Jonathan Posner's Blog, page 5
December 20, 2023
The Tudor Prince – pre-order!
The Tudor Prince is now available for pre-order on Amazon.
If you’re a Mary Fox fan – make sure you get your copy immediately it is released.
Pre-order now on Amazon.
The post The Tudor Prince – pre-order! appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
December 11, 2023
Tinsel & Glitter – A short Story
My finger hovered over the mouse button, but something stopped me from making the final click. Was I buying the right one? Should I even be buying either of them? Maybe she would think it was really silly; that I was being daft for spending my money on her like this. Creepy, even.
I hit the back button to return to my previous choice. T111 SEL. It would spell ‘tinsel’ if you put the black screw between the last two 1s and made them look like an N. Or the other one? I went forward again. GL17 TER. The 7 did look a bit like another T, so it would spell ‘glitter’.
Tinsel or glitter? Which one for the gorgeous party planner I had met when she had organised a birthday bash that my kids had gone to a couple of weeks ago?
Was it only a couple of weeks? How had it happened that I was even considering buying something as personal as a number plate for someone I had known for such a short time? And to tell the truth, it was not as if I was even looking when we had first met. It had only been a year and a half since Amanda had died, and I was starting to get into the groove of being a single dad looking after my feisty five-year-old twins.
I hadn’t even clocked her when I first ushered the twins into their school friend’s kitchen diner, trying not to flinch too obviously at the ear-piercing screams of the children already round the large dining table. I made sure my kids were securely seated, before doing that usual dad thing of crossing my arms and standing back by the window with the other grown-ups. We all gazed at our little darlings with a mixture of indulgent pride and nervous apprehension. At what point would the sugar rush from the jelly, cakes, ice-cream and chocolate send the already-high energy levels into the stratosphere?
“That is – or rather, was – a very impressive Smartie volcano,” I observed to the woman beside me, looking at a particularly well-made chocolate cake that my daughter Isobel was busily destroying with her spoon.
“Thanks,” the woman replied. “Nice of you to say.”
“You made it?” I asked, turning to look at her. She nodded. “Oh, gosh,” I said with a rueful smile, “I am so sorry. My daughter can be really destructive.”
“It’s not a problem,” she said. “That’s what it’s there for.”
She was tall, nearly my height, and had long blond hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her sloppy sweat top, short skirt and Doc Martens should have made her look like a woman desperately trying to recapture her teens, but somehow on her it had a rather sophisticated look. Stylish, even.
“Which one’s yours?” I asked, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the children.
“None of them, actually.” I raised an enquiring eyebrow, so she explained, “I’m the party planner and caterer, not a mum.”
“Oh, right.” The conversation stalled a moment, starved of the usual oxygen of grumbling about one’s kids.
“You must be a saint to put up with so much screaming and shouting all the time,” I volunteered. “Don’t you have any kids yourself?” I shuddered inwardly. Basic chat-up fail – asking if they have kids. The kind of thing that gets you fired from an American corporation just for asking. How could I be so un-woke? I’m a single dad for goodness sake.
“No,” she replied, leaning her head slightly towards me as a piece of chocolate cake hit the window behind her. “I cater for them, but don’t have any myself.” She smiled. Maybe I had got away with it. A sudden thought occurred. “You aren’t also the entertainer, are you? Making dogs out of balloons and pulling 50p coins out of their ears? That sort of thing?”
She gave a small grin. “No, I book those in. Mr. Marvel is no doubt stretching his balloons in the utility room even as we speak.” She paused, then held out her hand. “Claudia.” We shook hands, a bit like we were being introduced at a networking breakfast. Hers was cool and dry, and her grip firm. “Andrew,” I replied, hoping my own wasn’t too clammy. “Nice to meet you.”
Just then Izzy ran up and tugged at my jacket. “Daddy, daddy, daddy, Ollie just took my bowl of jelly and ate it all!”
I crouched down to Izzy’s level, and felt Claudia squatting as well with her hand still in mine. “He’s your brother. Be nice to him.”
