Soul Page 24

  ‘I am Colonel Huntington’s assistant. The job is demanding.’

  ‘Indeed. So demanding that you cannot see me in the evenings, nor even visit Highfield Manor.’

  ‘I will hunt with you, if that’s what you wish.’

  ‘You know what I wish. But I understand. As I know well, James is très amusant.’

  Hamish winced, a small tic appearing under one eye.

  ‘I want you back in my salon,’ Lady Morgan said bluntly. ‘As I’ve said many a time, I am an understanding woman, probably one of the most forgiving in Mayfair. God forgive me my guilelessness.’

  ‘Indeed, Frances, you are known for your good grace.’

  Hamish couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. She decided to ignore the remark.

  ‘But, my dear,’ she gave his knee a playful squeeze, ‘I think the real question is whether the young wife would be so understanding. After all, she is one of those tiresome women who is foolish enough to believe she is in love with her husband.’

  Hamish placed her hand back onto her own lap. ‘Madame, are you attempting to blackmail me?’

  His voice, deceptively friendly, was in complete contrast to his query; a technique he had observed in his benefactress when she intended to disorient her enemies. Recognising the mimicry, Lady Morgan threw back her head and laughed. The boy was quick and could really play the game, she acknowledged, realising that it was this very trait that had attracted her to him in the first place. Now she desired him more than ever.

  ‘Would I be that gauche? But I should warn you, there are some men who are like light white wine; delicious as you drink, but, alas, soon evaporate from the palate. Then there are those rare individuals who resemble a regal claret: complex, full-bodied, perhaps difficult at first but completely seductive in a way that can haunt one an entire lifetime. Be careful, my friend.’

  She caressed his cheek lightly, then opened the carriage door. The day and its trivialities rushed in, a welcome reprieve for Hamish, who now only wished to be somewhere else.

  ‘I believe there is a time in one’s life when one becomes profoundly aware of one’s own mortality, and it is at this juncture that one may enter a state of such moral dissolution that one is capable of doing anything or becoming anyone merely for the experience of sensation. In my case, the premature death of my mother ignited a desire for experience—to toy with death, to lose myself in pure sensation. And, my friend, I did. It was simply good fortune that I retained enough wit to record my experiences for posterity. My adventures became my study and then my profession. However, at the age of forty-five, a great sadness paralysed me, the most extraordinary sense of futility pervading every action. I decided I needed an heir, someone who would carry my lineage through future generations. I had tired of short-term pleasures, of affairs, of masculine encounters…’

  Here the Colonel faltered, causing Hamish to glance up from the oars.

  They had hired a boat to row on the Serpentine—an innocent pastime for two friends on a breezy Saturday afternoon. There was little one could do, out there in the open, surrounded by grassed parkland that had begun to crackle with the approaching season. It had been the Colonel’s intention to talk about very un-innocent things in an innocuous landscape, the landscape of his adolescence.

  ‘It was at that point that I decided to get married,’ he went on. ‘Lavinia’s youth attracted me. I suppose I expected a rejuvenation of my own spirit, an infection of enthusiasm.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Hamish, watching a man on the bank tossing bread to a swan, held back his own nervousness. Such restraint, he thought; if only he knew how restrained I am.

  ‘Initially, there was an excitement. She reminded me why I had sought meaning in human behaviour and cultures. But perhaps it is a futile exercise to categorise, to impose a logic upon the primal instincts of Man.’

  ‘Phrenology is a genuine science, James. It is researched, substantiated, as is anthropology.’

  ‘Or are they coloured by Man’s insidious need to define everything and everyone? We are changelings, my sweet friend; evolving entities, not fixed by Nature.’

  The Colonel paused again, the shadow of a weeping willow crossing his face as they floated past the bank. Hamish thought he spied a pensiveness that softened the determined jaw. Then, quietly, the action hidden within the confines of the rowboat, the Colonel reached across and took the younger man’s hand between his own.

  ‘I have tried to be responsible,’ he said.

