Soul Read online

  ‘I have neither sister nor aunt.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘My mother died when I was two.’

  The youth pocketed the five guineas Lavinia gave him, then peered closer at her face, searching her features. He sighed. ‘Remarkable.’

  Replacing his wig, he opened the carriage door and climbed down. ‘You may remember me to the Colonel. I am known as Polly Kirkshore.’ Then, smiling whimsically, he slipped away into the night’s embrace.

  36

  Los Angeles, 2002

  A BUTTERFLY HOVERED AND skipped over the surface of the swimming pool, incongruous against the background of telegraph poles reaching up beyond the wire fencing, its multi-hued wings catching the sunlight, the long tips of its wings trailing behind—a winged messenger of the natural world.

  Julia sat marooned in a cane reclining chair, the blood sample she’d come for safely stored in the briefcase at her feet. Lieutenant Colonel Axel Jensen, a bulky sixty year old whose leathery tanned stomach fell in gentle ripples over his loose swimming trunks, sat beside her, ice clinking in his glass. He smiled, revealing immaculately capped teeth. Julia knew they were capped because the day before she’d met his identical twin, whose teeth were comparatively decayed.

  The house, located in a quiet street in Van Nuys, was a collision of painted steel and stucco. The concrete and grass patio curved around the pool, and sliding glass doors revealed an open plan kitchen with a sunken seating area furnished with leather sofas. There was even a bar with a bamboo canopy. It was the ultimate playboy’s den circa 1972, and, judging by the peeling paint and chipped pool tiles, it had not been renovated since then. Axel Jensen, the personification of old-world masculinity, appeared a natural extension of his environment.

  After glancing down to tcheck that the tape recorder was working, Julia peered into his mirrored sunglasses. ‘So, tell me about what happened in the Gulf.’

  ‘Well, I was in command of an airborne ranger unit, professor. People like us—soldiers who are sent in behind enemy lines to locate and eliminate the brains of the beast—we’re the elite. We’re there because we want to be. We’re trained hunters.’ ‘All the other survivors from your unit developed PTSD, except you.’

  ‘They also developed Gulf War syndrome, a third testicle and all kinds of other shit. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it doesn’t exist; I’m just saying there’s a psychology that’s better suited to this job.’

  A jet roared overhead, followed by the screeching departure of a coterie of crows that had been perched on the telegraph wires.

  ‘I guess I’m a rare kind of creature,’ Jensen went on. ‘Every time I was in combat, something would go click in my head and I just carried out my missions as efficiently as possible and as ruthlessly as necessary. You’ve interviewed my identical twin, Lance the accountant. You want to know why I think we are similar? We both hate mess, Professor Huntington. Lance hates messy numbers and I hate messy situations. He likes correcting the sums; I kill to save lives. That’s war. I have a gift, but I’ve used it for the common good. Another margarita, ma’am?’

  He held up his empty tumbler, the slice of lime on the edge of the glass like a defiant balancing act. Julia smiled, ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind if I do, and you can switch that damned thing off.’ She clicked off the tape recorder.

  He stood up lazily, muscles bunching in the varicose-vein-laced calves, and sauntered to the wet bar. Reaching for the plastic flask of tequila with one hand, he pulled open the bar fridge door with the other.

  ‘This report of yours…’ He poured the tequila then the margarita mix into the glass with the practised gestures of the habitual drinker. A bowl of limes sat on the counter already sliced and waiting. ‘…are you keeping the names of the soldiers involved out of it?’ He swung around, a new drink miracuously in hand.

  ‘Absolutely. All information remains confidential.’

  ‘Pity. I like the idea of immortality. My name immortalised in the pursuit of science. The only damn way this name is going to be remembered.’

  She felt him watching her, like a predator sniffing out vulnerability in its prey—yet she sensed he liked her. Glancing around at the neglected, inherently masculine surroundings, she wondered whether it wasn’t simply because she was female; her maroon summer dress a seam of colour that blasted through the washed-out concrete, the bleached cane chairs, the desiccated cactus leaning against the stucco. Suddenly claustrophobic, Julia checked her watch and stood. ‘I should be going. Be good to avoid the afternoon pile-up on the freeway. Thanks for co-operating. I’ll ring you later with a time to come into the laboratory, Lieutenant Colonel.’

