Moving On

Thursday 25th February
I can't remember a time when I didn't have this infernal, hacking
cough.
Each morning, for the past twenty years, I've got up at 6am, sharp. I
shower, make toast, then speed off through town on my Honda.
Now, as I've said already, I've been in this game for nearly twenty
years, working my way up though the ranks of Harris's to the esteemed
position of, 'Shop Foreman'.
No one ever said the steel industry was an easy one for moulding a
career, and I must admit, I'd agree, but it's been rewarding in ways
that the desk-bound city-boys will never understand. The camaraderie
between the guys on the shop floor is like that of a family, each one
different from the other, like chalk is from cheese, or black is from
white, but each and every one of them would happily give their life for
you. That's a fact. It gives you a wonderful sense of pride, being part
of something so wholesome and special.
Anyway, it won't be long till I know what's happening regarding this
bloody letter.

Friday 26th February
Finally it arrived this morning. I've been expecting it for a few
weeks now, dashing to the front door when I hear the splash of letters
on my doormat, but now that it's here, I daren't open it, not yet.
First, I need to speak to Meagan and Tina. No doubt it's the right
letter though, no doubt at all; the postmark's from Sheffield; can't
really be anything else.
Meagan's just turned fourteen. She plays a wicked trumpet and is
pretty smart for her age. Her first proper concert was last month, in
the school assembly hall. She goes to St. Josephs, down by the old dam.
The teachers seem pretty good down there.
Christ, I nearly burst into tears when she stood up and took her first
solo; beautiful. She really knows how to get her old dad going.
Only a parent can understand the pride you feel when your kid's
talent, and fearlessness, outweighs any you might have ever possessed.
Every parent's dream is to see their offspring succeed, especially in
ways that they themselves might have failed. Meagan is absolutely the
light of my life. Out of everything, I'll miss her the most!
Now, regarding Tina, we haven't really seen eye-to-eye since the
divorce, especially during my 'coming to terms' period, when that
wanker Charlie Firth moved in on her and our kid. He'd had his eye on
Tina for years, biding his time, waiting for the right moment to
pounce. I knew it, and so did Tina, but in the end I s'pose she likes
him, and they're happy.
All that was when Meagan was four and, now that I've mellowed with old
age, I've come to realise I'm better off on my own. S'pose I've always
been a bit of a loner. Sometimes I do still feel bitter, but apparently
that's normal, and it's usually after a dozen whiskeys and the Blues
getting beaten at home. That's enough to get anyone depressed!
By the way, I'm not really that old, not in years, but Jesus, I feel
it sometimes. In fact, everyone feels like that around here; it's this
place; the heavy, brown smog, and the perpetual cold; we all seem to
become ancient before our time.

Not sure whether I can wait till later to open this bloody
letter.
A couple of days back, I spoke to Tina after dinner. Charlie and her
were having an Indian takeaway. She was twittering on about Onion
Bajee's or something, I can't really remember to be honest, when I
interrupted her. "Listen," I snapped, coughing loudly into the
receiver, "I've got some news. I can't tell you what it is, but it's
big; I'll fill you and Meagan in next week."
"Bloody hell, Mik, have you not got that cough sorted out yet? What's
with the cryptic messages? You ok? You're not going to prison again are
you?"
Tina's harsh, cynical tone didn't disguise the fact that she cared. I
knew she still cared and I liked it; I don't mean in the way lovers
care for each other, or even family care for each other; it's a strange
bond; one that I think only a divorced couple, with a kid, can feel. I
knew she was worried, but I couldn't tell her the details, not then. I
needed to get all the facts first. That's what the letter would
bring.

First I think I'll make a cup of tea; a marvellous epiphany to English
sentiment. Tea is truly a wonderful thing; bombs could be shaking the
foundations of our very houses, or a plague of disease infested rats
could be overthrowing our town, but the British way, the way of the
true English gentleman, is to have tea and scones, and consider the
weather.

