I lay on the couch and stared at the stark, white ceiling.

After a time, Dr. Wiesen approached wearing a poorly fitting, stiffly starched white coat. He looked down at me. His smile – reassuring in the middle, sadistic around the edges - I had seen before. He picked up the card attached to the side of the couch and viewed it through thick, antique glasses.

"Hmm...let’s see…Peter Davidson." He glanced at me for confirmation. "Prisoner number 97637A7303; murder, armed robbery...debt to society…seventy-six percent. Well, that’s rather high, isn’t it"

"It's no longer seventy-six, shithead,” I said, “I've already paid forty-nine of my debt." I tried to look defiant, but it was hard to do because I could not move. Four broad leather straps held my arms and legs in place, and two more, around my neck and forehead limited my head movement.

"Ah yes,” he continued, without changing his mild tone, “Here we are: artificial kidney replacement, five percent; cerebellum removal and replacement, twenty-three percent; induced anaphylaxis, twenty-one percent.” He paused, looked up, as though double-checking the totals in his head, then he said: “Well, aren’t you the lucky one. I think you will find that if you survive this you will be a free man."

He signalled to his assistant who was hovering in the background. The man came forward and freed my right hand.

Wiesen handed me a small blank white card about ten centimetres by fifteen. It was a Personal Communication from Debtcom. I was familiar with PCD cards – they cannot be tampered with and the information I was about to read would be accurate to the last detail.

I put my thumb on the lower right corner of the card and waited for it to analyse my thumbprint and sample my skin chemistry.

After a few seconds writing appeared on the card.

PETER WILLIAM DAVIDSON

CITIZEN UK. PERSON NUMBER 333 769 A7074

Under this there was a fairly reasonable 3D image of me, taken maybe five years ago. My cheeks were fatter back then.

Below this the card read:

DEBTCOM PERS COMM

FOR THE PURPOSE OF PARTIAL REPAYMENT OF YOUR DEBT TO SOCIETY, YOU ARE ALLOCATED TO EXPERIMENT 4739/A/T7603 AT THE HALLUCENOGENIC DRUG RESEARCH CENTRE (HDRC), WIRREL. YOU ARE ENTITLED TO THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION ABOUT THIS EXPERIMENT AND ITS PERSONNEL:

- THE EXPERIMENT WILL BE CONDUCTED UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF DR. J.D. WIESEN Mem.RSME, DPhil. MHA, MDTRD, AT THE ABOVE ESTABLISHMENT.

- THE EXPERIMENT INVOLVES THE INJECTION OF A PREVIOUSLY UNTESTED DRUG, SYNTHESIS AND DESIGNATION OF WHICH IS CLASSIFIED (Rem Par 45/rgr-CLSSFD).

- THERE IS PREDICTED TO BE A THIRTY-THREE PERCENT (33%) CHANCE OF FATALITY, A TWO POINT FOUR PERCENT CHANCE OF PERMANENT BRAIN DAMAGE.

- PREVIOUS SUBJECTS HAVE REPORTED MILD HALLUCINATORY EPISODES DURING AS FOR A SHORT WHILE AFTER TREATMENT.

- IN THE EVENT OF YOUR DEATH, YOUR PERSONAL BELONGINGS WILL BECOME PROPERTY OF DEBTCOM.

- YOU HAVE NO RIGHT OF APPEAL.

- NEED HELP IN DIFFICULT TIMES? CLICK HERE FOR THE BEST LIFE ASSURANCE DEALS IN THE UK!

The writing on the card faded as soon as I lifted my thumb.

So, the computer had predicted odds of two-to-one. They were not the best odds I had heard of, but not the worst either: I know of a man who had been given a ninety-eight percent Debt to Society for murdering five children and then sexually assaulting their lifeless bodies. The army snapped him up. They gave him a ninety-six percent fatal task – “Demonstration of a Possible Survival Technique for High-Altitude Descents.” They threw him from an aircraft 3,000 feet up, with no parachute, and asked him to flail his arms and legs as he fell, and do you know what…he broke both his legs but he survived. He was a lucky guy, although perhaps not so lucky: for the remaining two percent of his DTS they gave him a bullet-proof jacket to test, and the high velocity bullets went straight through the jacket and him as well. He died two days later.

Perhaps that last two percent was poorly calculated, but somehow I doubt it.

Then a trembling started deep within me. I knew it would come sometime, it always did. It was not the background fear that is continuously with all DTS prisoners, but more an overwhelming tide of panic. The body begins to sweat profusely, limbs start shaking and there is this deep stomach-based sensation of maggots slowly eating your guts. (It is this fear that makes the DTS method so expedient. There is no long term denial of privileges and pleasures which is such a burden on society. The fear of death is a much more effective measure. For society and science it works.)