  The landscape seemed to exhale before they spoke; the weight of their words brushing against lips, the incrimination of implicit desire thickening the air. Hamish squeezed the Colonel’s hand, the slightest of movements.

  ‘You cannot be what you are not.’

  ‘Ahh, but who am I?’ The Colonel’s whispered reply was a question that required no answer.

  42

  Los Angeles, 2002

  THE DINER WAS POPULAR with the Sunday crowd—fashionable young couples who lived at the foot of the Hollywood hills. Dating from the 1930s, the restaurant was decorated with signed photographs of the various celebrities who had eaten there. The waitresses, wearing aprons trimmed with white frills, hovered around the glass-topped tables edged with silver chrome. Charlie Parker played out of an old-fashioned coin-operated record booth in the corner, the robotic arm swinging over the vinyl to land in the shining black groove and releasing a voice from over forty years before. Some tables had strollers parked next to them, the bewildered babies marooned in them gazing wide-eyed at other children perched on their parents’ laps, many screaming for attention. Filled with the scent of frying bacon undercut by the aroma of maple syrup, the whole restaurant was alive with conversation and laughter.

  Julia sat alone in a corner booth reading her research notes; she’d gone to the diner after her customary trek through Griffith Park. It was a place she used to frequent with Klaus and one she’d only just plucked up enough courage to return to, determined to reclaim some of her territory. A boy of about three, dressed in denim overalls and oversized sneakers, wandered up to the table; his eyes wide with solemnness, he offered Julia a sugar container. This could have been my son, she thought, blinking back sudden tears.

  The boy watched her with a fascinated perplexity, wondering at the shifting expression on this strange woman’s face. Before Julia had a chance to take the sugar container, the child was swept off his feet and carried away by his disapproving mother.

  ‘Julia?’

  Recognising the voice, she looked up. Carla stood in front of her table, looking almost as shocked as Julia.

  ‘I was just sitting over there…’

  Julia froze, too anxious to look behind her in case Klaus was at the same table.

  ‘…with my father,’ Carla explained, sensing her apprehension. I was on my way to the restroom when I saw you.’

  ‘What do you want, Carla?’

  Carla, shifting nervously, put out her hand. It hung in the air, unspeakably small against the immensity of the gesture.

  ‘I heard about the miscarriage. Julia, I am so sorry.’

  Julia was speechless. She glanced at the exit; she could walk out, but she was still waiting for her breakfast, and as the restaurant was crowded it would be impossible to leave quickly with any dignity.

  ‘How dare you? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’ Julia’s angry tone attracted the attention of the people at the next table.

  ‘Julia, I swear if it could have been any other way—’

  ‘You expect me to believe that? You have no notion about love or friendship. Now get out of my sight.’

  Carla walked away. A moment later, Julia saw her leave with her father.

  ‘One serve of crispy bacon, two eggs sunny side up, hash browns with one side of pancakes.’ The waitress, indifferent to the lingering tension in the air, in pigtails, bright pink lipstick, her teeth covered by metal braces, noisily plonked the plate down in front of Julia. ‘Enjoy.’
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br />   As she ate, Julie tried to lose herself in her research notes, but as she read she found her mind wandering to Lavinia Huntington. How had that young woman survived standing in the dock listening to the accusation of murder? Had she loved her husband? Was it possible that James Huntington could have driven her to murder? Suddenly furious with her own circumstances, Julia put down her fork and, after leaving money on the table, left the diner.

  The magnetoencephalography equipment covered the shorn heads of the non-identical twins like bizarre space helmets. Wires ran down the back of their necks and into two computers that sat side by side in the laboratory. The two men were watching a large screen showing footage of one soldier killing another with a bayonet. They were separated by a partition so they could not be influenced by each other’s reactions.

  Julia and Gabriel studied two monitors, one for each man, showing a magnetic mapping of the regions of the brain that were firing synapses in response to the visual stimuli.

  An area lit up on the left monitor. Gabriel leaned closer. ‘Subject B.’

