Soul

by Tobsha Learner

  ‘I cannot release that information,’ the colonel said, his voice dropping into a sudden formality, ‘my job would be on the line.’

  ‘Now I’m really interested.’

  ‘Don’t be. This guy is bad news. Do you want me to post some security outside the lab?’

  ‘No, he didn’t strike me as dangerous.’

  ‘He is, just like any zealot on a mission is. If he appears again, you’re to ring me immediately, Professor Huntington. You got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir, cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘Julia, you’re to take this guy seriously, you understand?’

  There was a distant click on the phone line as Smith-Royston hung up, and Julia had the uncanny sensation that someone else had been listening in.

  Sipping her coffee, she sat down on the doorstep and, watching a blackbird wrestle a worm out from the lawn, wondered how the search for one mutant gene had suddenly become so interesting for so many people.

  Julia waited a moment before entering the laboratory, feeling anxious about how to relate to Gabriel since their lovemaking the night before. She smoothed down her skirt and pulled at her shirt cuffs. She was determined to maintain the equilibrium in the laboratory at all costs. I must retain my authority, she resolved before opening the door.

  The four assistants were in the dry laboratory, clustered around Dr Jennifer Bostock’s computer. Leaning over Jennifer’s shoulder, staring at the screen, Gabriel whistled in disbelief.

  ‘The guy must have had a pass. Night security is wicked.’

  ‘Has there been a break-in?’ Julia said.

  ‘About three this morning.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring me earlier?’ Julia pushed her way through to the desk.

  ‘We thought you might like to sleep in,’ Gabriel said with a straight face before winking at her. Julia blushed and glanced at the other students. They appeared oblivious to the flirtation.

  ‘Check this out. Emmanuel, the security guy, gave it to me.’ Jennifer Bostock hit a key and the grainy interior of the wet lab came up on screen, the image angled down from a high point.

  They all leaned closer to the screen as a figure, barely visible in the dim light of the footage, his face masked, entered. His torch sent a ghostly streak through the black and grey recording as its beam bounced along the darkened shelves and cluttered benches. For a moment the footage blanked white as the arc of light swung across the hidden camera eye.

  ‘Is anything missing?’ Julia asked.

  ‘No, that’s what’s so strange.’

  On screen, the figure moved cautiously, poised like a dancer.

  ‘This guy’s professional.’

  ‘Yeah, freaky, eh?’

  ‘Wait, the best part’s coming up.’

  The intruder pulled a small digital camera from his back pocket and began photographing. Julia stood back, horrified. ‘So do we know what he got?’

  Jennifer hit the pause button and the image froze. ‘Not much, really. I don’t believe he knew what to look for. I mean, he took shots of Oona’s wheat grass, for Christ’s sake!’ She snorted derisively. ‘Could have been one of those mad animal liberationists again. I don’t know why we don’t just put a sign up for the guys—you know, something like “There are no live animals, small children or white supremacists kept on the premises”.’

  ‘What about the Defense Department project?’

  The assistants glanced at each other sheepishly. Finally, Gabriel spoke up.

  ‘Yeah, he took shots of the DNA results. But unless he had access to the research notes, it wouldn’t make any sense at all.’

  Julia sat at her desk wondering who would go to such extremes. Valco? Her work might be of interest to the insurance company if a genetic propensity was proven to directly affect people’s ability to work, but such information was at least a decade away. Could it be the ex-Delta soldier, Donohue? Could he have lied to her? Was it possible he was working for another government?

  There was a tentative knock on the door. Gabriel hovered in the doorway, unsure about whether he should come in. Julia smiled at him and he walked over to the desk.

  ‘Gabriel, about last night—’

  He held his hand up. ‘Please don’t make the mistake of underestimating my intelligence. Besides, I seduced you, so in case you’re having doubts you’re morally redeemed.’

  ‘Just promise me you won’t tell your mother.’

  ‘Sorry, company policy—never sign a contract you can’t keep.’