“There’s plenty more jelly,” added Claudia.
Izzy didn’t reply, but looked at Claudia, then at me, then back at Claudia. It was if she was saying, ‘Daddy, why are you holding hands with a strange woman?’ She frowned, then ran back to the table and grabbed another bowl of jelly.
“Sorry,” I said as we stood up and separated. “Kids can be so judgemental.”
“No, no,” Claudia replied. “She’s just checking out the competition.”
—0—
We got home a few hours later. Izzy and Ollie ran into the house shouting for the cat, who, quite sensibly, was making himself scarce. My suggestion of bath and bed was completely ignored.
I let them play a while, hoping that their sugar highs would come down soon, while I sat at the kitchen table clutching a coffee. I opened my phone case and carefully withdrew the little card, turning it over and over. ‘Claudia Darrin, Party Planner,’ it said on one side. On the other was the name of her business, ‘Tinsel and Glitter’. I looked at my phone. Should I text her? She had said to ‘keep in touch’ when she gave me the card – but was that just politeness? What did she mean by the significant look when she handed it over? Was it ‘keep in touch – I have to say that but please understand, I don’t actually mean it.’ Or ‘keep in touch, and I really do mean it?’ Why was I so shit at reading signals? And if she actually did mean it, would it be too soon to text her? I tucked the card back into the phone case and closed it. Too soon. Way too soon.
The phone pinged but I left it closed. Probably some meaningless notification from Instagram. It was not as if Claudia was texting me. No way was that going to happen.
It pinged again and I quickly flipped it open.
[Hi, this is Claudia. Do you fancy meeting for a coffee?] There was a second text right below it. [If that’s not too forward? Worried face emoji]
Should I text back now? Respond too quickly and she’ll think I’m desperate. Too slow and she’ll think I don’t care…
I gave it ten minutes. [Love to. Where and when?]
—0—
The coffee shop was quiet as I went inside, blowing on my hands to warm them. She was already sitting at a corner table. I ordered a cappuccino and went over.
“I hope you didn’t mind me texting?” she said as I sat.
“Not at all. Delighted,” I answered, hoping my smile was ‘warm and friendly’ rather than ‘weird and scary’. There was a silence, which I felt compelled to fill. “Great party the other day. Izzy and Ollie thought Mr. Marvel’s balloon work was great.”
“Thanks. They’re sweet kids.”
Not when it’s bath or bedtime, I thought. “Do you do parties every weekend?” I asked aloud.
“Most. I’m booked up for the next three weeks, then I am taking the weekend off.” She paused. “As it’s my birthday.”
I grinned conspiratorially. “Noted!”
Aaagh! Did that mean she wanted me to get her something? This was only the second time we had met, and she was already sharing her birthday info. Although to be fair, I had dropped the ‘widower’ thing in fairly early on myself.
“Any plans for the big day?” I asked.
“Not really, just avoiding organising any parties.”
“It must be nice not to have to plan anything,” I said. Then found myself adding, “We could have a celebratory dinner..?”
WHAT? You arsehole, Andrew! Where did that come from?
“Dinner would be lovely!” she said. “Where are you taking me?”
—0—
I poured Claudia a celebratory glass of bubbly as she studied the menu. “Happy birthday,” I said, chinking my glass on hers.
“Thanks, Andrew,” she replied, looking at me over the rim. “You know…” she began, and my stomach tightened in apprehension at what she might be about to say. “It’s only been a few weeks since we first met, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.” She paused, her lips slightly parted; her eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “You really seem to understand me.”
“Gosh,” I replied, biting my own lip. “I might be about to blow that with your present.”
“Ooh,” she said. “What have you got me? Something completely unusual, I hope. If it’s chocolates I’m outta here!” She paused. “It’s not lingerie is it? That would be such a cliché.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as I took out the licence-plate sized gift box. She smiled as she tapped it thoughtfully her hand. “What’s this I wonder? And why is it covered in glitter?
