Jane spilled her rice almost immediately, and I had to suppress a grin; she had turned quickly because she thought she heard something behind her. She maintained it wasn’t a mistake – she’d definitely heard something, something was definitely there, behind us.
The next morning we bathed with a cup by the edge of the stream and gathered our drinking water upstream in a large pail. We let the sterilising tablet dissolve and attached the lid firmly. Alice and I went out to survey the wider area, while Jane continued to establish the camp, laying out the equipment and preparing the kitchen as I’d instructed. Alice was different, focused but calm, as if she’d relaxed into herself now that the work had begun. A tension had broken. The air remained humid. Alice had told us that on the verge of the rainy season we should expect long rains, three to four hours every day, usually through the afternoons. It would get worse as we went on. This first morning I was struck by the loud, startling bird calls attending the stream of small canopy pieces dropping from the weight of the previous days’ rain. A thick, bitter smell enveloped us, and there was a fog, a whitish green opacity, and insects I mistook, at times, for birds.
We’d been warned about these. The insects around Westenra were especially virulent, another reason the park had closed. We were being bitten all the time. I didn’t know how they got under the material. A freshly swollen bite, cut from the needle-like mouth, seemed to have a stone inside, and I couldn’t stop digging until I’d got it out. Already they perforated my shoulders, my hips, my ankles, my insteps.
The newly mutated vampire mosquitoes – named for their unusual longevity, an inadvertent effect of WHO efforts to control and limit reproduction by altering the genome – left a particularly irritable bite. There might have been fewer of the insects, but it didn’t feel like it. Most estimates had the annual number of bites as unchanging, at best slightly down. Perhaps even the total body mass remained stable. This, after all the promises, was a disaster. CRISPR-X cut into the genome, adapting the germline so mosquito offspring were highly weighted towards males, non-toxic and non-birthing. The change was to spread quickly through and dominate the population. Malaria and other insect-borne diseases were to disappear entirely; the species would eventually reach a tipping point and collapse. Now that the failure of the project was clear, officials lined up to deny responsibility. They’d done everything they could, running simulations of extraordinary power, but not one had managed to conceive of what would actually happen.
Previous lifespans were short, typically two to three months; this was now massively prolonged. Several papers presented evidence the mosquito was now living upwards of a year. This had seemed highly unlikely, requiring structural changes to the insect body, fortifying the lower tear-shaped abdomen and altering wing speed to carry larger blood packages. They flew with a new dip in their arc from the extra blood. A descent, as if free-falling, the quick collapse giving further momentum and driving and launching them upwards through the air.
Bigger, the insects were at least easier to spot. Rather than striking both hands together, I tried to catch them by flexing my palm and snapping it shut, like a Venus flytrap or a serpent’s jaw. Even if I did get one, it produced an explosion, a small balloon of blood popping. Alice noted it was becoming a problem in home and interior design in the tropics: how to mitigate against the likelihood of blood spilling. Clear plastic sheeting over all surfaces was the cheapest option, while the recent trend was for darker furnishings, better at concealing the blood colour. More expensive synthetic materials explicitly designed to be ‘blood deleterious’ were rolled out for sofas, carpets and bed-sheets, though its durability meant it was unlikely to become affordable for anyone outside the elite. The hotel, by the airport, was the first time I’d encountered it; it mimicked liquid qualities and gave me dreams of drowning in the room.
The literature continued to speak of CRISPR-X as surgery performed on a virtual body. Scientists removed or switched off attributes and were liable to leave coded English text inside, notes describing the procedure but also, according to rumour, incorporating unrelated, frivolous text as well – personal messages, jokes, puzzles, even whole novels spliced as code into inactive parts of the genome. Even the name implied this hubris. X: hollows, ex-spaces, caves put inside, absences resting like phantom limbs on the body-map. But something would grow, something would step inside the cave and flourish and breed there. Any change to the germline was perpetuated, becoming an indelible change to the ecosystem too. This was where everything spiralled, autocatalytic reactions launching at a breadth still impossible to predict, whatever the scale of modelling software.
