Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Girl in the Mirror
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or localities is entirely coincidental.
First Published in Great Britain in 2015
Wildboar Publishing, 3 Ashton Close, Ipswich, IP2 9XY
Copyright © Philip J. Gould 2015
Philip J. Gould has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author and/or publisher.
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Cover Illustrations and Interior Formatting by Streetlight Graphics
Author portrait © Hayley Waller
Dedicated to Beth and our children, Rebecca, Sophie and Matthew.
The loves of my life. Without you, I would never have embarked on this adventure.
Prologue
The Birth
Dressed in white scrubs, Maksim Alekseev was standing over a microscope, deep in concentration. His hair was tied back and contained unflatteringly within a white bouffant cap. Despite this a few strands of black, coarse hair escaped like spiders legs. White boots concealed his feet, and a procedure facemask covered his face. Latex gloves protected his hands, extra long so that the elasticised cuffs closed around the sleeves of his jacket, creating a seal. He looked every bit like a surgeon about to perform a lifesaving operation or a heart transplant. The laboratory was large and clinical and very white. A number of computer flat screens, laboratory equipment, scientific instruments and a variety of recognisable paraphernalia cluttered the cold, brightly lit room. A strong hospital smell of iodoform, cloying, almost overpowering, filled his nostrils. He didn’t mind the smell − almost liked it.
He was peering down the two eyepieces of a stereo head microscope. Through the ocular lens he was able to view the magnified cell culture, a living organism that was growing and dividing, multiplying and maturing almost quicker than Maksim could comprehend.
“Has the mutation taken hold?” asked Clara, similarly attired, with just a pair of spectacles giving her a differentiating feature. She was across the room studying a video interpretation of what Maksim was viewing. A twenty-one inch screen was flashing a colourful image in front of her; little dots and squiggles in citrine-yellow and malachite-green danced and pirouetted, coalesced and divided; the growth and effect was both dizzying and mesmerising.
There were two others on the research team; George Jennings and Thomas Mundahl.
George Jennings – project leader and head of Kaplan Ratcliff’s Biochemical and Life Sciences research facility. He was observing from outside the laboratory, peering in through the large glass wall. The intercom was on so he could hear and take part in their conversations.
Thomas Mundahl was not in attendance, having developed a migraine from a whole night of painstaking microscope gazing and bio-equation number-crunching. Despite his absence, the Norwegian would take an equal share of the credit for the research team’s findings, his name eventually appearing on a list that would have serious and dire consequences.
“Woe-w, I’ve not seen anything like this before,” Maksim spoke with a Ukrainian accent; he looked up from the microscope and turned to face George, who could be seen behind him through the glass. “Are you seeing this?” He was smiling and sounded excited.
George’s voice was electronically magnified into the room, booming through the ceiling-set speaker system, austere and almost godlike. “Maksim, answer Clara’s question. Has the mutation held?”
Maksim started to laugh like a lunatic. “Hell YES!” His voice came out high-pitched, almost like a girl’s.
“Should the cells be dividing like that?” Clara asked in a clipped tone.
Maksim composed himself, becoming serious. “New cells naturally replace old cells as they grow and die, it’s no different here with our modified ones, only the pace of dividing and replacement...,” he started grinning, “is a bit faster than I’d expected.”
“You can say that again. Will that present a problem?” George’s voice echoed around the laboratory.
Maksim absently scratched at his head, inadvertently releasing a few more hairs from beneath the bouffant, taking a long moment to mull the question over before answering.
“No,” he finally said. “Of course, we will need to do further tests. Just to be on the safe side.”
“What about live testing?” George’s voice again filled the room, loud and commanding. I need to adjust the volume on that thing, thought Clara.
“Soon...” Hesitant. “I think. But more cell testing first.”
“No time Maksim, we are on a deadline. Are we good to go now?”
Maksim shrugged. “Without further tests, it might be premature. Just a little longer, a week or two, we’ll see.”
Unheard by the two research assistants in the lab, George sighed. He was under pressure to deliver the product. The company had given him a blank cheque and already he’d spent tens of millions of pounds. Nearly two years of molecular biology and DNA testing, of endless experiments and countless failings, for what? Nothing! Nothing to show for their money but a lab full of fancy equipment and a few petri dishes of bright yellow sludge. Co
mpany heads were getting restless and impatient. Livelihoods were at stake. His reputation and job were in the balance, and worse still, the mission he’d so reluctantly agreed to undertake so many years earlier was a knee jerk away from failure.