The post Tinsel & Glitter – A short Story appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
November 16, 2023
The Thursday Book Club No. 3
The third broadcast of The Thursday Book Club was on 16th October 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Angela Wooldridge, Elizabeth Ducie and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.
https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/TBC-Show-3-16-11-23.mp3The book we reviewed was The Man I Think I know by Mike Gayle.
We also flagged up some key books to buy for Christmas:
The Game by Martin Kemp
A pulsating high-octane debut thriller from the music legend / actor Martin Kemp, The Game finds a fallen 1980s popstar on a path of no return in London’s seedy underbelly.
Bookshops and Bonedust by Travis Baldree
A standalone cosy fantasy about the power of good bookshops, great friends and the unexpected choices along the way from the bestselling author of BookTok sensation Legends & Lates.
Skandar and the Phantom Rider by A F Steadman
The second book in the international bestselling SKANDAR series, an unmissable adventure for readers aged 9 to 99 and fans of Harry Potter, Percy Jackson and Eragon.
Scarlet by Genevieve Cogman
An exciting tale of revolution, vampires and the guillotine.
The Drowning Girls by Helen Callaghan
A chilling new psychological suspense thriller from Sunday Times bestseller.
A Devon Midwinter Murder by Stephanie Austin (out 23rd November 2023)
A must-read cosy crime – book 7 in the Devon Mysteries series.
The Rivers of Treason by Karen Maitland
Third in the Daniel Pursglove series set in 17th Century London.
Exeter’s Lost Buildings: Destruction from 1800 to 1899 by Todd Gray
There was also a discussion on what makes a cosy crime – and Elizabeth gave us some key pointers!
The next show will be on 21st December at 2pm UK time.
The post The Thursday Book Club No. 3 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
The Thursday Book Club No. 2 Copy
The second broadcast of The Thursday Book Club was on 19th October 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Jason Mann, Su Bristow and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.
https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/TBC-Show-2-19-10-23.mp3
The books reviewed were This is Happiness by Niall Williams, proposed by Su; Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris, proposed by Jason; and Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby van Pelt, proposed by Jonathan.
There was also a discussion on the the difference between authenticity and accuracy in historical fiction
The next show will be on 16th November at 2pm UK time.
The post The Thursday Book Club No. 2 Copy appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
November 14, 2023
Go with me on this
The post Go with me on this appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
October 24, 2023
The Tudor Prince – Ch 1 (draft)
CHAPTER ONE
A Monastery in Essex, September 1533.
The dormitory was on fire.
Brother Ignatius and I stared open-mouthed as a flame burst out of the furthest window of the little building, roaring into the night sky like a vengeful demon. Another blew out the window beside it with a shower of glass and sparks.
I clutched at his arm. “Is Master Kytson up there?” I shouted.
“Yes,” Brother Ignatius answered. “After all the wine he had drunk, we carried him up to sleep.”
For a moment I stared at him in horror, then I let go of his arm and started to run back towards the burning building.
“Mistress Fox!” he called. “Do not go inside! It is God’s will if your companion perishes!”
Ignoring him, I ran up the steps and into the dormitory building. There was a short stairway before me, which I assumed led up to the men’s dormitory rooms. A couple of monks were on the landing, unhooking a carved wooden crucifix from the wall opposite. They staggered down the stairs with it, just as another monk swept up two silver candlesticks from the shelf below where it had been.
As the monks hurried out through the front door with their treasures, I ran up the stairs.
Several men that I took to be other travellers staying in the monastery ran past coughing. But none was the tall, broad figure of Marcus Kytson.
“Help me!” I shouted as they went past, “My companion is still up there!”
But none stopped, or even acknowledged my presence. They ran down the stairs with wide, staring eyes, almost tripping and falling in their haste to get out.