  He opened the file he was carrying to reveal a series of developed images of DNA: they resembled blurred bar codes. Julia pulled the lamp across, spilling light over the photographs.

  ‘We mined for ANG–1,’ he said, and placed five of the images beside five traced graphs, each with a name written above it—the source of the DNA. ‘Jack Lewis, Mathew Catherton, Kurt Moony, Clive O’Hare, Carlos Santos—some of them representing an identical twin, some fraternal. All of them top combat soldiers with extensive frontline experience—high risk-takers, adrenaline junkies—none of them suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. All showing the same genetic profile for the genes tested.’

  Julia scanned the results, trying to contain her growing excitement, then leapt up and went over to her filing cabinet. She quickly flicked through the hanging personnel files and pulled out the individual folders of the twin of each of the named men. She placed these against the files already laid out.

  ‘Benito Lewis—identical twin—and yes, same genetic profile…’ She glanced down the notes. ‘Same behavioural traits, saw service in Srebrenica, Afghanistan…no post-trauma…’ She glanced at another set of files. ‘George Catherton, non-identical twin, different ANG–1 sequence to his brother Mathew—he has ANG–1B—requested transfer from platoon after frontline encounter in Kuwait and has suffered post-trauma. Looking good, looking good…’

  ‘Julia, I still don’t believe this can be the only factor.’

  ‘Relax, nothing’s proven until we have the results in of all five hundred. But I want you to narrow the testing down to this specific ANG–1 sequence difference; meanwhile I’ll tell the interstate researchers to do the same.’

  ‘There’s something else you need to know—a matter of great scientific import.’

  She looked up at him, worried he might have made a miscalculation.

  ‘I shall probably attempt to seduce you again.’

  She couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘At your own peril. Just remember, there’s no way this is ever going to be a relationship.’

  ‘Who said I was after a relationship?’ Grinning, he left.

  Julia looked back at the different sets of research results. Something played at the edge of her mind, tantalisingly out of reach. She sensed Gabriel was right: there was a missing factor she hadn’t added into the equation; but the more she concentrated, the more it eluded her.

  51

  The Vicarage Anascaul, County Kerry

  June the 10th

  In the Year of Our Lord 1861

  My dearest daughter,

  I was most troubled by your letter. I cannot believe an individual as upstanding, as intelligent and as dedicated a father as Colonel Huntington could be the cause of any marital or domestic distress. You have in the past been given to flights of the imagination (a trait you inherited from your dear unfortunate mother) and so I am inclined to think that your correspondence was written in haste during an attack of negative fancy. I urge you to remain in your marriage and to fulfil your wifely duties to their utmost. You have had the extraordinary good fortune to marry into an established family of impeccable breeding, and into a manner of living I could never have provided for you.

  Obviously there will be sacrifices, especially when there is such an age difference between husband and wife, but it is one’s duty to tolerate a degree of incompatibility within matrimony (indeed, I have often lectured from the pulpit on this very same subject). Out of respect for my good f
riend and son-in-law, but also with the understanding of the implications for my grandson, I cannot agree to taking you in.

  Turning to happier matters, we are in the full flight of summer here and the lavender in the garden is most…

  LAVINIA SAT IN A YELLOW SATIN armchair, her father’s letter, half-read, resting on her lap. The Colonel moved towards her and Lavinia turned the letter over, hiding its contents.

  ‘Dr Jefferies believes you to be a hysteric,’ he said. ‘A trait inherited from the maternal line. Lavinia, do you know anything about your mother?’

  Colonel Huntington knelt and took one of his wife’s hands into his own. Her fingers were freezing, he noted. Since the visit to the phrenologist, now over a month ago, they had barely spoken. Lavinia had escaped to the nursery while he, ashamed and uncertain over his own behaviour, had retreated to the safe haven of his club.

  Lavinia stared at the fire, the flames now twisting into the shape of Polly Kirkshore’s hair, his mouth. If my mother is living, she can only belong to that world of criminals and prostitutes, she thought.

