Charley paused on the front veranda. Gray clouds had swept in through the morning and a light drizzle fell steadily.
“Jack, I’m worried about Alan.” Lillian’s voice carried through an open window. She sounded angry rather worried.
“Like you’d know,” Charley scolded herself. Lillian did seem to be one of those people she disliked on sight, but an inexplicable, and seemingly mutual, antipathy was no reason to stand eavesdropping and criticizing the woman. As punishment, Charley hugged the folder protectively against her and ran through the rain to her room. Once there, she shed her jacket, toweled the dampness from her hair and put the kettle on to boil.
It was one of those coastal days where the first tentative appearance of spring was beaten back by winter’s determination to linger.
Curled up on a sofa with a mug of tea to hand, the gentle sound of rain—as opposed to the relentless traffic and people noise of Sydney—and the answers to most of her regeneration questions in hand, Charley should have been content to the point of smugness. But Michael Janz had injected the irritant of Jabberwocky.
How had Jack become involved with an arms dealer, and why was he so concerned to keep her away from Jabberwocky? She sipped her tea, her mind drifting in speculation. How did that poem go?
The Lewis Carroll poem drifted tantalizingly just out of reach as her memory of high school English classes failed her. “Why would you call your property after an imaginary monster?”
She put down her mug of tea and powered up her laptop. Once connected to the internet, she easily found a copy of the poem. She read it quickly, then more slowly, trying to make sense of the nonsense. For all the playful words, it was nightmarish.
“Fantastic,” she whispered. She stared out the window. Jabberwocky was a nonsense poem that called up a terrible monster and celebrated its slaughter. “Oh lord.”
She shivered. Walking into the bedroom, she found her cream sweater and pulled it on for extra warmth. “Forget it,” she said aloud. Michael Janz’s questionable sense of humor in naming his property and project Jabberwocky needn’t concern her. She could follow Jack’s advice, sit down with the file he’d given her and do the work she was here for, and which earned her the money to live.
Michael Janz, she thought defiantly, can keep his story.
After five minutes of determined concentration, the detail of bio-enhancement technology and the record of Jack’s development of the process genuinely captured her attention. So much so that the knock at the door hours later startled her.
She set aside the papers and her own notes, and opened the door.
It was Jack. “The rain has stopped.”
“Has it?” She looked vaguely beyond him.
“Let’s take a walk along the beach.” In a fleece jacket, he’d dressed for the conditions.
“Okay.” She stepped back inside for her jacket and shrugged it on, buttoning it to the chin.
As she approached the door, he stretched out a hand and turned up the collar of her jacket. His hand lingered a moment, then retreated. “There’s a storm blowing up. The wind’s blowing from Antarctica.”
“Maybe it’ll blow away some cobwebs.” She offered a small smile, unsettled by the intimacy of his touch. Unlike Michael’s, there was no jolt, only a temptation to relax into it, as if into a caress. She hunched her shoulders and closed the door behind them, inhaling the salt-laden air. “I’ve missed these wild storms off the Indian Ocean.”
“Mhrm.” The meaningless sound acknowledged her comment.
They followed the path from New Hope to the beach. The white sand, gray with rain and surf, stretched out forever to the north, and for a short distance southwards until it encountered a scattered outthrust of rocks and rock pools, half-covered by the waves driven in by the wind. The waves broke violently over the brown rocks, sending spray high into the air.
The beach was deserted.
Jack turned automatically to the south, heading into the gale.
Charley tucked her chin into her collar and followed.
“I’ll tell you about Jabberwocky.” He pitched his voice low, so it carried despite the boom of the surf. “It’s a government-sanctioned, secret research project.”
“Which government?” she asked automatically, forgetting her decision not to pursue the story.
