ANTLERS
Outside, the sky is crystal-ball smoke. Cataract clouds swell, full of unseen futures. A bird shit grenade explodes against the window near my bed, making me jump. When Claire comes to do this morning’s blood pressure check, she doesn’t even notice the debris.
Eventually, she blurts out, “Jesus Christ.”
“What?” I ask, thinking my readings are bad.
“Sorry, not you. It’s just, that gave me a fright.”
And she points to the curdled shrapnel.
“Oh, thank God.” I exhale. “Nearly laid one myself there.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No lasting damage.” I sit up straighter, unpeeling my spine from the sunken pillow behind me. “Right, what’s the actual verdict then?”
“All good.” Claire pries open the cuff’s stiff Velcro jaws.
“But?”
She tilts her head. “You know you’re still under observation for the next few days.”
“In case I bottle it, you mean? Trust me, that won’t happen.”
“Sorry again, it’s hospital policy.” Claire inspects the thick Etch A Sketch-style chart clamped over my bed rail. “I see Mr Khan hasn’t signed off on your transfer object yet, either.”
“My sister should be bringing it tomorrow,” I explain.
“Great.”
“Wait till you meet her.”
#
When Magz arrives, Claire tells her not to sit down, saying she’ll grab another chair because the one beside my bed has less give than Ebenezer Scrooge. “Thanks,” Magz says, unsure whether she should laugh. The new chair has a hard back, which Claire hopes is OK. Magz tells her it’ll be fine, that she isn’t staying long. “Right,” Claire says. “I’ll leave you two to it.” Only once we’re alone does Magz take a seat. She lets her bag for life slump and removes her disposable plastic poncho, leaking leftover rain onto the vinyl floor. “Nice digs,” she says, examining my curtained-off limbo. “Thanks,” I reply. “Have you eaten?” I scoff. “This ain’t the Palace, sis.” “Might as well be, how much you’re paying. And hey, you need proper meals.” “Not for much longer, fingers crossed.” Magz’ chair squeals as she leans forward. “Don’t start, please,” she warns. “Fine.” I shift myself further up the pillow, then ask: “Did you find him?” “Answer me first.” “Eh?” “My question: Have you eaten today?” “Oh my God, yes, I had breakfast. An apple. Some yoghurt. Tepid with a side of botulism. Happy?” Magz shrugs. “Not especially.” “Well, tough. Now, did you bring him or not?” As if she practised before getting here, Magz silently reaches into her wrinkled old tote and pulls out Dad’s reindeer puppet in one swift magic-trick motion. It’s like meeting a childhood friend again: Hi, Anders. Remember me? I’d almost forgotten how lush your synthetic Christmas-tree-green fur was, or that your massive muzzle – covered in sequin fairy lights – really can open all the way whenever someone (Magz, in this case) shoves their hand up through your soft viscera. “Why ya doin’ this, huh?” she makes the puppet say, attempting her own version of Dad’s deepest cartoon cadence. “Bravo.” I clap slowly. “Solid seven. Possibly even eight. Pass him, please.” I hold out both hands and Magz tosses me the reindeer. “Seriously, though,” she says, her voice returning to normal. “You don’t think this is insane?” I cough. “Been asleep the last few years, have you?” “Matt.” “Lucky.” “Stop it.” “No, you stop.” Now it’s my turn to lean forwards. “I hate to shatter the news into a million sharp pieces, Magzy, but insaneness doesn’t begin to cover my life anymore.” Magz swallows. “I should’ve moved in,” she tells me. “To make sure you were coping. Actually coping.” I fall back on the pillow. “You did your best.” “Clearly not enough.” “Mag—” “That therapist you were seeing,” she interrupts. “What about him?” “Well, what does he have to say about all this?” “Who do you think sorted my referral?” “Right, of course.” Magz clears her throat. “So, that’s it then. Tomorrow you’re… you’ll be…” Silence stomps on us, so I explain for the umpteenth time: “I’m not dying.” “Feels like it, though,” Magz reminds me. I don’t reply. Instead, I thrust an exploratory fist inside our plush playmate. His brass-coloured antlers flop like choir bells in concert, fibrous innards moulding around my palm. Next, I force his muzzle apart, revealing the inside – red as Santa’s suit. Finally, I do my best impersonation of Dad’s cartoonish drawl: “Don’t worry, Maggie Moo. I take care of Matty, yes I do.” Magz’ laughter and sobs synchronise. “You’d better,” she whispers.#
Mr Khan walks the tightrope of space between my bed and cubicle curtains, eyes tranced to his tablet.