  ‘I believe my mother to be dead.’ She did not look up, fearing he would see the doubt in her eyes.

  ‘Are you so unhappy?’

  Wondering at the honesty of his concern, Lavinia did not take her eyes from the fire.

  ‘The night I was at the window waiting for you,’ she said. ‘I saw Mr Campbell and yourself…’

  A coal rolled out of the grate onto the stone hearth. Neither kicked it back. The Colonel forced a short bark of a laugh. His wife’s insinuation—if proven—was a criminal offence. She was unpredictable in her emotions and mental equilibrium, yet if she were to go to a magistrate…Such a possibility terrified him.

  ‘Campbell is an enthusiastic youth, idealistic in his beliefs,’ he answered carefully, his tone deliberately neutral. ‘He seems to have conceived of a kind of hero worship for me, which can become quite tiresome. Perhaps it is this which has driven your wondrous imagination to all sorts of wild inventions.’

  ‘I wish I could believe you, but you two have an intimacy that is exclusive of everyone.’

  He caressed her hand, trying not to reveal his fear through his trembling fingers.

  ‘Believe me, Lavinia. You must.’

  All of his past and the possibility of any future seemed to hang upon this conversation. If Lavinia were to betray him, the Colonel knew there would be a trial, public humiliation; he would lose his good name, his son, all possibility of an ongoing professional reputation. He would be imprisoned; his life would be over.

  ‘I cannot help but conclude your hysteria is the result of a good intellect gone to waste. Your mind needs occupation.’ He stared up at the painting above the fireplace, wildly searching for a strategy. ‘I have been asked to compose a pamphlet for the Royal Society on the botanical specimens I collected in the Amazon. Are you interested in writing this?’

  Having dangled the bait, the Colonel waited, his future suddenly as fragile as the Chinese porcelain flower resting on the mantelpiece before him.

  Finally, Lavinia looked at him, her face devoid of emotion. ‘Is the pamphlet to include the plants that are used in the religious ceremonies you told me about?’

  ‘Indeed. I intend to execute one of these rituals in a couple of months.’

  ‘You will take the ayahuasca brew? You will summon the goddess of the Bakairi?’

  For the first time in over a month, Lavinia appeared animated. The Colonel smiled, encouraged by her enthusiasm.

  ‘I will try. If you wish, you could observe and take notes.’

  ‘You would not employ Mr Campbell for such a task?’

  ‘From now on, the two of you shall work side by side.’

  ‘Will he agree to such an arrangement?’

  ‘He will have no choice.’

  ‘Then I think I should welcome the distraction. Thank you.’

  The Colonel smiled again more warmly. ‘Enough of that.’

  Trying to conceal his immense relief he moved toward her then drew her to her feet and led her into the master bedroom. Pulling at the buttons of her blouse, he began to undress her.

  The laudanum made Lavinia a somnambulist, hovering above James’s caresses—until he touched her sex. Then she pulled his mouth to hers, hands, arms, fingers clawing desperately to reclaim the lovemaking they had lost themselves in so many months before.

  James, overwhelmed by the familiar yet estranged body under his hands, could not repress the images that flared over his wife’s breasts, her hips, her mouth. A young man—his neck, the touch of his hands, his mouth. James pushed against her while secretly craving the hardness of the youth’s body beneath his own.

  I can find myself again; I can, and I must, he told himself over and over, while Lavinia, burying her face against his neck, allowed his lovemaking to eclipse all but the faintest sense of betrayal.

  52

  THE DAYS DRIFTED THROUGH summer. Lavinia had rejected most of the social invitations that Lady Morgan had organised for her. She wanted to believe her husband’s reassurances that he no longer socialised with Hamish Campbell outside of his research.

  Before breakfast, Aloysius would drive Lavinia to Ladies’ Mile. At the same time, Colonel Huntington took a brisk ride down the tree-lined avenue of Rotten Row. After breakfast, Lavinia would retire to her study to pay the household bills, with Mrs Beetle supervising, while the Colonel continued with his anthropological work, accompanied by Hamish Campbell.