With a curse at their unchristian selfishness, I ran to the top of the stairs. On the left was an open door with black smoke pouring out and the flicker of flames visible through the darkness. I could just make out a line of wooden cots down each side of the chamber, with only a narrow space up the middle. All the cots at the far end were heavily ablaze, and I nearly retched at the sight of a dreadful twisted shape silhouetted on top of the furthest one.
By God’s good grace, the flames had not yet reached the closest end of the room. The cot nearest the door was untouched and there was a man-sized shape under a blanket.
Was it Marcus? And if so, was he still alive?
Putting my mouth into the crook of my elbow and breathing through my sleeve to avoid the worst of the smoke, I ran to the foot of the cot. The flames were mercifully still two cots away. Which meant I had but a few moments before they made the final leap and consumed this one.
I leant over the figure. He was under a thin blanket, which was pulled over his head and must have kept the worst of the smoke from his mouth. I whipped it back, to reveal Marcus. With a heartfelt prayer of thanks, I shook him hard.
“Wake up! In Heaven’s name!”
He grunted and moved slightly.
I shook him again, harder. “Wake up, Marcus!”
The flames were now at the next cot, and it was burning fast.
“WAKE UP!” I screamed.
He grunted once more, and his eyes opened briefly, then fluttered closed.
A stray spark landed on the wooden frame of his cot and it started to smoke.
With another curse, I ran round to his back and forced my arms under his shoulders, then started to pull him away.
I am a slight girl, while Marcus is a broad-shouldered man – so in truth there should have been no possible way for me to carry him even a few feet. Yet somehow I found enough breath and strength to get his upper body off the bed. I gritted my teeth and pulled once more. He grunted again as his feet slid off the bed and dropped to the floor. I felt him stand, if somewhat unsteadily, and start to cough.
“Come!” I yelled. The flames were now starting to consume the cot he had been sleeping in moments before. “Run!”
I took in some air through my sleeve, grabbed his hand and pulled him staggering out after me.
By God’s good grace we made it to the door and out into the corridor beyond. Flames were already licking around the lintel, and as I watched, some of the wood panelling beside the door burst alight.
I dragged him to the stairs. Together we stumbled down, coughing uncontrollably, until we made it out of the front door and fell together onto the lawn, still unable to breathe clearly.
“Art whole?” I asked Marcus eventually. “No burns?”
He patted his legs then shook his head. I supposed that his streaming eyes and smoke-blackened face must be the worst he had suffered. And were presumably also a mirror of my own.
But he then gave another deep cough, turned onto all fours and vomited heavily into the grass.
“Is that the wine or the smoke telling its tale, Master Marcus Kytson?” I asked. He flopped onto his side and stared at me with red eyes. “Well?” I added with a thin smile. “Pray tell.”
Before he could answer there was the sound of a footstep behind my head. I craned my neck round, to see a pair of old leather sandals and broken yellow toenails in the moonlight.
I struggled to my feet, which caused me to double over with another bout of coughing. Eventually I could breathe again, and stood straight. It was Brother Ignatius; worry written deep across his fleshy features.
“By Heavens, Mistress Fox,” he said, stepping away from Marcus and the contents of his belly. “How in the name of all that is holy did you get your companion out?”
There was sudden a crash. He flinched and looked past me. The whole of the dormitory building was now ablaze; flames bursting from every window, and even from the front door we had just come through. One half of the wooden roof had collapsed, and as we watched, the rest of it fell in with another crash and shower of flaming sparks, right onto the place where Marcus had been sleeping only minutes before.
I shuddered at how close we had been to disaster. “With God’s help, Brother,” I replied. “God gave me the strength to lift Master Kytson from his bed and get him out.” Then I recalled the awful twisted shape I had seen. “But I fear the one who slept at the far end is lost.”