  ‘Sure. They can say what they like about Axel Jensen, but they can’t say I’m unpatriotic.’

  She held out her hand and he shook it. He radiated a mix of cheap cologne and drying chlorine cut with the faint smell of coconut. The familiar aroma reminded Julia of a certain generation of men—her father’s generation—and she found that she had warmed to the soldier, regardless of his politics.

  Sensing the change in her attitude, he held onto her hand a moment longer than necessary. Julia pulled it free.

  ‘One last thing,’ she ventured. ‘There was an incident in Brazil last year…’

  The lieutenant colonel’s body language altered instantly; the first time that afternoon he appeared off guard.

  ‘They briefed you on that?’

  Julia hesitated and in that split second he read the lie. Taking her by the elbow he started to lead her to the front gate.

  ‘I’m retired now. I’m way out of the loop, just an old dog waiting to die. It pays to play dumb, Professor Huntington, that’s one thing I’ve learned. Don’t be the branch they want to chop off—because they will do it. I guarantee it.’

  Julia drove down the freeway analysing the two interviews. Lance, the accountant, sitting in his immaculate office, where even the paperclips looked as if they’d been filed, appeared almost autistic in his lack of social interaction. But he had identical mannerisms to his soldier brother, even down to a twitch under the left eyelid. Both men had married at the same age to similar-looking women; both had musical abilities; both professed to a faith—for Lance Jensen it was evangelism; for Axel Jensen, nihilism. Lance had left the army before he experienced any action, but was it possible that, in an extreme circumstance, he would be able to kill without experiencing remorse afterwards? Or if the mutant gene function existed, might it be lessened in the identical twin—only triggered by an extraordinary situation?

  The thought led Julia to her own family. If her great-grandmother murdered her husband, what did that mean in terms of her own genetic inheritance?

  I’m slipping into paranoia, Julia told herself. If there is such a mutant gene function, the chances that I’ve inherited it are slight—almost negligible.

  As she parked the car, the image of the lieutenant colonel’s face when she asked him about the Brazil incident—the way it hardened, the sudden detachment that infused his gaze—came back to her, and lingered all afternoon.

  37

  THE HUM OF THE INCUBATORS was comforting. Julia loved this sensation of being in the kernel of activity; the laboratory was a sanctuary, a quiet place of study where she could escape and exist entirely within her work.

  Having stained the chromosomes in selected cell samples from her subjects, she was now carefully manipulating the dish under the lens of the microscope. A small screen next to it displayed the magnification process, allowing her to focus her attention on the chromosomes’ arrangement and juxtaposition as she looked for any irregularities or distinguishing features.

  After recording her microscope and DNA analysis in her workbook, Julia stood in the middle of the laboratory and stretched out her arms. The sudden inrush of the outside world terrified her—knowing she had to keep busy before the insidious sense of loss that haunted her crept back in, she packed away her notes and went to her office. She b
ooted up her laptop, then Googled five words: Brazil, 2001, US Special Forces. The only result was a concise description of a small squadron stationed outside of São Paulo. No mention of any ‘incident’.

  Julia was tempted to phone Colonel Smith-Royston, her contact at the Defense Department, but Axel Jensen’s words troubled her. It would be foolish to assume she could trust the Defense department official entirely.

  Logging off, she leaned back in her chair and realised that for the first time in two months she had nothing to do. It would take forty-eight hours before the next phase of her experiments could proceed, and the thought of driving back to an empty house on a Sunday was unbearably depressing.

  As Julia walked up the hill to the observatory, she wondered whether she was the only single person in the whole of Griffith Park. Large Latino families wound their way out of the crowded car park, their dark-eyed children trailing behind, some chewing on twists of sugared churros; others clutching huge batons of ice cream that dripped white streaks down their T-shirts. Couples of every nationality were clustered on park benches staring down at the view, or promenading along hand in hand; the young men jaunty with self-importance, the girls in their Sunday finery. Some hobbled along in tight jeans and high shoes. Others looked as if they had come straight from church, with neat freshly ironed blouses and pleated skirts, their hair corn-braided, as if after the worship of God came the worship of Nature.

