MOONLIGHT ON CARBON

 

MOONLIGHT ON CARBON

A harrowing tale by strzeka. Is companionship possible after disability? (7/24)

 

Dean Turner was a shy man in his private life. He was intelligent and considerate but wary of opening up to others, as if he might lose something of himself in the process. He recognised this trait as a disadvantage and had had a typical experience at work only a couple of hours ago. He had boarded a number twelve tram with a colleague to inspect passengers’ tickets. Quite unexpectedly, one passenger held out his phone to display his monthly pass between the fingers of a rubber prosthetic glove. Turner paid far more attention to the artificial hand than to the display. The image of smooth skin‑toned rubber with unnaturally cylindrical nailless fingers burned itself into his memory and he replayed the five second encounter in his mind over and over when he walked home from the tram depôt. The hand belonged to a guy about his own age, maybe a bit younger. Turner’s reluctance to make eye contact had once again prevented him from getting a good look the guy. The sighting of a prosthesis would join many others in Turner’s mind to be revisited late at night when he dreamed of prosthetic limbs and the handsome young men who used them.

 

The number twelve route had recently been extended to Sedgefield Hospital after a turning loop in the forecourt was completed. Turner knew the hospital had an orthopaedic subdivision which also dealt with prosthetics. Most of the traffic to the terminus consisted, not unexpectedly, of visitors and the occasional staff member who commuted and boarded the tram outside the station. Turner and his colleague alternated between routes twelve and fourteen, checking tickets for a few minutes before disembarking for the next tram. It was not especially rewarding work but it was a secure job and for someone like Turner who was always ready to advise or help passengers, it brought a small measure of job satisfaction. Turner never disliked Monday mornings. It was good to be with his work colleagues again after a lonely weekend.

 

Late on Friday afternoon, he and his partner were checking the twelve when it arrived at Sedgefield. They stayed on board, chatting with the driver. Turner glanced out and saw a somehow familiar face enter the tram by the central doors. The passenger sat in a single seat and took his phone out. The driver finished a juicy anecdote about his weekend which Turner and his colleague only half believed and spun in his seat in readiness to depart for a rush hour run through the town centre to the northern suburbs. Turner waited at the front of the tram while his colleague strolled to the back of the vehicle. The driver eased his screeching tram around the turning loop back onto the semi‑rural lane leading to the main road into town. Turner waited for his colleague’s signal before moving down the car, requesting travel permits and tickets from the few passengers. The young guy Turner had noticed was next. He held out his phone in his left hand.

            – Sorry but I need to see the QR-code. That’s the log-in page.

            – Oh! Sorry. Just a sec.

The man twisted his phone around in his long fingers and tapped the screen with a bright steel hook. Finding the correct page, he held the phone out again for Turner. Turner paid no attention to it. He stared at the hook resting on the passenger’s thigh. The passenger noticed—how could he not?— and lowered his phone. He raised his hook for Turner’s approval.

            – I just collected it from the hospital. What do you think?

Turner was more embarrassed than he had ever been. He had been sussed by an amputee. His obsessions and fetishes were blown wide open for the derision of everyone he most respected and admired.

            – It’s… amazing. You had an artificial hand last time, didn’t you?

            – Yeah. It was alright, I suppose, but it wasn’t exactly what you’d call versatile. This should let me do more things a bit easier.

            – That’s wonderful. Well, good luck. I must get on.

            – I’ll see you around.

The amputee looked at Turner with a half smile. The poor man was obviously infatuated with his new hook. He knew about admirers and devotees. They were OK to a certain extent but became tiresome with their one‑track conversations after a while. It was OK showing people his artificial hand but he was more than his stump. Or stumps.

 

Turner regained his composure and compared notes with his colleague. They left the number twelve at the next stop and caught a fourteen going in the opposite direction which pulled in at the same time. For the first time, he had had a close‑up look at a real hook. It looked so enticing. Beautiful clean lines, a fabulous glossy surface on the steel. And best of all, the simple fact that its owner would soon be using it as well as his natural hand without even needing to think about it. He certainly did not give the impression of being the kind of amputee who gave up all interest in life and refused to learn how to use their new artificial limbs. Turner thought about his brief conversation with the amputee passenger several times and realised that his initial fear about being outed as a devotee was in vain. The guy was just being friendly. He had just got a new hook and was probably as excited to show it to someone as Turner was to see it.

 

Turner kept a sharp eye out for his amputee acquaintance. He had no idea about where he boarded the tram but it seemed likely that he might meet him again if he and his fellow ticket inspector ended up at Sedgefield late afternoon. He tried and succeeded in persuading his colleague to join him on a twelve several times but was disappointed by the absence of his idol for several weeks. The evenings were drawing in and it shrank the general view on the trams to their interiors and reflections in the windows. By chance, the driver nudged the tram into motion but noticed a passenger limping with a walking stick raise it in the hope that the tram would stop. He did and opened the door to let the man board. He looked in his rear view mirror to see the passenger found a seat before continuing his departure from the Sedgefield stop. Turner and his partner chose who would start checking tickets from the rear and Turner walked the length of the tram towards his current idol, the young guy with the hook. And now he had a walking stick too. What was all that about?

            – Tickets please. Hi! I haven’t seen you in a while. How’s things?

            – Not so good, actually. Too much on my plate all of a sudden.

He held out his phone displaying his travel pass and Turner scanned it.

            – I’m sorry to hear that. Have you hurt your leg?

            – I’m having some trouble with my legs. They can’t seem to get the sockets adjusted properly. That’s why I’ve got the walking stick, see?

            – I don’t understand. What sockets?

            – For my legs. I have two artificial legs. I thought you knew?

            – Really? That’s… amazing. So they don’t fit properly, is that it?

            – No, they don’t. I’d wear the old pair but I already donated them to the overseas charity which reuses them so I have to try to make do with these. And that’s not all. I have to leave my flat by the end of next month because the landlord’s daughter wants to move in. So I need a place to live and I really don’t have the mental energy right now to start searching for somewhere else.

 

Turner genuinely felt sorry for the guy. He knew from personal experience what a trial searching for a flat could be. His own place, a subdivision without a kitchen or toilet and bathroom in a converted department store in the town centre, was hardly suitable for a man with two artificial legs. There was no lift and he lived on the third floor. Despite that, he had furnished only half the space. The apartment was long and narrow, from one side of the building to the other. There were windows at each end which let in little light but a through‑draught was possible to ease the summer heat.

            – Look, wait a moment while I see to these other people and I’ll get back to you. Don’t get off, will you? Where are you going?

            – Bayview Avenue.

            – Oh! OK. Be right back.

 

His partner had already checked everyone’s tickets while Turner was otherwise occupied. They compared notes and uploaded their data to the cloud. His partner took his cap off and rubbed a hand over his shaved head. He leaned against the window by the pushchairs and peered out. There was still too much road traffic despite the council’s efforts to get people onto cheap and frequent public transport. Turner held onto a support pole and spoke to his idol again.

            – Listen. If you can’t find a decent place to live, give me a call. I’ve got a conversion in the old Debenhams store, sort of front to back, and there’s lots of room except the kitchen and toilet are in the corridor.

            – Oh! I didn’t know it had been finished.

            – Yeah, two months ago. I mean, it’s basic but it’s a roof over your head.

            – Thanks ever so much. It’s really nice of you. I’m guessing this is all because of this.

He lifted his hook up and opened it for a second or two before letting it snap shut.

            – Er… well, sort of. It’s what drew my attention.

            – You really like it, don’t you? It’s alright. I like it too. Listen, can you give me your email and I’ll get back to you if I can’t find a place?

Turner scribbled his email address onto the back of a paper tram ticket and handed it to the amputee.

            – Here you go. Where the devil are we? Oh, I have to go. You won’t forget, will you?

            – Don’t worry. I won’t forget. Thanks very much.

 

Turner was both elated and dubious about offering to share his new apartment with someone who, although outwardly perfect, might turn out to be a difficult or demanding companion. It was amazing to think that he used artificial legs too. Turner was not hugely interested in leg amputations although they certainly added to the hook user’s attraction. He realised he had not even learned the guy’s name.

 

Geoffrey Geiss was similarly in two minds. It was imperative to find somewhere new to live within six weeks. It was too much on top of his other problems, not least of which were his new set of below‑knee legs which refused to adjust properly to his gait. His prosthetist assured him they were correctly aligned. Despite that, both sockets pushed against his patellas in such a way that both knees hurt after an hour or so. He had begun to suspect that what he needed most was not a new socket but a new prosthetist. His knees were not painful when there was no pressure on them but the discomfort was becoming tedious and depressing when he walked. There would obviously be several more visits to the hospital in the near future to get the matter sorted.

 

Geiss contacted the local housing association to apply for a new apartment in the vicinity. His application was accepted with the proviso that a placement might take from three to eight months. He looked at private rentals, all of which looked tempting except for their cost. Ten days before his deadline, he emailed Dean Turner, apologetically reminding him of his offer of a flat share and describing his failure to find a suitable apartment, although, he assured Turner, he was now on the council waiting list.

 

            – don’t worry about that. you are welcome to share my space. come and have a look this weekend and we can plan your move.

It was as neutral in tone as Turner could make it. He reread it twice and clicked send.

 

Geiss had a third session with his prosthetist who had come to the conclusion that his first pair of old‑style exoskeletal legs had been a fluke. Their fit had accidentally been precisely tight enough and the upper rim shaped accurately enough for them to be the perfect prostheses. Geiss had tired of their bulk and requested a pair comprising a carbon socket and attached pylon with foot. However, they were causing so much discomfort that the prosthetist suggested above‑knee sockets with hinged knees. All his walking weight would transfer to his healthy thighs bypassing his kneecaps completely. The sockets would be black carbon secured with three clasps which avoided the necessity of lacing a leather socket, difficult for a one‑handed man to accomplish easily. This third session was scheduled to scan Geiss’s thighs in preparation for a new pair of legs. Only the short steel pylons with their attached feet would remain of his current pair.

 

Turner spent much of his free time during the week trying to imagine how two independent men would adapt to sharing the apartment. He had very little furniture as yet. Much of his spare cash had gone on compensating for the lack of a kitchen. He had a thirty litre drum of fresh water balanced precariously on a low table. He could boil water for coffee in a French press. Basic kitchen equipment took up room on a short countertop allowing him to prepare or reheat simple meals. The communal kitchen was at the end of the corridor outside next to the communal toilets and showers. Enamelled plaques everywhere exhorted residents to keep the facilities clean with the equipment provided. It was mildly inconvenient for a healthy young man not to have his own bathroom but it might pose a considerable problem for a legless man. His stump care would have to be done semi‑publicly. What would his friend think? Turner had learned his name from the replies to his text messages. Maybe Geoffrey Geiss called himself Jeff? And what sort of name was Geiss? Where was that from? Turner imagined himself asking Jeff all kinds of questions over a breakfast table and decided there and then that his next purchase would have to be a breakfast table and a couple of chairs.

 

Geiss arrived at ten on the following Sunday morning. He had a full rucksack with associated camping gear on his back and dragged two wheeled suitcases, one full of clothes, the other full of artificial limbs. As Turner had guessed, Geoffrey was shorted to Jeff.

            – There’s not really a way to shorten Dean, is there? Do you have a nickname?

            – Nope. I had one in school which was a bit corny and no‑one really used it.

            – What was it?

            – Turnip.

            – Yeah. I think I’ll call you Dean, if that’s alright.

They were sitting together. Dean almost horizontal on a beanbag chair, Jeff on one of his suitcases. Dean had brewed tea.

            – I had an idea if you don’t want to sleep on the floor. There are some old wooden pallets in the warehouse which we’re allowed to take. You could get say three of them and put your sleeping bag on top.

            – That sounds very sensible. Let’s do that. I need somewhere to hang my clothes too.

            – I’m sorry, Jeff. I don’t have a closet.

            – Oh well, never mind. My suitcase will do fine for the time being.

 

A month later, both men had independently found that since their shared accommodation seemed to be at least semi‑permanent, life might be easier if they acquired some proper furniture. Dean became accustomed to seeing his flatmate semi‑naked with three artificial limbs. Jeff’s new legs extended high up his thighs and snapped tight with the same sort of clasps as on ski boots. He was not at all self‑conscious about strolling down to the communal bathroom in his underwear with his prostheses on display. Most of his neighbours had already seen him and heard his brief explanation.

            – Road accident. Lucky to be alive. No, they don’t hurt. You’re kind to offer but I can manage, thanks.

 

It was simple for Jeff to disguise his artificial legs but his hook was always apparent. Dean became used to seeing it. It no longer seemed such an erotic symbol. Dean had seen Jeff using it just as he might use a hand. There was really nothing remarkable about it. Jeff managed just fine and Dean stopped paying so much attention to Jeff’s one visible disability. Despite that, he remained fascinated by the hook, which replaced a hand of flesh and blood in its spartan simplicity.

 

Jeff remained in the apartment for much of the day, venturing out only to catch some fresh air if the weather was kind. He was usually dressed in black, a hoodie and trousers, with a white baseball cap worn backwards and white trainers on his artificial feet. His prostheses were of a deliberately simple design with rigid ankles to which he had long been accustomed and they required him to wear footwear always. His choice of a black hoodie was also deliberate. He liked the way his artificial arm matched it and how the steel hook contrasted with the material.

 

Dean had shown considerable initial interest in Jeff’s new pair of legs. The old pair’s sockets were relegated to the back of a cupboard, to be used only in the direst of emergencies. Jeff was relieved to see the last of them. It was possible that his prosthetist was simply inexperienced with patella weight‑bearing prostheses, or perhaps the discomfort in his knees was an innate characteristic of that particular design. Despite the additional weight and maintenance of his long prostheses, he was relieved to be free of pain. He even enjoyed the way his prostheses restricted additional movement in his legs. Once the thigh sockets were clamped to his stumps, his knees were free to rotate in only one direction. There was no pressure on his knees. Jeff learned to interpret the sensations in his thighs transmitted through his feet and pylons to the carbon fibre legs. His gait changed. His cadence slowed but his steps lengthened. Although he felt stable and secure on his legs, his style of walking resembled more that of an amputee with thigh stumps.

 

He patiently explained all this to Dean soon after taking delivery of his prostheses. Dean was still more interested in the artificial arm than the new legs but he accepted Jeff’s explanation and quickly learned to moderate his pace when they went out together. Dean complemented Jeff on his skill. Dean was inwardly pleased to hear some praise but retorted that bilateral below knee amputees had it comparatively easy. Dean had not insisted on learning how Jeff had become an amputee but he had been present when other less circumspect people had asked. Jeff always gave the same concise reply, blaming a road accident. Dean did not know how old Jeff had been nor how he had coped with his injuries.

 

Jeff enjoyed being a triple amputee. He still had his knees and could scoot around on his knees if necessary. He found great satisfaction from dressing himself each morning in two glistening legs and his artificial arm, which for him represented the pinnacle of disability. He loved concealing his arm stump in the stiff black socket, admiring the primitive body‑powered hook which his prosthetists assured him was a temporary stage before he could advance to using a bionic hand which would negate the need to wear a harness or expend so much physical effort to operate a primitive hook. Jeff always nodded sagely, hearing the sales spiel, determined never to relinquish the pleasure of seeing his steel hook.

 

The time was approaching when he could advance once again. Enough time had elapsed since losing his hand. His surgeon would have no reason to claim the interval between amputations was too short as had happened the last time he had applied. There was no great hurry to gain a right arm stump. He was only twenty‑six, giving him over three years to make arrangements. If everything went as intended, there was no reason why Jeff should not achieve his childhood dream of becoming a quadruple amputee by the age of thirty. After that, there would be a process of acclimatising his life to reliance on prosthetic limbs with maybe the help of a willing assistant like Dean before he beginning to experience more radical amputations. His end goal was to have matching above‑knee stumps and the use a pair of cylindrical carbon fibre stubbies, waving his extended hooks for balance. Jeff was proud of his progression from an athletic student to a footless bilateral amputee with heavy composite artificial legs and then to a genuine hook user. His obsession for symmetry and completion would ensure the loss of his remaining hand in the near future. The time was near.

