As the reporter signed off with a close up of his weary expression, the image switched back to the studio and the much fresher professionally prepared face of anchorman Ted Hallder. “We’ll be back with more on that shocking story, including some scenes which viewers may find upsetting, and the rest of the INB breakfast headlines right after these messages from our commercial partners…” His polished smile gave way to 360 seconds of early morning hard sell while the news ticker tape across the bottom of the screen scrolled through ‘Coming up: More graphic detail on the ‘foetus-on-the-wall outrage’.
*
Gino Dereloni woke in fright after dozing off through sheer exhaustion. His shout echoed as his lungs gasped for breath. He sat upright, much too fast. His eyes glared at the pale white walls of his room. As he waited for his senses to recover from this rude awakening he watched the fleeting images of a troubled sleep pass into the silent abyss where they would lurk until they found him again. His vision cleared and he could see the dark stained wood of the windowsill and the first traces of frosted sunlight creeping between the heavy curtains. It was cold outside and the glass had misted over, presenting the world through a grey veil. His breathing began to settle…then stopped.
His head spun so suddenly he almost unbalanced. The wall behind him was bare, clinically so…bare but for the framed oil painting he instantly recognised as one of his own – Sunrise in Eden. It was an expressionist landscape of virgin green, lit by a vermilion sky and a blazing white sun. It was one of his favourites, perhaps – together with the semi-abstract self-portrait entitled Self Portrait in Gethsemane that hung above the fireplace downstairs – one of the works he was most proud of. He almost smiled…but then his eyes crept below the ornate frame to the wall beneath and saw the stain…not precisely a stain…more the lack of one. An oval patch of darker wallpaper, nearly a foot wide, where the cleaning fluids had not quite dried and the surface had been scrubbed almost through to the wall beneath. At the centre of this patch was a solitary hole…marking the place.
His stomach writhed at the sight of that hole. He remembered…
He remembered the cold fluid that had covered it, like raw egg white, clinging to its bloodied, translucent flesh. It was the fluid that had first woken him, dripping onto his peacefully sleeping brow. He’d looked up to see it hanging above his head; its partly formed limbs clenched against its feeble body, the sightless eyes and oversized head, humanity forming but not yet human…almost alien…
Gino remembered…and screamed.
His adult lungs burst with fearful expression and tore apart the fragile silence…a voice to horror…a voice that miniature, bloodied sack of fledgling humanity – crucified where the stain now shadowed – had been denied by its premature extinction.
*
November’s chill Atlantic wind scythed through the streets of Canton, whipping up last night’s leaves and litter, tossing them carelessly aside before rustling the pavement-bound trees that were not yet naked to the sky. Frost glistened on the defensive hedgerows and manicured lawns and the streetlights glowed faintly against the bleak dawn. A handful of lonely figures drifted through the wintry morning, making their way to the Community Monorail Shuttle station in the centre of the precinct. The ghostly drone of the rail car rattled the tall pylons overhead, its windows of light flashing with fleeting glimpses of hollow commuter faces. In a moment it had become a metal glow-worm snaking its flickering way into the heart of the city, its turbine a mere hum in the reprise of suburban stillness. Carol Rigg listened for a moment then sighed deeply. Thinking about the inflexible monotony of that daily journey into the metropolis made her feel tired. Her jaw struggled against a yawn, relented and then gulped down the cold air…and moisture streamed from her sleep-coated eyes, blurring the pale gleam of the distant sun.
She checked her bearings. It was definitely the right street. She picked up her pace to put some distance between her and the precinct, counting down the numbers on the Georgian terraced homes with a niggle of envy…195…193…191…imagining a life lived inside their sturdy grandeur that had stood the test of time. This place was a world away from her cloned pop-up of a two-bed semi on the very outskirts of the city, already looking tired and ailing after less than two decades of wear. They don’t make them like they used to, she mused. Maybe one day she could afford something on a street like this, when she’d progressed to being a primary case-holder, rather than just the ‘general dog’s body’ who was sent to undertake the legal legwork of case preparation.
She wondered how her new client managed to afford to live here…it was clear from the outset that Gino Dereloni was not a successful or celebrated artist. If he was, he wouldn’t have hired a bargain basement firm to investigate his case…and she might even have heard his name being dropped into polite conversation at one of the many pseudo ‘social’ functions she had to attend to maintain her profile within her professional circle. Some of her higher achieving colleagues were very much into their fine art…but she doubted any of them had a ‘Dereloni’ on their home or office walls. But maybe all that was about to change for Gino Dereloni, now that he’d been very abruptly elevated to international notoriety thanks to his…misfortune. Nothing to do with talent, she thought…just a question of right time, right place. Whether he liked it or not, he was to be her first ‘celebrity’ client. Perhaps in time, and if he made the most of this unexpected platform he’d been given for his life’s work, he would grow to remember the events of the past few hours with fondness and gratitude rather than the horror she’d heard in his tortured tone. Either way, this was her chance to shine and she was going to take it with both hands.