  ‘His name’s Ronald—Ronald Mack. His brother is Sammy,’ Julia said.

  ‘Yeah, whatever. Ronald’s amygdala just got all excited, suggesting he might be experiencing an increase in fear and anxiety.’

  ‘Nothing’s registering in Sammy’s.’

  ‘Sammy’s the ace commando, Ronald’s behind the desk, right?’

  Julia nodded. She pulled out the printouts of the brothers’ gene activity profiles; the specific gene she had isolated was circled in red pen. Sure enough, Sammy’s DNA showed high activity of a previously uncharacterised gene she was beginning to suspect was the gene function she was searching for. The same gene showed a different activity profile on Ronald’s chart—a clear indication that their individual reaction to violence was genetically wired.

  ‘Check this out—there’s no variation in the MAOA expressed, which means…?’

  ‘It’s definitely a mutant gene function.’

  ‘Exactly. And I’ve decided to christen it: ANG–1. ANG standing for anger.’

  ‘So now we have a name for the Minotaur in the labyrinth but we still haven’t actually caught sight of it.’

  ‘That, my friend, may take months.’

  ‘I still suspect there’s another factor involved, one we’re not testing for yet.’

  Julia glanced at Gabriel, surprised by his confidence but sensing he may be right. Perhaps she had underestimated him; he had the same focus she’d had at his age—the right kind of meticulous curiosity and tenacity needed to make a good scientist. To her annoyance she suddenly saw him as a man, and an attractive man, at that.

  ‘If you have any sudden insights, let me know,’ she said. ‘But at least we’re into the labyrinth now and running.’

  ‘Ah, but here’s the paradox: are we hunting the Minotaur or is it hunting us?’ he asked, the intensity in his voice intriguing her further.

  43

  ‘I KNOW I MAY SEEM AN unlikely candidate for scientific progress unless it’s in the area of robotics…’

  The audience—a mixture of business delegates, scientists and various industry representatives—laughed uproariously. The Candidate, famous for playing an android in a blockbuster action film in the late twentieth century, laughed with them, his squared jaw wide, teeth glinting unnaturally.

  ‘Oh please,’ Julia murmured sarcastically to Andrew, who looked particularly resplendent in a Gucci suit he’d obviously purchased for the occasion.

  ‘Give the guy some respect, he’s a demi-god.’ Applauding enthusiastically, Andrew’s gaze never left the stage.

  Isolated in her cynicism, Julia glanced back at the Candidate, thoroughly unamused by the sycophantic display of hero worship. The conference hall was festooned with banners advertising Xandox’s company logo—a double helix composed of glittery silver arrows—and posters of the Candidate. The giant pharmaceutical company had staged the event in an attempt to seduce the government into passing legislation that allowed contentious research, such as stem-cell and genetic manipulation, under the guise of promoting working relationships between commerce, politics and science.

  ‘I believe that with sensible and faith-sensitive legislation, we can see this state leading the world in this revolutionary and exciting field. Science is big business! I am big business!’

  The crowd erupted again, swept up by the Candidate’s rhetoric. Even Julia had to admit he had a gift for infecting everyone with his celebrity, as if by supporting him one was instantly elevated from the banality of everyday life and propelled into a parallel glamorous universe—fame by proximity.

  ‘So I want you guys…’

  You guys—there it was again, she thought, the insidious suggestion of the personal.

  ‘…to loosen your ties, drink as many margaritas as you can—after all, Xandox is paying…’ (Another big laugh here.) ‘…Talk business to each other, make deals—let’s put California on the map again!’

  The Candidate waved, then was swiftly escorted from the podium by four squat, muscular bodyguards.

  The two geneticists pushed their way through the crowd to a waiter. Grabbing two margaritas, Julia handed one to Andrew.

  ‘What the hell is faith-sensitive legislation?’ she asked.

  ‘Stem-cell research, sweetie, it’s the next ticking clock. The President wants the industry to use adult stem cells only, or embryonic stem cells that are already in storage.’

