Seven Point Eight

by Marie Harbon

  ‘There’ll be one woman…she is a gift to the world, capable of having a great impact on humanity. She must be protected at all costs as once the world discovers what she is, she won’t be safe.’

  Was this the girl he had to protect at all costs?

  “Tahra, this is Mr Richardson, he has agreed to sponsor you.”

  Max approached her and kissed her hand. Tahra looked into his eyes, unsure how to react and afraid of what she saw.

  “Your talents for my hospitality, it’s a business alliance.”

  Deep down, he disbelieved his own words. No woman had ever made him feel humble. As they cemented the business agreement, he knew he had to make her his, at any cost. For only the second time in his forty one years of life, he realised he’d fallen in love.

  Part Two

  Kismet

  Man also possesses a power by which he may see his friends and the circumstances by which they are surrounded, although such persons may be a thousand miles away from him at that time.

  *

  Paracelsus (1493-1541)

  8

  Bridge

  I experienced the quiet after the storm. After a decade serving The Establishment and another few years at The Institute, I felt as if my life had just stalled. All I could do was philosophise, reflect, and consolidate, although maybe this period of calm would enable me to assimilate everything I’d learned.

  Through what I’d researched, I knew there was so much more to being human than mere physiology. The unknown transformed from irrational to something worthy of scientific investigation. I comprehended that life extended beyond the material world. However, I had no theory to link everything and give it meaning.

  During my reflection, I questioned life. Are we indeed directed by destiny? Everything in my life suggested there was a plan operating, but whose plan? Although I abhorred the idea of a pre-ordained schedule in our lives, my life seemed strangely scripted, as if I were an actor in a film and the director knew it would all work out in the end. However, at the moment, I felt like the set had been vacated and I was staring at a blank page.

  Maybe for once, it was time for me to write the rest of the script.

  I felt the proverbial book inside me screaming to be written, so I put my typewriter to use. Drawing on my experiments and subsidiary research, I wrote about historical notions of the soul as a separate entity to the physical body, something common to all the world’s religions. Digging deeper, I came to understand the soul links spirit and body and can be attracted to either good or evil, providing the classic conflict, or battleground. The body is therefore a tool that is used by the soul and the spirit in its ultimate purpose.

  Where the electromagnetic field I measured sits in all this, I merely speculated for now. Is it the soul or spirit? There were so many unanswered questions. Why is the electromagnetic field of a psychic so strong and vibrant? What is the source of the human EM field? Does it issue from the brain? Is there a line of upward causation from matter to spirit, or downward causation from spirit to matter? Are the soul and consciousness the same thing? What had I really been measuring all along: an electromagnetic field, the soul, or consciousness?

  Trying to conclusively prove the existence of this field was frustrating though. Tantalising anecdotes and studies refer to ‘false limb syndrome’, in which amputees claim to feel their severed appendage. For example, pain and itching is often felt in the area where the arm or leg would have been. How could this be the result of nerve endings that do not exist anymore? Could these sensations be due to the electromagnetic field I measured?

  Maybe the field is some kind of blueprint for the body to follow. DNA, from what I’ve read, gives instructions to build proteins, but how do these proteins know what an arm, liver, or ear is supposed to look like? This information could be contained within the field.

  I discovered something called Kirlian photography, developed by a Soviet in 1961. His pictures show what seems to be an energy field around living things, and he called it an aura. I prefer ‘Human Electromagnetic Field’ as a term though, as it sounds more scientific.

  Anyway, this was just what I needed: clear visual evidence for the Human Electromagnetic Field. I decided to create a camera.

  ***

  Developments took place in the physical as well as the intellectual world. While out horse riding, I took a detour through some woods near the cottage, and soon found myself riding alongside a woman. She looked quite athletic and had a mane of incredible, chestnut coloured hair. In synchronicity we rode silently, until the woman broke the mute spell.

  “Do you ride here often?” she joked, an amusing ice breaker.

  “Twice a week,” I replied. “You?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Beautiful dappled horse you have there,” I said in admiration.

  “Thank you. I call her Laika.”

  I had to smile at that.

  “You’ve been following the space race.”

  “It’s the ultimate travel destination,” she mused.

  “This is Hadron, a very proud stallion that I’ve just broken in.”

  “Hadron?” she queried.

  “It’s a new term applied to strongly interacting particles in quantum physics,” I explained, although she didn’t appear to understand. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in particle physics by any chance?”

  “Close, I studied chemistry.”

  “What do you do now?” I asked, becoming more interested in her by the minute.

  “I work in a lab close by. You?”

  “I think, research and write.”

  She laughed and gave Laika a kick, spurring her horse into a canter. Intrigued, I copied and we ran in reign. She led me to a small cottage on the other side of my hill. We tethered the horses to a fence and they grazed happily as we stood, soaking up the chemistry and physics of sexual attraction.