Carol realised she hadn’t needed to count her way down the houses. As the street curved around, ahead – where number 139 was sure to be – she could see the gathering of reporters and cameramen and the police cordon between them and the house. She’d seen these sorts of scenes often enough…on TV. This time it was for real and she felt a sudden rush of excitement to be involved, rather than just watching. As she approached she assured herself that the media would assume she was either a curious passer-by or one of them…until it was too late and the police afforded her the privileged access they were denied and she could slip past to see her client. Her arrival barely aroused a handful of curious glances but, as she negotiated her way between the assembled equipment and cabling, curiosity grew and she began to feel a little anxious. Slow…slow…calm, she told herself, feeling her pace quicken with nerves. Someone had noticed…spotted the give-away clues like sharks scenting blood.
“Excuse me…” she heard someone call out. Eyes focused. Now was the time for more haste, less caution…she needed to reach the police line before they could circle and cut her off. “Hey, you!” She sensed them swinging into motion around her and she began to run, cursing the heels she’d chosen in her rush to dress. “Are you a doctor?” She shut out their demands, almost oblivious to the sudden cacophony of noise and flashing lights and threw herself forward. Just as it seemed they were catching her, heading her off at the pass, she reached the blue and yellow ‘police line’. Her shout of “I’m his solicitor!” was almost superfluous as the officer nearest was already lifting the tape to admit her before she’d opened her mouth. They could see she wasn’t part of the media throng…not their type. A moment later she was through, gasping to catch her breath and determined to keep her back to them.
“Use the back door,” another officer beckoned. “He won’t open the front.” He held open a rusting wrought iron gate and she found her way along a narrow passageway between 139 and what she presumed was 137.
He was waiting for her…must have seen her arrival through the curtains. He looked nothing like she’d imagined from the voice on the other end of the phone. He was short and slight, swamped beneath a blue towelling robe. His head of tight black curls was dishevelled and his chin bristled with stubble. His eyes were dark pools of anguish…shocking to behold.
“Come…” he ras
ped through sullen weariness.
Her legs obeyed.
*
XIV
THE small white room was cold and silent, like a chapel of rest. Pale net curtains veiled the world outside beneath the drawn burgundy drapes. Beyond them, rivulets of condensation trickled like tears down the windowpane. Even the walls clung with sorrow. All was still, save for the distant murmur of voices from the street outside. Such an eerie stillness, she thought.
Carol turned slowly, her eyes registering every detail with litigious care: the painting on the wall, thick brushstrokes of vibrant oils; the shadowed crucifix with its tortured bronze body; the ornate mirror nestled atop the dresser; shelves lined with paints, inks, pencils and brushes; and wooden crates, some paint-smeared, stacked with rolled canvases and blocks of paper or card. These were the tools of a passionate, creative personality and yet the room felt empty…devoid of character, as though the spirit of the artist had been violently ripped away by the night’s tragic events.
She was alone in the room but she felt like an unwanted intrusion within a chamber of mourning. Her eyes returned to the blemished wallpaper beneath the painting and the tiny hole at the centre of this stain. She tried to picture what could hardly be imagined, and shuddered with the attempt, grateful that her client had not had the presence of mind to photograph his shocking find before its removal from his wall. Then she left, closing the heavy wooden door, and descended to another altogether different world.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked, pulling the chords of his bathrobe tighter around him as if it might provide some reassurance.
“No.” She studied him momentarily then returned her attention to the portable computer on her lap. “Who does these days? Science has triumphed, has it not? Evolution now proved beyond all reasonable doubt and all that…I mean…obviously for some people it’s important to hold on to belief in…well…a higher power?”
Gino shrugged, as though the universal questions of life and meaning were of no consequence, then took a seat opposite her, watching her fingers tapping eagerly against the keypad.
“I’m just logging in to your file and then we can begin, Mr Dereloni.”
He nodded, feeling a little detached from the processes that now flowed from his awful awakening and discovery. “To be honest, I never really thought much about God…until now. Our family…being Italian…we have that strong Catholic tradition that stubbornly resists all the Eurostate legislation thrown at it…but it’s not something I’ve ever really…valued. I mean it’s always been there…at a subconscious level.” He gestured toward the painting above the fireplace but she was too preoccupied with the screen nestled in her lap to see. “So much of my work is based around Catholic themes and imagery…like that one, Self Portrait in Gethsemane, but I’ve never really considered it as anything more than symbolism…a convenient vehicle for my artistic messages of hope and humanity.”
Carol looked up and smiled blandly, as though responding to a conversation she had somehow missed. Gino continued, undeterred. “It’s been dormant, until now…didn’t seem all that relevant to me. But now I’ve woken up. I can see that life is out of control…that we’ve gone too far and crossed boundaries that were never meant to be crossed…seen things that were never meant to be seen!” He shook his head. “I’ve always tended to be sceptical about modern life and where it’s taken us…about our apparent lack of values…morals…within this secular age. But this…what’s happened…it’s like a wake-up call, don’t you think? Not just for me…for everyone…for humanity!”
