The Long Deep Freeze, Part 1

They call it depression. They give you tablets that make you feel blank and empty. If you are really lucky they send you to talk to a psychiatrist who asks you why your life is so miserable. You try your best to explain but he hears only the positives, the things you know you should be grateful for.

“John, you have a wife and 2 lovely children. You have a degree, a good job, a nice house, and no financial worries. You have friends and hobbies, a busy social life–” The list goes on and on with reasons to be happy.

How can I make him understand that, despite my charmed life, I am dead inside? I love my family and appreciate my privileged lifestyle but I wake each morning with a deep sense of disappointment that I have to face another day of living.

I force myself to get out of bed and put on my mask, to drag myself through another day pretending to be normal. Pretending that all is right in my world.

Some psychiatrists are all too eager to whip out their prescription pads. Dismissing the dozens of failed pharmaceuticals listed in my notes, they are convinced that the next pill or magic mushroom will retune my errant brain.

I try them all but deep down, I can’t bring myself to trust them anymore. All belief is gone, taking hope with it.

A word starts to pop up in my brain. A word so black I cannot even bring myself to speak it. I could never do that to my family. They would be left to live with the blame while I would be free.  I imagine the conversations: 

“I never realised he felt like that.”

“I should have been more supportive.” 

“Was it something I did?” 

No my dear ones, I could never leave you with the legacy of shame and self-doubt. Still the thought recurs, over and over. Vague plans form then disperse as I realise that my loved ones would be destroyed as a result of my actions.

***

One day at work I picked up a newspaper with a crossword, half-finished and discarded. Bored by the growing pile of paperwork on my desk I began to turn the pages. A full-page advert caught my eye, but before I had time to read it I spotted the boss on her way to check up on us. 

I folded the paper and shoved it into my bag before bending my head back over the sheaf of documents and inputting data hastily into my computer.

That evening after bathing the children, I read them a bedtime story. The request for the night was ‘Sleeping Beauty’. As I read I remembered the newspaper advert and vowed to look at it once the kids were safely tucked up and my wife Beth and I were ensconced in front of the T.V.

As she settled down to watch a film with a large glass of Chardonnay to hand, I poured myself a beer and pulled the newspaper out of my bag. The advert heading read ‘New Therapy Offers Hope for Sufferers of Incurable Diseases.’ In smaller letters it added: ‘Is Cryosleep the Answer?’

My lips compressed to restrain a frustrated grunt, and I half-rose to throw the paper into the recycling bin. No one considered depression incurable. But a tiny voice in my head told me to keep reading, and slowly I leaned back again. I still might find something here.

Reading on was illuminating. Most studies regarded Cryosleep as quackery. At the same time a number of millionaires with more money than sense had paid vast sums to join the scheme.

In theory, it sounded perfectly feasible. People suffering from conditions that were presently regarded as incurable and that would inevitably lead to an early death would be frozen into a state of Cryosleep. Then later, after scientists had discovered a cure for their condition, they would be thawed, reanimated, and enabled to live out a healthy lifespan.

Scientists expressed grave doubts as to the likelihood of this working in practice. Not least was the problem that human tissue, when frozen, would tend to break down when thawed. The effects on the cellular tissue of the human brain were potentially disastrous. 

Much rested on the belief that the issues would be solved during the period the patient was in Cryosleep. This was assumed to be a period of a hundred years or more. It all sounded very ‘Dr. Who’ to me but, like many cults offering eternal life, it clearly had its followers, all prepared to invest large amounts of money on a gamble. 

I personally did not believe the claims for future re-animation but I would settle happily for a dignified exit into an endless sleep. My family would be comforted by the knowledge that I was taking steps to preserve my health. All I had to do was convince them of my danger of dying a painful death in the near future.

That night I dreamed strange, tangled nightmares. First, Sleeping Beauty was reawakened, only to be found totally insane. Then my body was frozen and shattered into a million ice crystals when a nuclear war destroyed most of the planet. 

But worst of all was the dream in which the freezing process did not affect my awareness and I was imprisoned in my own body for an infinite period of time. I was soaked in a cold sweat by the time I woke to the insistent ringing of the alarm.

At the breakfast table I gazed at my wife. Her long brown hair was still tousled and she hadn’t had time to do her make-up. She was wearing Mickey Mouse pyjamas and trying to coax food into two uncooperative children. She had never looked so beautiful. 

Ruthie, my 12-year-old, was half-dressed in her school uniform. She was trying to finish her homework and eat toast with peanut butter at the same time. Her emerging adolescence meant it was safer to give her space in the mornings, but I still loved her to bits.

Eight-year-old John Junior was lucky to not take after me in either looks or temperament. Dark hair spiked uncontrollably, and his carefree nature led him to grin even as he pushed away his half-eaten toast and demanded cereal. I had to resist the temptation to ruffle his hair or hug him, as he was driving his mother mad. 

