Evil Genius

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Like you said, Lanna, he can’t resist a challenge.’

  All three adults turned their heads to study Cadel, who ignored them. He looked just like a little angel, with his huge blue eyes, chestnut curls and heart-shaped face.

  ‘We were wondering if he was a bit autistic,’ Lanna sighed, ‘but he’s not. We checked it out. He’s just not very interested in people.’

  ‘Especially other kids,’ said Stuart. ‘Well, what other kids anywhere near his age are going to be interested in information protocol settings?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Thaddeus. ‘And what do you hope to gain from having Cadel visit me here, Mr and Mrs Piggott?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Lanna cast a hopeless glance at her husband, who shrugged.

  ‘We’re just doing what we’re told,’ he mumbled. ‘So this whole business won’t happen again.’

  ‘Perhaps you can teach Cadel some social skills?’ Lanna proposed brightly. ‘Help him to understand that he can’t do whatever he wants just because he’s smarter than everyone else?’

  ‘Because he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else,’ Stuart amended. And he narrowed his eyes, his jaw muscles working.

  Thaddeus surveyed him thoughtfully.

  ‘Ye-e-es,’ said Thaddeus. ‘I see.’ All at once he surged to his feet, taking Mr and Mrs Piggott by surprise. ‘Well, thank you very much for that input,’ he remarked pleasantly. ‘You’ve been most helpful. I’ll keep it in mind when I talk to your son – it might be interesting to have some more tests done, but I’ll discuss that with you later. Could you give me, say, twenty minutes? Twenty minutes alone with Cadel? It should be enough for today.’

  ‘You mean now?’ said Stuart.

  ‘If that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Well, I . . . I guess so.’

  ‘If it’s all right with Cadel,’ said Lanna. ‘Cadel? Honey? Do you mind if we step outside for a few minutes? Dr Roth wants to talk to you.’

  There was no reply. Cadel didn’t appear to have registered the fact that Lanna was addressing him.

  ‘He won’t even notice we’re gone,’ her husband muttered. ‘You watch.’

  ‘We’ll be right downstairs, honey. We won’t be far.’

  ‘You’d think he was deaf,’ Stuart complained. As he nudged his wife from the room, she threw Dr Roth a toothy smile. ‘He’s not deaf, actually,’ she assured the psychologist. ‘We’ve had tests done . . .’

  Bang! The door slammed shut. Thaddeus waited until he could no longer hear the tramp of feet on stairs before strolling over to where Cadel sat in the typist’s chair. Cadel ignored him. Suddenly, with an abrupt movement, Thaddeus yanked at the chair, making it spin around until it was pointing towards him. Then he grabbed each armrest and leaned into Cadel’s face.

  Cadel’s hands jumped up in a startled reflex.

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Cadel,’ said Thaddeus. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  Solemnly, Cadel nodded.

  ‘Good. Then this is what we’ll do. If you don’t tell your parents about it, I’ll let you use my computer whenever you come here. Does that sound good?’

  Again, Cadel nodded.

  ‘And all I ask in return is this.’ The corner of Thaddeus’s mouth rose, revealing one yellowish, pointed canine tooth. Through the lenses of his spectacles, his eyes were as black as a snake’s. His voice dropped to a throaty whisper. ‘Next time,’ he murmured, ‘whatever you do, don’t get caught.’

  TWO

  Cadel Piggott had a very special sort of mind. He could picture systems of all kinds in three dimensions, with perfect accuracy. He loved systems: phone systems, electrical systems, car engines, complicated traffic intersections. When he first saw a map of the Sydney rail system, pasted on the wall of a suburban train, he was enchanted.

  At Jamboree Gardens, the teachers understood the scope of his intelligence. They moved him up to year four but would not accelerate his learning program any further. They told Mrs Piggott that although Cadel’s intellect was highly developed, his social skills were no better (and in some respects were poorer) than those of any other child his age. They did not believe that he would be comfortable socialising with children older than nine.

