited on the fourth day and Brown was discharged the following morning with his stump bandaged tightly, covered in a transparent light blue plastic sheath. He assured the surgical staff that he knew exactly how to care for his fresh stump and that he had help at home. His surgeon was certain that the Brown case was deliberate, although it was the most unlikely case he had ever seen since the patient was an enthusiastic bodybuilder and health fanatic. There might have been a deeper investigation if the patient had not been so lucid and optimistic about his recovery. As he himself pointed out, he already knew how to use an artificial arm with a standard hook and there was no reason to suppose that a second such device should pose any insurmountable problem. His surgeon smiled at his patient’s naïveté and wished him luck in the future. He went home by taxi feeling crippled by the lack of a prosthesis on his right arm. Byrd welcomed him back and did his best to reassure Brown that everything was going to be fine, just the way it was before. Brown sat in the lounge and stared at his electric bike, sure he would never ride it again.

 

Brown became quiet, the complete opposite of his usual boisterous self. He was frustrated by his disability but considerate enough not to complain. Byrd tended to his needs, which Brown conceded to genuinely needing help with. He had never been helpless before and found the experience depressing. Byrd donned his left hook for him each morning and allowed the invalid peace to come to terms with his altered future. Dorian texted Byrd to ask how things were going and Byrd replied walking on eggshells.

A month after the amputation, Brown was pointed to a prosthetist who would manufacture his prosthesis and to whom Brown could turn with any possible problems. The process was slow, requiring several seemingly unnecessary visits for checks and measurements. After several weeks, the new prosthesis was finally ready—a standard hook on a friction wrist. The prosthetist detached Brown’s left prosthesis from its harness and attached both hooks to a double harness. The sockets were short and broad, mimicking the muscular forearm stumps hidden inside them. Brown was shown how to don the equipment and after practising several times, the prosthetist was satisfied that Brown understood the procedure. They shook, hand to hook, and Brown left the facility, suddenly in a much better mood, enjoying the balance of the almost identical prostheses and the look of bilateral steel hooks. He felt like a man again. Byrd immediately noticed the change in him at home and they spent the rest of the day playing together, testing Brown’s aptitude with hooks. It was astonishing to see the old Baz return, all the more so considering that six months ago he had been a full‑bodied muscleman, much admired by others, although his short status did not lead to envy. Now he was severely disabled for the rest of his life, handless and incapable of most things until the elaborate paraphernalia was attached to his stumps, letting him shrug and twist to move half a steel hook. A normal man would despair. Brown rejoiced in finally being able to look down to see hooks on black carbon sockets instead of his hands on muscular forearms. Byrd was happy for him. The prostheses looked beefy and impressive. Few men could look good with two artificial arms but Brown pulled it off and made it look desirable.

 

He returned to work seven weeks after crushing his hand. His workmates, all Australians, were wary for a couple of minutes until Brown put them all at their ease with a couple of off‑colour jokes and demonstrated the ease with which he poured himself a cup of coffee in the recreation room. He had already learned to sign his name with his right hook, an essential skill. His colleagues watched him change his street clothes for his hi‑vis waistcoat and allowed him to walk ahead in order to open doors for them. He was gonna be golden, they reckoned.

 

Cage returned from his business trip to the Dominican Republic, an excellent opportunity to combine business with pleasure. The local population was hospitable and eager to lend assistance to the tall Englishman who used crutches because he had only one peg leg. Cage, independent in normal circumstances, allowed himself to be pampered. Friendly seniors helped him up from a chair onto his peg and giggling children held his crutches for him. He lived for three weeks in T‑shirts, white shorts with a sombrero, visiting as many tavernas and restaurants as possible, enjoying the taste of fish caught the same day. He came away with an attractive deal for another two year’s supply of enormous cigars which would keep his customers more than satisfied. For the first time, he had nabbed a gross of one‑three‑five ring cigars, a beast of a cigar, forty centimetres long and eight in width. He had never carried anything as intentionally phallic and was sure they would find an appreciative clientele. Not having seen his fellow amputees for many weeks, and conscious of the depressing English climate after Caribbean sunshine, he invited his amputee friends to his Hackney loft for drinks and a get‑together. Everyone grabbed a chance to break with routine. Dorian was pleased that Cage was back because he had something to deliver.

 

The item in question was the extraordinary peg leg which Cage had described in early summer. Dorian had constructed it in such a way that the auxiliary left foot could be easily removed from the main shaft. Cage might prefer to use the long aluminium strut as a normal peg leg. Dorian wrapped it in a bin bag and made his way to Shoreditch.

 

Cage was wearing the first leg which Dorian had converted for use with the osseo. Cage wore a Timberland boot on its foot and cut‑off jeans to emphasise his one‑legged status.

            – I brought this for you. I hope you find a use for it.