 

Dean’s shifts seemed erratic to Jeff, who was never sure whether his friend was sleeping in or over‑sleeping. If Dean had been absent the previous evening, Jeff assumed he was merely tired and needed his beauty sleep. On such occasions, Jeff started work at the usual time, rearranging deliveries of concrete building elements to those local sites readied to make use of them. Artificial intelligence had been trialled for eighteen months several years ago but building site supervisors and deliverymen found it too exacting and literal. It was easier to talk to a human who understood the lingo and could make credible excuses to all concerned when things fucked up. That was Jeff’s job and he did it with exemplary tact and consideration. Even so, Jeff relied heavily on AI reports from factories and diesel reserves to synchronise maximum efficiency. He longed for the day when electric traction was powerful enough to handle the enormous loads required by the Three Million Homes project. As he tapped ctrl‑esc with his hand and hook, he noted for the thousandth time how unnecessary it was for him to have a hand in order to do his work. He determined there and then to get his fourth stump during the summer holiday.

 

Dean continued as usual with his colleagues, checking tickets at all times of day and night on routes twelve and fourteen. He rarely ventured as far as the twelve’s terminus outside the hospital but when he did, he keep a close eye out for amputees. There were often passengers who boarded with casted legs or arms in addition to couples or pairs of weeping middle‑aged women. Dean approached them with a wary eye to inspect their tickets. The elderly always had valid tickets. Giggling teenagers almost never. Pleas for exemption from the rules because their friend was in hospital never worked and they were issued with a fine in addition to an extra three thirty for a valid ticket.

 

Dean found his attitude to the general public had softened recently. He accounted Jeff’s presence for the reason why. The two men had been and still were respectful of each other’s peace and privacy but it was inevitable that they should spend an increasing amount of time together, both at home and occasionally out on the town. Dean was proud to have a friend in Jeff. The man managed his affairs much as anyone else, never using his disabilities as an excuse to evade something. Dean gradually changed his attitude towards the omnipresent hook and began to regard it as a normal alternative to a natural hand. He had imagined himself in Jeff’s situation many times. He was not interested in experiencing the inconveniences, as he saw them, of donning and doffing artificial legs but he could easily imagine himself quickly throwing a harness around his shoulders and placing a stump into the socket of an artificial arm. It took only a few seconds.

 

One early evening in mid‑September, both men sought shelter from a vicious cloudburst in the public bar of a large hotel. Jeff had wanted to visit a private prosthetist on Jermyn Street to discuss the manufacture of an artificial hand which precisely mirrored his right. Dean assumed it was intended to disguise Jeff’s amputation but there was a deeper significance. Jeff removed a sprig of mint from his G&T and made his opening.

            – There’s something I need to talk to you about.

            – Oh? OK. Nothing bad, I hope.

            – Depends on how you look at it. I’m going abroad next week and I’ll be away for about three weeks.

            – On holiday? At this time of year? You’ve left that a bit late, haven’t you?

            – It’s not really a holiday, although I am going to a pretty seaside town. I’ve waited until after the main tourist season, not that it would have made much difference. It won’t be as hot, I hope.

            – Where is it, if it’s not too much of a secret?

            – It’s a place called Split. Have you heard of it? It’s in Croatia on the Adriatic.

            – Sounds very nice.

            – It is. I was there in spring last year. You might be interested to hear the reason for my little visit.

Jeff looked at Dean’s expression. He was interested in what Jeff was telling him and raised his eyebrows to encourage further explanation.

            – I’m having my fourth amputation. I’m going to be a guy with bilateral hooks. Just the way I’ve always imagined myself.

            – Wow! You’re gonna be the same as that American bloke who froze his hands and then did his legs in a motorbike smash.

            – Yep. That wasn’t an accident, by the way. He had to make it look like an accident after all the fuss when he did his hands.

            – I’m not surprised. Well, I don’t know what to say. Good luck, I suppose. I must say, I’m not all that surprised, Jeff. There’s something about the way you rock your amputations which makes me think they might not all be the result of accidents.

Jeff smirked and sipped his drink.

            – Can you see now why I want a copy of my hand made? Just a wooden prosthesis to remember the good old days by when I only have two stumps.

            – Is that why? I didn’t know you were so sentimental.

            – Ha! I just thought it would be fun to pair it with the new hook.

            – You’re so lucky, being able to lose a hand just because you want to. It’s easy when you work from home and can use the computer by voice if you want to. I couldn’t do it, not doing the job I do.

            – Why not? There’s nothing special about your job which required two natural hands. You could get by perfectly well with a hook if you had to.

            – They’d probably give me the sack if I turned up with a hook.

            – And you could sue them. That’s illegal these days.

            – Yeah, true enough.

That evening, Jeff encouraged Dean to discuss his devoteeism further. It was not a huge leap from admiring the appearance of a steel hook on another man to thinking about using one yourself. Jeff assured Dean that the way forward was wide open to him if he wanted to gain his own stump.

            – Your first stump, Dean. Think of that! And the gear you’ll have to cover it up with your own hook at last.

Dean emptied his third G&T and determined to discover for himself what Jeff was suggesting. Looking back, it was clear that this was the night which changed his life.

 

– – – – – – -

 

Jeff’s second upper limb amputation went as well as he had expected. The same surgeon operated. He was interested to see how well his patient had adopted a hook in place of his missing hand and had no doubt that the man would make a success of a second. Several days later when the stump was healing well, Jeff brought up the subject of Dean’s situation with the surgeon. There was some doubt in the surgeon’s mind that the wannabe had enough conviction to accept the loss of a hand but otherwise had no compunction about recommending his services for the standard fee. The patient would return with all necessary medical paperwork guaranteeing him all nationally available services which amputees were entitled to. He would never have to purchase basic prosthetic equipment out of pocket. Jeff thanked the surgeon for his assurances and promised to discuss the situation with the prospective patient on his return.

 

Jeff arrived home with his right stump shielded inside a shrinker. The stump matched his other arm, its length fifteen centimetres shorter than where his wrist had been. It was invisible inside his jacket sleeve. Jeff had loved the challenges on his return journey posed by functioning in everyday life with only a single hook on his non‑dominant arm. He had accepted help from sympathetic fellow travellers on the long railway journey across Europe and admired his appearance when dressed smartly for the dining car with a hand missing and a steel hook. Several times he automatically tried to use his right hand until he felt the sensation of his shrinker bandage against his sleeve. The new stump was fascinating, echoing the familiar sensations from his well‑healed version. He looked forward to seeing himself in a few months when the fresh stump had shrunk to match the one on the left and he had the perfect quadruple amputee body—long legs curtailed to omit the feet and shapely muscular arms truncated, perfectly shaped phallic forearms from which his hated hands had finally been banished forever. He would have achieved his dream of being reliant on not one, not two, not even three artificial limbs but all four. He was free to choose whatever artificial limbs were available, to experiment with prostheses and experience sensations which few men ever could and which even fewer genuinely wanted to. His first non‑functional prosthesis, the wooden left hand, had been promised him by the beginning of December and he was looking forward to wearing an unfeeling immovable hand which looked exactly like what he had lost. It was irony writ large.

 

Dean was bemused by how easy it had apparently been for Jeff to achieve his fourth stump. Once again, he found his interest in an artificial arm increasing as he watched Jeff struggle to manage, now exclusively with his one left hook. It looked so appealing and enticing. He withheld his questions until Jeff had been fitted with bilateral hooks on a harness which he wore from immediately after waking until bedtime. The two hooks opened and closed reliably as he undertook tasks, working together as naturally as two hands with five fingers instead of only two on each hook. Dean particularly enjoyed seeing the hooks peeking from Jeff’s jacket, the sockets and harness hidden from view. They looked so perfect and Jeff used them so well.

            – Jeff, I’ve been thinking. If I wanted to get a hook, do you think your surgeon would accept me as a patient?

 

It was the opening Jeff had expected for many weeks. He had discussed Dean’s situation with his surgeon and had long since prepared a short but concise explanation. He knew Dean’s interest in his hooks had only grown, first when he had returned with a mere stump and especially later when he wore his double set of artificial arms, which made him feel invincible.

            – I can give you my surgeon’s email address. He’s already expecting you to reach out to him because I told him about you and how you’ve been working up to getting your first stump.

            – Really? Am I that obvious?

            – Of course you are! I knew from the first time you saw me on the tram after my fitting. Don’t worry about it. No‑one else knows.

            – Really? So all I need to do is write to your surgeon and arrange it?

            – That’s just about the sum of it. You have to pay him, of course and arrange the trip across to Split, but that shouldn’t take you long. Have you got some money saved up?

            – How much am I going to need for the amputation?

Jeff told him. Dean looked thoughtful.

            – I reckon I could save that much before too long.

            – And the rail fare and hotels on your way back.

            – I know.

            – So which hand are you going to lose first? Left or right? Get rid of the left one if you just want a hook. Do the right if you want to really feel disabled. You’ll not only lose your dominant hand, you’ll also be forced to use the hook far more than you would if it were on the left.

            – That’s what I want. So it’s always obvious. So everyone sees it.

            – Oh, everyone will see your hook in any case. Believe me! It’s not the sort of thing you can hide very easily.

            – I know. Argh! I can’t wait!

            – You’re a strange man, Dean. No‑one would guess you’re a wannabe. I knew you were an admirer, as they say, right from the outset.

            – Tell me something, Jeff. Did you want a hook for the same reasons I do?

            – To stand out a bit and be a bit special you mean?

            – Yeah.

            – No. My need was, and still is, to do with my artificial limbs. I wanted to replace my hands and feet with hooks and pylons. It’s the way the hardware replaces them that fascinates me. The fact that you actually wear the stuff and make yourself into some kind of artificial man. I can’t quite explain it. But it’s the gear I wanted, rather than getting a stump or two. I know there are many wannabes who only want the stump. They don’t care about getting a prosthesis to hide it. They want to show the stump off. With me, it’s the complete opposite. I only have stumps in order to let me wear artificial limbs. 

 

It was a long explanation, possibly the most detailed insight into Jeff’s motivations. Dean was silent for many minutes, inspired to consider his own motivation. He had already declared his decision to convert his flesh and blood right hand to a steel hook but what was his genuine motivation? It would look cool but that was hardly a weighty enough reason.

 

Jeff never asked for help but on the occasions when they both rose at the same time, he allowed Dean to help don his prostheses. Dean became adept at rolling liners onto Jeff’s leg stumps and  his arms, making sure that there were no snags or creases. Jeff took full responsibility for maintaining his stumps every evening in the communal bathroom, the only source of warm water. He washed his liners and dropped them into a hessian shopping bag along with his artificial arms before returning to the apartment on his long linerless legs, carrying the bag on an arm stump. Familiarity with Jeff’s equipment did nothing to assuage Dean’s compulsive thoughts. As the months passed and he neared his savings target, his determination to acquire a hook of his own grew stronger. He spent time researching manufacturers of prosthetics and sent cursory emails requesting quotes to prosthetists within a seventy kilometre radius. Jeff recommended his own young prosthetist, who had excelled in producing his bilateral harness with elegant and comfortable sockets.

 

Dean reserved his four week holiday in collaboration with his surgeon. The clinic in Split would be quieter for the two mid‑summer months, but there would certainly be enough staff on reserve to ensure that an elective below‑elbow amputation for a healthy young foreigner would succeed. The hot summer forced Dean and his colleagues to wear as little as possible on the job. Everyone wore short sleeved shirts with the transport company logo and their name tag. Dean thought about what he might do the following summer in a similar situation. Would he have enough chutzpah to expose his new artificial arm in its entirety? He hoped he would. Jeff never showed any signs of self‑consciousness. He rarely wore shorts but usually wore his jeans turned up to display his narrow steel ankles.

 

Dean found a suitable return flight. Eleven days in the ancient capital of Dalmatia, home to Romans, Greeks, Venetians and finally the Croatians from the east. The bus from the airport dumped its load near the palace and Dean made his way by taxi to the clinic, hidden away in the wooded hills behind the city. He met his surgeon who escorted him to a conference room to explain the procedure to be performed the following morning. The question never arose but the doctor sought any signs of doubt in Dean’s face and replies. An hour later, the surgeon was satisfied that the patient would not cause any disruption in the clinic and Dean was assured that the surgeon was on top of his job. He had been told that the ten remaining days of vacation after his amputation were quite enough for his initial recovery and that he might even be able to spend a day or two seeing the sights.

 

Dean’s right arm was truncated to leave a stump extending to within twelve centimetres of where his wrist had been. The bones were shortened further, their tips rounded and polished before being buried by muscle tissue and enclosed with skin which would form a smooth rounded tip which its owner would be proud to display. There would be minimal scarring, maximum cushioning and the stump would be eminently suitable for bearing every type of prosthesis. Dean was returned to his room in a semi‑stupor and watched carefully by a nurse until nightfall. The stump was wrapped tightly and protected by a transparent plastic sheath taped to his upper arm. Dean discovered it for himself on waking at six thirty the next morning. Surveillance had continued electronically throughout the night and within a minute, a nurse arrived with a litre of cool water to tend to the new amputee.

 

Dean’s recovery progressed as anticipated. The sutures knitted on schedule, swelling reached its maximum on day two and began to diminish and the patient himself seemed in good spirits. But inwardly, Dean was stricken by the realisation of the enormity of what he had caused to himself. He continually lifted his stump to turn the page of a magazine or to hold his phone only to be surprised yet again by the fact that the hand was gone. The stump made its presence known by various aches and pains but they were little different from many other non‑serious injuries. Dean slowly began to comprehend the reality of becoming an amputee, a young man who had lost his dominant hand. He stared at the stump, bandaged and visible through his stump sheath. It looked so alien and unnatural. He had so far succeeded only in catching the briefest glimpses of his naked stump when the bandages were changed. He was intrigued to discover what it actually looked like. There was nothing for it but to wait. This was the mental turmoil which his surgeon interpreted as good spirits.

 

Eight days later, the bandage was exchanged for a shrinker. A tight rubber sock like an enormous condom was rolled onto his stump and Dean learned, in broken English, that he should wear it daily until he received his first prosthesis. It was vaguely flesh coloured with a logo which looked like a tattoo at a distance. This is what he would wear on his return in two days time. He was allowed up for the first time in a week and instructed to take it easy. He might go out into the sunshine but should stay in the shade and have some water with him. A nurse helped him dress and eased a clean white T‑shirt over his stump. Dean was a little wary of displaying his maimed body to all and sundry but spend a couple of hours outside in the company of two Austrian leg amputees, two former footballer friends who had long ago made a pact to act on their desires to be monopods one day and who now found themselves sporting identical left thigh stumps perfectly sized to operate artificial legs. They were fascinated by Dean’s halting explanation of why he had an arm stump. It appeared that the clinic might cater only to amputating the unwanted limbs of wannabes. It seemed unlikely that such a facility could exist but here they were, three freshly amputated young guys ready to face the world in their new guise. The two Austrians provided a considerable boost to Dean’s uncertain enthusiasm. At least he could still walk. The Austrians thought the same. Gott sei Dank they had lost only a leg each. Losing a hand was too terrible to contemplate.

 

Dean’s return journey was considerably easier than the one Jeff had experienced the previous year. He was assisted at the airport by a family with two teenage boys, who lived less than a mile from Dean and Jeff. The fourteen year old took care of Dean’s suitcase for him and cast surreptitious glances at the empty jacket sleeve in the hope of glimpsing a real arm stump. Dean noticed his gaze and removed his jacket before they boarded so the boy could admire his stump in its shrinker.