“Okay Maksim, do what you need to do. I’ll check in later.” George did not hide his disappointment and wandered off to leave Clara and Maksim to their work.
The test-tube contained a blastocyst, a single fertilised embryo that had been developed in the laboratory for six days. A year of painstaking research had passed. Hundreds of mice, rabbits, pigs, cats, chimpanzees, and a solitary orangutan, had led to this historic moment. Only a week had gone by since Camilla, the last chimp, had been destroyed humanely after a successful trial. It was sad and had brought Clara close to tears, but it had been unavoidable. It had been a necessary death, but she hadn’t gone quietly – far from it. Her strength surpassed anything George had ever witnessed, and her other enhanced abilities made it even more of a challenge to keep her under control and bring about her unavoidable destruction. Nonetheless, Camilla had not gone cleanly, effecting a broken collar bone in Thomas and bloodying his nose and almost killing a student lab assistant who ignored George’s instructions to stay well back as they administered the lethal injection.
In the ward, George’s wife, Harriet Jennings was lying on a bed, an NHS hospital gown maintaining her modesty. A sheet and blanket was drawn up, hiding her body but doing little to conceal the fear on her face. A nurse was on hand and George entered the private room looking for all intents and purposes like a practicing doctor on his rounds. A white coat and stethoscope draped around his shoulders completed the appearance.
“Are you okay?” George asked his wife.
“I guess,” she said. “You sure this is going to be all right?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.
“Harriet, trust me. I’m your husband. I’d never let anything bad happen to us.” Overemphasising the ‘us’, he sat down on the bed next to her and placed a comforting hand on her knee.
“You promise?”
“I promise.” He leant over and kissed his wife on the forehead in two places.
A knock at the door startled George. His nerves were all jangles. He felt like it was him undergoing the operation, rather than his wife, that he were under the microscope like the cell culture back in the lab more than a year ago. This was it, he thought to himself, the moment of truth. Time to sink or swim, and any of a hundred other euphemisms.
“Ready?” George’s research assistant, Clara had arrived to help escort Harriet to the operating theatre.
“As I ever will be, I guess,” replied Harriet.
Accompanying Harriet was a regular hospital porter who, without bidding, had entered the room and began readying the hospital bed for movement, extracting brakes and locking in sidebars, working with the care and attention of someone who’d done the action a hundred-thousand times. She couldn’t help flinching from the scraping sounds of metal and jerky movements caused.
The hospital porter wheeled the bed out of the ward and together with Clara, George, and a nurse, they travelled the short distance to the operating theatre. On entering they were greeted by another nurse and a fertility doctor, Dr Phelps.
“Dr Jennings, everything is as you requested. Come this way.” The fertility doctor held the double swing doors open to allow entry into a small pre-operating room, and secured them behind George, who was last to enter the room. A further set of swing doors ahead were closed to them, and would remain that way until everyone was clinically sterile and risks of infection were eliminated.
“Now, Harriet. I guess you’re prepped for this, but I just want to make sure you fully understand the ins and outs. It’s never too late to back down or change one’s mind,” Dr Phelps smiled reassuringly. “The procedure won’t take long, but it is normal to experience a fair amount of discomfort – it can’t be helped I’m afraid. It’s not too dissimilar to a smear test. For optimum success, we will be using ultrasound for guidance, which is important as we are only transferring the one embryo.”
Dr Phelps reached down to a small trolley upon which were a number of medical instruments, supplies and packages. “We will need to use this,” he picked up the speculum, and then placed it back down again, “and once we have located the uterine cavity, we will use this soft transfer catheter to load the embryo when ready.” The doctor was holding a distress inducing needle-type contraption that brought tears to Harriet’s eyes just peering at it. “Once I begin to insert this tube, Hannah our nurse will use the ultrasound to help me guide the catheter home. The rest is easy after that. Any questions?”
Harriet had no questions. George had explained the procedure countless times and she’d been a willing participant, not out of desire to be a mother again, but due to her feeling of duty and marital support towards her husband’s work.