  ‘We’ve developed a series of additional maths and literacy units which our teacher’s assistant will take Cadel through,’ one of the teachers told Lanna. ‘We think they’ll help to keep him happy and interested, along with our art and music programs. You know we place great emphasis on creativity in this school.’

  But Cadel was neither happy nor interested. He was impatient with silk-screen printing and books about riding bikes to the park. His obsession was with systems, and he tended to ignore everything else. So he sometimes scored badly on reading and comprehension tests, though at other times the teachers at Jamboree Gardens would find him poring over books like From Eniac to Univac: An Appraisal of the Eckert-Mauchly Machines.

  It was very hard to keep him off the school computers.

  ‘He’d spend all day on them, if we let him,’ the principal told Lanna. ‘And when we don’t, he becomes quite uncooperative. To be frank, we don’t like him messing around with them, because half the time no one here can understand what he’s doing. We can’t supervise him responsibly if we don’t know what we’re supervising. It’s very difficult.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lanna, in gloomy tones.

  ‘I really think he should be encouraged to focus his energies away from computer science,’ the principal continued. ‘A fully rounded person must diversify, or his intellect becomes narrow and blinkered. I think we’ll have to institute a very strict timetable for Cadel. Make him understand that there’s more to this world than computers.’

  She was successful, to some degree. Forbidden computers both at home and at school, Cadel turned his attention to the Sydney rail network. He obtained every timetable for the entire system. He rode every line, over and over again, though not unaccompanied: a part-time nanny usually came with him, because the Piggotts often employed nannies, none of whom stayed for very long.

  Occasionally, during his sessions with Thaddeus, Cadel would even abandon the psychologist’s computer and acquaint Thaddeus with his latest discoveries about gauges and signal boxes. When that happened, Thaddeus would put aside his newspaper and listen intently.

  One day he said: ‘Do you think you understand the system, now?’

  Cadel pondered this question for at least half a minute.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied at last.

  ‘Because there’s only one way to find out if you do,’ Thaddeus went on. ‘You can only tell whether you’ve mastered a system if you isolate and identify its weakest point. If you knock that out and the whole system collapses, then you know you’ve got a handle on it.’

  Cadel absorbed this advice silently. Across the room, Thaddeus watched his pale little face grow perfectly still.

  Satisfied, Thaddeus once again picked up his newspaper.

  For the next five months, Cadel worked and waited. Every spare moment was spent riding the rails, and at last, one afternoon in May, he spied a particular signal light being repaired. He got out at the next stop and, while his nanny was buying mints at a newsstand, he phoned State Rail with the news that there was a bomb planted in a certain subterranean station. Then he went home to watch TV, which was full of stories about terrible rail delays affecting the entire Sydney network. On some lines, commuters had been forced to wait for up to five hours.

  The next day, Thaddeus asked Cadel if the train chaos had had anything to do with him.

  ‘No,’ said Cadel.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Cadel had a very small mouth and innocent eyes. Although he was now eight years old, he hadn’t grown much. Thaddeus looked at him thoughtfully for a while, before nodding.

  ‘You should never admit to anything,’ he said. ‘Denial is the second rule, after “don’t get caught”. You must always remember that, Cadel.’

  Cadel di
dn’t even nod. He was being cautious.

  ‘One way of making sure you don’t get caught is by leaving the scene of the crime,’ Thaddeus continued. ‘If you keep concentrating on the railways, somebody’s going to make a connection one day. You realise that, don’t you? You’re going to have to get interested in something else.’

  Cadel blinked.

  ‘After all, you’ve proved your mastery,’ Thaddeus pointed out. ‘What else can Sydney Rail possibly give you? Nothing. You should move on to another challenge. The road system, perhaps.’

  Cadel’s eyes narrowed. Previously, he had accepted Thaddeus as being simply part of his life. Now, for the first time, he questioned the psychologist’s motives. What exactly was he up to?

  ‘Do you tell Stuart and Lanna about anything we say in here?’ Cadel asked.

  ‘Of course not.’ Thaddeus spoke dismissively. ‘Why should I?’

  In response, Cadel gazed at him until Thaddeus uttered a short laugh.