  After lunch, Lavinia would join the two men at their labour. The atmosphere in the study was most uncomfortable. Hamish Campbell worked on one side of the huge centre table, his notes and drawings spread before him. Lavinia sat on the other side, the herbs and dried fungi in their jars and on specimen plates creating a barrier between her and the youth.

  The two barely conversed, except to exchange the minimal courtesies. If the Colonel happened to be in the room, they both attempted to monopolise his conversation in the most competitive manner.

  Gradually James became more attentive, insisting on weekly sojourns to the duck pond at Hyde Park with Lavinia and Aidan, and calling Lavinia to his bed—evidence he had foregone his previous ways and was giving himself solely to her.

  Lavinia, for her part, had examined her situation from many angles and concluded that she still loved him and could not leave him. With each day spent by her husband’s side, she felt her anger and resentment dissolving. Determined to be an attentive wife, she vowed to ignore Lady Morgan’s warnings.

  Some weeks later, the Huntingtons and Hamish Campbell found themselves together in the members’ stand at Hurlingham to view a polo match between the Horse Guards and a Monmouthshire team.

  Shouting encouragement to a cousin who rode with the Horse Guards, the Colonel appeared indifferent to Lavinia’s and Hamish’s discomfort. The two sat stiffly beside each other while the riders thudded past, polo sticks swinging, pushing their mounts through the cruel twists of the sport.

  The Horse Guards had the advantage until a particularly skilful player darted between his opponents, his stick whirling like a baton, monopolised the ball and whacked it between the poles to secure a win.

  ‘Damnation! I have just lost twenty guineas!’ The Colonel collapsed back onto his seat.

  A woman several rows away turned at his voice. ‘Ahh! The elusive Colonel James Huntington!’ Before any of them had time to respond, Lady Morgan was busy weaving her way through the chairs and picnic baskets.

  Once before them, she studied the party with an aggrieved air. ‘All three of you have been the most absent of friends.’ She turned to Lavinia. ‘I’m afraid your presentation to the Queen is now quite out of the question. As you did not respond to my note about the date I had proposed, I’m afraid I was forced to cancel it.’

  ‘I apologise, Lady Morgan. I have been much occupied of late.’

  Lady Morgan peered under Lavinia’s straw bonnet.

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Huntington, I do hope it was n
ot due to illness? You appear to be wearing a wig.’

  Lavinia turned a beetroot red and the Colonel stepped forward protectively.

  ‘Lady Morgan, what a fortuitous coincidence. You must forgive us, we have all been busy with my current academic pursuits. You see, I have now recruited two assistants.’

  ‘How extraordinary, to have two handmaidens to your genius,’ Lady Morgan remarked, relishing both Hamish’s and Lavinia’s uneasiness.

  Behind them, the riders trotted back to the stables and the onlookers moved gaily onto the grass. Soon the playing field was speckled with brightly coloured bonnets and sober grey and black silk top hats as spectators diligently pressed the upturned grass back into place, pushing at the clods delicately with the tip of a pointed shoe or the toe of a riding boot.

  Lady Morgan led their small group determinedly towards the crowd, propelled as much by the possibility of an advantageous encounter as obligation. The others followed somewhat reluctantly.

  ‘You do both of us a disservice; we are more than handmaidens,’ Hamish said as he sidestepped a pile of horse manure.

  ‘Indeed? James, are you to foist another tome onto the innocent public?’

  ‘Several, my dear—one on the rituals of the Amazonian Indians, another on the jungle’s flora.’

  ‘Such dedication from all three of you. The Colonel’s study must be a veritable hothouse.’

  The Colonel knocked a grassy sod with his walking stick; it went flying. Ignoring his evident irritation, Lady Morgan continued merrily.

  ‘Whatever your roles, you do make a très jolie ménage à trois.’

  Outraged, Hamish took her arm and marched her away from the others.