 

Jeff was careful to appraise Dean’s mental state before launching into congratulations. He need not have been concerned. Dean was eager to show his stump, having discovered on the plane that his visible disability encouraged others to offer him help he would not have asked for. The length of his stump combined with the non‑offensive appearance of his shrinker attracted inquisitive attention rather than outright horror. He wondered if he would be treated so well when he wore a artificial arm with its steel hook.

 

            – How did it go? What did the surgeon say?

            – Apparently it all went better than expected and the surgeon reckons I should be ready for a fitting in two or three weeks, depending on how the prosthetist feels.

            – Well, good. How do you like it? Is it what you wanted?

            – It’s the hook I want, Jeff. The stump is fine. No‑one will see it after I get my hook anyway.

            – No, I suppose not. You’re going to wear a prosthetic full‑time, are you?

            – Yup. Just like you do.

            – I more or less have to because I have no hands. You could get by perfectly well with just the one. In fact, you could have a copy of your other hand made too and wear it instead of the hook when you want to go out without drawing too much attention to yourself.

            – I might do that. You don’t use yours very often though, do you?

            – No. Not really. I suppose I just like to see my two hooks. Have you let your workplace know you won’t be back just yet?

            – No. I’m going in on Monday though, a bit early. Call in at the garage and talk to the foreman and see what they think about the situation.

            – I don’t think they’d let you do your shift one‑handed, though, would they?

            – Probably not. But it’ll only be a couple of weeks before I get my hook.

            – You’d better hope so.

 

Dean was in the perturbing situation where Jeff had to help him. Dean noticed that he was becoming used to being an amputee and attempted to use his stump to do something less often. He insisted on trying to do everything one‑handed until Jeff took pity and good‑naturedly lent a hook or two. His steel hooks regained their attraction in Dean’s eyes. He would soon have his own and was impatient to begin learning to use it. He intended to be as accomplished at Jeff, although he realised it might take a while before he could control his stump well enough. He had to learn to overcome his brain’s mapping of his body. It needed to learn that one hand was missing. It would take time.

 

Dean dressed in his uniform with some help with his tie from Jeff and looked at himself in the hallway mirror. The empty sleeve seemed to scream for attention. It would have been good to have something to wear to stop the sleeve flapping about. It would have to flap. No‑one on the mid‑morning bus to the garage paid him any untoward attention. His foreman, however, showed more concern.

            – You should have notified us immediately, Turner, instead of leaving it to the last possible minute. I have you on the rota for the next month and now where am I going to find a replacement at this short notice?

            – I’m sorry. I’m quite willing to work my shift as normal.

            – Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t go on the trams looking like that. Even if you could carry on with the job, you’d be a safety risk. Suppose the tram braked sharply and you went flying because you can’t hold on. No, Turner. I’m going to have to discuss this upstairs but we have no use for you at least for the time being. You’d better go home and wait for a decision from management.

 

Dean arrived home ninety minutes after leaving.

            – Ah! You’re home already. I thought you might be. What did your boss say?

            – She wasn’t best pleased. I have to wait for management’s decision.

            – All right. Don’t worry about it. They can’t fire you for becoming disabled. The worst they can do is find you another position in the company, although they can then start mucking you about to make your life miserable so you look for a job somewhere else.

            – I don’t think they’re that evil. Let’s see what they come up with. Right now I’m more concerned with getting my hook.

 

Dean had to wait only until mid‑afternoon before someone from management phoned.

            – Hello, Mr Turner. We hear that you have come a cropper.

Dean waited for the speaker to continue for a second or two.

            – I suppose I have. I’m sorry to cause any inconvenience.

            – Don’t worry about that. We’ve already found a replacement for you for the next six weeks. Take that time off and get yourself fit again. You do have union redundancy insurance, I hope?

            – Yes, I do.

            – Good. Get in touch with them and you should be compensated for six week’s wages. Now, I understand you have lost your right hand. Is that correct?

            – That’s right. Do you need to know how it happened?

            – No thank you. That’s no business of ours. It may interest you to know you are not the first staff member to find yourself in your situation and he returned, also as an inspector, with one or two provisos which we will also insist on in your case. I assume you will soon be fitted with an artificial hand?

            – A hook. I’m going to have a hook.

            – Mr Turner, a hook is too conspicuous and too… shall I say, startling in appearance. You may return to your job wearing an artificial hand which resembles a natural hand as closely as possible. Your predecessor did so and continued in his career with the artificial hand until his retirement.

            – So I’d be wearing a false hand instead of a hook at work?

            – That is our main condition. I’m sure you understand, Mr Turner. A hook does look rather shocking and many passengers would find such a thing rather distasteful. What you use in your free time is naturally up to you.

            – I see. Thank you for your advice, sir. I’ll make sure to be fitted with an artificial hand by the time I return.

            – Very good. I trust you are bearing up after your loss. You sound quite chipper.

            – I’m fine, thank you, sir. I have an amputee friend who’s reassured me that things’ll be fine after I get my new arm.

            – That’s good to hear. I wish you well. We’ll be in touch again and we may want to interview you before your return.

            – I see. I’ll be in touch. Good bye, sir.

 

            – What was that all about?

            – They want me to have a fake hand instead of a hook otherwise I can’t go back.

            – Oh dear.

            – I know.

            – Is it because a hook looks intimidating?

            – Yeah. There was another guy who lost a hand but he was allowed to carry on wearing a fake hand. They said it looked better than a hook.

            – Well, you can see their point of view, can’t you? You’d better start looking at different models. You know the hands are all voluntary closing, don’t you?

            – What does that actually mean?

            – My hooks are voluntary opening. I operate the prosthesis and the hook opens. But it closes by itself because of the rubber bands. The hands work the other way. They’re always open until you choose to squeeze the fingers closed and then you have to keep the pressure up otherwise you’ll drop whatever you’re holding. When you release pressure, the hand opens automatically.

            – Oh, I didn’t know that. It’s not like using a hook at all, is it?

            – Not really.

 

Dean was not initially happy at the prospect of wearing an artificial hand which might be difficult to use. As Jeff suggested, he began researching various models and was soon intrigued by the variety of designs and functions. There were more expensive types which locked in the grip position so the user did not need to exert constant pressure to hold something. He discovered a simple model which had nothing more than a movable thumb. The four fingers all curved as if holding a large glass and looked fairly natural except for their wrinkle‑free perfection. Dean tried to imagine what such a hand would look like on his stump and how he might use it at work inspecting passengers’ travel passes.

            – What do you think about this one, Jeff? It looks quite good, don’t you think, and the thumb is the sort that locks.

            – That’s what you should have, I think. If you’re really sure about that one, you ought to get in touch with the prosthetist so he can order one in for you. I don’t suppose they carry all possible sorts, especially not older designs like that one.

            – Is this an old sort?

            – Yeah, fifty years at least. Don’t worry. I expect they’ll give you a new one.

            – Hmm. Do you think your prosthetist could order one?

            – I don’t see why not. Are you going to use him?

            – I thought I would. You’re satisfied with him, aren’t you?

            – More than satisfied! Look!

Jeff thrust his hooks forward exposing the glossy black carbon sockets. Both cables slapped against them. He opened the hooks simultaneously and grinned in triumph at Dean.

            – Look what he made for me. Utter perfection! Go on. Give him a call. No, send him an email and introduce yourself. You can mention my name if you want. Say I recommended him.

 

Dean tapped out an email introducing himself and explaining his situation. He needed an artificial hand on his employer’s recommendation and quoted the model and included a link to the illustration he had found. Jeff proofread the message and gave the go‑ahead.

            – Let’s see what he says. Maybe they don’t deal with the company that makes the hand.

 

But they did. The prosthetist welcomed Dean as a new client and assured him that the fake hand was a good choice for Dean’s requirements, being as unobtrusive as possible and offering a useful degree of practicality. He also made a provisional appointment, inviting Dean to attend his first review the following week. Dean was relieved and excited that the process was underway at last.

 

– – – – – – -

 

Four weeks later, Dean took delivery of his first artificial arm complete with the fake hand and a symmetrical steel hook. The socket was another compromise. Dean had requested black carbon but the prosthetist recommended the flesh‑like colour which would match the hand and look less discordant. The wrist mechanism was flat and the ring of knurled aluminium looked similar to a silver bracelet. It suited the hand very well but it meant that the hook could not articulate. Dean could turn it to point in a different direction but not alter its angle. He was content to see the hook held immovable at the end of the socket. In fact, he was overjoyed. The prosthetist noticed his enthusiasm and put two and two together. The man reacted much like a successful wannabe and had been more interested in the minutiae of the prosthesis, such as its colour, than its major functional features.

 

Dean had two weeks of his six week furlough left. His union had paid eighty‑five percent of his wages without questioning on receipt of a copy of the Croatian surgeon’s medical report. Dean began the arduous task of learning to put the artificial hand to use in a practical manner. It was a handsome device, slimmer than his natural hand and with longer fingers which curved in a way which just avoided looking natural. The movable thumb was lined with something like silicon and provided a good secure grip. Dean practised lifting glasses, plates, cutlery, magazines and his phone. The grip was strong enough to hold a rubber‑coated pen and Dean tried writing. With all motion coming from his elbow, his first attempts were childish scrawls. The smooth surface of the hand allowed it to slide easily over the paper. With more practice, he thought, he would be able to at least sign his name and he tried his signature dozens of times before conceding that he could and should develop a new one better suited to a rigid forearm.

 

Jeff kept an eye on Dean’s progress and was always prepared to stop what he was doing to help or answer Dean’s occasional questions. He found the artificial hand more disturbing in appearance than his hooks. It was something to do with the close resemblance to a natural hand. The ‘uncanny valley’, as the effect was called in robotics. He thought Dean was making a good attempt at using the hand and could imagine it would be useful for hanging on to a pole inside a moving tram. When Dean gained more confidence with it, he would rock it like a pro. As of yet, he was still too conscious of wearing a prosthesis and treated it carefully and thoughtfully.

 

Jeff noticed that Dean seemed to have little interest in the hook and asked if he might borrow it for a few hours. Dean was delighted to let him. Jeff had never used a symmetrical hook before and was curious to discover its advantages compared with the standard design. After a short while he liked it so much that he suggested a swap.

            – Dean, do you mind if I keep this? It works very well with my left standard hook and you might find a standard hook better to learn with while you’re getting used to one.

            – OK, I don’t mind. What’s so special about my hook?

            – It holds onto round shapes much better. Like a can of beer, for example.

            – Ah, I see. Well, go ahead. I don’t mind.

            – Thanks, Dean. Listen, I was thinking. Shall we go out on the town this evening? You haven’t been anywhere since you got your hand. I think you should try it out in the real world at last.

            – OK. Suits me. Where shall we go?

            – Let’s just go for a stroll and see what we run into.

 

It was a mild autumn evening. They had the option of wearing sleeveless shirts or shorts without appearing out of place but Jeff took the lead by wearing a cable knit off‑white polo neck pullover with beige corduroy trousers and white hightop trainers which concealed his artificial legs. His hooks extended from the sleeves of his pullover which he could roll up to his elbows if he wanted to display his sockets. Dean wore a white T‑shirt under his harness with a light linen jacket and faded jeans. The laces on his trainers were not tied, merely tucked into the footwear. The artificial hand was in no way conspicuous but once noticed, it was obvious. The position of the fingers was slightly unnatural at the best of times and no man would gesture in such a way walking along a street. There was also an unnatural sheen to its surface. But at first glance, the two men, both in their late twenties, looked casually handsome and suitably dressed for an evening in town.

 

Dean strode along beside Jeff at Jeff’s pace. He rocked his body in his distinctive fashion to compensate for his rigid ankles which he insisted on, to the bemusement of his prosthetists.

            – You would walk much more naturally if you had ankle joints, Mr Geiss.

            – You may be right but I prefer my legs to be solid, completely rigid. There are fewer components to go wrong and the feedback to my stumps is better.

They skirted a small area of parkland and Jeff suggested they cut through it to save a hundred metres. Halfway through, two wooden benches faced each other across the footpath.

            – Let’s sit for a minute, Dean. I want to fix one of my stump socks.

Dean checked the seat was clean. There were a few yellow leaves on the slats. He sat and faced Jeff who had hooked up his right trouser leg and was knocking against the socket trying to release vacuum from the valve. Dean was familiar enough with the procedure that he knew what the problem was. A minor wrinkle in Jeff’s stump sock was making itself felt and Jeff wanted to fix it before it chafed a welt into his stump. Since gaining his own stump, Dean was meticulous almost to a fault about keeping it conditioned with oils and unguents and cleaned it and the liner with alcohol every night. Jeff had succeeded in removing the prosthesis and the sleeves of his pullover rode up exposing his black sockets. He worked his hooks, straightening his stump sock, pulling it smooth. The full moon was almost directly overhead and reflected in streaks of light along the sockets. Dean was envious of Jeff for his dexterity and stylishness. He used his hooks as effortlessly as hands. Satisfied, Jeff reached for his knee‑high prosthesis, both of which had been finally adjusted to fit properly, and pulled it onto his stump.

            – All set. Shall we continue?

Jeff leaned forward onto his artificial legs and rose. He gestured towards the park’s exit and the men were soon in a busier part of town. Away from the derelict High Street, smaller stores and businesses had managed to hang on, thanks to the greater loyalty of the neighbours they served.

            – Do you want something to eat? Better have some food in our stomachs before we have a drink.

            – OK. I’m not really all that hungry but I could manage something like kebab and chips.

            – I was going to suggest the same!

Jeff was greeted by the Middle Eastern staff like an old friend. A waiter showed them to a table and offered a greasy laminated menu but Jeff knew what to order without looking at it.

            – Two kebab and chips with garlic sauce, not tomato, please.

            – Ha! Why you always eat the same? You not try our other food?

            – Nothing but the best, my friend.

 

Jeff sat watching other diners, most of them swarthy males gesturing with their hands to persuade their listeners to their points of view. He clasped his prosthesis with his left hand, pleased by the sensation of the smooth hard fingers. Jeff rested his forearms against the edge of the table and allowed his hooks to point diagonally toward the ceiling. He looked extremely disabled and caught the attention of other customers. As refugees, many of them were familiar with amputations from the camps. It was unusual to see a disabled kaffir. Perhaps there was some justice in the world after all, inshallah.

 

Jeff ate without even attempting to use cutlery. Dean was used to seeing him eating that way at home but was taken aback to see his nonchalance in public. Jeff’s hooks were non‑reticulating and he had to spread his elbows wide in order to reach both his food and lift his hooks to his mouth. Dean made do with a fork in his left hand with the fake hand out of sight on his lap, partly through convenience and partly because he was a little shy about revealing it to outsiders. This reluctance to confront the public as a disabled man was the main reason Jeff had suggested going out that evening. Dean would gradually realise that people were not all staring at his prosthesis and that those who noticed it were not overly concerned. It took a little time and Dean would be thrust into the deep end in his work, where an entire tram full of passengers would soon be watching his progress towards them to check their tickets. A good proportion of them would see his artificial hand.

            – Try holding your knife in your hand, Dean. See if you can get it angled so you can push food around with it.

Dean did as Jeff suggested. He held the knife and contorted his shoulders until the thumb closed, gripping the knife oddly but securely. He moved his elbow to direct the knife towards a heap of cooling chips and carefully pushed them together. The motionless fingers looked extremely unnatural and for the first time, Dean began to realise that his fake hand could offer the same kind of shock value to an onlooker as a steel hook. He shrugged to reposition the knife and changed its angle. If the grip held, he would be able to cut his food like this. He succeeded in ripping flakes of kebab well enough but doubted whether the same technique would work on a medium rare steak. Nevertheless, his trust in his new hand increased and Jeff was entertained by watching various expressions fleeting across Dean’s face as he concentrated on mastering the use of a knife.