  ‘Of course, you’re free to doubt me on that,’ Thaddeus conceded. ‘I wouldn’t trust me either if I were you.’ Whereupon he resumed his reading, leaving Cadel to turn things over in his head.

  The following week, after much thought, Cadel asked Thaddeus another question. ‘Are you really a psychiatrist?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘A psychologist,’ Thaddeus replied jovially. ‘Yes, I really am. Haven’t you seen all my degrees? I specialise in “troubled youth” .’

  ‘Then why are you letting me use your computer when I’m not meant to?’

  ‘Because I think it’s good for you.’

  ‘Better than talking?’

  At this, Thaddeus cast aside his newspaper. He was sitting on the crimson couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Folding his hands across his stomach, he fixed Cadel with a bright and curious look.

  ‘Why? What do you want to talk about?’ he inquired softly.

  ‘I dunno.’ Cadel had watched enough television to understand that certain things were to be expected in a psychologist’s office. ‘Shouldn’t I talk about my parents?’

  ‘Who aren’t really your parents.’

  ‘No,’ Cadel agreed.

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Because you despise them?’

  Cadel lowered his chin a fraction, as he always did when he was feeling defensive. He looked warily at Thaddeus from beneath his fringe of curls.

  ‘I don’t despise my parents,’ he said flatly.

  Thaddeus smiled. With a cracking of joints he rose to his full height, which was considerably more than Cadel’s.

  ‘Don’t bother lying to me, Cadel.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know contempt when I see it? I’m very, very familiar with contempt, believe me.’ Turning suddenly, Thaddeus crossed the room to the French doors, where he stood with his back to Cadel, gazing out over the treetops. ‘Have you ever wondered about your real parents?’ he said at last.

  ‘I guess . . .’ Cadel replied. He was growing extremely uncomfortable.

  ‘You must have tried to find out who they are,’ said Thaddeus. ‘Someone like you. With the Net so close at hand.’

  ‘I tried,’ Cadel admitted. In fact, he had tried very hard. He had dug through the Piggotts’ family archives (such as they were) and found a birth certificate that listed his father as Daryl Poynter-Chuffley and his mother as Susan Jones. Unfortunately, he had got no further. There were no Poynter-Chuffleys to be found on the Internet – not even on various births, deaths and marriages sites – and as for Susan Jones, well, that was a name too common to be traced. He could find no hospital records because his birth had apparently taken place at home. And the home in question no longer existed, according to his research. It had been torn down to make way for a shopping mall,

  Furthermore, he could find no trace of himself on the Internet. No online birth certificates. No online adoption records. So far, the only thing Cadel knew about himself was that his first name meant ‘battle’ in Welsh.

  It was all very peculiar.

  Thaddeus spun around. He walked slowly back to where Cadel was sitting, and stood with his hands clasped behind him, contemplating his young client.

  ‘What if I told you who your father is?’ he said at last.

  Cadel gasped.

  ‘My – my real father?’ he stammered.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You know who my real father is?’

  ‘I’ve always known,’ Thaddeus said calmly. Placing his hands on the armrests of Cadel’s chair, he bent at the waist until his head was almost level with his client’s. ‘I work for him, you see. He employs me to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘He can arrange these things. He has a lot of influence, despite the fact that he’s been in prison for the last five years or so.’ Thaddeus’s gaze bored into Cadel like an ebony drill-bit. ‘His name is Darkkon. Dr Phineas Darkkon. You might have heard of him.’

  Mutely, Cadel shook his head. He was overwhelmed. For a long time, he had worked hard to suppress all interest in his real parents. Having been unable to trace them, he had come to the conclusion that fretting about them would be pointless; it would ultimately drive him mad.

  And now, all of a sudden, he was being offered the truth. After so many years, he wasn’t sure if he could handle it. He was almost afraid.

