The Futility of Dreams (lyrics by John Legend)

Baby, it seems the time is never right…

Felicia, alone in the lab at minutes to ten PM, took off her heels and sank her feet as hard as she could into the bubbling, faux laminate flooring, noting down her latest test results carefully and assuredly. Specimen A was a terminally ill patient who’d been injected while still alive with serum 650 by another scientist with the appropriate clearance to do so. They’d underwent significant and fatal changes. Their heartrate slowed until it stopped at the pace of an extremely lacklustre snail. Cerebellum brain activity – the section of the brain said to register and administer precise actions and emotional responses – slowed to a whimsical halt. All other vital signs were normal, until they too, grew silent.

She put on her jacket and retrieved her heels, waited a few more seconds to see if anything else would change. She clapped and the lab lights shut off as if chastised. She glanced at the clock and realised that she was late for Christian’s leaving drinks, as she’d hoped.

...You’re going left and I’m going right. It’s crazy.

Christian clinked the side of his pint glass with an errant fork. The parts of the pub’s dim lighting that reached the group crawled all over him, made him look like a bit player on stage; the one who would eventually steal the show by fluffing a line. Felicia tried her best not to look at him too many times, without making it obvious; while trying to look at him as many times as she possibly could.

‘You guys are all nuts for sticking to this lab,’ he declared. Laughter rippled around the table in a holistic circle. ‘They’ll steal your soul while trying to create ones for sale. It ain’t right. But someone else would do it.’ Christian raised his glass. ‘To science!’

Twelve shot glasses brimming with tequila tipped down the backs of throats and burned them. Felicia pretended to spill hers to choruses of ‘what a waste.’

Christian mock angrily pointed at her. ‘I’m getting you another, and making sure you drink it. Come with me.’ He offered her his hand. Felicia stood and teetered without taking it. She followed him to the bar, passed through other bodies as if they were clouds. Her nose caught smells of cheap aftershave and spilled, forgotten red wine, and sweat. Christian made grabbing motions for her hand as he walked ahead. She flew forward and caught the tips of his fingers.

‘Right.’ He stood behind her at the bar and ordered the shots over and above her head. She couldn’t stop shaking. She wanted to lean back and sink into his body.

Two shots of Sambuca – their flames questioning burning blue eyes. Christian handed her one in an awkward motion. She laughed and trembled. She downed it. It tasted frustratingly tangy, just as she imagined her disordered thoughts and feelings might taste like. It was the best, saddest drink in the universe.        

Christian leaned on the bar. His shoulder brushed the top of hers like weak Velcro. ‘You could come with me,’ he whispered. His breath was a furnace.

She shook her head.

‘Then help me,’ he said.

She looked him right in his eyes and asked: ‘How?’

He ordered another shot, downed it, belched. He shook his head left to right, right to left, an out of time metronome. ‘Don’t worry,’ he shouted, then laughed to the stranger waiting at the bar beside them. They gave him a patient, irritated smile.

But I’m still waiting.

For as long as she’d known him, Christian had never been a patient researcher. Frankly, he was a genius. He had that innate ability to piece together a solution to a problem after simply skim reading key, topical material, not even bothering to absorb it. Felicia knew immediately why he’d been hired for this specific project, just as she knew that he was applying to pass the time until he moved on to something else. She could picture him standing idle somewhere on the Galapagos Islands, on a beach surrounded by reverent marine iguanas.

His essay writing skills were pathetic. They’d been assigned to work together on a proposal for a sub-section of the project in order to present it as an application for a research grant. She knew that Christian would expect her to do the bulk of the work. And she would, but not without a little collateral.

The Open University campus library was a magical haven for the lonely and insecure who worked their arses off to get things done in peace. Take that, poor social interaction skills. She’d booked a booth at the back so that they could whisper ideas and draft without disturbing anyone else. She’d told him to get there by seven o’ clock, knowing he’d be there by seven-thirty.

Eight. Eight-thirty.