He crossed himself. “Oh no, the poor man. That must be old Godfrey Fletcher, who we have allowed to stay for many years. He has… had… a book of prayers he liked to read before sleep, but his failing eyesight meant he would oft hold a candle too close. Belike he fell into a slumber and set his book alight.” He stepped back as several monks ran past with buckets of water. “It seems his lack of care has cost him dear.” The monks threw the water at the fire in high arcs that hissed and steamed, but seemed to have little effect on the blaze. “A worthy effort,” observed Brother Ignatius, shaking his head, “but I fear unlikely to help.” He looked across at the rest of the buildings, that were mercifully untouched by the fire. “At least God has seen fit to send a wind that bears the flames away from the main Monastery.”
Marcus struggled to his feet and came over.
“It seems you owe Mistress Fox your life, sir,” said Brother Ignatius.
Marcus nodded. “That is so,” he said in a hoarse whisper, giving me a weak smile, the cockiness and bluster that I had observed on our travels so far seemingly knocked out of him. “I am most grateful to Mistress Fox.” He looked over at the burning building in silence a while. “Why were you not abed yourself, Mary?” he asked. “You must also be most weary after our long ride.”
“Brother Ignatius was walking me to the other dormitory, the one attached to the Nunnery,” I replied. “We had just set off across this lawn when we saw the inferno.”
There was a hissing as the monks threw more water at the fire, which seemed to have mostly consumed itself anyway, and was beginning to reduce down to glowing embers and smaller flickers of flame. Other monks and some of the travellers were standing round in small groups. A couple of monks were picking through a pile of ornaments laid out on the grass, including the cross and candlesticks I had seen them rescue earlier.
“Yes, I am most sorry for the destruction of your building.” Marcus turned back to Ignatius. “What will you do? How will you restore it?”
Brother Ignatius shook his head. “I very much doubt that we will do any such thing,” he said. “King Henry and his servant Master Cromwell have given word that we are to be turned out soon, and our monastery given over to the enrichment of some godless landowner. Maybe Our Lord has seen fit to devalue our property with this fire before such a transaction takes place.” He gave a small, slightly hopeful smile. “It would be a sign from God that he favours us over this King.”
“Indeed,” Marcus said.
“We must be away soon,” I observed.
“Nay,” said Brother Ignatius. “Not until you are both fully recovered and can breathe clear. There are some beds in the infirmary, or if those are full with others affected by the smoke, we will find you beds elsewhere. You can both rest up there a few days until you are fit to travel. I will not allow otherwise.”
His fleshy features were set in an expression that brooked no argument. I wondered what he would do if we ignored him and continued on our journey anyway, but then I heard Marcus coughing again. It was clear we needed time to recover.
“Thank you,” I said. “We do not deserve such care.”
Brother Ignatius observed me silently a moment. “All God’s children deserve it,” he said. “Even a strange young man and a headstrong young woman dressed in men’s attire, who arrive this afternoon seeking shelter on their journey, so tired that they almost fall from the saddle.” He gave Marcus a significant glare. “Such that they are not able to hold more than a few glasses of the Monastery wine.” He paused a moment. “I would know the purpose of your journey?”
“I am sorry, Brother,” Marcus said with a ghost of a smile, “but we are not at liberty to tell.”
I caught Marcus’s eye and gave him a small nod of support. Our journey was in part on the King’s business – so it would hardly be appropriate to share it with a monk who had just expressed his opposition to the King’s policies.
Marcus had recruited me to stand in for a missing prince, after the boy had been kidnapped. This much I knew; little more. I had accepted on a whim, so would need to know more, and soon.
“I see,” Ignatius nodded. “A clandestine mission. So be it.” He looked at each of us with his eyes narrowed in the moonlight. “Then I would enjoin you both to proceed with the utmost caution. Whatever is your purpose, I suspect it will place you in the gravest danger.” He looked hard at me. “You have demonstrated great bravery already, Mary Fox, by running into a burning building to rescue your companion. But I feel sure you will face even greater dangers in the days to come. Are you ready for these?”
I took a deep breath and met his eye.
“Yes, Brother,” I said. “I am.”