I was the cuckoo in the nest. My blonde hair always looked sleek and tidy, and my face always wore a smile. But inside I was a seething mass of despair. I adored my family but I did not feel like one of them.

That evening found me reading the advert again. The cost staggered me, but I knew that if I could fund it, I could also find a doctor who, for a fee, would testify to my having a life-threatening but untreatable condition. I did the maths and determined that I would need at least two million pounds.

Two million pounds!

During the next few days I couldn’t settle to anything except the thought of possible money- making schemes. I could not bring myself to mortgage our property and risk leaving my family badly off. The mere thought of robbing a bank or defrauding my employers sent shudders of distaste down my spine – I knew I could never go through with it. 

Every idea led to a dead end and left me curled into a ball of self-pity.

Dejected and frustrated, at the point of throwing in the towel and resigning myself to the prospect of living out my lifespan in the grip of depression, I was slumped in my chair chewing at my nails when out of the blue, a scheme occurred to me. I shot bolt upright.

Misguided rich people were prepared to pay millions for the illusion of a future cure. For an affordably small investment I could tap into this market and use their unrealistic dreams to finance my own more realisable need for an early death! 

My brain began to race and I had to restrain myself from leaping up and cheering. Grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen I frantically started to scribble down the outline of my escape plan.

Over the next few months I acquired a reasonably-priced, sizable warehouse via an anonymous trust. I equipped it with rows of dummy pods, knocked out for me by some dodgy acquaintances who owed big favours. The final result resembled long chest freezers with frosted, semi-transparent lids. Their misty glass showed the vague shape of a sleeper’s head inside. 

Sourcing those dummy heads proved the hardest part of the enterprise – I could not risk appearing on record as the purchaser of a bulk order of mannequins. Instead the heads had to be sourced in ones and twos, often from tips or shops going out of business. Luckily my financial position was sound and my dear wife happily ignorant of our incomings and outgoings.

Faked wiring was simple, and a couple of cheap old generators housed in portacabins would provide a working hum when potential clients visited. And in the midst of it all I used every spare minute to read up on the ‘science’ of Cryosleep until I was sufficiently well-informed to give a plausible presentation.

At last I drew up advertising material that would only be visible to those with access to the Dark Web. I wanted to give the impression that this service was exclusively available to a privileged few.

The scheme worked! I couldn’t stop grinning as I read my first tentative enquiry, which arrived only a couple of weeks after the ads started to run. Summoning all my acting skills to appear calmly professional despite my frayed nerves, I met and briefed the client, then took her on a tour of the ‘Cryochamber’.

As we walked among the pods, I stressed the level of demand and the need for absolute secrecy to protect the privacy of the famous clientele. She seemed satisfied, and we returned to my ‘consulting room’ to finalise the terms.

Then in as steady and sympathetic a voice as I could muster, I requested her medical evidence to prove her incurable condition. I didn’t want to bring an early death to someone who could have lived on. My conscience pricked me, but I told myself that I was offering euthanasia and a gentle death instead of a pain-filled, undignified end.     

As my client left the building, I stared down at the papers in my hand, hardly believing them. I‘d succeeded, and she had paid her fee in cash. In fact she’d paid nearly twice the fee advertised in the original article I’d read, eager to receive special treatment and guaranteed anonymity. It was more than enough to cover my own treatment and a set of false medical reports.

On the appointed day I found myself pacing, unable to sit still. My stomach churned, half-convincing me that my client would back out. But she arrived promptly – hair coiffed and wearing her best suit – looking happy and relaxed. I took her into my ‘consulting room’ and she lay back readily on the couch.  

I had expected to feel revulsion or fear at the act I was about to perform. Instead I felt only a weird sense of detachment. It was as if I was watching my own actions from a distance. My body did not betray me: My hands remained steady and my breathing calm and measured. 

I smiled. So this is how it feels to commit a murder. 

I waited for the emotions to set in but found that my only concern was that something would go wrong and my plan for my own ending would be thwarted.

I offered her the use of a headset and a catalogue of music. She selected ‘Ave Verum’ by Mozart and held out her hand. I took it and waited. Our pre-arranged signal would be a squeeze of my hand when she was ready to go. 

After a few minutes, she gave a soft sigh and squeezed firmly. I slipped the syringe into a vein and, within seconds, she fell into a deep sleep. Her breathing slowed as the cocktail of lethal drugs took effect and she gently slipped from life to death.

To Be Continued…

__________

While you wait for the rest of the story, why don’t you try these?

• A New Mother
• By the Light of the Moon, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4
• A Saturday in Paris
• Murderer’s Creek