            – Thank you very much, Dorian. Let’s see it.

Cage unwrapped the unwieldy package and extracted the peg by holding the osseo connecter. The crossbar holding the left foot came into view, then the two wooden feet beautifully melded with thick black rubber soles, rounded in such a way that the apparatus was unstable without support.

            – This is remarkable. I’ve never seen anything quite so… artificial. It looks so unnatural. I’m going to put this on right now before the others arrive and wear it this evening.

 

Cage lowered himself into an armchair and opened the clasp holding his prosthetic leg to his stump lug. He lifted it to one side and positioned the two‑footed peg leg so he could attach it to his stump. His entire leg was rigid from his pelvis to his feet.

            – Give me my crutches, will you, Dorian? I’m going to try getting up.

            – Don’t worry. I’ll lend you a hand.

They grinned at the turn of phrase. Cage held onto the crutches’ crossbars and tried to lean forward to get his weight onto them. He tried lifting himself, dragging the feet closer as he rose. With a quick jerk, he got his crutch tips behind his centre of weight and pulled himself erect. He looked down to see himself standing on two feet and laughed at the novelty.

            – This looks so odd. It feels quite secure.

 

He took a step forward. The construction, despite its surreal appearance, held firmly. The rubber soles rolled forward pleasingly, and the feet moved in tandem with each other, confirming their owner’s disability. The wooden feet were naked with an attempt at depicting toes and the rubber soles were melded to their bases making them instantly prosthetic and artificial. Dorian had done a beautiful job of restoring the finish of the wooden surfaces. Cage set off on a tour of his loft and noticed that turning demanded a different technique from using a standard peg. He could not spin himself on a ferrule. Both feet had to be lifted and lowered in stages in order to turn around. It was disabling. Cage approved. The apparatus was silent in use except for the soft clunk as the curving rubber soles struck the wooden floorboards.

            – Well done, Dorian. Thank you very much. This feel excellent. Would you do me a favour? Take my prosthesis to the bedroom closet, if you don’t mind. I’d do it myself but I appear to be inconvenienced at the moment.

They smirked again. Dorian was happy to help Cage achieve a deeper level of disability. He had already surmised when working on it that the apparatus was going to be considerably more demanding to operate than Cage’s normal peg legs. Dorian gripped the artificial leg and took it to Cage’s bedroom.

 

Brown and Byrd turned up in good time and were impressed by the appearance of the tall two‑footed crutch user who opened the door to them. Byrd was using his medium length peg and shortened crutches. He stood appraising his transformed doppelganger, admiring the man’s chutzpah.

            – Come inside. Dorian’s here. We were wondering where you had got to.

            – Jules, we’re ten minutes early!

They went further into the living space and greeted Dorian. Once seated, Byrd could take his jacket off. Brown carried it and his own in a hook back to the hallway.

            – Baz, bring some glasses and a bottle of something from the fridge, will you? We’re dying of thirst here.

            – I’ll help him. Shall I bring a bottle of vodka?

            – Yup. Thanks, Dorian. Well, what do you think of my new peg?

Cage stood leaning on his crutches, unwilling or unable to sit.

            – It’s spectacular. Really special. But are you going to wear it? It’s a bit of an attention grabber, isn’t it?

            – Is it though? Don’t most people have two feet? I’ll tell you something, Aaron. This is a lot different from a single peg. You know how easy it is to turn on a peg? There’s none of that with two feet. Watch!

Cage swung into action again. The wooden feet struck the floor in perfect synchrony and remained in place as Cage moved over them, swinging his crutches for another step. They lifted from the floor simultaneously. It looked completely unnatural, intensely interesting. Cage made a three point turn and returned, watching the admiring face of his doppelganger following his artificial footsteps.

            – I may never wear anything else.

            – If only that were true. Still, you look amazing and I’m sure it feels fantastic.

Dorian and Baz placed four glasses on the table.

            – Aaron, would you pour the first round, please?

Byrd leaned forward over his peg leg and cracked open the freezing bottle of Absolut. Baz and Dorian adjusted their hooks to pick up their glasses and adjusted their artificial arms to raise a toast to Jules and his new feet, a long life and a happy evening. Byrd lifted Jules’ glass for him to grasp and looked at his doppelganger, examining the impossible face, admiring how full Cage’s beard was, the perfect length and shape and hoped his own was as impressive. Their single eyes made contact and they raised their glasses to each other.