 

They continued along the street to a narrow junction featuring an undertaker on one corner and the White Hart inn on the other. Customers holding pints congregated outside on both sides of the narrow lane, smoking or simply for the joy of being outside on a mild autumn evening. Both men attracted attention by being overdressed compared with the other clientele. Jeff ordered a bottle of Corona and bought a pint of lager in a tall narrow glass for Dean. They looked around for a place to sit and settled opposite a middle‑aged couple. They nodded a greeting and Jeff noticed that the wife was about to speak when she caught sight of how Jeff was holding his bottle of beer. She was silenced, repulsed by the practical and eminently suitable symmetrical hook which Jeff found superior to his other hook. Jeff lifted his elbow high and moved to meet the neck of the bottle. He leaned back and allowed the fruity lager to pour into his mouth.

            – I needed that. OK, you try. Hold the glass with your other hand so you don’t knock it over.

 

Now both husband and wife were staring goggle‑eyed at the dual display of prosthetic achievement. Dean’s thumb opened wide enough to allow the narrow glass to be gripped and by carefully shrugging, it closed against the glass. Dean first tried simply lifting it to test whether it would slip and then, satisfied that it would not, twisted his hand in the socket at the same time as lifting his elbow. Now he could reach forward to sip the beer and tilted back to gulp a couple of mouthfuls. No beer had ever tasted so good. He had to reverse his actions to return the glass to the tabletop but had a better understanding of the pitfalls of holding and drinking from a glass. Jeff scratched his cheek with his left hook to torment the couple. Dean noticed them staring in horror at Jeff and sniggered. He tried to imagine how he would handle his beer if his other hand was a copy of his right. What might it be like to live his life equipped with two fake hands? He was beginning to appreciate his prosthesis. It was at least as useful as a hook, so he believed. Other men had overcome the challenges of wearing two artificial hands and had led successful happy lives. There was no real reason why he should be any different. Jeff broke his reverie.

            – Do you want another one or shall we find another pub? It’s too stuffy in here.

            – I’m ready. Let’s find somewhere else.

 

They made their way out and walked back the way they had come on the other side of the street. There was a new bar unfamiliar to both men with an age limit of twenty‑four.

            – Shall we try this? See what it’s like?

It was not difficult to realise that the new bar was dedicated to gays. Hence the unusual age restriction. There were plenty of empty tables intended for two. It was still early for such an establishment. Most of the clientele stood close to the semicircular bar flirting with two bartenders.

            – It’s a gay bar. Do you want to stay?

            – I don’t mind if the prices aren’t too high.

            – OK. You want a lager?

Jeff ordered two bottles of Corona and asked the bartender not to stuff lime into the neck of the bottle. He placed his hooks on the counter in readiness to pay. Customers standing further along the bar could see them clearly. One guy was immediately infatuated with him. Jeff’s cable knit hid the rest of his arms but emphasised the hooks. The customer grabbed his drink and sidled up to Jeff.

            – Hello. Can I help you with those?

It was a fatuous question. Both bottles were already in Jeff’s hooks.

            – Thanks but no thanks. I can manage.

            – Oh. Listen, I don’t want to bother you but I’d love to ask you about your hooks.

            – Why’s that?

            – I’ve always wanted a pair of my own.

            – Jeez. You don’t beat about the bush, do you? Alright. Come and sit at our table. Grab a chair. Dean, we have a guest who wants to talk about hooks. Is that alright?

Dean grinned at the newcomer. He was dressed in military surplus but it was clean and tidy. A nice friendly expectant face.

            – OK. Hi. Sit down. I’m Dean.

Out of sheer habit, Dean lifted his right arm to shake hands and immediately remembered he had no hand. The stranger also acted as naturally but froze as his hand curled around Dean’s cool unmoving fingers.

            – Oh wow! I didn’t notice. Sorry.

            – Nothing to be sorry for. What’s your name?

            – Er, Jason. Jason Hedges.

Jeff compounded Jason’s excitement by lifting his right hook for him to shake. Jason waited a second before taking it and held it slightly too long.

            – Geoffrey Geiss. How do you do. What did you want to talk about? Like it wasn’t obvious.

            – I hope you don’t mind but I’d like to ask about your hooks. Or actually, I want to know what it’s like to use hooks for everything. You know, doing everyday things with them.

            – I see. Is there any particular reason why you need to know? I mean, they’re fairly personal matters, aren’t they? Not the sort of thing you’d ordinarily discuss with a stranger.

            – I know. I apologise. Let me try to explain. You see, there are men whose brains are wired in such a way that they feel uncomfortable in their bodies. Like with me, for instance. I have two hands but they don’t feel like they’re part of me. I’d be happier if I didn’t have them. I’d like my arms to end a bit below my elbows so I could be free of my forearms and my hands. And in that case, I’d wear a pair of DBE hooks. I even know the sort I want. It’s a Hosmer Number Five.

            – Like this?

            – Yes. The same as that. Only I’d wear two. Your right hook is a Triple Five, isn’t it? I’ve not seen one before close to.

            – You seem to know a lot about it.

            – I suppose I do. I’ve been saving money like crazy for years to have enough to pay a gatekeeper so I can have amputations done abroad somewhere, probably in Mexico. It’s really just a matter of arranging my affairs so that I can get by without prostheses for a couple of months. I need to find a compliable boyfriend, I suppose, which is why I’m here. I hope you don’t think I’m mad.

            – Not at all. It’s good of you to be so honest. I think the best thing is if you ask the questions and we’ll try to answer. I don’t like to talk about the reasons for my amputations, you see, and I don’t think Dean wants to either, do you?

            – Not really. It’s sort of private, isn’t it?

            – I understand. I dare say I wouldn’t want to talk about the whys and wherefores if I get my own hooks.

            – Do you really intend going ahead with it, Jason?

            – Oh yes. No doubt about it. The only question is when. The sooner the better, if I had my druthers.

            – What work do you do?

            – Just the usual. Fashion design stuff. I could probably  do it with artificial arms. It’s daily life I’m curious about. Like, do you have problems dressing and has your wardrobe changed since you became an amputee?

            – Yeah, it’s changed. I got rid of all my clothes with buttons, not all at once, but over a few months. It’s possible to close button with a pair of hooks but it takes me too long. Same with shoes. I no longer have anything with normal laces. The trainers I’m wearing have elastic laces. Tie them once and forget about them.

            – That’s a good idea for anyone, really.

Jason glanced under the table to see Jeff’s trainers and noticed the unmistakable position of two prosthetic feet.

            – Have you lost your legs as well?

            – Yup.

            – Wow. You’re amazing.

            – I am. Tell me more about your interest.

            – It’s so hard to know what to say, really. Every time I see a prosthetic arm, I get a fluttering feeling and my heart rate increases. It feels like a high and there’s nothing else on earth that gives me that feeling. I feel nervousness as well because what I’m thinking is so out of the ordinary but that adds to the excitement. I’m constantly thinking about what it would be like to have prosthetic arms. There is a sexual element to it the feelings are far deeper and more complex.

            – You’ve obviously given the matter a lot of thought. Have you looked into a way to get the amputations you want?

            – No. I’ve never been able to conjure up a cover story credible enough to explain suddenly becoming disabled. I do the most unadventurous work possible and I use my hands all the time. I’d probably be able to continue using AI but work seems such a trivial thing compared to having my own artificial arms. I love the way your hooks look, just barely poking out of your sleeves. I have the money available. All I need now is a cover story and a surgeon. Is that too much to ask? It certainly seems to be.

 

Jeff and Dean were impressed by Jason’s dedication. He had already convinced them that he was genuinely in need of amputation to recreate his physical image to match his mental needs.

            – Look, this is not the place to talk about how you’re going to progress. You never know who might be listening in. We should meet somewhere private. Dean, would you mind if Jason pays us a visit one evening?

            – No. You’re welcome to drop in. We have a shared apartment in the old Debenham’s on the High Street, if you know where that is.

            – Oh, I know. I used to spend a lot of time on the High Street. To do with my job, not cruising for action.

            – I didn’t think so. Let’s exchange phone numbers and I can get in touch when we have an evening free. Maybe some weekend.

            – I’d appreciate that very much. Thank you for listening to me. It’s such a relief to be able to talk to someone who doesn’t think I’m mad.

            – Have you discussed this with other people?

            – No, I keep it under wraps these days. I think a couple of my schoolmates might remember my obsession. It was all I could talk about when I was about sixteen. That’s when I began to associate amputations with sexuality. My friends were obsessed with girls’ breasts. I was obsessed with arm stumps.

            – It’s best not to be too open. Especially if the end result is something which wasn’t caused by some terrible accident.

            – No. You’re quite right. Thank you for listening to me. I’ll leave you in peace now. I hope we’ll meet again soon. Enjoy your evening.

 

            – Wow. He has it bad, don’t you think? Are you going to help him?

            – I want to get to know him a bit better first. But if he seems trustworthy, I don’t see why he wouldn’t enjoy a short visit to Split, do you? Assuming our surgeon friend is still in business. I’ll have to check before he gets in touch again.

 

They were left alone for the rest of the evening. They enjoyed the relaxed sexual undercurrent of the gay bar and the fact that the rest of the clientele left them in peace. They left just after midnight and returned home via the shortcut through the park, kept clear of tents by regular security inspections. There were fewer homeless these days thanks to the conversion of disused buildings but those left to sleep on the streets found their life even more harassing.

 

Dean returned to work. He walked in as if it were a completely normal Monday, his mind in overdrive thinking about the reaction to his return bearing an artificial hand. He reported first to his supervisor who was of the opinion that no‑one would notice his artificial right hand and expressed his personal congratulations on such a quick turn‑around. Dean was assigned a circuit involving routes four, seven and nine. They formed an irregular triangle around the town centre, passing several schools and three suburban railway stations. All three sections were heavily used. Dean and his colleagues would be kept on their toes.

 

On his first day back, Dean learned the best stops to change routes at. He demonstrated his mechanical hand to every member of staff who saw him. It was amusing to see reactions varying from interest and admiration to surprise and distaste.

            – Why don’t you put a glove over it, Dean? Surely you understand that no‑one wants to see your artificial hand.

            – Jack, I was told specifically to get a hand like this by management because no‑one wants to see a hook. I’d much rather have a hook.

            – Oh god.

 

Dean’s inspections became a game for older schoolchildren who teased him by holding their passes so low that Dean had to bend closer. It gave the youngsters a chance to inspect the artificial hand for a moment or two when his attention was elsewhere. Senior citizens on their cut‑price visits to the town centre noticed his disability and demurely cast their eyes away. What a brave young man to carry on working after being so terribly injured.

 

Jeff kept Jason in mind, awaiting a suitable time to invite the man to spend an evening where matters of mutual interest might be discussed. It was up to Dean to agree the date. It was his apartment, after all. One morning over breakfast, Jeff suggested inviting Jason the following evening, a Saturday, for a talk about his prospective amputations. Dean agreed. He had a shift from eight until three and would be quite prepared to host Jason from about eight onwards. Jeff sent Jason an invitation and received a prompt positive response.

 

            – Jason, help yourself to beer. There’s a fridgeful and it doesn’t keep.

            – Haha! Thanks, Jeff.

Jason glanced at Jeff, kitted out especially for this evening in shorts and T‑shirt. He had donned his full‑length prostheses, giving him black carbon legs from top to toe, and then removed his artificial arms. He exposed his naked arm stumps and they currently gripped a tin of lager. Dean was very much the master of ceremonies for the evening. He understood that Jeff was being intentionally provocative for the benefit of their guest, who felt overwhelmed by Jeff’s blatant display of amputated beauty. Dean had also made a minor alteration to his usual appearance by replacing his artificial hand with Jeff’s unused standard hook. Dean found it a little disconcerting to use it. He was used to using his shoulder to close his hand. Now he had to use it to open the hook. It was what he had originally wanted and dreamed about but after so long, the logic behind operating the artificial hand had become second nature. But the hook looked grand and Jason had already said how much more he liked seeing it than the hand. Unfortunately, Dean was stuck with the hand for as long as he worked on the trams.

 

            – So you see, there’s really nothing stopping me from having my amputations except the lack of a decent back story.

Jason had revealed that he had secure employment thanks to his grandmother who had founded a glossy women’s magazine in the sixties. Fashion and style had become the family’s raison d’être and Jason himself oversaw the fashion department. He was used to designing experimental new fashion himself and there was no reason why he could not continue in his current position bearing two artificial arms. He could hardly be sacked since his family owned the publication.       

            – You’ve been very honest with us, Jason. I respect you for it. So you’re quite sure that your amputations would not endanger your future employment?

            – Absolutely sure. It’s only my siblings and associates who could have any say in the affair.

            – OK. Here’s what we’ll do. I know a surgeon—not in this country—who will amputate your hands on my recommendation. I want you to promise that whatever the outcome, you will never divulge our names or the fact that we helped you. Do you understand?

            – Yes, of course. I thought that was understood. I work in the fashion business, Jeff. Do you not understand that being close-lipped is our life blood? No, I would never disclose your names. I can’t even imagine a situation where such a question might arise. But I would always stick to my cover story, whatever it is.

            – As far as I know, you’ll have a cover story provided in connection with the release papers from the clinic. Just learn it by heart and if the occasional stranger asks you how you lost your hands, just say you’d rather not relive the trauma, if you don’t mind. It’s genuinely none of their business. Some people have no sense of decorum and you just have to tolerate it.

 

Before the evening was out, Jeff had provided the name and email address of his surgeon, who was still very much in business. Jason made the astonishing admission that he had never been abroad and was terrified at the idea of travelling halfway across Europe alone. He also had a fear of flying which left only an especially complicated rail journey via Belgrade as an alternative. Dean thought of escorting Jason from St Pancras to Split and enjoying a week or two in the Adriatic sunshine until a wondrous idea struck his half sober mind. If Jason could hold off until Dean’s next summer holiday, they could go together and Dean could have his left hand off at the same time. They would return as two bilateral below‑elbow amputees, Jason with two healing stumps, Dean with one and a robust hook. It was an ideal plan, hatched in the haze of alcoholic determination. Everyone agreed it was quite perfect.

 

Jeff thought over the conversation next morning. Jason had left late but had been kind enough to tidy the living space of empty cans and plates before leaving.

            – Was it the alcohol talking or did you really mean you’d accompany Jason if you could have your left hand off?

            – That’s what I said. Why?

            – Isn’t that taking matters a bit far?

            – Why so? I’ll be able to use my right hook while the other stump is healing and I’m sure a second fake hand will still allow me to continue as an inspector.

            – I wouldn’t be so sure. You’d better try to find out what the company policy is. I’d assume they’d shift you to another job away from the public.

 

Jeff felt no curiosity about Dean’s apparent enthusiasm to gain a matching left stump. He himself had hankered after the same thing for many years and had eventually completed the process of acquiring artificial limbs. It was a natural progression. But he doubted that Dean would ever make a success of wearing two voluntary closing fake hands. They were too tiring to use, needing twice the muscle effort and less versatile than split hooks and he would quickly realise the fact. It was one thing to wear artificial hands and hooks, quite another to intentionally ignore their potential.

 

Jason was like a new man. A huge conundrum had been lifted, something which had preyed on his mind for as long as he could remember. Thanks to a chance meeting in a suburban gay bar, he would achieve his ideal and become a bilateral upper limb amputee. He imagined himself continuing to work on everything associated with the fashion industry wielding a pair of steel hooks on stylish black carbon arms which he intended to have customised so the sockets reached up his entire stumps to his shoulders. His forearm stumps would remain concealed inside the socket and no skin would remain visible. He wanted to become notorious in the fashion world because of his hooks. Perhaps his example would encourage others to act on their impulses and adopt artificial limbs as a fashion statement. Amputee catwalk models occasionally featured in live shows although fashion magazines, even the family’s own, were reluctant to feature them. Jason intended to change that.