He grinned. “Good point. Nominally, the Australian government, but with Michael involved.” He shrugged. “I didn’t ask.” He walked close beside her so that they could talk without shouting. “It’s not a project I’m proud of…oh, hell. I’m proud and incredibly interested in the project, but I’m not proud of rushing into it. Only, I knew Michael would find someone else to run with it if I didn’t, and as I said, he twisted my arm to participate.”
“Exactly what are we talking about? What sort of bio-enhancements?”
“Sensory. Far more intrusive than simple limb mutations.” He flashed his claws in reflexive action.
“Sensory,” she repeated. Drs. Solomon and Peverill had mentioned something about psychological dangers in their discussion in Sydney.
“The project’s secret, but those few high-ups in the Australian intelligence community who learned of it were keen for their agencies to be involved. There are three trial subjects.”
“People,” she corrected.
He grimaced and accepted the correction. “People. Ted Rovnik, twenty four, a spook with ASIO. I gave him an eagle’s vision. Aaron McIlroy, twenty five, with the Australian Federal Police. He has a bloodhound’s sense of smell. Nicola Payne, twenty four, army captain, promoted for volunteering. I gave her a fox’s hearing. I insisted they all be volunteers—for what that’s worth—and their psychological health was tested before the trial started.”
“Did they grow the new sense organs?”
Jack smiled, unable to hide his sense of triumph. “Yes, and they seem to have adapted to them quite well.”
“So the trial’s successful?”
“No. It’s not finished yet. It was to run a year, minimum, and there are four months left. Moreover.” He frowned. “I don’t think the mental and psychological adaptation to the bio-sensory enhancements is complete. The trio tell me they’re still learning to navigate and understand the world given the changes in perception dictated by the development of their enhancements.”
They walked on in silence, buffeted by the wind. At the first rock pool they stopped and turned their backs to the wind. Charley looked at him. “Why are you so worried about Michael telling me of Jabberwocky and inviting me to visit?”
“Michael uses people. I doubt he’s cleared informing a journalist of the story with the government security agencies involved, and certainly not with Ted, Nic or Aaron.”
“You asked them?”
“I phoned them.” He looked away from Charley and out to sea.
“Jack.” She pulled at his arm, bringing his attention back to her. “If I did the story, I’d respect their privacy. They would be anonymous.” He had to trust her.
He grabbed for his sliding glasses. They were misted with ocean spray and he took them off, slipping them into his jacket pocket. “Do you really want this story, Charley? No, think about it. Just because a story’s offered, doesn’t mean you have to take it. You’ve been splashing in the shallows for a couple of years. Do you really want to plunge in the deep end?”
The question hurt, attacking as it did both her professional ability and her courage. It silenced her admission that she’d decided against pursuing the story.
He swore and swung round to stare out at the ocean.
She looked at his rigid stance, then started walking back along the beach. She had a right, she told herself, to make her own decisions.
And who was Jack to worry about her?
Chapter Five
Annoyed by Jack’s attitude, and her confused appreciation and rejection of his concern, Charley worked late that night. She outlined her lead article on bio-enhancement and New Hope, then put it aside and c
oncentrated on writing a chatty article on dieting by food color that was scheduled for an upcoming edition of a women’s magazine.
“Green foods are cleansing,” she typed. “The Sulphur content of cabbages, for instance, promotes…” She rolled her eyes. She’d been writing such articles for two years and the phrases flowed, but she wondered now how she’d managed to stifle her critical faculties. Her articles didn’t hurt anyone, but she would hardly call them great journalism or even responsible journalism.
Splashing around in the shallows, Jack had called it.
“Blue foods,” she said aloud. Now was not the time for a career crisis or any other form of soul searching. So what if Jack and Michael were the first men she’d noticed since Eric. He’d been lover, husband, torment, friend…her life. His loss had crippled her more than the loss of her hand. A diminishment of spirit.
“Blue foods! Blueberries, eggplant? But that’s really purple. Blue potatoes, plums? Blue swimmer crabs? Blue flowers? Violets, sage, rosemary—rosemary for remembrance.”