Look for the launch of The Tudor Prince to read more…
The post The Tudor Prince – Ch 1 (draft) appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
October 22, 2023
The Thursday Book Club No. 2
The second broadcast of The Thursday Book Club was on 19th October 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Jason Mann, Su Bristow and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.
https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/TBC-Show-2-19-10-23.mp3
The books reviewed were This is Happiness by Niall Williams, proposed by Su; Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris, proposed by Jason; and Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby van Pelt, proposed by Jonathan.
There was also a discussion on the the difference between authenticity and accuracy in historical fiction
The next show will be on 16th November at 2pm UK time.
The post The Thursday Book Club No. 2 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
September 25, 2023
My books now in Exeter Library!
All five of my books are now available to borrow from the Exeter Library, plus The Witchfinder’s Well Chronicles – if you want to escape into the whole trilogy in one go!
Go to https://www.devonlibraries.org.uk/ and search ‘Jonathan Posner’
The post My books now in Exeter Library! appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
September 21, 2023
The Thursday Book Club
The first broadcast of The Thursday Book Club was on 21st September 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Cathie Hartigan, Angela Wooldridge and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.
https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/TBC-Show-1-21-09-23.mp3The books reviewed were The Curious Kidnapping of Nora W by Cate Green, proposed by Cathie; Swordheart by T Kingfisher, proposed by Angela; and Betrayal of Trust by C. V. Lee, proposed by Jonathan.
There was also a discussion on the difference between plotters and pantsers (pantsers are writers who make it up as they go along. Sort of ‘by the seat of their pants’.) Jonathan was definitely a pantser, and Angela a ‘plantser’ – somewhere in between. Cathie was also somewhere in between – and said she is a very strict editor of her own work.
The next show will be on 19th October at 2pm UK time.
The post The Thursday Book Club appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
September 13, 2023
The Amethyst Project
For such a modern organisation, the Amethyst Project was housed in a decidedly old building.
I moved my head as far as I could over my shoulder. “It looks as if it was built back in the 2020s,” I muttered.
“Shh now, dad,” my daughter replied. “You’ll love it.”
“So you keep telling me,” I said. “But I remain to be convinced.”
“Anya says her father thinks it’s the best thing he ever did. He calls it ‘Heaven’.”
“The concept of Heaven is a load of old tosh,” I said. “Outdated religious nonsense.”
“Some people still believe in it.”
“Gullible fools, then, clinging to the past.”
Petal didn’t answer; we’d had this conversation too many times before.
She wheeled me up to the front door, which was one of those early 21st century sliding glass affairs.
“It doesn’t even have a laser door,” I muttered, as she pushed me in. A shiny white bot slid over, its backlit eyes gleaming. It paused a moment as it made a retinal scan of us both.
“Mr Jayden Smith and Mrs Petal Singh,” it announced, in the slightly soft tone they build into these things. The sort of tone that’s so bloody soothing it sets your teeth on edge.
“Yes, my father is here to sign in,” Petal said. She put on her most cheerful voice, which I think was more for my benefit than the bot’s.
“Excellent,” it cooed.
“He’s very excited about this,” she added.
I was going to call this out for the bollocks it was, when the bot emitted a low-pitched rumble that made me momentarily forget what I was about to say.
“Of course,” it exclaimed to Petal, seeming to dial up its own excitement to the same level as hers. Someone must have added a Neuro Linguistic programme to its chip. “Our clients are always most satisfied with our service.” It slid silently across the shiny floor. “Please follow me. It will be my pleasure to give you a detailed introduction to our facility.”
Petal pushed me after it, and we went through an arch into what seemed to be a sensory room. There was a large lava lamp display set into the flock paper wall, ambient purple lighting and more cushions than an Amazon-Wayfair Homeware store.
“Please enter this short presentation,” it said, as two VR headsets descended from the ceiling. “We find it easier to explain in VR, but please be assured, it reflects the reality of our service.” Once Petal had plugged the lead into my neck port and settled the visor over my head, I sat back with a sigh.
“Let’s see what this is all about, then,” I muttered.
