“How was it?” Alfie screwed his eyes in concentration and anticipating the usual sotto voce response, leaned forward in his riser-recliner. He had declined the invite to the Council’s Annual Fireworks Display. Storm Ciarán was rolling in.
“Brilliant!; not the wash-out expected.” Fiona’s explosive response caught him unawares. Hovering on the remote (retaining maximum control over his environment was important), his hand reacted in a surprised tremor. The chair, rented courtesy of his son, responded to the manual “rise” command; Alfie slid to the floor, pinned under the strategically placed wheely frame, a gift from his daughter.
“Fuck Me… Save me from this hell.” On his back, glasses dislodged, Alfie surveyed the intricate cornicing and central rose of the “small lounge.” The tantalising mistiness of detail recalled to mind that entertainment he and his late wife had so enjoyed at the Couples Parties before any of the seven veils had been removed. Sporadic pyrotechnics of private parties continued outside; Roman Candles, Peonies, and Diadems were corralled in raindrops as they burst across the uncurtained picture window.
“I didn’t fully understand your 2 commands. Please rephrase” His son Frank had chosen the chair’s seductive female voice. “Suitable for an ageing Lothario like Dad,” he had confided to his sister Jo. “Might help him settle”
“ My help alarm… press it, idiot machine.”
Frank and Jo visited every Sunday for lunch. Dad appeared to be settling in quite well. His developing friendship with Fiona had helped. He was even becoming more confident instructing. “the idiot machines.” Fiona was now an additional primary authorising voice. Chair and frame had been paired, the former’s manual keypad was decommissioned in favour of spoken programming and Management had agreed they could share a twin room. The clincher,- Fiona could help Dad position the frame at his bedside, in the shower. “It’ll maximise his independence… less work for the staff,” the siblings argued.
“Like that Hitchcock film.” The Fire Service Chief was running the footage from those security cameras that had survived the blaze past the assembled committee of crime scene investigators, police and forensic scientists.
“Not that Laurence Olivier was in a wheelchair….. nor Joan Fontaine scrambling to keep up with him on an assisted AI Tripod Frame.”
“Can’t hear their conversation. Can you turn the volume up? ” someone requested.
“Still learning” Alfie was saying. “Must have mis-processed again. Heard ‘fire works’ instead of ‘fireworks’. But did remember ‘Save me from this hell.’ I wonder how “she” arsoned the building.”
“Remember that moving-in-together meeting.” A third voice joined the conversation. ‘We get on like a house on fire’ that’s what you said Alfie and ‘it’ll save us money; it’s not as if we have money to burn.’ And Frank and Jo were so enthusiastic afterwards, stressed the importance of not burning too deep a hole in their inheritance pockets.”
“But fifteen deaths?”
“You never said save us all” purred the chair and frame in unison.