  Julia started along her favourite track. It snaked through the hills in lazy bends and sharp corners, passing small ravines and twisted trees set low in the natural scrubland. As she climbed higher, the groups of strolling families disappeared and soon only the dedicated walkers and joggers accompanied her. The air grew cooler and the sound of the city fell away. Breathing hard, she paused, resting her hands on her knees. Below stretched downtown Los Angeles, the last of the afternoon sun bouncing off the skyscrapers like a running seam of quicksilver, an afternoon mist beginning to taint the air with a soft green.

  The mechanical croaking of frogs radiated from a pond beneath a wooden bridge. Julia squatted and stared at the miniature ecosystem. It was little more than a glorified puddle, the brown water tangled with weeds, a Coke can half buried to one side, forming an exotic jetty. A microcosm that seemed entirely separate from the world above. Watching the progress of a tiny emerald beetle that was balanced precariously on the can, Julia lost herself. Then, as she stood, she remembered this was the very place she’d stopped to catch her breath six months earlier with Klaus.

  They’d paused to look out over the city; the endless panorama had seemed like an optimistic metaphor for their future. She’d leaned against his chest feeling profoundly content, the scent of him faint against the smell of eucalyptus. The distant car hoots and city rumble drifted up like forgotten smoke.

  ‘Enjoy the view, darling. Life’s about to get very busy,’ she’d said, referring to her looming trip to the Middle East and Klaus’s latest writing commission. But Klaus had remained silent, and when she looked at him she’d seen that he was absolutely distanced from her, his gaze searching the view below. In that moment she’d had the uncomfortable impression that he was looking for all the possibilities that had eluded him—romantic or otherwise.

  Now she realised his behaviour was probably an indication of discontent, one of the signs Gabriel had mentioned.

  Winston Ramirez’s voice sounded in her mind, as if bubbling up from the mud, from the noise her walking shoes made as they hit the ground: one foot, two foot, three. What you’ve got to understand is the ease of killing if you have that extra capability to put things in a box. This is my killing box. This is my love box, my hate box, my family box. A good soldier doesn’t confuse them. Ever. It’s impersonal. But you know what: if someone wronged me, really wronged me, and it did get personal, I could kill then walk away. It’s that extra capability. You can’t fake that. You’ve either got it or you ain’t.

  Julia knew how that kind of killing felt. She’d experienced it in Afghanistan, and she could understand the motivation that might make a person kill again.

  After pulling into the driveway, Julia rested her head on the steering wheel, dreading entering the empty house. Crickets and the faint drone of somebody’s lawnmower faded up from the silence. Suddenly there came the slam of a door from somewhere inside the house. Jolting upright, she reached into the glove box and pulled out the wrench she kept there, then climbed out of the car, gripping it tight against her chest.

  As she moved tentatively toward the front door, Klaus emerged, holding a cardboard box. He stopped and stared at her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Julia demanded; it had been two and a half months since he left and she was shocked to see him now.

  ‘I left a box of tools here, sorry. Anyhow, I still own half the house, remember? That investment remains unresolved.’

  Julia stepped toward him. ‘Klaus, we had a good marriage.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I still love you.’

  ‘Please don’t make this any harder.’ He didn’t look at her, but focused somewhere around her forehead, as if he were gazing into the distance. ‘We can’t talk about this now. Not like this.’

  ‘Then when? You refuse to see me. How can you just annihilate ten years of marriage? Our future, all that we planned for?’

  He picked a snail off the garden wall and threw it over to the neighbour’s side. An automatic habit from when they were living together. He’s still territorial, he still cares, Julia thought, grasping at any hope.

  ‘Everything that needs to be said has been said.’ He still wouldn’t look at her. ‘You needed me to be someone I just wasn’t, Julia, and I went along. I’ve spent more than half my life pleasing women and denying myself.’