The screens flickered and suddenly I was in a brightly-lit white corridor, floating silently towards a pair of old-fashioned double doors. A young woman in a flowery dress appeared, smiling. The kind of dress Flora used to wear when we first met. I gave a small gasp; it was Flora; the very image of her in her early twenties. The machine must have been reading my memories via my implant chip. A lump came into my throat; it was difficult to see her like that, not as the 90 year-old I had held in my arms as she slipped away over thirty years ago.
“Hello Jayden,” Flora said. “How nice to see you. I am so excited to show you how Amethyst can ease you into your eternal life.” She held open the doors and I floated into what seemed to be a longer, wider corridor, with thousands of recessed shelves set at all levels on both sides.
As I entered, I eased myself round to check that Petal was with me. She was there, giving me the sickly indulgent look that she reserved only for me and her great great grand-children when they were being particularly mischievous.
I turned back to Flora, who was waiting by the first of the shelves. I drifted over, and she gave me a beaming smile; the one that used to have my belly doing somersaults. I had never stopped missing her every day for the last thirty years. Seeing her as she was when we first met did nothing to help.
If anything it made it worse.
“This is how you will be able to enjoy eternity at the Amethyst Project.” She gestured at the shelf and I looked in. There was a glass jar inside, with something pink and bulbous floating in a cloudy liquid. Tubes fed in and out of the jar and lots of wires were attached to the outside. “In the last two years,” Flora said, becoming more serious, “we have perfected the ability to remove a healthy brain from a body that has been overtaken by advanced age, and keep it permanently alive in this solution. We can then stimulate all the centres that process the senses – those of sight, sound, touch, smell and taste, with an AI programme that gives it the complete perception that it is in a young, healthy body. It retains all its memories – aided by its chip, of course – and as it is the actual brain, it retains its full personality as well.” She smiled again. “Many years ago, when men held on to the belief systems they called religions, this included the quaint concept of the ‘soul’. We know now this was just a combination of the personality, memory and the sense of self that derives from consciousness.” She paused, looking as if she was checking we were still with her. I nodded. “But here it is the actual brain processing this information.” She gestured at the jar. “So it retains its soul.”
“As against if you simply downloaded all its memories onto a chip?” Petal asked. “The chip would know everything you know, but it wouldn’t be you. It would have no consciousness or sense of self?”
“Precisely,” Flora answered.
Petal turned to me. “She’s right,” she observed. “That makes sense.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said to Flora. “You will take my brain out of this failed old body and plug it in to your machine. I will then think, feel and experience life as I was a hundred years ago?”
Flora nodded with her head slightly on one side, just like she used to. “Correct. And the AI programme will do whatever you want it to – all the things that perhaps you longed to achieve, but never managed. Go into space? No problem. Star in a bestselling feature reel? It can happen.”
“And me and the family?” Petal asked. “Will we still be able to see Dad?”
“Of course, you can log into his AI world any time you want, and be a part of his life. Your father will never die; you can talk to him in real time whenever you want, and the person you will be talking to will actually be him.” She gestured at the brain in the jar behind her. “Just as you are talking to him now, except that his brain is still in his head. All we’ll be doing is preserving it while the old body is discarded.”
Petal turned to me with a triumphant look. “I told you this was a good thing, Dad,” she said.
“And will you be there, Flora?” I asked.
“Yes. But the Flora of your memories.” She hesitated a moment. “The real one died before memory chips were first used, so we don’t have her data; only yours.”
I thought this through. In my memory she was always smiling; always happy. All the bad stuff – like the arguments, the folded-arm huffs or the inexplicable mood swings – those had faded into a vague, easily forgotten blur.
“So you and Mum can be together forever, Dad,” Petal said. I felt her hand grasp mine. “And you’ll both be young, fit and active again, like you were in the 21st century.” She squeezed my hand. “I told you it was heaven,” she said.
Young Flora in her pretty dress came round to stand in front of me.
“Forever?” I asked. “You mean that?”
She nodded.
Then there was only one more thing to say.
“Where do I sign?”
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