“Okay, let’s get you pregnant.” Dr Phelps opened the second set of swing doors and led the ensemble into the operating theatre. “Okay, let’s get the party started. Dr Jennings, you can prepare the embryo ready for transfer. Hannah, when you are ready with the ultrasound, we can begin.”
Hannah squeezed some lubricating gel onto Harriet’s abdomen and used the ultrasound machine’s transducer to spread it evenly. Almost immediately an image appeared on the ultrasound machine. “Okay Dr Phelps,” the nurse said jovially, “we’re ready.”
“Good. Most excellent.”
The procedure took less than six minutes and upon transferring the embryo, Hannah nodded confirmation to the fertility doctor indicating the embryo had been placed within the uterine cavity. She watched the catheter on the ultrasound monitor; a white, thin, long object that slowly withdrew as Dr Phelps gently pulled it out from between Harriet’s legs.
“Good, job well done. I guess your husband will take it from here.” Dr Phelps dropped the soft transfer catheter into a yellow surgical waste bin, followed by the latex gloves that he had been wearing. “George,” he affirmed in passing as he vacated the operating theatre.
“Thanks James,” George said.
“What now?” asked Harriet, shifting slightly, desperate for comfort. For anyone who’s had the misfortune of having spent time in a hospital, one would know that comfort was very low down a doctor or a nurse’s list of priorities.
“Well, we just need to wait and see,” he said. “Say a prayer or two. Expect the worst... but hope for the best.”
Harriet knew the pregnancy wasn’t normal – not by a long stretch. After six days her clothes began to feel tight around her stomach, her boobs were bigger and morning sickness was taking her by violent surprise in the most inconvenient of occasions.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME GEORGE?!” she screamed after one such nauseous episode, lurching out from the bathroom of the medical facility where she was staying in a private room. This was during the early observation stages when the risks of failure were at their highest.
“It’s all normal, love, I assure you…”
“Normal? I wasn’t sick like this with Meredith or Stanley, not even Charlie. Something is wrong.”
“Calm down Harriet. I will get one of the team to run some tests.”
Within the hour, Clara and Thomas, the big Norwegian, were sitting next to Harriet with an ultrasound machine hooked up and a foetal heart rate monitor whose leads were strapped around her expanding waist. Having squeezed blue lubricating jelly already, Clara ran the transducer over Harriet’s extended stomach and stopped, eyes widening in shock. She made no effort to hide her amazement.
“G-e-o-r-g-e,” she said his name slowly. “I think you should come and see this.”
“What’s wrong? What’s happening? Tell me... please!” Harriet’s voice had an alarmed edge to it having noted Clara’s concerned tone.
George crossed the room and peered a
t the monitor.
“My word, that’s a bit different. How curious.”
“What’s happening George?” Harriet’s panic was growing.
George laid a comforting hand on his wife’s arm and tried a disarming smile. “The foetus is growing a bit faster than we had expected. It’s nothing to worry about Harriet. Apart from that, everything is normal.”
“Normal? What do you mean ‘normal’? If it’s not six days old, how old is it?” she asked.
Clara pressed a few buttons on the ultrasound’s keyboard to begin measurements of the foetus. Accidentally depressing the sound ‘on’ button, the sound of a heart beat began to ‘whump-whump-whump-whump’ continuously around the room. Unseen on the foetal heart rate monitor was an oscillating dot tracking the unborn baby’s heart beat in tandem with the now-audible pulse rate.
“Using the ultrasound, I have dated the scan at,” she paused, getting her head around the figure, “twelve weeks.”
“That’s not possible,” muttered Harriet, incredulous.
On the monitor the twelve-week-old foetus could be seen and a light fluttering of its heart could be made out.
“What have you done George? What have you put inside of me?”
“I can explain,” he started. “It’s nothing more than I’d said.”
“Oh, George,” starting to cry, Harriet turned her face away from her husband, from Clara and from the other lab technician, knocking the ultrasound transducer away from her stomach, ending the ‘whump-whump-whump-whump’ sound and the foetal images on the monitor. “I trusted you,” she whispered into her pillow, her sobs the only thing those in attendance actually heard.
“It will be all right,” he said. He sat down on the bed beside his wife and began to run his fingers through her hair. “She will be perfect.”
Clara removed the transducer and returned it to its place on the ultrasound machine. She then detached the foetal heart rate monitor. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she said, pushing the machine away to the side before exiting the room.
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