 

He kept in regular touch with Jeff and Dean, exchanging minor news and information gleaned from various sources about amputees who had continued their lives after losing both arms. Jeff was impressed by the man’s devotion. He appeared to be rooted firmly in the realm of realism, never expressing hopes and wishes about his future stumps but demonstrating practical knowledge of the change in lifestyle losing his hands would entail. Jeff had been dubious about Dean at the initial stage, never sure that Dean’s conviction was strong enough to survive his amputation. But Jason was different. Jeff was certain that Jason would be a brash and extrovert hook user and wished he himself had access to a more public life so he could also display any or all of his artificial limbs.

 

Jason was working on the next spring’s fashion extravaganza, the annual London show which acted as a catalyst for fashion houses throughout Europe. The trending designs involved recycled military surplus—baggy olive cargo pants ripped in suggestive ways, canvas jerkins covered with torn pockets and faded stencilled battle insignia worn over naked skin. There were plenty of pretty boys available to model the line but Jason was dissatisfied with them. He thought the clothes demanded a more macho approach and wondered if he could persuade any genuine veterans to model them on the catwalk. And then he remembered Jeff. He was easily handsome and trim enough to model the new garb and his prosthetic limbs would play a prominent part in the new look. It was too enticing an idea to give up on and Jason sent a text message asking Jason if he would consider becoming a model for the week‑long show. Jeff was delighted at the opportunity to flash some carbon. It was exactly the kind of thing he missed.

 

Contact between Jason and Jeff increased in frequency as fashion week approached. Jeff took part in rehearsals and received tips on how to acknowledge the audience while not actually flirting and technical details like walking speed and body language. Jeff was uncertain about his ability to change outfits in the thirty seconds allowed but Jason reassured him that he would have at least one assistant backstage to help. Jason fought with professional models about their order of appearance which was jealously contested and was the de facto public demonstration of their status. The last place was traditionally reserved for the most expensive model but Jason intended Jeff to take the premium position. He would be the last in each parade and would be encouraged to reveal his quadruple amputee status whenever possible.

 

Jason ordered a pair of pretender arms soon after the soirée in Dean’s apartment. They were manufactured abroad in a gratifyingly short time and after clearing customs one month later, Jason collected them and began to accustom himself to life with a pair of hooks. He was determined to learn how to operate the hooks, hampered only by the fact that the overlong prostheses did not allow him to eat or drink easily. When he had stumps, the shorter sockets would enable him to feed himself. Jason was already adept in using his hooks around his apartment and wished he had the chutzpah to wear them for the show’s finale. He wanted to appear together with Jason, the undoubted star of the show, the premier model. He imagined them both gesturing with artificial arms, thanking the audience for their admiration and kind attention. It struck him that even if he failed to sport his pretender’s hooks, next year he would have no alternative. He would have had his own pair of hooks for six months and the audience could admire a transformed man.

 

Without wishing to awaken suspicions about his possible motives, Dean again reserved the entire month of September for his summer break. It was unusually late and last year he had returned minus his right hand. This year he would complete his body image. He was looking forward to a spell when his left sleeve would hang empty and he would confront the world with a solitary steel hook on his right stump. That was how he would return from Split with his similarly handless travelling companion.

 

The sweltering summer stretched endlessly before them. Dean found enough self‑confidence to wear short sleeved uniform shirts, revealing his oddly flesh‑toned socket and dark brown leather cuff to all and sundry. He was less self‑conscious about his prosthesis and used it in conjunction with his natural hand. Many regular passengers had encountered Dean before and paid little attention to his false hand. It was impolite to stare and although some people were curious, no‑one enquired how he had lost a hand. Teenage boys giggled amongst themselves, cracking off‑colour jokes about wanking with a plastic hand. Dean found the smooth silicone hand to be an ideal shape for such a purpose and preferred it to his real hand.

 

Both Dean and Jeff waited for Jason at the Eurostar check‑in. Both travellers had bought Interrail tickets, the cheapest version possible, entitling them to travel on five days during the following thirty. Jason appeared with ten minutes to spare, weighed down by a rucksack which seemed overfull for a three week stay at a foreign clinic. Dean had packed a medium sized suitcase, knowing he could manage it with his single hook on their return. He had exchanged the false hand for Jeff’s unused standard hook at breakfast and was still momentarily confused by its operation several hours later. Jason was delighted to see Jeff again and admired the hooks peeking out from the sleeves of his jacket. Jeff wished them a bon voyage and turned to leave, watched jealously by Jason who admired Jeff’s gait and the way his rigid ankles hinted at his prosthetic legs. The two men passed through customs and passport control without a hitch and boarded the train which would shortly link them with an express from Paris to Milan.

 

Jason was an ideal companion. This was his first time abroad, which Dean regarded as an achievement in itself. Jason paid attention to every announcement and was incongruously surprised to realise that the language he had studied in school was a genuine language spoken perfectly seriously by real people. He was also shocked on exiting the tunnel that the landscape was so similar to that on the English side. He did not know what he had expected but there was no sudden sense of being abroad.

 

He was disavowed of his opinion shortly after arrival in Gare du Nord. Suddenly it was obvious that he had lost a significant part of himself, the ability to communicate. He might have been able to conjugate the verb reconnaître at school but nothing had prepared him to find his way through the signage to the relevant platform in a French station, the country’s busiest. People bumped into him with annoyed looks. He was confused but Dean had the situation under control and placed his artificial arm onto Jason’s backside to guide him. The Milan express awaited them on the opposite side of the station, ready for its circuitous detour through north-eastern Paris suburbs to rejoin its ordinary route south. Dean was relieved to be on the only express leg of the journey. Jason was fascinated by the different fashion, the more florid architecture, the modernity and cleanliness of the train.

 

The following evening, they were welcomed by one of the surgeon’s assistants who had been assigned the care of the two Englishmen. He had studied English at Zagreb University and agreed to be on call for far longer than usual. He showed the newcomers to their respective rooms, twelve square metres with a bed, a chair, a screen and a bank of medical electronics. They were offered non‑alcoholic drinks and invited to settle in bed in preparation for the next morning. Their luggage was taken into storage elsewhere in the building, their phones taken for safekeeping. There was no clock in the room and, unused to being in such a room free from distractions, they both fell asleep before ten. Jason would lose both hands before the following noon. Dean would become a bilateral by four.

 

Jason awoke from a long chemically induced sleep into a twilight zone of reality intertwined with nightmare impossibilities. His body felt as if it was floating. He looked around at the featureless room he had seen the previous day—actually the day before that—and felt the pressure of the bandages embalming his arms up to his armpits. He could actually feel nothing else than his arms. They were hidden under a light blanket and he moved his arms to peel the sheet away from his face so he could get a better look. He moved not arms but stumps. He had no hands. They were mere ash in a Croatian incinerator. His stumps were thickly bound in bandages and he was completely helpless. He had no hands.

 

Dean’s anaesthetic had been gentler. He had been awake a whole day longer than Jason and was already becoming used to his missing left hand. It was a sensation he knew well enough from the previous summer. Then he had felt shock at knowing part of him had been destroyed, his right hand, something no‑one would want to sacrifice. In the year since, the fake hand and now the steel hook had more than proved their worth and Dean was content with the knowledge that beneath his thick globular bandages was a new pristine stump which matched his right. With his steel hooks he would present himself to the outside world, to his friends and family, to strangers and newcomers as the man who had said Enough! and who demanded to be cast in a new rôle as a bilateral amputee, the best a man could be. The male nurse who had met them on their arrival noticed that Dean was restless and administered another sleeping tablet.

 

Five days after their amputations, the two Englishmen were allowed to convene where the staff could keep an eye on them. As before, there were other voluntary amputees airing their bandaged stumps in the gardens, where a fountain occasionally ejected a weak jet of water. Dean remembered the legless Austrians and hoped they were doing well on their artificial legs. There were two Hungarians sporting new below‑knee stumps whose English was less than fluent and a ruggedly handsome Spaniard, a Basque, with a full dark beard covering his entire lower face almost up to his eyes. The first straggling white whiskers made themselves apparent. He had usually plucked them but his days of plucking anything were over. His left arm was a mere stump apparent inside the short sleeve of his white T‑shirt and his right arm now matched it. The new stump was in a compression liner. A standard left arm prosthesis lay on the floor under his chair, out of the direct sunlight. Dean and Jason greeted him in English but the Basque replied in Spanish. Jason knew a few words and explained as best he could that they were Englishmen and were in Split to become bilaterals. The Basque grinned under his magnificent beard and spread his stumps for their inspection. The healed stump was also covered in thick black hair. The Basque explained slowly in Spanish that his latest above elbow amputation was a revision to replace an untidy below elbow stump but Jason was unfamiliar with the heavily accented Spanish and understood little. Shortly an orderly appeared to collect the Basque and after retrieving the prosthesis, assisted the man to don it. He lifted it as a farewell and went back inside.

 

            – What was he saying? Did you understand anything?

            – I think he said he had lost his hand and this was the second amputation. I’m not sure. Man, if I had stumps like that, I don’t know what I’d do.

            – Same here. Having your own elbows makes all the difference. At least both his stumps were long enough to let him move them around. Some artificial arms are fixed at the shoulder so you can’t lift your arm.

            – That would make you pretty disabled, I reckon.

There was no irony in Dean’s comment. He already knew from personal experience and by watching Jeff that bilateral hooks were simply another way of doing things. Jason still had that pleasure to come.

            –Have you thought about what sort of arms you’re going to get, Jason? Do you prefer black carbon or the flesh colour like mine?

            – I think black looks better with steel hooks. It’s more assertive, don’t you think? There’s nothing wrong with yours, though. Don’t misunderstand. Your socket matches nicely with your fake hand.

            – That’s what my prosthetist told me but I’d really like my next prosthesis, my next pair of prostheses, to have black sockets. I don’t care if it matches the hand or not. I only wear the hand while I’m at work, anyway. By order of the management. Otherwise I wear a standard hook.

            – Do you have any other hooks?

            –No. Only the one. Actually, this one is originally Jeff’s. He wears my first hook.

            – What’s that all about?

            – It’s a symmetrical shape. Jeff likes it because it makes the other hook more versatile.

            – I’m going to get the whole set of all the different kinds of hook. Big gnarly worker’s hooks and maybe even a fake hand. Do you like yours?

            – I do. I didn’t think I’d like it at first but now I’ve got used to it, I enjoy using it at work. It’s not as noticeable as a hook, you see.

            – I’m going to try wearing a fake hand and a hook. The hook will catch people’s attention and they won’t even notice my other hand is missing too.

 

Jason continued his reverie until a nurse warned them about sunburn. Back inside, they sat in the lobby in chairs intended for visitors, more comfortable than those in their rooms. It was cooler inside. They could feel their skin tingling from the effects of the strong sunlight. They were a handsome pair of young men, made more arresting by their handless short forearms. They looked supremely relaxed and content.

 

It was time to leave. Dean’s suitcase and Jason’s backpack were readied by an orderly. The three fresh stumps were protected by compression liners and the two visitors were taken into the town centre by car. Dean had spent over an hour the previous evening patiently tapping at his phone, arranging a torturous route westward which first involved a detour east via Belgrade. From there, a Balkan express would take them to Vienna and a night express to Paris, for a considerable extra fee. They would travel across Europe in first class in order to avail themselves of the train staff who, they hoped, would assist the disabled men while they were on board. Once on their way home, Jason rapidly discovered how disabled he had become. He became frustrated with his helplessness and Dean was wary of his illogical outbursts. Of course his stumps were next to useless. That was the entire object of the exercise. To replace hands with prosthetic hooks. But they were weeks away in the distant future. Dean had no idea if Jason had a partner at home to help him or how he would even get in to his apartment.

 

Jason was ill‑tempered for that exact reason. He had assumed that he would receive a helping hand at every turn but there was no‑one as yet who would meet him at St Pancras and help him home to Battersea. He was too proud to admit how lax he had been about thinking things through. It was a stupid oversight. If only he had his hooks already! His swollen stumps were useless.

 

Dean did not enjoy the return journey. He did his best to help his companion with his solitary hook but was himself unable to do things as basic as opening a bottle of water. As the Eurostar ploughed through the parched Kentish countryside, he sent a text to Jeff requesting his assistance at St Pancras. Jeff knew they were due to arrive and had half expected a call for help. He thrust his hooks into a black hoodie and rocked his way towards the tube station.

 

Jason had managed to work himself into a panic as he realised how utterly helpless he had become. His imagination was working overtime but he was not wrong. He would need personal care until his stumps healed well enough for his first appointment with a prosthetist which might easily be weeks away. He had worked through his anger and now wallowed in self pity and embarrassment. Jeff spotted the unhappy couple as they exited customs and they made their way towards him, thankful to see someone who could offer assistance, albeit with two hooks.

 

            – Hello, you two. You look magnificent. Why the long faces?

            – I’m going to need help getting home and I’m going to need someone with me after that too. I thought of calling my brother but we don’t get on and idon’t know if he’d come or not.

            – Wow! Jason, why didn’t you arrange something months ago? You must have known you’d need someone around.

            – I know. I was stupid. I was just thinking about getting my stumps. I didn’t give anything else a thought.

            – Well, let’s get you home first. You live in Battersea, don’t you? Are you OK if we go by Jason’s place first, Dean?

            – I don’t mind.

            – Jason, give me your rucksack and Dean, I’ll take your suitcase if you want.

The three amputees attracted a bemused audience of passengers who gawped at Jason’s and Jeff’s calisthenics as they transferred the rucksack from one to the other. Jeff’s hooks flashed as he twisted his body, doing his best to remain balanced on his artificial feet. He gripped hold of the case and the trio moved off at Jeff’s slow pace towards the Underground.

 

Jason’s apartment turned out to be an opulent two bedroom bachelor pad on the top floor of a new development overlooking the river. Entrance was easy enough with a six digit door code. The air was musty and Jason opened the balcony door by pressing an electronic door release with an elbow.

            – Just leave the rucksack there, Jeff. Thank you ever so much for helping.

            – You’re welcome. But what are you going to do now? Is there anyone who could come to stay with you for a couple of weeks?

            – I don’t know. I could ask my brother, I suppose.

            – I have an idea, Jason. If it’s OK with you, Jeff, I could stay to help.

            – Oh! That would be wonderful. You could have the spare bedroom.

            – Are you going to be able to manage, Dean? Don’t forget you’re recovering from an amputation yourself. Can you get by with the one hook?

            – I’ll have to. I’d be in the same situation at home, wouldn’t I? One hook.

            – Alright. If you’re sure. I don’t mind another few weeks on my own. Jason, I think you should get in touch with social services and explain that you need domestic help for a few hours every day.

            – I know. I will.

Jeff left the pair and returned to the empty flat. He thought Jason had been irresponsible, not for losing both hands simultaneously but for not thinking the matter through. It might be weeks before he received his first pair of hooks and another few weeks while he learned to use them. He assumed Dean knew what he was doing by volunteering. It was not going to be easy for him.

 

It turned out to be less strenuous than expected. Both men’s stumps required medical treatment to remove the stitches. They presented their certificates provided by the Croat surgeon which briefly explained the cause of the injuries, confirmed by forged police reports. Neither Dean nor Jason intended claiming compensation from their insurance companies. The penalties for insurance fraud were simply too extreme. Jason had no particular need for more money and Dean never considered claiming. Their fresh stumps were inspected by the same doctor who was intrigued that the two men should both have been injured in completely different scenarios in southern Croatia at the same time. He was innocent and naïve and knew nothing of BIID or voluntary amputations. He arranged for both patients to be seen by the same prosthetist in four weeks for their first fittings.

            – Is there any special reason why we have to wait another month? I thought we could have the first consultation in a couple of days.

            – Unfortunately, Mr Turner, there’s quite a demand for prosthetic care these days thanks to diabetes and we simply don’t have enough skilled prosthetists. But your stumps have healed well and if I might make a suggestion, you will find private care to be available sooner and, dare I say it, superior.