It was microbiology all over again, the tired analogy of the ‘battle’ between differently scaled creativities, each driving the other in turn. The first toxic male mosquitoes had been identified in the past several months, another impending catastrophe. It was difficult to keep track. There would be another fêted solution, it would succeed briefly, another unpredictable adaptation would then render it redundant. I thought of the etymology of malaria, the belief that the sickness came not from individual animals but simply from air – a context, a general state, impossibly diffuse and resistant to all attempts at mitigation.
The single most disastrous effect of mosquito cutting was the inadvertent strengthening of a strain related to the Zika virus. This virus struck me as hard to believe, so monstrously elaborate and cruel you were almost forced to believe in its own agency and willpower. The virus works by vertical transmission, the infected pregnant woman giving it to the embryo and the infant then born with a miniaturised head. The brain has partially collapsed; the skull doesn’t grow out. This can occur at any stage of pregnancy or even after birth. Seizures follow, patterns of severe brain damage; the backs of the eyes are scarred. The infant can’t hear a rattle, can’t track a moving object, may not be able to move independently or even feed or sleep. I thought about this a lot. On your own, walking for hours, or in your tent as the night stretched out, you can think the worst, become paranoid. Sometimes it felt like human generation itself was being targeted. Was this, now, the slow end of the world? I would imagine, or try to, the courage demanded by the most basic act of all, giving life. It was a problem for anyone working in biology, maybe especially for those who routinely confronted animal extinction – impossible to be naive about everything that could go wrong. It seemed a miracle, every time, that it happened, that someone could be born, could grow, could live a relatively healthy life. When I picked at the bites on my arms and insteps or when I clapped a whining insect dead and the blood parachuted out, I thought the odds against an unfettered life must be incalculable. And yet it goes on, I thought, it goes on.
I remembered, when I was young, being paralysed at times because of pure unknowable potential; I would stand, at the edge of the garden, looking at the beach, unable to move forward because anything could happen. If I stepped I could create a murmur, an echo, a wind whose consequences could carry forever. I should hold my leg still, I thought; but what if it was my immobility that created the danger, obstructing something I couldn’t comprehend? I tried to think about it and in doing so turned my head. I also realised my mouth was open and that I had been absently flexing and opening my hands. All this, too, would have its effects. I didn’t know what to do or where to go; I was stuck. There was too much of everything, unlimited pure potential in every moment, and I was affecting it even while I considered it. I couldn’t step out of it; in not moving I was still creating changes to the air and the land and the water all around me. So not doing something was a decision too and made you equally culpable. I couldn’t remember either how long I stayed there, frozen on the edge of the garden as the day turned cold, or how I got out.
Ivan or, more likely, Catherine, I supposed, must have found me eventually, dragging me back in from my daydreaming, pulling my deadweight and scraping my feet across the lawn until we reached the plant beds and it was impressed upon me that, now, I had to get up, I had to lift myself a
nd stop playing. I had to grow up. I only found out later how concerned they’d both been about these episodes, this tendency towards paralysis. Ivan said he’d look into me and wonder at the effectiveness of trying to talk, wonder if I was really any longer there. So overloaded by the possibilities of the infinite number of things that I could do or say, only the smallest fraction of which I was able to foresee in any way and so be consciously responsible for, I thought that when I froze like this I was partly, briefly wishing myself out of existence, out back into the infinite independent parts that composed me. I remembered doubting if I was really the best possible use for this shoulder-length nut-brown hair, the constellations of freckles on my arms. I pictured car crashes desperately requiring blood transfusions and replacement body parts, and I imagined the billions upon billions of smaller animals that I could translate into and all the various kinds of living they could perform.
V
—Where am I?
—In your home, of course.
—But I don’t recognise anything. What’s happened to me?
—There was an accident. You’re disoriented – you fell. But it’s okay because I am here to watch over you, to oversee your recovery.