  ‘There are problems with that.’

  ‘Sure, but the guy’s got the pro-lifers breathing down his neck. Hey, as we know, the path of progress is littered with bioethical potholes.’

  Andrew scanned the crowd, looking for the right industry representative to lobby. Unlike Julia, he was good at working the room. Watching his face alight with enthusiasm made her feel guilty. Julia knew she should be doing the same. Events like these were invaluable opportunities to canvass for more funding; she couldn’t remember ever witnessing this many power brokers together in the same room.

  ‘Jesus Christ, is that Professor Bedelmayer over there?’ Andrew whistled in awe.

  A towering figure in his early eighties, Bedelmayer was universally feared. President and co-owner of Xandox, he’d studied alongside Crick and Watson at Cambridge in the 1950s, and held an MBS (Harvard) and a PhD (MIT). He was one of the few men in the States who had the influence to completely bury a research venture or kick-start it with full funding. In short, he was considered a deity.

  Julia swung around and tried not to stare. She had only seen the man once before—on the front cover of Forbes magazine.

  Andrew took a big swig of his margarita. ‘Okay, so he’s at the top of my dance card, followed by…’ He shamelessly rotated 360 degrees, then reversed 30. ‘Sony over there—they have a division I want to get sponsorship from. I have an idea about nanotechnology being able to speed up detection processes. What about you? Girl, you have to get out there and mingle. Besides, you’re the only one here with legs.’

  Reluctantly, Julia surveyed the small clusters of businessmen, then noticed a short man striding towards her.

  ‘Damn, I’ve been spotted.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Starboard. Some rep from Xandox, I owe him a call. Cover me while I lose him.’

  Andrew glanced at the man who was now about twenty yards away. ‘He is rather attractive in a bearish kind of way.’

  ‘Please, Andrew.’

  ‘Just remember, you owe me, big time. Now vanish.’

  Andrew moved in front of her and smiled in an overtly sexual manner at the representative, who, confounded, stopped in his tracks. Julia disappeared into the crowd, weaving her way to the other side of the hall, glass in hand. Someone grabbed her arm.

  ‘Professor Julia Huntington? I’ve been looking for you.’

  A bullish man in chinos and an expensive Ralph Lauren suede jacket cornered her.

  ‘Jonathan Jenkins,’ Julia said. ‘A dubious pleasure.’

 
Jenkins was the head of the claims division of an insurance company for whom Julia had once written a report on DNA and its uses in insurance claims—something she’d regretted ever since.

  ‘I can live with that,’ Jenkins said. ‘I hear you’ve landed a very interesting commission for the Defense Department.’

  ‘You insure the army now?’ Julia replied deadpan. Jenkins broke into unconvincing laughter.

  Cornered, Julia scanned the crowd—and thought she sighted an escape route. A man in his mid-thirties, suntanned, standing by himself near a drinks table, smiled at her. Julia automatically smiled back, even though she didn’t recognise him.

  ‘I need to circulate,’ she said. ‘You know how it is at these events.’

  As she stepped away, Jonathan Jenkins grabbed her arm—tightly. ‘Don’t be such a party pooper,’ he hissed.

  ‘Hey, Julia, we have a conference call at nine,’ the suntanned man called out as he strode towards them. He was well built, his casual clothes hiding a body that looked threateningly muscular, and there was a vigour about his movements that suggested to Julia he could possibly be military. Now closer, Julia could see that the attractive symmetry of his face was muted by a nose that looked as if it might have been broken once.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘That would be right about now.’ He put his hand firmly on Jenkins’ shoulder. ‘Now, if you would just let go of the lady.’

  Reluctantly, the insurance representative released Julia. ‘Sure, can’t keep business waiting,’ he said, and turned to face Julia, the threat transparent in his countenance. ‘We’ll be tracking your progress, Professor.’

  Julia watched him vanish behind the suits.

  ‘I’d thank you,’ she said, ‘except I don’t know you. Or do I?’

  ‘Not yet, but relax, I’m on your side.’