She opened her mouth but found herself lost for an appropriate response. He carried on. “Perhaps science has taken us much too far for our own good…raised more questions than it can answer…fundamental questions about the meaning…and value of life itself? It’s given us…you, me…not just the scientists, the doctors…it’s given all of us the power over life and death…the power to choose whether an unborn child lives…or dies…in your own home…or someone else’s home.” His eyes filled with tears. “That can’t be right…surely? We aren’t qualified…or anywhere near expert enough to make those kinds of decisions…” He wiped the moisture from his cheeks. “Just because we can, doesn’t mean we should…right?” He searched her eyes.
Carol fixed her face with a professional ‘reassure-the-client-you’re-on-his-side’ smile. “So, Mr Dereloni, tell me about Jennifer,” she said.
*
“Welcome back after those messages from our sponsors…let’s go straight back to our newsroom where Ted Hallder has an update on the ‘foetus-on-the-wall’ story.” The cheery voice-over was drowned beneath a short burst of drama-laden news-theme music and the equally dramatic spinning of the INB logo. Ted adopted his gravest expression and shuffled his set of papers to set the seriousness of tone required. On the giant screens over his shoulder was a full-colour library graphic of a human foetus drifting like a curled astronaut through an amniotic sea.
“Good morning British Eurostate viewers,” his tone is pitch-perfect sombre. “As Cardiff-based artist Gino Dereloni struggles to come to terms with his shocking find on waking this morning – a human foetus nailed to his bedroom wall – we will be speaking to the experts who, perhaps, can help us…as well as Mr Dereloni…to make sense of this pre-natal horror. I am joined…” The camera pans out. “…by Doctor Alec Bamber, consultant gynaecologist at the University Hospital of Wales in Cardiff where the foetus is currently undergoing a series of tests.” Dr Bamber, stick insect thin and wispy white hair, leans forward with obvious enthusiasm and clears his throat noisily…readying himself. “Now we know the foetus was…well…I guess we can say…dead…by the time the paramedics arrived at the scene…”
“Indeed.”
“So perhaps you can help us understand a little better…the foetus itself and its development, by the 24-week stage, and how Endterm Six works…I mean, specifically, was the foetus alive or dead at the point it was nailed to the wall?” There was a flicker of distaste in the consultant’s watery eyes.
“Well…of course we can only speculate…until the tests are concluded…”
“Of course! Please speculate Dr Bamber, on our behalf.”
“Indeed…well…after 24 weeks the foetus generally measures between six and seven inches and is almost fully formed…limbs, digits, vital organs…and of course its sex is already determined well before this point…”
“We understand this was a male foetus…in this case…”
“Quite so. Yes…after 24 weeks we have a fully formed human…in miniature, of course…but all the essential ingredients. It…he…is able to hear sounds from beyond the womb…mother’s voice…perhaps the father…and he can move around, change position if you will. He has begun to develop eyebrows and a certain amount of body hair such as eyelashes…toenails, fingernails…oh…and even has his own unique fingerprints by this stage of development!”
“So, Dr Bamber, the question we’re all asking…dead or alive when it was nailed to the wall?”
“Ah…well…we won’t know until the forensic tests are concluded. But generally speaking…Endterm Six in clinical trials has been found to be 92% efficient in…killing…in…stillborn termination. But inevitably a small percentage will survive and remain alive through the…”
“They call it flushing…the ‘flushing’ phase…don’t they?” Dr Bamber scowls.
“The medical term…”
“So what you’re saying is that this tiny 24-week-old male human being…this boy…pre-boy…could…might well have…been alive…aware…cognisant…when his emotionally unstable mother flushed him out and pinned him to Mr Dereloni’s wall?”
“Well…I…”
“My God!” Ted shakes his head. “The horror…” The consultant tries to force a reassuring smile. “The sheer horror of that!”
“Of course this is merely conjecture and we must stick to the known facts until such time…”
“And of course, Dr Bamber, this is one of the
main reasons campaigners…even pro-abortionists…have been calling for its immediate withdrawal from the market…the fact that it can result in medically unsupervised premature live births…that and the controversial self-disposal issue? What did ProLife dub Endterm Six? The unlicensed home-murder kit with a tin-it and bin-it pack complete with flesh-eating acid to get rid of the evidence?”
“Ah…but this is such emotive, irrational language…almost hysteria…from those with a clear agenda that blatantly ignores women’s rights…”
“But Dr Bamber, it’s not just the lunatic religious fringe expressing…severe reservations, emotive language or not, about this new off-the-pharmacy-shelf DIY approach to birth control. Several of your eminent colleagues around the country have questioned the wisdom of allowing women, many of whom may be in vulnerable positions or unstable states of mind, access to medically unsupervised home abortion kits.”
“I think we need to be clear here…” Dr Bamber was now showing visible signs of irritation. Ted indulged a wry smile. “…medically unsupervised home abortions are not a new phenomenon! They have been taking place behind closed doors for centuries and the number of women who have lost their lives, or been permanently scarred, as a result…well…this product is a quantum…scientific leap forward. Although Endterm Six is very new to the market and represents a step-change, perhaps not suitable for every woman, it has been clinically proven to be extremely safe…”
Experiment With Destiny Page 21