—What kind of accident? I don’t remember anything. I don’t know what happened.
—It’s okay. Temporary retrograde amnesia is common in injuries such as this. Your memory will come back.
—No, I need to know. What am I doing here? Why am I not in hospital? Surely I have family, friends? Where are they? I don’t remember anything.
—Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything later. You need to rest. I’ll come again tomorrow morning – we’ll establish a routine. Everything’s been taken care of, John. Everything’s fine.
When he woke it was light again. Almost a whole further day must have passed. The next thing he noticed was the pain. He seized his head, tried to still it, but the swell continued, a great liquid thrown, heaving across hemispheres. He breathed slowly, trying to create a controlling tempo. He felt as if he was going to vomit. Then he smelled it. Iron in rain. He saw the blood. He sat up, looked towards the door, searching for signs of another person, someone who could have done this to him. He looked behind and saw pillows caked in blood.
He felt his head where it had been shaved. Blood had hardened again. A bruise was forming under the cuts on his neck. He pushed at it, the flesh giving softly, and he flinched.
He needed to remove the blood from the bed, the associations of openness, of coming apart. He stripped the linen and gathered the sheets in a heap. The mattress was stained in long dark leaf-shaped patches. He walked to the stairs and then turned back. He imagined the crack of his ankle then his neck, saw his limp body sprawled at the foot of the stairs, waiting for the doctor. He had to be careful. He put the bulk back onto the bed so he could bring the first of it down safely.
He loaded the washer, noting the unpleasant foamy structure of the bunched sheets. Hearing the dull hum and whir of the spinning drum, he realised his hands had programmed the machine by themselves, that they had retained the information. He was watching his hands, the articulated joints and soft palms, when he heard the shuffle of feet outside, three sharp raps on the door.
The doctor unpacked his case and laid his machines on the table. He appeared older than John, though he couldn’t tell by how many years. He worked busily and didn’t say anything for some time. ‘Just going,’ he said quietly, ‘to take a reading.’
Pulling out a chair, the doctor asked him to sit at the table. ‘Open your eyes as wide as you can.’ The first device appeared similar to a set of binoculars, only with a large square panel dropping at its base. The doctor peered through the sockets, studying John’s eyes close up. He clicked on something, generating a humming sound. ‘Just a moment longer,’ he said, ‘that’s it, almost there.’
He brought out a tendon hammer and a stethoscope. He read John’s heart rate, then he weighed him, then, asking him to take his shoes off and stand with his back to the wall, close to the window, where the curtain was still pulled, he measured his height. ‘Okay, okay, very good,’ he said, keying information into his palm-sized tablet.
It was difficult to retain what the doctor said. John watched the sink, the pattern of drips from the faucet. He went to nod, then stopped because of the pain, the feeling of something loosened, the lack of fit between brain and skull, the organ slipping in the case.
Pushing on the back of his neck, the doctor’s cold hands sent waves of alarm radiating through him. He whispered to John, encouraged him to tip his head forward just a little. He held him in this position, made several noises, then stepped back, tapping him on the shoulder, indicating he was free to raise his head again and resume a natural position.
‘It should have held for longer than this,’ the doctor said. ‘I’m afraid the initial stitching from the hospital has come loose. I’ll have to see to it now. Is there a basin? A clean cloth?’
The doctor told him to find a towel and put it round his neck and then laid a second towel beneath him on the floor. He gestured for him to tip his head again, recommending that he close his eyes. At first the warm water stung. John braced himself, feeling his scalp being pierced.
‘Hold still. It’s important that I get this right.’ Although the doctor was simply stitching a surface wound, it felt severe, as if his hands were dipping further, descending into the depression. He bit his lower lip, resisting the sensation of pins driven into him.
‘Should hold now,’ the doctor said, stepping back, cutting the thread, gathering the utensils into a white cloth, which he folded. He picked up the floor towel and mopped up the small amount of water spilled on the table.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened, then?’ John said.
