Losing One's Head

He came to in fits and starts, like a celluloid film that was slipping on the sprockets of a projector. There was a faint gurgling sound and the smell of blood. The taste of metal was on his tongue, bitter and hard.

He was lying on damp, warm sawdust. His eyes were tightly shut: as they cleared and focused what he saw made him shut them immediately. There, a couple of feet away, was a body: a torso. Headless, blood seeping out of what remained of the poor creature’s neck. The hands of the cadaver were raised up to where the head should have been. They were moving about frantically as if feeling for what had been removed.

Darkness closed in.

Next he was aware of a strong light in his face. In front of him was a smartly dressed elderly man , his head of wispy white hair contrasting with the dark tanned face it framed. The old man spoke in a strong, clear voice.

“Welcome back, I thought I’d lost you.” He smiled. “It was touch and go you know, but the Gods were kind and here you are – alive.” Saying that the old man clapped and rubbed his hands together. “How do you feel?”

He tried to answer, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words.

“Ah, sorry, I have to make a slight adjustment.”

The white haired man’s fingers moved rapidly over what appeared to be a computer screen. “That should do it. As you were saying?”

This time snatches of sentences formed. “I am where? hurts...My neck, blood it smelled, there was shrieking and screaming?" Except the sounds didn’t issue from his mouth but from someway off, beyond the pool of light that encircled the two men. His voice had a definite metallic twang. He registered that he was in some sort of cavernous structure.

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s going to take you some time getting used to your .. " the old man paused and coughed ..."situation." Mr John Clarke…that is your name? At least that is the name on a driving licence I found in the inside pocket of your suit. I’m certain it was your suit since most of you was dressed in it. And your address is I believe, “Flat 26, Angel Court, Upper Street, Islington.” Driving licences are so informative aren't they?"

He was finding it hard to form any clear thoughts; everything was so disconnected, so fragmented. He had some memories, the name John Clarke was familiar, as was the address. As he turned over these two facts, shards of scenes began to choesce in his mind’s eye. A face which looked familiar, the sound of traffic, a black front door, a high ceilinged hallway and a young child running to greet him. Diane…Diane the name belonged to the face and Sophie. That name triggered the sound of a young girl’s laugh and she was in his arms. She was his daughter and the face that of his wife. His wife Diane and daughter Sophie – of course. It was as if a logjam had been cleared and the dammed up memories, associations and emotions broken through.

He felt a tear form in his eye and run down his right cheek, raising his hand to brush the tear away he felt it come up and touch his cheek. He glanced down expecting to see his hand. There was nothing. This he didn’t understand.

“Let me introduce myself, I’m Professor Archibald Lofthouse. You may have heard of me. No? No matter. In time we'll get to know each other very well. In the meantime I have a little surprise for you.”

The old man again moved his fingers over the computer screen. There was the sound of wheels turning as a large rectangular box covered by a black drape propelled itself into the circle of light. The drape fell to the floor revealing, seated on a chair in the box, a headless torso.

The torso was naked, seated there it looked almost comical, it hands dangling down by its side. “I think it brushed up quite nicely. What do you think John? ”

He was frantically trying to piece all this together. The torso, his memory loss, the deep, deep ache in his neck and this bizarre piece of theatre. It had to be a dream or hallucination brought on by a serious trauma to his neck. There must be some sensible answer. He had an accident, fallen badly and damaged his neck. That would explain the searing pain he felt. But why the headless corpse?

Had he been involved in a car accident ? Someone had been thrown through the window screen and severed their head? He’d read about that happening to a famous film star. What was her name? Jane Mansfield?

“Don’t be stupid” he scalded himself. It all was part of this weird dream or illusion. He'd some sort of accident and done something to his neck: all he had to do was to wake up and he’d be back home with his wife and daughter, Diane and Sophie. He tried very hard to waken.

The Professor moved over to the torso. “It’s a pleasure to meet you John." He offered it his hand. John reached out and shook it.

He didn’t stop screaming for quite some time. Indeed he would have screamed for longer had not Professor Lofthouse switched off the speaker.