 

Jason nodded. It was as he had guessed. The state would provide basic prostheses free of charge but they would have to struggle on without for at least another month.

            – Thank you for your help and advice, doctor. We’ll let you know if we find private care.

They elbow-bumped the doctor and left with considerably lightened moods. They had been accepted into the health system without needing to explain anything to anybody and had become entitled to state‑funded prosthetic limbs. But Jason had other ideas and intended to repay Dean for his loyalty and assistance by funding two pairs of artificial arms for him. He needed artificial hands at work but he could design another set comprising exactly the sockets and hooks he wanted. Jason would pay, or more accurately, the fashion magazine would.

 

Jason had already researched eligible prosthetists and contacted St Mary’s Hospital in Roehampton, the most prestigious centre in the entire country for prosthetic limbs. One private company operated on the premises with another in close proximity. The former specialised in upper limb prostheses. Jason contacted the facility with the help of Dean’s single hook and they were invited for initial interviews the following day. A schedule of prosthetic care would be laid out with recommendations for customised solutions. It sounded very officious and needlessly painstaking when they needed only a pair of hooks each.

 

Jason and Dean became closer thanks to the inevitable intimacy involved in caring for a handless companion. Dean proved to be an ideal guest. He was careful and tidy, continually asking for confirmation before using Jason’s property. Jason invited him to simply help himself. It would have been next to impossible to prevent him from doing so while his stumps were shielded in shrinkers. They brought him a sense of accomplishment and completion which only a man such as Dean could appreciate. There was no need for explanations or excuses. Dean took care of things like ordering meals and groceries. The excursion to Roehampton came as a breath of fresh air, a reason to leave the sumptuous apartment.

 

The prosthetist, Michael Newman, was a jovial middle‑aged man who was not deceived by the Croatian medical reports which the amputees presented, especially since they were otherwise identical except for the dramatic and unlikely reasons for the amputations. He had met and fitted artificial limbs to many wannabes who reacted in a completely different manner from patients who had lost arms to trauma or disease. He was unconcerned by the motivations behind elective amputations. He accepted their existence and was disinterested in pursuing the matter further.

 

In accordance with alphabetical order, Jason was interviewed first.

            – I hope you can appreciate that I need a pair of hooks as quickly as possible. I’m aware of the extra features which are available but I am prepared to go without them for the time being.

            – I have to say I agree, Mr Hedges. You will find the first few weeks quite burdensome even without the added complications of articulating wrists and mechanical rotation. I suggest a pair of basic sockets on a standard double harness with body‑operated standard hooks. Most of our patients function adequately with such equipment while they are learning.

            – When will my first fitting be?

            – I need to check with my assistant before I can confirm but tomorrow morning at nine, if that is convenient.

            – Fine. You don’t waste any time.

            – There is no time to lose, Mr Hedges, especially not for a man in your position. That’s all for now. Would you send Mr Turner in? I’ll let you know about the time of the first fitting before you leave.

            

Dean’s meeting went much the same way. Dean suspected that Newman realised that his second amputation had been elective and embellished with a slightly ridiculous explanation, verified by a bogus police report. But Newman was not interested in the past. He inspected Dean’s new stump, now quickly diminishing in size to match his other stump. They would be identical, textbook examples of the surgeon’s skill in moulding flesh. Apart from the fact that Dean would always be almost helpless without his artificial limbs, the two stumps would be appendages any amputee would be proud to bear and flaunt. Their length and proportions were perfect. If, as Newman suspected, Turner was a successful wannabe, he would be a very happy man. He had seen bilateral amputees overcome with emotion at receiving their first pair of prostheses, concealing their stumps in rigid mechanical sockets.

 

            – Have you considered a terminal device for the new arm, Mr Turner?

            – I have and it’s quite a conundrum. You see, my work requires me to use an artificial hand which is less conspicuous than a hook.

            – Of course.

            – So I rather suspect the same requirement will apply to my new stump too. It will have to be another false hand to match my other.

            – I see. Have you contacted your employer to confirm your request?

            – No, not yet. They don’t know I’ve lost my other hand yet. My next shift starts on Monday and I intended letting them know then.

            – You really should have let them know before this, but it’s your business, Mr Turner, not mine. It will not be possible to manufacture a new prosthesis for your left arm before Monday, whatever happens. However, if you will consent to us making a prosthesis with a hook rather than a left hand version of your current hand, you will be back in action as a man with two terminal devices much sooner. I am afraid we carry no stock of that particular model and will have to order on from the USA which unfortunately may take some weeks.

            – Oh, I hadn’t realised. It is rather important, you see. My company does absolutely not want me to be seen by the public wearing a steel hook.

            – Then they are in for a disappointment, Mr Turner. You must persuade them that you are capable with a hook. Are you used to using the one on your right stump?

            – Yes, I am now. It took a while because this is voluntary opening…

            – … and the hand is voluntary closing. Yes, I can understand that changing from one type to the other can be confusing. But if you wish to have a functioning prosthesis as soon as possible, Mr Turner, a hook it must be.

            – OK. I’m fine with that.

            – Let us hope that your workplace is too.

 

Newman contacted his assistant and rearranged some scheduling detail to enable Jeff’s first fitting the following day at nine. The assistant was told to book another new patient for the following day at nine and informed Dean of it. With any luck, Dean’s second artificial arm would be ready by the beginning of next week for its first fitting and Dean could take it home if he and the prosthetist were both satisfied.

            – Would you tell Mr Hedges that his appointment at nine tomorrow stands?

            – Yes, I will. Thank you, Dr Newman. I can’t tell you what a relief this is for me.

            – I understand you and Mr Hedges are partners.

            – Well, we live together. Not really partners.

            – I see. I can well understand that you might be anxious to see you both equipped with bilateral prosthetics. I know how irksome it can be to function with a single hook.

They bumped elbows and Dean returned to Jason in the waiting room, who was deep in conversation with a boy barely in his twenties who displayed a handsome tanned leg and a sagging leg on his football shorts. His left leg had been disarticulated following a bout with bone cancer but he had lost none of his joie de vivre and was fascinated by Jason’s naked arm stumps. Jason obviously enjoyed hearing praise for them from a stranger for the first time.

            – The doctor said to tell you that nine tomorrow is OK.

            – Great! I have to go. Good luck, Luke.

 

Now that his first pair of hooks was imminent, Jason relaxed and some of his enthusiasm returned. Talking to the very handsome Luke had reminded him that he was still a good‑looking guy himself and that his shapely handless arms were an added bonus. He was impatient for his prostheses, imagining himself returning to his fashion work as if nothing untoward had happened, mingling with other beautiful people of both sexes eager to gain his lucrative attention. Dean was amused to see the difference in Jason’s mood and felt a burden lift from his own shoulders, although when Jason was kitted out with prostheses, Dean would have to return to his makeshift digs in the old Debenhams.

 

Jason is not accepted by his coworkers and is psychologically dependant on the company of Dean. Jeff is offered an apartment in Furnace Green, Crawley.

 

Heeding his prosthetist’s advice, Dean contacted his supervisor to announce that he had been injured during his September break resulting in the amputation of his left hand and wanting some kind of resolution on how to progress. He explained that his second prosthesis would be a hook on the recommendation of his doctor and that it would take at least another week before his was fitted with such a device. The supervisor was in a state of heartfelt sympathy and apoplexy.

            – I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr Turner. How on earth can fate be so cruel? Of course, there’s no way you’ll be able to return to your work as an inspector. I don’t know what we’ll be able to do for you. Do you still have insurance cover? You’d better apply for something to tide you over while we decide how to place you within the company.

 

Dean did as suggested and after acting upon requests for various certificates, the union agreed to pay eighty percent of his wages for the next ninety days or until his employment issue was resolved, whichever was shorter. His supervisor informed his employers and spread the aura of incredulity a little further. The matter was added to the minutes of the weekly Monday morning meeting.

 

            – And finally, dear colleagues, item number seven. It had been brought to our attention that one of our inspectors, Mr Dean Turner, has suffered a disabling injury whilst on a motorbike tour of the Dalmatian coastline. He was thrown from his motorbike in a collision with a tractor and became entangled in the machine’s spinning wheels, resulting in the amputation of his left hand. You may be familiar with Mr Turner’s name because he had already become similarly disabled last year and had returned to work wearing an artificial hand. I hear from his supervisor that a second artificial hand is not on offer to him and that he will therefore return to work wearing a steel hook on his left arm and a fake hand on his right. Mr Turner assured his supervisor that he would still be able to undertake his duties but was uncertain if his artificial hands would be acceptable to the company.

            – What an awful situation to find oneself in. Does Mr Turner have a good rating?

            – He does, both before and after his previous disablement. We have received several commendations from members of the public who have praised him for unusual assistance or leniency in difficult situations, most of which refer to the inspector with the false hand.

            – So it would seem in our own best interests to retain the services of Mr Turner after his return, regardless of how many artificial hands he is wearing. God knows it’s unusual enough to receive praise for an inspector from the public. I move that we wait until Mr Turner feels ready to return to his job and continue to employ him in that rôle.

The vote went six‑seven in Dean’s favour. He would be back with a hook and a fake hand.

 

Jason was fascinated by the process of preparing his prostheses. The prosthetist’s young apprentice scanned his residual limbs and fed the data into a laptop which promptly displayed the disembodied stumps rotating slowly onscreen.

            – That’s all we need you for, Mr Hedges. It’ll be a day or two before we can print a pair of test sockets but we’ll let you know by text message and assuming all goes well, you’ll have your arms early next week. Standard hooks, if I remember.

            – Yes, a pair of standard hooks on a basic wrist.

            – Quite. I see you have learned the lingo already. Not many patients know to call it a wrist.

            – Really? It seems so obvious. What else could you call it?

 

Dean met the apprentice the next day, buoyed by a conversation he had had with Jason the previous evening. Over a supper of meatballs and cherry tomatoes, Jason announced that he wanted to thank Dean for his help over the previous weeks by paying for a new pair of whatever prostheses Dean wanted.

            – I know you want two hooks, Dean. Have them scan both your stumps and make you a new matching pair. And if they don’t like the look of your hooks at your job, we’ll work something out so you can work at our magazine. We always need journalists and it’s not difficult to drive somewhere to interview some celebrity. Get AI to type up your report and send it on over to the editing room. Who needs hands?

Jason thrust his stumps into the air and waggled them around. They both laughed at their successful transformation from nobodies into celebrities themselves.

 

Dean was met by the same apprentice who had tended to Jason the previous day. They discussed Dean’s particular requirements, including the preference for fake hands by his employers but the assistant was adamant.

            – There is absolutely no need to take anything outsiders say into account, sir. The only priority is to get you back functioning as well as can be hoped. You already have experience with both a artificial hand and a hook. Which do you find preferable? Which is more useful to you?

            – The hook, of course.

            – Quite so. So would it not be more useful to wear a pair of hooks, sir? Regardless of what your employer expects?

            – Yes, of course it would.

            – Then that is what we shall do.

Encouraged by the assistant’s words, Dean ordered an almost identical set of arms to those due to Jason. They would later compare them and laugh at having achieved their goals.

 

A week later they took delivery of their bilateral artficial arms. The prosthetist insisted on subjecting both patients to the puerile exercises designed to force amputees to learn how to manipulate their hooks but in both cases, the session ended sooner than he expected. Both men were already au fait with their hooks, Dean through a year’s experience and Jason through wearing his pretender hooks. The genuine articles were shorter and tighter. They felt more intimate. He could sense what his hooks were touching in his stumps and found it erotic. Jason demonstrated his skill at handling his credit card and paid several thousands for two pairs of hooks, liners and stump socks. They returned to Battersea as soon as possible, impatient to make closer, more intimate acquaintance with the prostheses.

 

Dean was aware that his presence in Jason’s apartment was no longer strictly necessary. On Sunday, Dean returned to his own digs in the converted Debenham’s department store and knuckled down to relearning the inconveniences of life as a double amputee without a kitchen and water supply or a bathroom and toilet. Jeff welcomed him back, clearly intrigued to see his flatmate transformed into something like a mirror image of himself. Dean held his new artificial arms at a self‑conscious angle. Jeff held Dean’s hooks and inspected the pristine sockets, unembellished with additional technical devices. Black sockets, flat silver wrists and standard steel hooks. Dean looked as pleased and Punch and Jeff hugged him, the men’s rigid forearms hanging senseless down the other’s back.

 

His return to work was preceded by a meeting with his supervisor on Friday afternoon, who had personally voted against allowing Dean to return to his old job brandishing a hook and was nonplussed to see two of them.

            – I thought you would still be wearing the artificial hand, Turner. You said nothing about a pair of hooks.

            – I know and I must apologise. I did mention to my prosthetist that I wanted a second artificial hand but he persuaded me to adopt two hooks because they are much more versatile and productive. And I find it to be true. I can do much more with the hooks than with fake hands. I know your policy but I was told that I should do what is best for me.

            – I see. I do understand. How do you feel yourself about confronting passengers?

            – Are you asking how prepared I am for the comments and questions? I’m already quite used to that. I think most people are more interested to see my hook, or now my hooks, than shocked or disturbed.

            – Alright. I’m willing to grant you a trial period of three weeks, during which the company will keep a close eye on feedback and complaints from the public. If we find that passengers find your presence to be distasteful, I’m afraid we’ll be reviewing your employment as an inspector. But until then, resume your job as usual on Monday. I’ll forward you a copy of the month’s shift rota.

            – Can you say which routes I’ll be covering?

            – Yes. Fourteen and sixteen.

Dean’s work schedule would be taking him as far as Sedgefield Hospital again. There was a small chance that he might meet other men in a similar situation.

 

Back in his apartment on Sunday, he tried on his uniform jacket to see how far the hooks extended from the sleeves. They could possibly be shortened just a tad. He decided to see how he coped for a few days before suggesting alterations. Somehow his familiar navy blue uniform blazer gave him an additional dose of reality. Facing himself in a mirror, he noted his immobile arms which hung at an unnatural angle and the steel hooks. Always the steel hooks, now and forever. This was the reality he had yearned for and obsessed over for years, all through his teenage years when he lay awake in bed imagining that the fingers manipulating his cock were actually hooks, when he caught a glimpse of an arm amputee and envied the stump. His own stumps were invisible, hidden inside the sockets with their harness and cables and straps, all necessary to enable him to open one half of his split hooks, the only part of his artificial arms which he could operate. So much pain, effort and inconvenience, so much disability and restriction to face, all because he needed to see two hooks instead of his hands. He was twenty‑six years old with his entire future ahead of him as a man with no hands. A bilateral upper limb amputee. It sounded so officious and looked so perfect. His hooks remained closed as he twisted his body to see the effect from different angles. He frequently thought that one hook was arousing. The second one was overkill. The two hooks made him feel weak at the knees. He shucked his jacket and wanted to removed his jeans in order to let his hooks coax more pleasure from his penis but he was unable to twist his hooks into a suitable position quickly enough to open the button at the top of his fly and by the time he succeeded, the moment had passed. He was left with a cooling patch of precum in his underwear and a pair of hooks pointing at odd angles.

 

Jason was also experimenting with his new hooks and their abilities. He tried holding art markers, which he always used when designing fashionwear. He loved the effortless sweep of colour and the intricate variation in the width of the lines dependant on differences in pressure. His hook held the pen at an odd angle and the edge of his wrist dug into the paper, shifting its position. The weight of the steel hook caused the pen to deposit a heavy disc of ink wherever it touched the paper. Jason was disappointed. It was not at all like he had imagined. The hook would not even hold the pen properly. He tried to replace the pen’s cap but it was smooth round plastic and slipped from his hook three times before his impatience led him to swipe it across the room in frustration.

 

Dean concocted a lie to explain his new status to his work colleagues. They were astounded to see his transformation and incredulous that the company had obviously allowed him to return to his old job, circulating among the public, interacting at close range with a pair of hooks.