Through my sweat and tear-filled eyes I saw Dr. Wiesen pick up a syringe. He attached a fresh needle to the end and broke off the sterile seal. He lifted an unmarked bottle containing a yellow liquid, punctured the cap, and filled the syringe. When he was satisfied that there were no trapped air bubbles, he leaned over me. That smile had returned.

"Best of luck," he said, and pushed the hypodermic into my arm.

"Thanks," I said as calmly as I could manage, intent on limiting the amount of pleasure he could get from the moment. DTS prisoners know his type well, they are all too common. My fear receded as the drug began to act. A tingling crept up my arm and shortly after there was a feeling of weightlessness.

I can remember little of the next three days: just vague memories; my mind tearing itself from my body and then looking down at my prostrate form; images of a wild rocky coastline, incredibly noisy with the waves and the gulls; falling down a cliff, desperately reaching for handholds to slow my fall. And the were memories of the laboratory, of entering the head of Dr. Wiesen's assistant, of playing with him like a puppetmaster, forcing him to cut Dr. Wiesen's throat and his own, again and again and again. And then an inestimable long time just sitting on the floor of an empty cell in which I could barely stand up.

Three days later I awoke to the smells of stale vomit, sweat, and disinfectant. Dr, Wiesen's assistant was standing over me with a genuine smile; there were no marks on his throat.

"Congratulations, you made it," he said. "We thought you weren't going to pull through when your temperature reached 110, but you proved us wrong. You thrashed around quite a lot while you were under, so take it easy."

I started to lift my head and I understood what he meant. The restraining band had so bruised my neck that it felt as if it were broken. My wrists and ankles felt little better, and my buttocks and shoulder-blades were also sore from being too long in contact with the couch.

But I soon forgot my pain with the realisation that I was still alive. A glorious feeling of sheer pleasure at being alive, of victory, overwhelmed me. My tears were no longer of fear but of happiness.

Dr. Wiesen's assistant cared for me over the next few days, plying me continuously with questions about my experience. When I had recovered, two guards came and escorted me back to the prison. I was left for an hour to clean myself up and to gather my belongings.

When I was ready, the guards accompanied me to the governor, and there was a spring in my step as I walked.

As I entered the governor's room the middle-aged man leaned back in his seat and regarded me thoughtfully. Presently he stood up, pushed his chair back and came towards me.

"Well Davidson," he said, "You have repaid your Debt to Society. A new identity card has been made up with your debt and crimes eradicated. You can collect it with your things. No doubt you want to get out of here and celebrate as soon as you can, but I there are some formalities to be gone through."

The formalities turned out to be a lengthy lecture that featured the phrase “I hope you have learned your lesson” on more than one occasion, and about some pathetic advice about how to fit back into the “real world”. Eventually he wound down, wished me luck and said he hoped he would never see me again, at least under similar circumstances. Then the guards led me through a series of passages and a large set of double doors, and I walked free of the prison.

The fresh air assailed my lungs, and the sun seemed brighter than I remembered. There was life teeming around me; people, birds and dogs all producing a glorious cacophony. The light, fresh breeze tousled my hair.

Over the past two days I have done three things of note.

Firstly, I have savoured my life and my freedom.

On the first day I sat alone on the Common breathing the spring air, watching the wind blowing through the trees above the courting couples and the playing children. I stayed there a long time and when I arose I laughed aloud at the dampness of my trousers and at the criss-cross pattern etched into the palms of my hands by the grass.

The third thing that I did is that I sat at the small desk in my apartment and wrote this story.

But it is not a story, it is the truth and it is a plea for help.

Let me tell you my third deed since I gained my freedom.

Last night I went out to a bar and I picked up a young girl, 19, maybe 20. She was tall with long brown hair and a pretty face. She called herself Tracy. She let me walk her home and when we arrived at her flat she invited me in. As soon as the door had closed I put my hands around her neck and strangled her. I want you to know that I didn’t assault her, I am not that type, but I did remove her clothing to give a good effect. She looked so pale laying there, just a child really.

Now I am sitting here waiting for the police and that niggling fear has returned.

Debtcom will sentence me to a DTS in the ninety-percent plus range this time, I know it. The very first time it gave me twenty-one percent for killing a security guard during an armed robbery. It was not my fault, he moved suddenly and the gun I was holding went off in my sweating hands. My last sentence was for robbing and murdering an old hobo, I meant to do that.

Soon I will be going back again. I don't know if I will survive this time. I hope I do for the sake of my addiction.

They say Russian Roulette’s addictive, don't they?