“This assessment,” he tells me without looking up, “acts as precursor to the curation process, helping us determine your chosen object’s suitability.”
“Works for me,” I say.
“But,” the consultant continues, “before we discuss specifics, I must first ask you some admin questions. For our own compliance.”
“Sure thing.”
“Great. First, can you please confirm your full legal name?”
“Yep. It’s Matthew Wallace Collinson.”
Mr Khan double-taps his tablet screen. “And your date of birth?”
“18th September 1973.”
“Excellent.” More double-tapping. “And finally, Mr Collinson – and sorry to be direct about this – but do you carry a donor card?”
“Um… Yes, I think so.”
A double-tap drum solo, then: “Ah, I see we already have your provisional transfer object joining us.”
Mr Khan faces the chair where Claire stopped Magz sitting yesterday. Anders can cope on a spent cushion. His antlers and muzzle have drooped, though, judgement aglow in those dark coal-lump eyes.
“That’s right,” I say. “We’re both ready.”
“Glad to hear it.” Mr Khan stares at his tablet screen for a few seconds. “Just checking, your questionnaire mentions this puppet originally belonged to your late father.”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“No, no problem. I presume he left it to you by way of inheritance?”
“Not exactly,” I confess. “My sister and I rescued him from the charity shop.”
Mr Khan frowns. “I don’t follow.”
“Dad was a children’s entertainer,” I tell him. “Pantos, birthday parties, talent shows – the whole snotty circuit. He even created his own characters; Anders was one of them. That’s the reindeer’s name.”
I pause, and remember: “‘Anders and His Antlers’, whose laughter’s not just for Christmas. ‘Yuk, yuk, yuk.’”
“How lovely,” Mr Khan says.
“Except, Dad became obsessed with stardom. Couldn’t stop craving the big time. He pitched his act to TV networks, studio execs. When they weren’t interested, he tried ad agencies, newspapers, comic books, you name it.”
I exhale, then summarise: “Nobody wanted him or his characters.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the consultant replies.
“Yeah… If it wasn’t for me and my sister rooting through bin bags – the ones Mum used to leave out on the kerb for charity – who knows where Anders would’ve ended up. I can’t imagine the rest of Dad’s cast now, out there and separated. All alone.”
Mr Khan pushes his glasses until they touch the bridge of his nose.
“May I ask why you chose something so emotionally complex for your procedure?” he asks. “You realise how delicate this surgery is.”
“Anders,” I stutter, “gave my family hope. Whenever Dad whipped out that puppet and put on a show for us, we’d all come away feeling uplifted. And I could use some decent uplift right now.”
Mr Khan stops tapping and starts swiping.
“Which brings me onto your referral,” he says.
“Oh God, can’t we just leave that?” I sigh.
For the first time, Mr Khan makes direct eye contact with me.
“I’m afraid not, Mr Collinson,” he insists.
“Why?”
“Even if treatment is palliative, I must explore what’s causing your symptoms. But please, take your time.”
I hear my breathing get louder.
“Well, it’s bad enough they jumped me.”
My voice is unsteady, seesawing between normal and high.
“It’s OK,” Mr Khan reassures me.
I wish I could believe him.
“They already took my wallet. My phone, keys, travelcard – everything. Did they really have to f—”
“Deborah Rankin,” Mr Khan intones, “at Fireside Counselling notes this incident as occurring three years ago.”
“Almost four,” I correct him.
“Apologies. I’ll amend that. But, CBT hasn’t helped? No increased medication?”
I shake my head. “The GP gave me exercises; they’re useless. And if I swallow any more pills, I’ll be shitting gobstoppers.”
“Hmm.”
“The truth is, doc, my body just feels broken. I know it’s not, really. But I wake up feeling busted and ready for the bin men every single day. Do you have any idea what that’s like?
“All I have left are my memories, and personally, I’d only like to remember the good ones.”
Mr Khan swipes some more, then stops.
“Let’s get you prepped for theatre,” he announces.
I blink a lot. “You mean, I can still have the surgery?”
“Of course. The brain is essentially a small, squishy supercomputer. Our custom crystal memory card helps isolate and organise select areas of your subconscious, replaying exclusively happy memories in one endless, blissful cycle. How does that sound?”
“Wow,” I manage.
“But,” Mr Khan continues, “it’s sentiment that drives total transference. That’s why we require patients to have a strong, emotionally significant object they can lean on when rekindling their fondest moments.”
He pauses. “What do you remember most about your father’s puppet?”
“Um, probably New York. We went there for Christmas one year – mainly so Dad could meet Jim Henson.”