"Tina, any chance you could come over later, about five o'clock?" I
finally called her. It was a difficult call to make but I knew it would
force me to go through with my plan. Oh well, better to get it over
with. "Can you also bring Meagan? She needs to hear what I have to say.
Oh, and I'm not trying to be awkward, but I'd appreciate it if you
didn't bring Chris. This is personal."
I hate answering machines. You can never be sure if your message will
get to the intended recipient on time. They leave you extremely
unsatisfied with the whole affair. Anyway, hopefully she will get the
message and hopefully Meagan will be able to come too.

A knock at the door; excellent; here at last! What time is it? Ten to
five! Just enough time for a cup of tea before the show starts.
"Tina, Meagan, come in. No Chris?"
"He's working late, or he'd have been here. He wasn't that happy about
this, Mik. So, what's this all about? You know you shouldn't be
interfering in Meagan's life. She only gets upset."
"Hello darling, how was school today?" At least Meagan's always
pleased to see me, even if Tina doesn't show it.
"I got an A in my history homework, and Suzie only got a B. Mr. Ryan
says that if I keep up this good work, that I'll make it to
Oxford."
"That's my girl, well done, now come on in. Coke?"
"She not having Coke anymore, Mik, I've told you that. It's bad for
developing teeth. Do you want your daughter to have teeth like yours?"
Tina loves her little jibes; she needs the leverage; it keeps her
happy; and if Tina's happy, we can all be happy.
"So what are you allowed to drink these days, my dear?" My exaggerated
wink seems to have irritated Tina again. This was something we were
always good at.

"Right, ladies, have a seat. Comfortable?"
A chorus of, "Get on with it."
Right, deep breath; at last it's time!
"I'm going to read a letter to you. I've been waiting for this for a
few weeks now, and finally it arrived this morning. I haven't read it
myself yet, but I thought it was appropriate that you should both be
here, to go through it with me."
Silence!
"OK." Ripping the paper envelope open was easy, even with my shaking,
sweaty hands. Inside, the folded, manila paper smelt faintly of cigars,
and the sea. The writing was an ornate calligraphy, styled in a gothic
form that looked almost medieval. I read it out:
Holman Holistic Retreat
South Beach
Ascension

Dear Mr. Burton,
Thank you for your application to partake in our holistic physical
rehabilitation program, based on Ascension, in the Mid-Atlantic. We are
very pleased to confirm, due to the severity of your illness and your
skills in metalwork, that your case has been reviewed, and accepted by
our selection board.
To this end, you will be required to make yourself available for
transportation to our facility in exactly one week from receipt of this
letter. You will imminently be contacted by our relocation agent who
will issue you with instructions as to what to do next regarding family
and friends.
We're extremely proud to announce that our program, to date, has
achieved one hundred per cent success. All two hundred and forty three
patients have attained a full bill of health within the first eight
months of their treatment.
Finally, we must stress that the facility is a closely guarded secret
of Her Majesty's government and to enter the program, you must, under
no circumstances, reveal the purpose of your leaving. As a precaution,
you and your family will be placed under surveillance until contact is
made with our agent. I must stress that this is only a precaution, and
is strictly for the protection and furtherance of the program.
To finish, we would like to extend out utmost congratulations on your
successful application and wish you many happy years of health and
happiness with us in the future.
Yours Sincerely,
Dr. Neil Lee Moribund, PHD, MD

Saturday 26th February
Christ, what a day. Firstly, the overwhelming excitement of the
letter; I really do wish I'd read it through first. The bit about
surveillance was a bit disturbing; I didn't really want Tina and Meagan
to worry, so I skipped that bit during the reading.
"Lung cancer," shouted Tina, when I tried to explain. "I thought you'd
give up smoking years ago? Why didn't you tell me?"
The thing is, I had given up smoking. The doctors that suggested the
program accredited my illness to the Sheffield smog. Carcinogenic
oxidants from the steel works could well have been the direct cause.
I've worked here all my life, breathing in these deadly fumes. They've
basically rotted my lungs. Horrible really!
Poor little Meagan; she cried and cried. I tried to calm her down,
saying I'd be OK, and the program would cure me. Unfortunately she's a
bit too young to appreciate how good this science is.
Heartbreaking!
They finally left me around seven o'clock. Chris would be home at
eight, and Tina had to get his tea ready.
I had two large whiskeys, and then off to bed. I was exhausted.
Hopefully the agent will get in touch tomorrow.