  Stunned, Julia sat down on the car bonnet, her hand still clasped around the wrench. She didn’t recognise her husband now as he slowly turned purple with rage, all traces of intelligence dissolving from his face. Now he looked at her, jabbing a finger at her accusingly.

  ‘And you know what else? The only mistake I made was in being too weak to leave you earlier!’

  Screaming, Julia lifted the car wrench and lunged towards him, her fury filling her with an extraordinary strength. Klaus’s face immediately stretched into a caricature of fear.

  ‘You’re fucking crazy!’ He pushed her back down onto a small shrub, the branches scratching and cutting into her back. Kicking him away she swung wildly with the wrench as he ducked, narrowly missing the swinging iron.

  ‘I’m fucking crazy?’ she yelled. ‘Do you know what you’ve done?!’

  Suddenly arms grabbed her from behind. ‘Whoo!’ Gerry, the neighbour, pulled the wrench from Julia’s hand. ‘I was wondering where this got to. You guys borrowed it about five years ago and never gave it back.’

  Nobody laughed. A police helicopter circled overhead as it always did at about 6 p.m. The noise of Klaus and Julia gasping for breath merged with the beat of the rotating blades.

  Gerry dropped his hands and laughed nervously. ‘Wow! Well, I’m impressed. You guys do great argument.’

  Julia, her whole body shaking with grief and rage, lunged for Klaus again. He stumbled back.

  ‘Enough, Julia, enough!’ Gerry grabbed her.

  Ignoring him, she continued trying to reach Klaus. ‘What’s in the box? What are you taking away now?!’

  She wheeled around, Gerry still trying to hold her; their struggle resembled a bizarre ballet, except its violence made the choreography frighteningly unpredictable.

  ‘If you don’t stop, someone is going to ring the police,’ Gerry hissed in her ear.

  Klaus stooped to pick up the carton. ‘These are mine, Julia—photos from before we were married, before I knew you. That’s all I want, the rest is yours. I can do without the memories.’

  He walked toward his car. Julia twisted in Gerry’s arms.

  ‘Don’t go! We can talk! Klaus!’

  He turned. ‘Get some help, Julia.’


  She broke away from Gerry and ran full pelt towards Klaus. Weeping now, she clutched at his arm. He pushed her to the pavement. As his car sped away, the trees, the street and the sky seemed to come crashing down upon her.

  38

  Mayfair, 1861

  THE PHOTOGRAPH WAS OF THE Colonel, with tribal elders standing either side of him clad in painted wooden masks large enough to conceal their heads and shoulders. Long strands of dried grass were attached to the masks and ran down to the ground, completely hiding their bodies and any other indication that they were human. The painted faces of the mythological creatures—dark forehead, a streak of white from brow to chin, a simple oval symbolising a mouth, circles or curved streaks for the cheeks—stared back at the viewer, sinister, not of this world.

  Hamish gazed at the Colonel’s figure dwarfing the tribesmen, his eyes blazing as he stared beyond the camera lens, beyond the known world. The young student, soporific from dinner, imagined how the ritual might have been—the gyrating natives, the masks swaying mesmerically in the flickering fire.

  ‘The day before, we had all fasted to purify our bodies to prepare them for the Spirits,’ Huntington explained. ‘Gilo, my guide, who also worked as my translator, sat with me in a clearing they had made especially on a riverbank. The shaman was a man of about forty years, which is old indeed for the Bakairi. He stood only four foot eleven inches in height but had a ferocious nature. He was a true statesman. He promised me that I would see my Spirit, the gods of my people. At the beginning of the ceremony, we all performed a dance to cleanse the air of evil and to entice the spirits to come up from the river and enter the masks that the twenty-one shamans wore. Campbell, you should have seen how the young boys’ dancing swept up the red dust, stirring up a cloud in which shadow became spirit became man became shadow again. It was extraordinary. Then, after the drumming stopped and all the jungle birds filled the clearing with their shrill screeches, the chief shaman stepped forward. “I am the embodiment of Evaki, I am her page!” he chanted. “You, white ghost! I will dance your past, I will dance your future!”’