“The puppet, specifically,” Mr Khan prompts.
“Right, sorry. Well, one night on the ferry back from Liberty Island, Dad told us to look across the bay. He said all the lit city windows looked like stars – especially reflected on the water, hanging there all festive and ornamental.
“Anyway, he saw Mum, Magz and me shivering, even in our big coats. And since Anders came everywhere with us, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled that reindeer out from his rucksack and made everyone laugh until we forgot about how cold it was and sailed into Manhattan again. Strangers cheered, clapped. Some asked for pictures. I’d never seen Dad so proud.”
“A special time,” Mr Khan agrees.
“Yeah, it was the best,” I say.
#
They wheel me down corridor after off-white corridor. We hurtle past close, slick-looking walls, which zoom by like an immense waterslide. The drip I’m hooked up to hovers above my trolley but barely keeps pace. I’ve gone numb. Every limb, appendage, digit, extremity, whatever’s still mine (for now, at least) has become jetsam, bobbing around my ghost shipwreck of a consciousness. Mr Khan’s fist is a big purple barnacle stuck to my gurney’s gunwale. He asks nurse Claire something about “neuropathways”. Or “neuropathy”. Either way, she replies, “Stable.” “Weirdest ride ever,” says someone whose voice sounds a lot like mine. “Don’t worry, Mr Collinson,” Mr Khan calls back. “You should start having fun soon.”#
There’s only one coffee machine on the entire ward that doesn’t have an ‘Out of Order’ sign taped to it. Magz feeds its smug gob change and a paper cup crowns underneath the nozzle. After several sputters and splats, her cup descends, but it detaches before she can grab hold. A brown-smudged bombsite spreads across her crisp, clean blouse.
“Brilliant,” she mumbles as a nurse approaches.
“Ms Collinson,” the nurse says.
“Yes,” Magz sighs.
“My name’s Claire, we met the other day. I was in charge of your brother’s care here.”
“Right,” says Magz, trying to recall the woman’s face.
“I wanted to share the good news with you in person,” Claire beams. “Your brother’s op was 100% successful. You can collect him whenever you’re ready.”
“But it’s not really him, is it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind.”
“As Matt’s next of – sorry, receiving – kin, Mr Khan will require you to fill out some paperwork on your brother’s behalf. Discharge forms, aftercare plans. It shouldn’t take long, though.”
Claire starts to walk, but Magz lingers.
“Ms Collinson,” the nurse beckons.
They move in silence down a crowded hallway seemingly able to spawn denser groups of people, the further along they go. Everywhere Magz looks, people carry items that make her think of jumble sales. Action figures, teddy bears, books whose top-shelf days are over; little plastic race cars, photo frames, board games from decades ago.
One man holds up a huge lump of Play-Doh, pressing it against his cheek and weeping with joy. Magz’ stomach churns.
Rounding a sudden corner, she and Claire stop outside an emaciated door left slightly ajar.
“Please,” Claire says, gesturing.
Magz enters the empty waiting room. She chooses to stand, given its only seat is one questionably bent foldaway chair.
“Mr Khan will be here soon,” Claire tells her, never setting foot inside the cramped, claustrophobic cupboard.
Almost half an hour later, Mr Khan appears, cradling Anders.
“Ms Collinson,” he says with a smile. “Would you like to hold him?”
Shaky at first, Magz soon starts to rock the reindeer puppet. Each of his four fuzzy hooves catches on her nails.
Hey, that tickles, I say.
After helping lower Anders gently into her reusable bag, Mr Khan hands Magz several forms.
“I just need your name and contact details on these,” he tells her.
Wait, where am I? What’s happened? Why is everything dark?
“Can he hear me?” Magz asks as she scribbles.
It’s freezing. I’m scared. Is this the ferryboat? Where did everybody go?
Yuk, yuk, yuk.
Hello?
“Mr Collinson’s consciousness now resides in his chosen memory playlist,” Mr Khan explains. “He’ll experience versions of you, perhaps, but not…”
Magz sniffs.
Don’t worry, Matty Moo.
Who’s that?
Your old best friend.
“Have you picked a nice spot for him?” the consultant asks. “Remember, too much dust can interfere with the car—”
“He’ll go on the mantelpiece,” Magz tells Mr Khan. “He deserves somewhere warm. He’s still alive, in a way.”
The doctor nods. “Of course.”
No, no, no, no, no, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
We’re gonna have fun, Matty. You’ve got sooooooo much cool stuff to play with inside your head.
Magz returns the completed paperwork, her eyes misting.
