And her job was done.
‘The height thing,’ he went on. ‘It was a deal-breaker. The adverse impacts of the CANDI cluster across the sites were coming through…’
‘Okay, that’s enough.’ There was a note of panic in Tod’s voice.
The boy raised a hand with an authority beyond his years, and started again: ‘The impacts of CANDI: weight gain, metabolic changes, neurotoxic effects. They were bad news—very bad, actually—but head office was finding ways to tick the boxes, enough to maintain sales. The growth thing was a whole new factor. While you kids in the control were having your growth spurts, the drug-therapy kids were going in exactly the opposite direction: stunting, skeletal growth abnormalities, suppression of bone mineralisation, decrease in bone growth. Fat you could fix, but short was short.’
He glanced at Tod—who, I noticed, was listening to all this like he was hearing it for the first time—but the boy was not speaking to him. He was speaking to me and he was speaking with purpose, the purpose of one tasked with the transfer of information.
‘What did they do about it?’ I asked.
He paused to give the answer the gravity it deserved. ‘I found a study conducted with macaques where they packaged a growth hormone into the drug to counteract the side effect. It was quite successful; the problem was that the testing wasn’t conclusive for humans.’
A couple of years back he had discovered records of the same drug combination used to treat early adolescent bipolar across ten trial sites in Southeast Asia, including a hospital and two schools. ‘Three hundred children aged eight to eleven…I can’t find any trace of the results,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing it didn’t go well.’
‘So, what then?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘They move on to the next lot. None of this is one-off. This is global, Daniel, business as usual. This is what they do.’
He was staring at me now, his pale grey eyes drilling into mine, and I saw it in them, the fervour of purpose—the lifeblood. ‘It is all about the end-goal,’ he said. ‘That is how they justify it. A world without pain.’
At some point while he was speaking, another image of Alex came into my mind. He was indicating to me his first whiteboard: cocoa farming, child slavery, the red country with the black spot—to make the chocolate bars for the kids in the yellow countries.
‘And the Doctor?’
‘The man who didn’t sleep,’ he said with a doleful shake of his head. He got to his feet, walked to the middle monitor and clicked back into our study. The montage of images appeared, ending with the courtyard—the section where Helen used to set up our experiments.
We ground ourselves on assumptions. When they are proved false, we are left with a different set of questions.
What I was looking at was not a research centre. It was exactly what the Doctor had always called it: a school. Designed to educate—as the Latin root would have it, to lead forth. And this was no archive, either. I was looking at a live feed.
‘He reopened the School as soon as he could,’ said Jordan. ‘He needed more cohorts, more evidence. More lives well lived…That is where I came from.’ He looked at me, smiled. ‘You and I, we are alumni.’ And when the smile faded. ‘The Doctor did everything a man could do. I’m guessing it killed him.’
He turned back to the screen, scrolled down through several disclaimers to the bottom of the page, a link to the landing page for current programs. ‘This study is currently recruiting participants,’ he said.
And there, another list of names, another set of futures.
The videos were still playing on the outer two screens and there was an echo ringing in my ears like a chorus of voices.
‘I sent you the report,’ the boy said. ‘That was me.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I lied. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want what he wanted. What he wanted from you all along.’
To take up where we left off.
I would like your brain on something.
Not just mine.
I bundle this folder up now and add one final record. This is my file. Within it is everything I told the Doctor and all that I left out; at least it is as far as I can go. I answer the questions as best I can.
Time gives us different versions of ourselves. My best one was born the night Rachel sat between us in the courtyard and told us her story. It comes and goes, dependent on whether she is close by or far away. Over the years I have tried to make her understand that. Now I am trying to make her understand something else.
I sit on my porch and wait for the sound of her car. On the third day of messaging back and forth—it needs to be in person—I hear it, rising above the chorus of cicadas and magpies. Hallelujah.
She climbs out of the car. ‘What is it, Daniel?’
So I tell her. About Mindsight, about Tod, about the Doctor and his protégé. She doesn’t stop me at any point in the story—not even for Tod—but looks back at me and listens like it is the most important thing I’ve ever said. We stay on the porch through the night, side by side, glimpses of moon through the inky canopy—a final midnight session.
First we determine size and scope and then we create a second whiteboard. Solutions. She nods and turns to face me. Voltage transmitting cell to cell. We ask, the way Rachel always does: what now?
The beginning is a sandstone building with a curved, concrete structure and a core of natural light. Purpose-built. It is a school. There is only one, but there are more students: the alumni. Next is a database and a boy to grant us access. Between us, we set a new proof point. One case study at a time.
Already there is a different story. The first thing is to tell it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to: Jo Corrigan and Malcolm Knox for their comments and insights, Richard Bandler for helping me with my brain, Mum and Matt for their loving support, Lyn Tranter and the marvellous Mandy Brett, and Peggy Dwyer—again—for her generosity every step of the way. I am also indebted to Gary Greenberg and Dr Allen Frances whose investigations into the diagnosis and treatment of mental disorders in The Book of Woe (2013 Scribe) and Saving Normal (2013 Harper Collins) proved invaluable.
ALSO BY SARAH HOPKINS
The Crimes of Billy Fish
Speak to Me
This Picture of You
Sarah Hopkins’ first novel, The Crimes of Billy Fish, was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and highly commended for the ABC Fiction Award. Her third novel, This Picture of You, was shortlisted for the Barbara Jefferis Award. She works as a criminal lawyer in Sydney.
sarahhopkinsauthor.com
textpublishing.com.au
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © Sarah Hopkins, 2019
The moral right of Sarah Hopkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Published by The Text Publishing Company, 2019
Book design by Jessica Horrocks
Images by iStock
Typeset in Sabon 11.25/17.5 by J&M Typesetting
ISBN: 9781925773781 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781925774535 (ebook)
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
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