Looking him in the eye, the doctor addressed him. ‘As I’ve already said, you suffered an accident, Mr Harper. Something hit you, and you fell. You spent three days in hospital, where you underwent a series of tests. You suffered a moderately traumatic brain injury, but you are going to be okay. No midline shift, no notable enlarging near the ventricle area, no apparent diffuse axonal injuries. Don’t look so shocked. This is good news. You were deemed fit to complete the rest of your recovery from home.’ The doctor drew his hands together, making a suction sound as the air compressed. ‘Listen to me, John. You’re going to be fine. Just take care of yourself. Keep your head up wherever possible. Sleep on your back, support your head. Take particular care when washing not to split the stitching. Be mindful of the cut when you’re dressing. So long as you adhere to this the wound should heal in a matter of days. I’ll monitor how it develops, and I’ll remove the thread when the time comes. Be particularly wary in descending the stairs. Rest. It’s the only cure. Stay here, in the cottage; a low stimulation environment is essential. Leaving isn’t a good idea; this weather is expected to continue for some time. Naturally, you aren’t to drive. I’ll be visiting daily and I’ll conduct further tests.’
‘But what happened, exactly? Look, I need to call someone, I—’
‘Your phone was absent when you were admitted to the hospital. All you had with you was your identification.’
‘Have you looked? Is it in the car?’
‘It’s not there.’
‘Then can I use your phone?’
‘But who would you call? It’s too soon, you need to wait for things to come back. And this weather, John. You won’t get reception for miles.’
VI
It was our third day at camp and already Alice had come closer to the animals. She had identified each of the three distinct sub-groups. I hadn’t appreciated this source of anxiety until I felt the relief. Though we hadn’t mentioned it to each other, and despite the staff’s assurances, we were worried we might walk into an atrocity, the whole troop wiped out. We would track them again tomorrow, moving closer, signalling our presence, drawing their curiosity and hopefully, eventually, becoming habituated. Then we’d each attach to a separate sub-group
and begin our observation. Start counting. There was no option other than for Jane to join us; it just wasn’t possible for two people to give comprehensive data readings of three groups.
We went over this as we prepared dinner. Alice produced a hip-flask and we passed the bitter spirit round. Though I enjoyed it, I couldn’t help thinking the laughter was a little hollow, that we celebrated in a slightly performative and premature way. We were keen to state things were going well – as if we could somehow control the outcome of the next five weeks or so through the manner by which we approached them. I left first; I had begun to talk in an overly enthusiastic, automatic way, and I knew I would regret it if I continued, knew I would wake early and restlessly hunt my displays of stupidity.
I was sick in the morning. Alice thankfully had already left, though Jane heard me retching, saw me staring at the small amount of stuff that had come out, disbelieving. She teased me, laughing. It boosted her – I tried to encourage it, smiled, accepted the mocking tone. But I knew it wasn’t right. I had had just one, maybe two sips of the alcohol. The drink wasn’t the cause. Jane, and presumably Alice, were fine – it wasn’t food either. This wasn’t good. If I had contracted some kind of virus, I wouldn’t be able to have contact with Jane or Alice. I would be ostracised. It would be a disaster – unimaginable, wholly possible. I wasn’t equipped to travel back on my own. Should I contact HQ now? I thought. Send someone all the way here, two days’ walk, by which time the worry would almost certainly have passed? I couldn’t think about it and told myself I would have to wait for further symptoms. We were all still adapting to conditions and recovering from the walk. We were exhausted. Low appetite, given the food constraints, was a necessity – we were encouraging it. In these circumstances it was going to be difficult to identify positive signs of a virus before it broke out in full form. I didn’t know what to do – separate myself in precaution thus knocking morale, as well as limiting our observation and analysis? If I didn’t, I risked sabotaging the whole project. What if I had already passed the dormant virus on to Alice, who in turn had given it to the troop?
Gathering Evidence Page 7