Sunday 27th February
Nothing yet! No agent, no contact, nothing. Jesus, I hope I haven't
spoiled my chances. I can be so stupid sometimes; why couldn't I have
opened the letter before they came round. I could have lied to them;
I'm off on an expedition to the South Pole, or something like that.
Shit!
This morning I saw a black van parked across the street. I suppose it
could be a surveillance team. It was like the ones they use on The
Bill. Well, if they're still watching me, then I might, at least, still
be in with a chance.

Monday 28th February
I called in to work this morning. Told them I'd finished for good. Fat
Bloke Dave tried to convince me not to leave. Apparently they need me.
More like, without me, some other poor sod will have to inhale my share
of the cancerous air.
Anyway, still no contact with the agent.

Tuesday 29th February
I never like leap years. They always seem to catch me out. Not to
worry though, the agent phoned today. He is coming over tomorrow.
Excellent! They didn't see my indiscretion. The program is still on,
and I'm gonna get better; yehaa!

Wednesday 1st March
Life can be so complicated sometimes. It turns out they did see me.
Not only that, they heard me. They'd tapped my bloody phone. Devious
bastards; to be expected I suppose.
The agent was an arrogant little bastard. He turned up about ten and
proceeded to give me a serious grilling. He explained the Official
Secrets Act, got me to sign a load of papers and, quite bluntly said
I'd go to prison if I blabbed.
Even so, it finished on a positive note. I hadn't spilled too many of
their 'secrets', and to be honest, I didn't really know that much
anyway. It turned out that he'd already briefed Tina and Meagan; and
even got them to sign some of the privacy stuff I'd had to sign. He
said I'd receive another letter tomorrow, with some sort of prognosis
and brief. Can't wait!

Thursday 2nd March
So, it arrived as promised. I leave for the program in the morning,
excellent. I quickly rang Tina and Meagan to say my last goodbyes. They
were both excited for me, but also a bit nervous. "It's sounds very
experimental, Mik. Something could go seriously wrong."
"Listen to this, Tina. This is extract from my prognosis."

It is our opinion, following a surgical biopsy, that Mr. Burton's
tumour is in fact malignant and spreading extremely fast. An intense
application of chemotherapy may force a remission of the malignance, as
long as the therapy is extreme and invasive. Even so, we only feel able
to offer a 25\% chance of recovery to full health.
Furthermore, without therapy, we would urge Mr. Burton to have his
affairs tidied up within eight weeks before serious decline in his
health may impede any further action.

Well, that sure shut her up. She understood at that point how ill I
really was. The funny thing was that I didn't feel ill at all. I felt
great, except for the cough.

Friday 3rd March
This morning a bright phosphorescent light illuminated my bedroom,
almost blinding me with a flood of yellowy, white brilliance. This is
my last entry diary as I cannot take writing material with me. The
agent's orders were quite succinct. I cannot take anything at all. All
I could ever want will be provided at my new home.

The light's getting even brighter now. It's making writing difficult.
I'd better finish soon as I need to prepare myself.
The last thing I want to say is to my darling Meagan.
Look to the stars, just left of Andromeda. There's a small star called
Gyni Nexus. That is where I will be. When you read this, I will have
already travelled three hundred thousand light years, across the void
of space, to meet a civilisation called the Krylorian. Our government
formed a treaty with them twenty years ago to co-operatively help each
other's races. In return for curing specifically fitted humans of their
fatal disease, granting immortality in the process, it was decreed that
we would stay with them, teaching them of our human ways; the mixing of
diverse cultures helping to enrich each other.
So, my dearest Meagan, always remember I love you and I promise, I
will see you again. Look after your mother and always be good.
Love,
Your old Dad