 

Cage stood for another ten minutes until the lively conversation between the two hook users persuaded him to sit closer to them. He lowered himself carefully onto the sofa and shed his new double peg leg. Dorian had already offered to let Brown borrow a couple of his hooks. Brown wore a pair of worker’s hooks almost exclusively. He had a drinker’s hook for his left arm and wore it now but Dorian was astonished to hear that he had never worn a pair of standard hooks. Dorian had a steel pair and another of aluminium, much lighter but useless for scrolling a phone screen. If Brown was interested, he could call in to Dorian’s studio and collect them. Cage asked Brown several questions about how he had acclimatised to having stumps instead of hands, how his coworkers had reacted on his return to work and what his employer thought about the situation. Brown had already begun to gesture with his rigid wrists, his hooks emphasising the points he was making, a sure sign that he regarded them as his hands. Dorian also noticed how much more assertive Brown was about displaying his hooks. Dorian himself was not so extrovert. Cage enjoyed hearing Brown’s news and was certain that the man would have overcome the problems he mentioned within a few months. He himself relied on a solitary above‑knee stump for his mobility and enjoyed not only the challenges it posed but also the myriad ways he was discovering to use it. He suddenly remembered something he had meant to mention to Byrd.

 

            – Aaron, would you be interested in using one of my kitchen chair peg legs, you know, the first pair Dorian made? I’m afraid to say that a pair is more than I can use. I think you’d look pretty good with one on your stump.

            – Are you serious? Really? You’d let me have one?

            – Well, it’s no use to me. Go on, take it!

            – Thanks very much! I will.

            – Dorian, would you fetch it. Either one will do. They’re both the same. They’re in the closet at the back somewhere. You know which ones I mean, don’t you?

            – Yes, of course.

Dorian returned with one of the convoluted black peg legs and put it on the sofa next to Byrd. Byrd released his pylon and fitted the black peg to his stump. His persona changed immediately. He altered from a legless torso to an assertive figure worthy of attention. The two pegs were almost the same length. Byrd shuffled forward to allow the peg’s tip to drop to the floor and Brown passed him one crutch at a time. Byrd swung the peg between his crutches, feeling its weight, sensing its balance and strode around the room, swinging the peg. He continued to the hallway and admired himself in a tall mirror. He had always admired these peg legs and had wanted to request a pair from Dorian but it was unfair and slightly ridiculous to copy his doppelganger to such a degree that they should even wear identical peg legs. It felt wonderful. Much heavier than the pylon he had strode in on. He thought it might easily become his favourite. He spun on its ferrrule and rejoined the others.

            – Jules, if you really mean to let me have this, I’ll accept with pleasure. Thank you.

            – You’re welcome. It’s of no use to me. Dorian put so much effort into making me a pair that it would be a shame if no‑one gets any benefit.

He sat back nursing another vodka and noticed that his stump ached. It was probably due to the unaccustomed additional weight of the double peg leg. He should have been more careful. No matter. The evening was a complete pleasure for everyone present. Cage ordered Thai food, such a large variety that he would still be eating leftovers during the week.

 

The ache in his stump transmuted into a pain during the following week. Weary of the inconvenience of yet another session of exploration and examinations, Cage did his best to ignore the discomfort but by the end of the week, he was wheelchair‑bound and made an urgent appointment with his prosthetist for the following week.

 

            – Good to see you again. I wish it were under more auspicious circumstances. Let’s have a look at the stump.

Cage wriggled out of his shorts and lifted the stump. The prosthetist remembered the patient’s previous problem and cautiously leaned forward to sniff the titanium lug poking out of Cage’s stump. There was no obvious problem.

            – I assume you’re prepared for a hospital visit. This pain would seem to indicate a problem with the osseointegation and probably required a closer examination than I can do. I’ll book you an appointment and let you know the time and date. That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.

Cage wheeled himself home and tried to concentrate of work for a couple of hours before giving up in annoyance. His stump hurt and he was not looking forward to his hospital appointment. Another amputation would mean leglessness, life in a torso socket, heaving his body along on his hands, losing his commanding status as a tall crutch user. He imagined himself on a business trip to the Caribbean, dragging his suitcase which was about the same size as his body and closely resembled it in appearance and material. It was too pathetic. With any luck, he might be left with ten or twelve centimetre of stump, capable of holding a stubby with a liberal application of elastic belts. He might learn to wear a knee‑length stubby and use crutches again. On the other hand, there was no reason why a torso socket could not have a stubby or two attached to its base. The more he thought about it, the more positive he felt about being completely legless. He might even demand a second disarticulation, despite what the surgeon recommended. His smooth padded left buttock had been pain‑free and perfectly adequate for everyday comfort. If the right side matched, he would be satisfied with a torso socket. Dorian would certainly be interested in creating some kind of system allowing him to be tall again. Much to his surprise, Cage began ejaculating heavily. Semen dripped through his underpants and onto the seat of his wheelchair. He tilted his head back and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

 

There was no need to insist on a second disarticulation. His surgeon recommended it and Jules Cage lost his stump two days after the initial surgical examination. He would undergo a specific orthopaedic regime designed to accustom double hip disarticulate patients to a new reality where they would rely on a custom‑made casing for their torsos, allowing them to sit upright. Cage intended fighting with his new prosthetist for a socket with a detachable peg leg. He would not give up his crutches so easily.