But memories weren’t what Charley wanted to take to bed with her.
At the funeral, friends had dropped springs of rosemary onto Eric’s coffin.
Since work failed as an anodyne, she shut down the laptop and went to have a long hot shower, wishing that the apartment included a bath.
“Eric never tried to protect me,” she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Not like Jack.” But she was honest enough to admit that she lied. Eric had tried to protect her, worrying about where her assignments in Africa took her, and generally managing to convince her to go only where he, or a friend, could accompany her.
“But I thought I was invulnerable.” She stripped and stepped into the stream of hot water. “I knew bad things happened, I just couldn’t believe that bad things could happen to Eric and me.”
They’d been trying for a baby.
Charley ran her hand over her flat stomach. So many dreams had died with Eric.
“Hell.” She tilted her face up to the hot water and let her tears wash away.
Almost, Charley stayed away from breakfast. She’d skipped meals before. It wasn’t a big deal.
“Liar.” She glared at her heavy-eyed reflection and brushed her teeth vigorously. She was scared to face Jack.
Last night, in trying to protect her, he’d challenged her courage. He saw her as a person who, faced with tragedy, ran away. It scared her that he might be right. But if she was to finish her story, she had to face him sometime. Breakfast would at least provide other people, a neutral meeting ground so that they could both pretend Jack had never crossed the line into personal issues. Assuming he’d play along with that pretense, and there was no guarantee he would.
She dressed in a warm knit top, red for courage, and jeans. She closed the apartment door behind her and pocketed the key. Shoulders hunched against the morning cool, she hurried across the yard to the central building, where she was noisily jolted out of her self-preoccupation.
Breakfast was served in the dining room. Clients and staff collected bowls of cold and hot cereals, toast and/or fruit and sat down, but not to eat in silence. The place was wired.
Charley looked around for a familiar face and approached Staci Weiss. A direct question generally saved time over the learning-by-osmosis approach. “What’s happened?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Staci’s eyes were bright with excitement, her crutches tucked under her arms so that her hands were free to gesticulate. “Someone broke into the lab last night.”
“Why?”
“A black market in QNA?” Staci laughed and shrugged, then caught her crutches with the ease of practice before they fell. “You know Dr. John hit the news. It was probably a drug addict, someone who thought Dr. John kept exciting drugs here.”
“Does he?”
“I don’t know, but if he does I bet they’re locked up tight. Dr. John’s responsible to the nth degree.” Staci looked beyond Charley to the doorway leading to the offices. “Here’s Lillian. She’ll know what happened.”
For once Lillian wasn’t wearing make-up, and her face was pale and lined. She raised her voice above a babble of questions. “Please, just eat your breakfasts. The police have arrived and are speaking with John. If they need to speak with you, I’m sure they’ll say so.” She pivoted on the last word and hurried from the room. There were questions, but she ignored them all.
Staci’s brow wrinkled. “Not very friendly.” Then she smiled. “Still, breakfast is a good idea. Fresh fruit and muesli. Healthy, healthy, healthy.” Her smile turned wry. “Sometimes I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”
“Is it worth it?” Charley asked involuntarily.
“Absolutely. A year in exchange for a fully functioning body. I’m just grateful I had the money for this.” Staci started to move towards the laid out breakfast options. “Come and eat with us. You can ask the others, they’ll say the same. We’re all grateful for this second chance.”
Charley ate breakfast with Staci and two other clients. The fruit was good, the cereal survivable, but Staci was right: Charley would have killed for a cup of coffee. A break-in was news, but she couldn’t seem to get her brain cells lined up to even think about it.
Emotional hangover from last night, she self-diagnosed. Indulging in memories was dangerous.
“Earth to Charley.” The cheerful voice was Staci’s. “We’re going swimming, want to come along?”
“In the ocean?” Charley hadn’t seen a pool. “You do know it’s winter?”