“He wanted this,” she murmurs. “I’ll remind myself every day.”
Leave me alone. For the love of God, leave me alone!
Where ya goin’, Matty? Don’t you wanna play?
“Don’t worry, Ms Collinson,” Mr Khan says. “Your brother had many strong memories to choose from. I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”
When Magz arrives, Claire tells her not to sit down, saying she’ll grab another chair because the one beside my bed has less give than Ebenezer Scrooge. “Thanks,” Magz says, unsure whether she should laugh. The new chair has a hard back, which Claire hopes is OK. Magz tells her it’ll be fine, that she isn’t staying long. “Right,” Claire says. “I’ll leave you two to it.” Only once we’re alone does Magz take a seat. She lets her bag for life slump and removes her disposable plastic poncho, leaking leftover rain onto the vinyl floor. “Nice digs,” she says, examining my curtained-off limbo. “Thanks,” I reply. “Have you eaten?” I scoff. “This ain’t the Palace, sis.” “Might as well be, how much you’re paying. And hey, you need proper meals.” “Not for much longer, fingers crossed.” Magz’ chair squeals as she leans forward. “Don’t start, please,” she warns. “Fine.” I shift myself further up the pillow, then ask: “Did you find him?” “Answer me first.” “Eh?” “My question: Have you eaten today?” “Oh my God, yes, I had breakfast. An apple. Some yoghurt. Tepid with a side of botulism. Happy?” Magz shrugs. “Not especially.” “Well, tough. Now, did you bring him or not?” As if she practised before getting here, Magz silently reaches into her wrinkled old tote and pulls out Dad’s reindeer puppet in one swift magic-trick motion. It’s like meeting a childhood friend again: Hi, Anders. Remember me? I’d almost forgotten how lush your synthetic Christmas-tree-green fur was, or that your massive muzzle – covered in sequin fairy lights – really can open all the way whenever someone (Magz, in this case) shoves their hand up through your soft viscera. “Why ya doin’ this, huh?” she makes the puppet say, attempting her own version of Dad’s deepest cartoon cadence. “Bravo.” I clap slowly. “Solid seven. Possibly even eight. Pass him, please.” I hold out both hands and Magz tosses me the reindeer. “Seriously, though,” she says, her voice returning to normal. “You don’t think this is insane?” I cough. “Been asleep the last few years, have you?” “Matt.” “Lucky.” “Stop it.” “No, you stop.” Now it’s my turn to lean forwards. “I hate to shatter the news into a million sharp pieces, Magzy, but insaneness doesn’t begin to cover my life anymore.” Magz swallows. “I should’ve moved in,” she tells me. “To make sure you were coping. Actually coping.” I fall back on the pillow. “You did your best.” “Clearly not enough.” “Mag—” “That therapist you were seeing,” she interrupts. “What about him?” “Well, what does he have to say about all this?” “Who do you think sorted my referral?” “Right, of course.” Magz clears her throat. “So, that’s it then. Tomorrow you’re… you’ll be…” Silence stomps on us, so I explain for the umpteenth time: “I’m not dying.” “Feels like it, though,” Magz reminds me. I don’t reply. Instead, I thrust an exploratory fist inside our plush playmate. His brass-coloured antlers flop like choir bells in concert, fibrous innards moulding around my palm. Next, I force his muzzle apart, revealing the inside – red as Santa’s suit. Finally, I do my best impersonation of Dad’s cartoonish drawl: “Don’t worry, Maggie Moo. I take care of Matty, yes I do.” Magz’ laughter and sobs synchronise. “You’d better,” she whispers.
They wheel me down corridor after off-white corridor. We hurtle past close, slick-looking walls, which zoom by like an immense waterslide. The drip I’m hooked up to hovers above my trolley but barely keeps pace. I’ve gone numb. Every limb, appendage, digit, extremity, whatever’s still mine (for now, at least) has become jetsam, bobbing around my ghost shipwreck of a consciousness. Mr Khan’s fist is a big purple barnacle stuck to my gurney’s gunwale. He asks nurse Claire something about “neuropathways”. Or “neuropathy”. Either way, she replies, “Stable.” “Weirdest ride ever,” says someone whose voice sounds a lot like mine. “Don’t worry, Mr Collinson,” Mr Khan calls back. “You should start having fun soon.”
Robert Keal hails from Kent but currently lives in Solihull, West Midlands, where he works as a copywriter. His most recent fiction can be found in The Wise Owl, Ink Pantry, and Ink in Thirds. He loves walking the tightrope between strangeness and reality.