COMMENDED,
SIDERIUS LONGER FLASH FICTION
COMPETITION, 2024
SIDERIUS LONGER FLASH FICTION
COMPETITION, 2024
02033181936…… 02033181936…… 02033181936……
It doesn’t stop. I’ve no idea who’s calling me, but I’ve a pretty good idea of what’s coming. A scam.
“Can I speak to Mrs Elizabeth Spencer, please?” a polite male voice says.
“Who’s calling?”
“I’m Alan, calling from The Care and Compassion Company. Have you heard of us?”
I haven’t, but for some reason my hand can’t find the red ‘Off’ button, so he carries on.
“We care about elderly people, and show compassion. Hence our name, Care and Compassion. Get it? Do you have parents?”
“Em… yes.”
“Do you care about them?
“Well, yes, but – ”
“I’m about to offer you the chance to show them some compassion.”
And now the phone call takes a totally unexpected turn. ‘Alan’ starts to list all of the diseases and conditions that elderly people can suffer from. And it’s a long list: some very unpleasant cancers, heart disease, stroke, Alzheimer’s Disease, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, Parkinson’s Disease, Motor Neuron Disease, kidney failure, liver cirrhosis, multiple sclerosis, and a whole range of things I’ve never heard of and would rather never hear of again. I’m starting to doze off…
“…Mrs Spencer, Mrs Spencer, are you still there?” Alan asks. I waken enough to hear him continue, “So, would you like to make sure your parents don’t contract any such unpleasant conditions?”
“This is where you tell me that you sell eternal good health,” I announce cynically.
“No,” he laughs, “even Care and Compassion can’t perform miracles. We don’t offer eternal life. But we offer the next best thing.”
“Which is?”
“Imminent death, of something pleasant. Something you yourself would want to die of.”
I burst out laughing; prolonging this phone conversation has proved entertaining. “Exactly what ‘pleasant’ deaths do you offer?” I ask.
“Well… that’s just the thing. We offer a range of exit methods. We provide tailored gift boxes of chocolates, for instance. Your loved ones just have their normal daily nap after lunch, but this time don’t waken. They die together.”
“But that’s poison! And it would be discovered at the postmortem.”
“You underestimate us. Our poison acts like a sort of time-bomb, acting weeks after they’ve thrown the packaging out.” He continues, “Or you might prefer our Slow-Acting Celebratory Champagne. Or, if you prefer quicker results, we can supply oysters. Everyone knows oysters can be dodgy. We have a full range. Would you be interested in our catalogue? £20?”
“£20!”
“It’s partly a test to see if you’re serious. Well?”
I’m interested. My parents are getting older, and have their aches and pains. Dad has angina; I worry about Mum’s memory. I know they don’t want to be apart at the end of their lives. I pay Alan £20 using PayPal and the call ends.
Of course it turns out to be a scam: there’s no such thing as the Care and Compassion Company. But when I report ‘Alan’ to the police, they don’t show much compassion, in fact they don’t seem to care at all.
It doesn’t stop. I’ve no idea who’s calling me, but I’ve a pretty good idea of what’s coming. A scam.
“Can I speak to Mrs Elizabeth Spencer, please?” a polite male voice says.
“Who’s calling?”
“I’m Alan, calling from The Care and Compassion Company. Have you heard of us?”
I haven’t, but for some reason my hand can’t find the red ‘Off’ button, so he carries on.
“We care about elderly people, and show compassion. Hence our name, Care and Compassion. Get it? Do you have parents?”
“Em… yes.”
“Do you care about them?
“Well, yes, but – ”
“I’m about to offer you the chance to show them some compassion.”
And now the phone call takes a totally unexpected turn. ‘Alan’ starts to list all of the diseases and conditions that elderly people can suffer from. And it’s a long list: some very unpleasant cancers, heart disease, stroke, Alzheimer’s Disease, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, Parkinson’s Disease, Motor Neuron Disease, kidney failure, liver cirrhosis, multiple sclerosis, and a whole range of things I’ve never heard of and would rather never hear of again. I’m starting to doze off…
“…Mrs Spencer, Mrs Spencer, are you still there?” Alan asks. I waken enough to hear him continue, “So, would you like to make sure your parents don’t contract any such unpleasant conditions?”
“This is where you tell me that you sell eternal good health,” I announce cynically.
“No,” he laughs, “even Care and Compassion can’t perform miracles. We don’t offer eternal life. But we offer the next best thing.”
“Which is?”
“Imminent death, of something pleasant. Something you yourself would want to die of.”
I burst out laughing; prolonging this phone conversation has proved entertaining. “Exactly what ‘pleasant’ deaths do you offer?” I ask.
“Well… that’s just the thing. We offer a range of exit methods. We provide tailored gift boxes of chocolates, for instance. Your loved ones just have their normal daily nap after lunch, but this time don’t waken. They die together.”
“But that’s poison! And it would be discovered at the postmortem.”
“You underestimate us. Our poison acts like a sort of time-bomb, acting weeks after they’ve thrown the packaging out.” He continues, “Or you might prefer our Slow-Acting Celebratory Champagne. Or, if you prefer quicker results, we can supply oysters. Everyone knows oysters can be dodgy. We have a full range. Would you be interested in our catalogue? £20?”
“£20!”
“It’s partly a test to see if you’re serious. Well?”
I’m interested. My parents are getting older, and have their aches and pains. Dad has angina; I worry about Mum’s memory. I know they don’t want to be apart at the end of their lives. I pay Alan £20 using PayPal and the call ends.
Of course it turns out to be a scam: there’s no such thing as the Care and Compassion Company. But when I report ‘Alan’ to the police, they don’t show much compassion, in fact they don’t seem to care at all.