The younger woman laughed. “Not for much longer. Besides, Dr. John doesn’t believe in babying us.”
Charley declined the treat.
The dining room emptied as people scattered to their physiotherapy, swimming or other activities. Yesterday’s rain had cleared, but the wind was still strong. Charley got up and poured a second cup of green tea.
Dr. Alan Do drifted in at the end of the breakfast rush. He avoided eye contact with everyone. Charley, sitting alone at her table, watched him choose a corner table and barricade himself in behind a magazine which he obviously wasn’t reading. The pages never turned. She knew now that he was Lillian’s husband, a man apparently content to work in Jack’s shadow. At some point, she would interview him for his thoughts on Jack and his work at New Hope, but not now. There was a suggestion of hunched defensiveness in the man’s shoulders that Charley had experienced herself. It meant that at the moment, dealing with the world required more emotional resources than Dr. Do could spare.
“Alan.” Lillian’s voice cut across the clatter of dishes being cleared. Lillian flushed as staff and the few remaining breakfasters, like Charley, looked up from their preoccupations to observe the marital interaction.
Dr. Do stood and rolled his magazine, holding it loosely curled in his left fist. He crossed the room and allowed Lillian to catch him by the arm and pull him out of the room. The nervous but unidentifiable murmur of her voice carried back into the dining room.
Charley twisted the empty teacup in front of her. She felt like a voyeur sometimes, observing other people’s marriages. Would she and Eric have grown into bored impatience with one another? It seemed unlikely. They’d been too passionately committed to their careers and each other for boredom. Nor was it boredom that had tightened Dr. Do’s muscles at the touch of his wife’s hand and crumpled the magazine he held.
Charley pushed her empty cup away. She had work to do: the chatty article she’d started last night, and the research for the articles she intended to write on regeneration and bio-enhancement. For a start, she should rough out the questions she would ask Staci and a couple of other New Hope clients who were willing to be interviewed.
There was plenty to be done, but instead of walking back to her guest apartment, she strolled on down to the beach. The swimmers, not having eaten much breakfast, were already in the water. They weren’t swimming out far, just venturing far enough for the salt water to support their bodies.
Stac
i waved, and Charley waved back but kept walking. She reached the solitude of the rocks at the end of the beach, and scrambled up them. Here she was far enough from the swimmers that their conversation faded. Looking out at the ocean, she could imagine she was alone.
The feeling had the comfort of two years’ familiarity. Eric’s death had revealed an unexpected solitariness to her soul. It was as if solitude gave her the security to release her defenses against the world, against caring.
Charley ventured further along the rocks, absorbed in the sense of space around her. The ocean went on forever, ending only when it met the sky.
“Ow!” Her left foot slipped on piece of seaweed stranded on the rocks at high tide. Her right foot found slippery purchase on the wet rock, and she only saved herself from cut knees and bruises when her outflung hand connected with a taller rock and steadied her balance.
Carefully, she found surer footing, then studied her grazed hand. The taller rock, less battered by waves, was rough and had cut her.
“Death trap,” she muttered, although she had only her own inattention to blame. Nonetheless, the mood of splendid isolation was broken, and she picked her way down from the slick, wet rocks to the dry. Then she moved faster until she was back standing on the soft white sand at the base of the rocks.
The swimmers were still paddling and chatting as she hurried past. She wasn’t bothered so much by the pain of her shallowly cut hand as by the inattention that had caused it. It nagged at her that in visiting New Hope she had blurred the line between work and personal life to an unanticipated degree. Jack had blurred the line. He treated her as a friend, as…
She shook her head and trudged up the beach track. The dune grasses gave way to New Hope’s gardens.
“Charley.” Jack crossed the courtyard. He looked anxious, yet relieved to see her.
“Good morning. I heard about the break-in.” She snatched at the neutral topic. “Was anything taken?”
Beyond Regeneration Page 5