  ‘Your father was sentenced to life imprisonment,’ Thaddeus explained. ‘You were taken away from him, but he swore that he would never lose sight of you, and that you would come to know from whose blood you sprang. Therefore, despite the American government’s best efforts to keep you ignorant and unaware, your father has triumphed. Once again.’ Thaddeus pushed himself upright, so forcefully that the back of Cadel’s wheeled typist’s chair struck the rim of Thaddeus’s desktop. ‘The Piggotts know nothing of this, naturally.’

  Cadel drew his knees up under his chin. In a breathless voice, he said: ‘Are you lying?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly.’ Thaddeus folded his arms. ‘Though you’re right to doubt me, of course. You should always doubt everyone.’

  ‘What about my mother?’

  ‘Ah.’ Thaddeus took a deep breath. His tone softened. ‘Your mother died, Cadel. I’m sorry.’

  Cadel swallowed. He didn’t know if he was sorry or not. ‘How?’ he croaked.

  ‘It was an accident, I’m afraid. Very unfortunate.’ A pause. ‘Your father was devastated.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Do?’

  Cadel lifted his head and looked Thaddeus in the eye. ‘What did he do wrong? Why is he in gaol?’

  At that moment there was a knock on the door. Thaddeus glanced at his watch with a frown.

  ‘Your next client is here,’ Wilfreda announced from out on the landing.

  ‘Thank you,’ Thaddeus replied. He smiled at Cadel. ‘Time’s up, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Do some research, Cadel. Phineas Darkkon. Look him up and see what you can find before you visit me next. It shouldn’t be hard.’ The smile widened until it became a jagged grin. ‘As long as you don’t tell the Piggotts, of course.’

  THREE

  Cadel often went to his local library because Lanna and Stuart didn’t like books. Most of Cadel’s nannies didn’t like books, either. They preferred magazines, which they usually didn’t read. Instead, they would flip through the pages rapidly, sometimes pausing to examine a photograph or lick a manicured finger. Never once did Cadel see any of them actually scan a line of print.

  The day after Thaddeus dropped his bombshell about Dr Darkkon, Cadel went to the library with his current nanny, Linda. Linda was English. She had blonde hair and a slouch, and she sighed every time she spoke. She sighed when she asked Cadel how long he was going to be. She sighed when he replied that he didn’t know. ‘I’ll wait over here, then,’ she sighed, and slu
mped into a seat at one of the reading desks, where she sat noisily sighing, and flick-flick-flicking through magazines about movie stars and soap operas. (Her acrylic nails were so long that she had trouble getting a good grip on the shiny paper.)

  Cadel went first to the computer catalogue. From there he moved to the reference section, the biography section and the shelves devoted to biochemistry. A few old news magazines, one or two scientific journals, a book called Gene Crime, and another book on famous fraudsters were all that he needed. After trawling through these, he had a pretty good idea of who his father was.

  In fact, he couldn’t believe that Phineas Darkkon had never attracted his notice before.

  Phineas Darkkon hadn’t always been Phineas Darkkon. He had been christened Vernon Bobrick, and had kept the name until he was well into his sixties. By that time he was a famous geneticist, who had made a great deal of money developing synthogenes – artificial genes cobbled together out of genetic material not already patented by big research companies. Vernon had bought himself several mansions, an island off the coast of Australia and a huge laboratory complex in California. He had used this complex to study what he called ‘human potentialities’: namely, the possibility that some people possessed ‘supergenes’.

  According to Vernon, while most humans were the equivalent of junk DNA, a very few were genetic goldmines. He had been investigating something called ‘spontaneous combustion’ – a concept widely regarded as a myth by the scientific community – and had come to believe that the strange phenomenon of people suddenly bursting into flame, for no apparent reason, was related to a rare childhood skin disorder. Vernon argued that an extremely small portion of the human race was ‘pyrogenic’. Pyrogenes, he said, allowed some people to light fires using only their body heat. Most of these people were unaware of their hidden talent. Indeed, most were unable to harness it properly, with the result that they spontaneously combusted.

  Hmmm, thought Cadel.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ said a female voice, shattering Cadel’s concentration. It was one of the librarians. She knew Cadel because he was a regular at the library. She was always asking him questions about the books he borrowed. ‘How are you, today?’