            – The disease I had in my right hand spread to my left. There was nothing for it but amputation. But don’t feel bad for me. I can do everything I need to. I just have to do it differently.

 

Dean’s hooks clacked against the aluminium support poles as he strode down the tram in preparation to check tickets moving toward the centre where he would meet his colleague who had worked along the car from the front. Their electronic ticket readers were heavy black rubberised plastic which featured ridges along the sides for a secure grip. The reader fit exactly at the right angle into Dean’s standard hook and he could relax his shoulders without needing to squeeze it like he had done with the artificial hand. This was much easier. He used his other hook to grip a support pole as the tram cornered and rocked its way into the town centre. He was intensely conscious of the metallic sounds he generated but no‑one else seemed to pay any attention. No-one on the packed tram commented on his amputee status during his first trip into the town centre and beyond. He was slightly disappointed. Part of the pleasure of becoming a bilateral was to gain attention, to become a more distinctive figure than an ordinary ticket inspector but it was yet to happen.

 

Dean contacted the depôt’s outfitter and laundry to request a uniform tie with a rubber band to hold it under his collar. He could collect it at the end of his shift on return of his old tie. It was not completely impossible to tie a Windsor with a pair of hooks but it required more time than Dean was prepared to spend on such a minor detail.

 

Jeff was interested to know how Dean’s first day had gone.

            – Fine, thanks. My mates were a bit surprised but the two guys I worked with today were OK with it and none of the drivers made any comment.

            – That is surprising, actually. You would expect a barrage of questions. It’s strange that people take it so calmly.

            – We don’t really have enough time to get deep down and intimate, Jeff. And we get on well enough together but none of us are really all that close. It’s more of an intimate matter and people simply don’t feel it proper to ask personal questions.

            – Well, you may be right. I have some news of my own for you.

            – What’s that?

            – You remember I applied for a council flat? And they said it would take months? Well, there’s a flat they’ve offered me in Crawley on the tenth floor of a twenty storey building. It’s in a place called Furnace Green and I have to go and take a look at it and let them know if I’m interested in moving in within seven days.

            – Crawley? Isn’t that miles away?

            – Twenty miles from Croydon, twenty miles from Brighton. And all the Gatwick trains stop at the station so it’s fairly easy to get to.

            – You sound like you’ve already decided to move in.

            – Not a hundred percent. Of course I would like to move to a proper flat. It would be a lot easier to take care of my stumps if I had a proper bathroom. And I can more or less work anywhere there’s a wifi connection, after all. Would you like to come with me on Saturday to have a look? If I go the council office, I can pick up a key and we can look inside. Otherwise we’ll have to look at their show flat.

            – That might be fun. I’ll see how I feel after Friday’s shift. I’ve got a late one.

            – Oh, OK. We could go on the train and have lunch out somewhere. My treat.

            – In that case, it’s definite!

 

Jason decided he had put off the inevitable for long enough. He showered for the first time in four days on Thursday morning and spent time dressing himself with naked stumps and then with hooks. Everything took so much longer. That was why he showered much less frequently. He turned up at the magazine’s HQ and did his best to maintain a calm face as he approached his glass‑walled office, feeling the eyes of his incredulous creatives boring into him. His hooks flashed in a myriad of bright led lights. There was no disguising them. The glass door to his office had a glossy spherical door handle. He fumbled with it, first with one hook, then with two. One of the longer serving employees took pity on him and opened the door, inventing a plausible reason for approaching him.

            – I’d like to discuss a tiny scheduling problem we may have with Milan, if that’s OK.

            – Yeah, fine. Drop in any time.

Jason sat behind his empty desk. He flattened his hooks to open his laptop and altered the hooks’ angle to type. He had to force one hook against the other and was already desperate for a way which let him alter their angles in a less violent manner.

 

Unlike in the old days, three months previously when he had hands, his office would already have been bubbling with creatives submitting ideas, reporting on trends, displaying glossy photographs and generally trying to gain his favour with their aptitude. Now his office remained empty and his staff surreptitiously eyed him, not knowing how to behave around or confront a fashionable, stylish alpha male who was disabled with hooks.

 

Jason waited fifteen minutes to calm his nerves and work out a new method of operation. The old impromptu rendezvous in and around his office had also functioned as informal meetings in which projects were assigns, rôles clarified and results approved. Now everyone seemed to be hiding behind their screens and the office was almost silent. He would have to visit everyone in person to discuss their work with them. It would give his employees an opportunity to see his hooks up close, to realise they were not some kind of monstrous transformation. He started with his art director who had liaised with him on the last two editions while Jason was at home. One by one, his staff exchanged a few words and showed him what they were working on. Everything went comparatively smoothly, although one young woman was so disturbed by Jason’s hooks that she had some kind of panic attack and excused herself. Jason was not overly offended, reasoning that she probably simply needed a little time to accustom herself to seeing his hooks. He was basically satisfied with peoples’ work and returned to exchange a few words with the art director, who listened and promised to try to find a position elsewhere in the building as soon as possible for the disturbed young woman.

 

Dean’s self‑assurance gradually grew during the week. Partly because his colleagues had all reacted like adults on seeing his return, doubly maimed but mostly because of the way passengers reacted to seeing a disabled guy working as an inspector. Many of them remembered him from before he lost his hands and were intrigued to see how he came to terms with managing his duties while hanging on to a swaying tram. The transport company’s feedback site began to receive emails from passengers who had seen Dean at his work and who wished to commend the company on retaining the amputee in his employment. It was most commendable. Others stated how shocked they had been to see not one but two hooks and had watched in amazement as the inspector undertook his duties with a smile and a friendly word. Well ahead of her three week deadline, his supervisor had decided that Dean had proved his point. Not only was he capable of continuing in his job, he was making a strong personal statement which reflected positively on the company. His job was safe.

 

Jeff made a few calls and arranged to collect a key from the council housing offices. He was given a brochure detailing the new development in Furnace Green, where an entire housing estate built in the early Fifties had been razed to make space for ten tall apartment blocks in two rows of five, surrounded by newly planted woodlands and parks. There were shopping facilities nearby but no provision for daycare centres or schools was planned. The intention was to populate Furnace Green with singletons and young professionals. The forty square metre apartments were big enough for two adults and were fitted with fully functioning kitchens including a fridge‑freezer. There were facilities in the bathroom to attach a laundry washing machine. The buildings’ architecture and interiors were obviously of foreign design in an attempt to start with a standard high enough that the residents would feel pride in their homes and maintain them. The eighty year old Furnace Green had degenerated into a cesspit of decrepit mouldy houses occupied by undesirable tenants. They had been rehoused widely around the county of Sussex in an effort to dilute associations between toxic neighbours, although this was nowhere mentioned. Jeff glanced at the address of his prospective apartment—Tower E-1007, Furnace Green. He found Tower E at the end of a row, sited diagonally to catch light from the morning sun. It was the closest tower to the station and he became excited and impatient to visit the place.

 

Jason spent his evenings alone and despondent. He had enjoyed Dean’s company. He had been a reassuring and helpful presence before Jason was fitted with his hooks and Jason felt a growing need to share his experience of disability with someone who might understand what he was going through. It was perhaps a little unfair to expect much else but his encounters with models enforced his impressions of causing more disruption than he had expected. Perhaps it was too much to assume that his hooks would be merely noticed and commented on but in reality, the pretty young things with whom he forged his career often reacted with revulsion. It caused a disturbance and drained Jason’s confidence. Instead of asserting himself, he began to remain in the background in order not to disturb the mood of the beautiful people he relied on. He needed to purge his feelings and wondered if Dean would consider moving back into his apartment.

 

Jeff waited until Dean had showered on Saturday morning. As usual, there was a queue and Dean, handless, had to contend with stares and whispers from other residents awaiting their own five minutes of hot water. Back in the apartment, he dressed in sports clothes and a hoodie, whose sleeves were long and loose enough to hide his hooks. Jeff, dressed as well as ever in black jeans and a bright orange short‑sleeved shirt, checked he had everything he might need in his bag and the two amputees made their way to their local station. They would change in Croydon for a train to their destination.

 

Jeff was wearing his long leg prostheses which he preferred if he knew he would be walking a longer distance. They were more supportive but the hinged knees were slightly restrictive. Dean liked walking alongside him as he rocked from side to side, able now to use his thighs to better propel the prostheses forward. Jeff was intensely proud of his perfect below knee stumps. His legs were proportioned better without ankles and feet with their mess of toes. It was a joy to insert his stumps into the cool sockets of artificial legs and to walk with the rollicking gait of a legless man. He knew he attracted attention from other admirers. His gait was the give‑away. He could have improved it further but some of the pleasure in walking on unfeeling rigid feet would be lost. What would be the point? He had no similar thoughts regarding his arm amputations. If he had any say in the matter, everyone would see that he was a bilateral hook user. His arm stumps brought him as much aesthetic pleasure as his leg stumps. He loved having re‑purposed his arms in order to operate the solitary movable finger of each hook. He could sense texture of objects his hooks touched by tiny vibrations transferred to his stumps through his sockets. Heat, pliability, thickness, sharpness—all were phenomena consigned to the past. His hooks were more than replacements for his flesh hands. They offered him new ability and new methods of manipulating his way through life. He suspected that Dean was also discovering new aspects to his new status.

 

They turned off the road and strolled through a few transplanted pine trees to the closest entrance to Tower E. The main door opened outwards, facing a bank of three lifts. One arrived and disgorged a young couple, probably on a similar mission. They looked very content.

 

The flat was open‑plan with two separate rooms. One for the bedroom, the other for the bathroom. The rest of the area was a combination of kitchen and living space, airy, light and with access to a wide balcony from which the coast might be visible on a clear day. Jeff checked the bathroom. It too was spacious with a non‑slip tiled floor, a powerful shower and, as mentioned in the brochure, all the necessary connections for a washing machine.

            – What do you think, Jeff? Are you going to take it?

            – It’s perfect. It’s a long way into town, London I mean, but the flat is perfect. Do you think I should?

            – I’d grab it in an instant. Look at the kitchen! Everything’s ready. Cooker, fridge, dish washing machine. How much is the rent?

Jeff mentioned a figure which was two thirds the amount which Dean paid for his Debenham’s digs. It seemed almost unfair. They explored the empty kitchen cabinets and drawers, admired the built‑in closets in the hallway. He leaned against the wall, taking in the sight of a pristine apartment, high in the sky, which could be his home for the asking.

            – Shall we look around for something to eat? I’ve never been here before, so I don’t know where anything is.

            – Are you OK with walking?

            – Fine.

 

There were several independent eateries in the nearby mall as well as the usual fast food outlets. It was barely midday but there was already an abundance of customers. Dean and Jeff both fancied a Chinese meal but were reluctant to display their unconventional dining etiquette in public. They needed something they could handle with bare hooks. They settled for pork chops with fried potatoes in a mock traditional pub and washed it down with two pints of lager. It was a simple meal and all the more enjoyable thanks to the occasion. Before the meal was over, Jeff had already decided to apply for tenancy of the apartment first thing on Monday morning. As Dean had rightly mentioned, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

 

Jeff explained his decision to Dean on the train back to town. Dean protested Jeff’s gratitude and apologies, rightly saying that he understood completely. He would gladly move out of the old department store into a normal flat but they were still too expensive and difficult to find. He would manage on his own again just fine. All the same, Dean was not looking forward to being alone in his apartment every evening. They had found a workable routine for themselves which catered well enough for their never‑ending need for stump care and personal hygiene.

 

Jeff paid another visit to the housing office and waited his turn. The key to flat 1007 was in his pocket, ready to be returned. He was attended by the same person he had met the previous week, who remembered him immediately.

            – I’ve come to return the key to the flat you lent me. I went down to see it at the weekend and fell in love with the place. I’d like to apply for tenancy, if I could.

            – I think you’ve misunderstood, Mr Geiss. You’re already registered for the apartment. It’s yours to move into as soon as you sign the papers and pay the first month’s rent. We encourage tenants to check the property beforehand, you see, just in case it turns out to be completely unsuitable, you see.

            – Oh! I had the wrong end of the stick. I didn’t realise. Well, I can sign the papers now if that’s OK.

The official glanced at Jeff’s hooks, linked in front of him, resting on the counter.

            – I’ll get them. Just a moment.

 

A dozen sheets of paper required signatures. Jeff attempted to hold two different pens until the third rubberised one stayed firmly in his right hook. He had practised signing his name and abandoned attempts at reproducing his old version. Now the scrawls he produced were angular with a distinct concave slant. But they were all similar. He received two more keys, a spare and one for a storage cage in the attic, up where the lift machinery was. Jeff paid the rent on the apartment and received a receipt.

            – Thank you, Mr Geiss. Everything is done on our part and you are free to move in at your earliest convenience. I hope you will be comfortable in your new home.

            – Thank you so much.

Jeff placed his hooks to each side of the counter and leaned forward to push himself up onto his artificial feet. He put his copies of the rent agreement into his bag along with the spare keys and raised a hook in farewell. He returned to the street in a haze of excitement and trepidation. He might have landed a wonderful new place to live but he would be alone and a fair distance from everyone he knew, not least his prosthetist. Everything would be fine, he was sure. How was he going to move his stuff down to Crawley?

 

A new edition of the magazine had been published and the editorial and creative heads of staff were assembled for the monthly review. A pile of glossy magazines stood in the centre of the table. Jason waited until everyone was present before standing to welcome them. He reached across to nip the top magazine towards him and stared at the cover. He had questions about the wording of the blurbs and their placement on the page. Frustrated by his lonely weekend and having been unable to do several things for himself, his tongue was sharper than the staff members were accustomed to and several took umbrage.

            – We took inspiration from Marie Claire for the placement, Jason. The right alignment gives the page a frame.

            – It doesn’t need a frame. The edges of the cover are the frame. I don’t like it. The text is meant to be read, not act as a cage.

He attempted to lift the glossy magazine in one hook, intending to point at what he objected to with the other. The slippery cover defied his attempts. The staff looked on in horror as Jason’s temper worsened by the second. He smashed his hooks into the cover and shouted.

            – I won’t have the magazine looking like its competitors! We have our own house style, very successful I might add. How dare you deviate from it while I was recovering!

No‑one dared meet his eyes. The matter was trivial, hardly worth mentioning. The meeting dragged on. Jason calmed himself enough to be patient as he tried opening the pages of the magazine. The creatives trembled, expecting another outburst. It came when he criticised the photography of the Opatija Fashion Show.

            – Who approved this colour profile?

            – Jason, the photos were licensed under the agreement that their colour profile is not altered.

            – That’s ridiculous! Anyone can see there’s a green colour cast on everything. Look at this model. She looks like she’s about to throw up. I won’t have it!

He scrabbled at the offending page until his hook caught the corner and he ripped several pages from the magazine. Alarmed staff members were in tears. Jason swiped the magazine to the floor and stormed out, becoming more furious with the brushed aluminium spherical door handle. No‑one dared move to help him.

 

The creatives waited for a few minutes until it became obvious that the meeting was over. They returned to their work stations. Several sent emails calling up old favours or offering their services to other publications. Jason was in his glass‑walled office, clearly visible. He had shucked his artificial arms and hooks and was resting his head on his stumps. He looked like a beaten man. The office felt alien and none of the staff wanted to be there.

 

Jason realised he had behaved badly and circulated apologising to people, some of whom accepted his apologies. The truth was that Jason’s disability would remain and a similar outburst might be imminent at any time. No‑one mentioned his disability and nothing would improve until Jason confronted the ugly new reality. He was severely disabled and unable to function as he had before his amputations. He had previously given the lead to the entire team, sharing his own enthusiasm with them, guiding them towards excellence. Now he was a derided invalid and worse than useless. The worst thing was that he realised it himself.