 

A four‑member delegation from Sydney arrived at the Qantas London HQ, ostensibly to inspect technical standards of work on aeronautical mechanics but also to cast an eye on the extraordinary double amputee about whom they had heard only positive reports. They had spent a week at Charles de Gaulle verifying Qantas’s new facilities and the London visit was a mere cover in order to meet and discuss future development with Baz Brown. They arrived on an Air France short hop from Paris to London and immediately revealed their credentials to an FAA representative who issued their access passes and summoned an underling to escort them to the Qantas base.

 

Baz Brown was not born yesterday and suspected the company representatives’ mission. He took them on a tour of the offices and introduced them to the staff before taking them outside for a half kilometre walk to the maintenance hall, where a gigantic Qantas Airbus was undergoing a wheel change. He toured via the manual work areas and picked up several pieces of equipment to demonstrate their purpose and that this bilateral hook user could handle the tools with no problems. Suitably impressed, the visitors followed him back to a staff canteen shared by representatives of many airlines, where an extensive buffet allowed them to choose food from Chinese, Indian and European cuisines. They spent as much time watching Brown manipulate his hooks to spoon three platefuls of Chinese fare for himself as they did choosing their own food. Brown almost never used cutlery but decided to be on his best behaviour and gripped a dessert spoon in his right hook and did justice to his meal, all the while gesticulating with his left worker’s hook as he explained scheduling and work verification. The visitors returned to the Qantas facility for coffee and a chat about Australian politics but they had seen what they had come for. The double amputee was capable, lively, popular with his colleagues and respected with suppliers. They returned to Sydney after a connecting flight to Charles de Gaulle and six weeks later, Brown noticed a fifteen percent increase in his take‑home pay.

 

Jules Cage was also in a good mood. His prosthetist had agreed to manufacture his torso socket in such a way that the lug which had formerly extended from his stump would be fixed to the base of his bucket. A variety of auxiliary equipment could be attached to it, from a short stubby to a full length peg leg. The same clasp mechanism would ensure quick release of the auxiliary and the facility to rest on the broad base of the bucket. It was far from the first time such an addition was incorporated in a new torso socket but it was the first time that it had been adapted from something removed from a patient’s stump. Cage doubted his Australian surgeon would approve of the connector being used in a such a way. Cage himself had little respect left for the entire osseointegration hype and wished he had never heard of it. His two long stumps had been a great source of pleasure. Now it was time to discover the potential of a torso stump.

 

Cage was bed bound for several weeks while his incision healed. He was otherwise lucid and active with his company, arranging deliveries and maintaining a regular flow of capital. The enormous one‑three‑five Dominican cigars he had ordered on his last expedition had found an enthusiastic audience. Leather daddies made videos for TikTok and Instagram demonstrating their mastery of jawbreaking cigars, almost beaten by the phallic potency. Their expressions were reminiscent of the discomfort in mastering their first real cigars as young men. They were not accustomed to doing justice to such monsters. They would learn. Cage composed a friendly email message to his contact in the Caribbean and placed an order for another gross. There was a good mark‑up at one hundred and fifteen pounds each. He paid just over twenty‑one, which assuredly included a generous profit for the manufacturer and distributor.

 

Cage was moved from the recovery ward to a private room in a separate wing designed for patient rehabilitation. His torso stump was measured and a virtual model created. After skilful digital modification, two halves of the socket were printed. There was a space for the adapted osseo lug in an indentation on the base, which was fitted with five centimetre tall cylindrical stubby legs. Cage had explained his intention to walk again on crutches and a cylindrical stubby would be printed of the same material as the socket. Its base would narrow to resemble a shoe. It would receive a curved rubber sole and Cage became impatient to walk out of hospital under his own power on a pair of shortened crutches with a single peg leg again, the new version now central. He would make a powerful statement and he was certain that Dorian would be delighted to work on new creations which his broad body stump inspired. There was another aspect to Cage’s desire to regain some height. He wanted to be as tall as his legless doppelganger again. Even with his minuscule stumps, Byrd definitely had the advantage. Cage wanted the pair of them to stand facing each again, equally tall, balancing on cut‑down wooden crutches, staring into each other’s impossible faces. They had both shed their legs since they first encountered each other and gained new friends in the process. Their unspoken competition would continue. Cage practised crutching back and forth in his loft, aroused by the unfamiliar pressure on his body caused by swinging the stubby and, confident of making the desired impression, he invited Aaron Byrd, Barry Brown and Dorian for drinks on the following Saturday. He had something to show them.

 

 

– DOPPELGANGERS –