She’d completed her part of the essay by the time nine o’ clock came and went. She looked up from her papers and saw Christian with his arm around a girl she didn’t know, and disappear down an aisle, not emerging until an hour later. She looked at her phone. No messages. She sent him one: I hope she was worth it.

She packed away her books and walked right past him as he emerged, red faced and embarrassed.

‘I forgot,’ he breathed.

‘You’re wasting both our time,’ she said.

If I play my cards right, my love’s gonna strike...

Unprecedented, but not unexpected. Specimen A had displayed a miniature sign of life just after Felicia had left the lab the other night. This revelation was not mind blowing or iconic, but it was enough to suggest that serum 650 would do for now to satisfy the impatient sponsors and stakeholders who were all desperate to get their hands on this new way to control people with few criminal consequences.

Already, they’d been talk of what to call it: Deliberator Defibrilator. Hesitation Hopefulness. Felicia had an idea that she would never share: Think Twice. After all, who would wilfully give someone a chemical that could induce death without pain unless you wanted someone to hurt really badly in their last, uneventful moments? Counter argument: a lot of unhappy people would pay shedloads for such death. Perhaps. It still needed to be tested properly. Felicia wasn’t in a position to run a pilot on human subjects. Not yet.

Her phone bleeped. She’d forgotten to turn it off.

I’m having second thoughts – can we talk? C

...Until then, there’s the night. All I wanna do...

He was wearing the sweater he always wore when he was thinking – the navy blue striped one that clung to his gym body. He turned to face her, away from the view of the city on the edge of the bridge just past the lab, in between the suburbs and poverty-stricken streets. He was smoking, and sweating. He looked an adorable mess.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, reaching for her hand.

She pushed her hands into her pockets. ‘I thought you were supposed to have left by now.’

Christian didn’t blink at her not-so-subtle implication. ‘Tomorrow. I needed to tell you something first.’

Felicia forced her gaze onto the lights blinking on the river’s surface. Algae and sewerage gave it a heavenly green glow. ‘Yeah?’

‘Don’t stay at the lab. Leave as soon as you can.’ She felt him shift his eyes all over her profile. ‘You could come with me.’

Her heart tried to leap out of her mouth. ‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Yes. I am. But you’re better than that place. Help me, help you.’

She forced a laugh. ‘That has to be the most pretentious thing you’ve ever said to me. And you’re pretentious.’

At some point he’d slipped an arm around her waist, gave her adult fat a good squeeze. ‘I trust you, Filly. I don’t trust them. I’m going to get them all.’

She turned to face him and saw for the first time that he was incredulously serious since she’d known him, in all of his fun-loving, privileged life. She felt in her pocket for the vial. Its cold-edged, metallic smoothness made up her mind. This job was all she had after he was gone. Which wasn’t a lot. But it was enough to keep her going. He had no idea what his leaving would do to her. He didn’t need to know, but she wished he did all the same. Sort of. Maybe. No. It was better this way. He would always find a way to carry on, no matter what happened to him, or to anyone else.

‘Let’s have a goodbye drink,’ she whispered.

His smile transformed the atmosphere around them. It made her believe that everything she’d dreamed about was possible, even for a naïve split second.

...Is dream, dream, dream, dream. Dream, dream, dream, dream. Like lovers do. And it might come true.

They found a booth at the very back of a bar they’d never been to before, like cocky, reckless spies hiding out in plain, drunken sight. They topped off a bottle of Rioja with three shots of vodka. He leaned close enough to kiss her without doing so. She kissed him. He tasted of salt and possibilities. His fingers reached under her skirt and ignored her protests until she stopped protesting. He went to the gents and she slipped the contents of the vial into his pint.

They stumbled into the alley and made harried, uncomfortable, urgent love on the floor beside a dumpster. He called her name over and over, and promised he would call. She said she believed him.

After a long, painstakingly, beautiful time, his head slumped onto her chest. His heart slowed. Then stopped.

She took out her phone and recorded the results – a success. She wiped at the water that had suddenly appeared on her phone’s screen. It wasn’t raining.