 

He debated how to continue for a while after he arrived back at his luxurious Battersea apartment. He stood watching floodlit pleasure boats moving up and down the river, imagining how it felt to clink glasses of champagne with elegant people, indulging their banal chatter, forging lucrative new ties with the glitterati. He put his hooks to his temples and regretted his life choices. It would have been so much better to admire another man with hooks instead of going to the considerable inconvenience of having his own hands amputated. He stared at his hooks, seeing only inconvenient replacements which did only ten percent of what he used to do. He wanted to brew some espresso but the effort was too much for him. He nudged his phone towards him and tapped the screen until he was able to type the words would you consider returning to share my place with me? He checked his spelling and sent it to Dean. It was ten past midnight.

 

Dean saw the message the next day just before he left for work. He had made a couple of sandwiches for breakfast and brewed a couple of mugs of coffee before he switched his phone on. He saw the message and suspected he understood Jason’s reasons for asking. As he descended the stairs out to the empty street, once bustling with early morning traffic to busy businesses, he considered his options. He was master of his own apartment, such as it was. Or he could move back to share with Jason. Jason was an ephemeral figure, sometimes officious, sometimes artistic and more lately he had seemed thwarted. His life was not what he had wanted despite his wealth. Dean thought of the inconvenience of washing his liners publicly in cold water, the physical and mental discomfort, and determined to give the matter some consideration during the day. He and Jason had got on well enough together although they had next to nothing in common. Maybe that was one of the keys to their friendship. That and their stumps. Jason had loved to shuck his hooks and let Dean do all the work. Would it be a repeat of the old ways? Dean could dictate his own terms. Now Jason with his wealth and influence was in a subordinate position.

 

Jeff worked late for two evenings in an attempt to get as much done ahead of time, allowing him a couple of days in which to organise his move to 1007. He arranged an internet link, the electricity supply and discovered that water and heating was included in the rent. The idea of fresh clean water issuing from taps inside the apartment seemed ridiculously luxurious. He hugged Dean before Dean left for work and promised they would keep in touch. Dean did a seven hour shift switching from the four to the six in and around the town centre. Instead of going straight home, he changed into his street clothes and made his way to Jason’s apartment in Battersea.

 

Dean was shocked to see Jason. He had obviously ignored self‑care. He was wearing an old woollen sweater with a stain on the front which looked like dried ketchup. His carefully trimmed stubble had grown halfway to being a recognisable beard and there were discarded pizza boxes stacked untidily in a corner of the kitchen.

            – What’s going on, Jason? Do you expect me to move into a dump?

            – I’m sorry. I’ll clear it up. I just don’t have the energy.

            – Have you stopped going into the office?

            – Yeah. They don’t need me there and I can’t stand the way everyone tries to avoid me. The head AD is taking care of the next issue, if you were wondering.

            – I hope you’re paying them a bonus. Alright, we’re not here to talk about the magazine. Tell me what’s on your mind.

Jason took a deep breath and sighed. Gradually he described everything which he found difficult to deal with, from the tedious repetition of stump care and cleaning his liners and stump socks to continually confronting objects and situations he was unable to master with his hooks.

            – Even putting socks on is difficult. Not to mention my toe nails. They need cutting and I can’t do it.

            – You could book a time in the place I go to. Once a month, that’s enough.

            – Yeah, good idea. See Dean? That’s the sort of thing I mean. You know everything about how to get by. I don’t have anyone to ask. I’m sure if I had someone here just for company, someone who understood, I’d be able to come to terms with things better.

            – Regain your confidence.

            – Yeah.

            – Alright, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll move back in for a three week trial period. You must buck yourself up and get out of the funk you’re in. I don’t want to be around you if you’re in a foul mood. And otherwise, I want to feel like an equal, not a house guest who has to creep around on best behaviour all the time. What are we going to do about rent?

            – You don’t need to pay rent. I own the apartment. I don’t want your money.

            – That’s very generous of you. Thank you. Alright. When do you want me to come?

            – As soon as possible.

            – OK. I’ll try to get some clothes packed tonight and tomorrow evening and I can bring some stuff tomorrow night. How does that sound?

            – Thanks, Dean. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

            – Well, you can start by clearing away all the pizza boxes. Maybe we could have a cleaner come in once a week to clean up our mess. How would you like that?

            – Great.

Dean looked at his friend battling to put on a brave face. His artificial arms hung motionless at his sides. Dean stepped forward to hug him and felt Jason’s hooks touch his back.

            – I’ll see you tomorrow. Chin up!

 

The apartment in Debenham’s was empty. Jeff had managed to take all his possessions already and his half of the long space contained only the three wooden pallets he had slept on. Dean opened his suitcase and dropped in clothes and stump socks. He had some dirty laundry too but it no longer posed a challenge. He could use Jason’s washing machine. Life was going to be much easier, assuming he and Jason still clicked.

 

Jason’s outlook on life improved immediately. He made a concerted effort to tidy his place, especially the kitchen. He rarely cooked so the red granite work surfaces gleamed again with little effort. He flattened his pizza boxes and took them for recycling. He changed his clothes after showering. His stumps were robust now and he loved feeling the rounded ends of his arms caressing his body. He leaned forward in the shower to knead his genitals with liquid soap and was rewarded with a rapid response from his penis. For the first time since his amputations, he used his forearms to masturbate and was pleasantly surprised to discover the pleasure of arousal while standing. He had attempted masturbation before while lying in bed but his stumps were too short to reach his cock and he had reluctantly assumed that it was just something else he had lost.

 

He studied his face in the mirror. It was good enough. He was satisfied with his appearance. Maintaining his trademark permanent stubble posed another problem. It was difficult to use his shaver with its curvaceous body. But his beard was thickening and looked surprisingly good. It was cool. He had never considered a beard before but decided that he would sport one for a while and keep it trim. Not having to shave regularly released him from another task which he found difficult.

 

Dean moved back and brought the rest of his meagre possessions over the next few days. Unlike during his previous visit, he shared Jason’s queen‑size bed with him. There was room for a single inflatable mattress both in Jason’s bedroom and naturally enough in the lounge but the two men were comfortable sharing a bed. After several weeks, it was usual for one to awaken and find the other’s stump on his cheek or chest.

 

Jason regained his sense of authority as he reconciled himself to bilateral hook use and returned to his office, reinstating his rôle as head honcho. There were fewer creatives present. Several younger staff members had left. They feared working for a crippled man who had such a vicious temper. The more experienced staff easily took up the extra work load and reconfigured the magazine to the house style which Jason insisted on. He had his glass‑walled office fitted with venetian blinds for privacy from curious eyes. Jason learned to delegate things or simply avoid others. He had learned a few tricks from Dean regarding his prostheses and gradually, he used his hooks in a more natural manner, almost leisurely, and his staff no longer felt threatened by an outbreak of frustrated anger.

 

Jeff settled into a new routine. He relinquished his prosthetic legs at home and used a light manual wheelchair. His empty jeans legs hung over the seat and swung when he moved. He pushed against the rubber tyres with hooks and was satisfied using a chair inside on the smooth parquet floor. As promised, he kept in touch with Dean, exchanging short emails every fortnight or so. There was talk of a get‑together in the near future, either before Christmas or at the New Year.

 

Jason was more than willing to invite Jeff to spend New Year’s Eve with them in Battersea and ordered in enough drink to last the entire holiday. But conditions outside made the idea of coping with a pair of artificial legs on ice less than inviting and Jeff suggested that they spend the evening in Furnace Green. The others had not seen his apartment since Jeff had furnished it and they were welcome to stay overnight. To Dean’s surprise, Jason agreed. Jason packed several bottles into his designer rucksack and they helped each other dress in warm winter clothes. Dean’s wardrobe had become much more adventurous. He willingly tried on all the once‑worn clothes used at fashion shows which fit him. Both arm amputees departed wearing thick‑soled hiking boots, worsted Oxford bags, raglan‑sleeved natural white woollen pullovers and thick bubble jackets from whose massive sleeves their steel hooks poked almost invisibly. Topped off with Laplander beanies which covered their ears.

 

Jason gave up trying to swing the rucksack over his enormous jacket and condescended to carrying it in a hook. They travelled to Three Bridges station by train with one change and stood admiring the sight of the brand new white apartment blocks marching towards infinity in a chevron between the trees. It was a completely new living environment, unique in England. They made their way toward Tower Ten and texted Jeff to buzz them in. Jeff waited for them opposite the lift on the tenth floor and indicated his open door.

 

            – I’m glad you could make it. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it up to your place but I dare not try my luck on those icy pavements.

            – No need to apologise, Jeff. We understand.

            – I could have used my wheelchair but long distances are a bit out of the question because of these.

He lifted his hooks and grinned.

            – How are you doing with yours, Jason? Are they still scared of them at your work?

            – No, they’re used to seeing them now and I’ve either calmed down or got better at using them. I still get the occasional looks of horror from young models at fashion shows but when they find out who I am, they manage to overcome their feelings in favour of either showing off or trying to curry favour. People are strange.

            – Especially when it comes to hooks. Well, we’ve not come to discuss disability. I have a surprise later on which I hope you’ll appreciate but let’s a have a drink first. What’ll you have?

            – I brought you some stuff. No need to drink it all tonight. Take a look in my backpack.

            – Ah! Thanks very much. You needn’t have.

 

Jeff was more than impressed by the three litre bottles of booze—Jamaican rum, Finnish vodka and Irish whiskey. Not cheap stuff. He returned with three g&t’s in tall slender glasses ideally shaped to be gripped in standard steel hooks. Jeff had been careful when equipping his kitchen, ensuring that everything was practical for a man with hooks in place of hands. It made cooking much less of a hassle without a struggle to use utensils.

            – What’s this surprise you mentioned? The return of Santa Claus? Pole dancers?

            – Ha! No. Nothing so exotic. I invited another guest. Just for a quick drink, that’s what I told him. But if you don’t mind, he can stay for as long as he enjoys himself, right?

            – Of course. Who is he?

            – Well, that bit is the surprise. Bottoms up, gentlemen. Welcome to my home and to Furnace Green and I wish you luck and happiness in the New Year.

In their distinctively personal ways, the three friends manipulated steel hooks to grip the tall glasses and bring the rims to their lips. Ice clinked, far more welcome in their glasses than outside. Beyond the curtainless windows and glassed‑in balcony, the temperature was dropping below minus ten again. It was dark and overcast. The evening was already dark. Jeff dimmed the lights and lit some fat short candles. The lounge immediately became more intimate and inviting.

 

Jeff described a typical day, pointing out his wheelchair, now unused in a corner of the room which the others had not noticed. He felt he had adjusted the sense of his body to compensate for the most recent loss of his right hand but still found himself reaching for something with his right prosthesis until he remembered a fraction of a second later that there was no hand. The others laughed, recognising the phenomenon. Jason stared at his own hooks, still sometimes shocked at his new body image and remembering how he had lusted after his own hooks. Life was not the same afterwards. He had worked through the stages of loss and had reached acceptance. He knew he would always be seen as a cripple for as long as he associated with perfect young people and creatives. It was time to disregard other peoples’ impressions and assert himself more. In fact, that might be a good New Year’s resolution. Jeff continued speaking and mentioned that he had a promising new project in April which involved travel to Scandinavia and hoped their winter would also be over by then.

 

Dean described the way his initial amputation had been reluctantly accepted by management and much more amicably by his co‑workers and the public. People naturally noticed his fake hand. Then suddenly he had not one fake hand but two. Or actually, two hooks. His supervisor had been livid but passengers who saw him on the trams soon got used to seeing him and a few wrote commending him to his employer. After that, there was no problem whatsoever. He had had a couple of adjustments made to the length of his jacket sleeves to compensate for his slightly shorter arms but other than that, things were the same as ever. He had good workmates who always took his disability into account without making a number out of it and he felt content with his stumps and still derived pleasure from knowing he would always have hooks for hands.

 

Jason was about to embark on his varied experiences when the door bell sounded and Jeff rose to answer it.

            – Hi! Welcome! Come in. Yes, they’re here. Go right in.

The new arrival wheeled himself into the dimly lit lounge into the light cast by half a dozen candles. Jason and Jeff saw a man, early to mid‑thirties, with a bald head and a massive black beard knotted at the bottom to form a thick mass of glistening whiskers halfway down his chest.

            – Hi! Jeff said he’d have guests. I’m Mitch. Short for Mitchell. I live upstairs. Pleased to meet you.

Mitch took Jason’s and then Dean’s hooks without batting an eyelid. He had clearly been warned beforehand. He rolled backwards in his chair to a suitable spot and reached around to the back of his seat to reach a bottle of Polish vodka which he offered to Jeff.

            – I never come empty handed. What are you drinking?

            – Gin and tonic.

            – Very nice. I’ll have one of them, Jeff mate. Have you been here long?

            – Hour or so. We live in Battersea and caught the train down.

            – Ah. Very convenient for getting to and from town. Have to say, I still don’t like using them.

            – Why’s that, Mitch?

            – I lost my legs under a train. Buggered by the Brighton Belle. See, I used to live here when we still had the houses. Got rehoused up here. Anyway, when I was a kid and old enough to know better, me and a coupla schoolmates played chicken on the railway line. One day, I waited til the very last minute to jump out of the way of one going down to Brighton and right under the London train. I lost both legs up to my arse and that was that.

            – But aren’t you wearing stubbies? You must have stumps for that, surely.

            – All sleight of hand, my friend. I’m sitting in a bucket and the stubbies are just stuck on the front so it looks like I have stumps. I don’t. Of course, they are useful when I’m in my chair. They make it impossible to topple over which is my party trick when I take my bucket off. I might show you later if I have a top up, Jeff.

            – Another g&t? How about you two?

            – Yes please. So you’re completely legless, Mitch, is that right?

            – Yup.

            – I have to say, your fake stumps look pretty cool. No‑one would guess they’re empty.

            – That’s the whole point. I have another pair with short stumps but I thought I’d better wear these tonight if we’re gonna do some drinking. Less chance of falling off my chair, see?

 

Mitch was a great talker. He entertained the others with anecdotes about his own experiences as a legless kid growing up and as a horny young adult. He was entirely comfortable with being surrounded by three bilateral hook users. Jason regarded him as the most disabled man present but Mitch would have begged to differ. He owned a variety of artificial legs, all attached to torso sockets which he referred to as buckets, and was used to heaving his weight around on crutches, lifting and swinging inert artificial legs in front of him. He had short crutches with which he swung a pair of short flat‑bottomed stubbies along. Then there were the buckets with and without stumps attached. He sat in a stumpless leather and rubber bucket at work, fixing the innards of the electric cars which most owners were remarkably unknowledgeable about. Much of the work was done in the central underground car park between the rows of towers. He could get there in a wheelchair from the eighteenth floor via the subterranean connecting corridor.

 

His stories and jokes continued, encouraging Dean and even Jason out of their customary reticence. Dean amused everyone with a collection of the worst things passengers had said to his face after spotting his dual hooks, the worst of which was that amputees should be euthanised because a life like that was not worth living. To Dean’s intense pleasure, the bigot’s ticket had expired and he had the pleasure of seeing Dean using both hooks in perfect tandem to issue him with an eighty pound fine. Jason’s stories were sometimes tinged with regret for what he had lost but looking around at present company, he decided to buck his ideas up once and for all. He had hooks and if anyone found them offensive, it was not his problem.

 

Vodka flowed after the gin bottle was empty and then, at a quarter to midnight, the four men transferred with a fresh unopened bottle of whiskey to Jeff’s balcony, where an infrared space heater had banished the winter chill. Mitch had already complained about feeling too warm and had peeled off his light blue polo neck jumper to reveal his chest high carbon socket which curved around his buttocks and bifurcated into two short appendages like long thigh stumps. He wore nothing else. He sat facing the heater and the others joined him with the fresh bottle. It was time to discuss hopes and wishes for the future but they all had everything they wanted already. They raised their glasses to the future. Moonlight reflected off their black carbon‑clad stumps.

            

 

MOONLIGHT ON CARBON