by John Macken
A younger female approached, frowning and unsure of herself. ‘Mr Maitland?’ she asked.
Reuben nodded.
‘Come with me. He’s actually asleep at the moment, but he’s due for some food soon.’
She walked back the way she had come, opening doors with shoulder-level handles and plastic protectors on their corners. They went upstairs and Reuben followed, step for step, nervous and excited, wanting to break into a sprint. A final door was breached and they entered a darkened room. In it, fifteen to twenty small forms lay still on white blankets, on their fronts or their backs, their arms cradling teddies or dolls, their mouths open or sucking vigorously on dummies.
‘He’s there,’ she pointed, ‘at the back on the left.’
Reuben paused, unsure.
‘It’s OK,’ the woman whispered, ‘you can pick your way through.’
He peered at the toddler lying serenely in the corner, and tiptoed forwards. When he arrived, Reuben was almost overcome. Up close, the months away had left their marks. In his open mouth, Reuben counted eight teeth, four in the lower jaw and four in the upper. The hair was slightly lighter, the cheeks chubbier, the chin more pointed. Reuben bent down and pushed his face close, until he could hear his breathing. Joshua twitched and moved his head to the side. Reuben examined his ears and nose, and his eyebrows, and his neck. But not this time, he told himself, as a geneticist. Instead, he scrutinized his son with the desperate love of a father.
Reuben appreciated that he was being monitored by the nursery nurse, but ignored the attention. This was more important than anything in the world. He reached slowly out and touched Joshua’s hot hand, watching it flinch slightly. He stroked his hair and kissed his cheek. His son began to wake, and instantly started to cry. Reuben smiled in wonder. He grabbed a nearby dummy and slotted it in Joshua’s mouth.
‘I don’t blame you,’ Reuben whispered. ‘You don’t really know me.’ He stroked his hair. ‘But you will, my son. You will.’
He picked Joshua up, sensing the heaviness in his plump legs and arms, guessing that he now weighed double what he had when he last held him. Joshua wriggled and squirmed, wanting to be free to crawl and explore. As Reuben hugged him close, smelling his hair and his skin, he resolved to seek visiting rights from Lucy. Joshua, here in his arms, was all that really mattered. He was still the father, his name on the birth certificate, his bloody fingers cutting the umbilical cord. After all, genetics was, as his brother and the forensics murders had painfully illustrated, only part of any story. Love was the ultimate truth. Biology, in comparison, was almost irrelevant. And gazing into Joshua’s wide-open eyes, he decided he would love him no matter what.
Reuben kissed his son tenderly, and blew a quiet raspberry on his cheek. Joshua stopped wriggling. Reuben blew a second, and his son giggled. A third and he was squealing, eyes screwed shut in delight. The nursery assistant glowered over. Reuben turned his back, away from her, away from the other staff, and away from the world, the answer finally in his hands.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
John Macken would like to thank the National Endowment for Science, Technology and the Arts (NESTA) for funding through the DreamTime Award; the peoples of Siberia and India for listening patiently to his lecture series; his agent for really earning his money; his Thursday Nighters for their sustained disinterest; and his wife and children for putting up with the dual nightmare of living with a scientist and writer.
John Macken works as a scientist in a large windowless building. He is married with two children. Reuben Maitland and GeneCrime will return in a new novel in Spring 2008.