  Five minutes later, we stumbled into her sitting room. She attempted to kick off her riding boots as I fumbled with the fastenings on her jodhpurs. I was in too much of a hurry to strip, and partially removed her jodhpurs before enveloping her in my arms and carrying her to the sofa.

  The sex was fast and furious but she liked it that way, having no qualms about welcoming a stranger into her body. Wow, a liberated woman! She finished just before I did, the brevity of no concern to her as she expected seconds. I didn’t complain. The dessert was certainly sweet, as seconds should be. After the second climax, she lay on the sofa, feeling as satisfied as I did, and lit a cigarette.

  “I’m Eleanor, by the way,” she said.

  “Paul,” I replied.

  We shook hands.

  ***

  Our alliance began on the 15th of September 1962 and by the time our first anniversary arrived, I’d made satisfactory progress with my book. However, my purpose in life was ailing. I caught Martin Luther King’s speech, in which he declared ‘I have a dream’. In my case, it felt like ‘I had a dream’. A vision of my purpose was something I craved.

  Eleanor and I became comfortable though. Maybe I was finally ready to settle down, as we enjoyed an easy relationship. I felt loved and appreciated, and in turn, I had the utmost respect for her. While it wasn’t an earth shattering romance, we fitted together, interlocking like an enzyme and its receptor. We followed the Space Race on the TV and radio, and I collected all the newspaper clippings, displaying them on the wall near my desk.

  During that time, Max retreated further and further into the recesses of my conscious mind. Eventually, I started to feel stagnant so in the autumn of 1963, I took up a lecturing post again. I did this as much for the intellectual challenge, as well as the need to preserve my savings.

  Nevertheless, the director of my life’s script decided to deliver a game changer again. Max reappeared in my life in May 1964, strangely preoccupied and with new objectives. However, I gave my allotted task little thought, as in our conversation he inspired me without realising it. I had a light bulb moment, the Eureka w
e all desire. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?

  9

  The Golden Girl

  I left Tehran and arrived in London on the 30th of September 1962, apprehensive in respect of what I’d been signed up to. It had been several years since I’d lived in England, and I noticed the difference in temperature straight away. It was a shock to the system being thrown from desert weather to the climate of England.

  Mr. Richardson met me at the airport himself. For such a wealthy man, he displayed chivalrous behaviour and helped me with my possessions, tipping a porter generously to transport the heavy luggage to his car. He had a fine vehicle in dark green, an Aston Martin DB4, whatever that means, and he reeled off a list of specifications that made as much sense to me as Chinese. All I remember is that it was fast, and I felt my back press into the seat as we pulled away. Suffice to say, it didn’t take long to reach our destination.

  Throughout the journey though, I felt uncomfortable due to the way he looked at me. Despite his age of approximately forty years, he was very handsome with no trace of grey in his dark hair, but my previous intuitions held. His heart was hardened in some way, although I couldn’t figure out why. What lay beneath his perfect gentleman persona? When I looked into his eyes, I saw glimpses of two personalities. One suggested kindness, while the other…I don’t know. Which aspect of him dominated? Maybe Mr. Richardson could be any one of these at the drop of a hat. However, I believed he meant a lot to my future in some way. He could make things happen, and I wanted to bask in his powerful aura.

  He took me to a place called The Institute, my new home and place of work. It looked so austere – how could I stay in this clinical place? The lady of the house, Miss Tynedale, didn’t seem to like me but Mr. Richardson ushered me up the stairs. I noticed the paintings on the wall as he escorted me, recognising Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton, although none of the others. He took me to a room on the top floor and paused outside, hand on the door knob.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

  When he opened the door, I didn’t see a cold and austere room. Someone had taken the time to decorate and furnish it Middle Eastern style. Orange and gold drapes hung at the dormer window, and there were cushions scattered over the bed, which had an iron frame. I saw some possessions I thought I’d left behind, like my favourite childhood toys. Not knowing what to say, I felt overwhelmed and stood in the middle of the floor.

  Mr. Richardson walked up to me, and carefully brushed the hair away from my face with affection. I got the feeling this was a rare moment for him and he appeared to want to say something which would make him vulnerable, but he drew back.

  “I hope you like your new home, Tahra, I had the decorators in to make you feel at ease.”

  What a thoughtful gesture. I told him ‘thank you’ with sincerity, showing my appreciation and this seemed enough for him, for a while at least. His generosity made me nervous, but he made me feel accepted. I’m often the odd jigsaw piece, maybe because of my gifts but also due to my ethnicity. Mr. Richardson honoured both of these qualities, and I started to believe my time here would be a blessing. Maybe I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ***

  Max sat quietly in his private study at home, watching the first burnished leaves fall from the trees in his garden. Although his new protégé, Tahra Mamoun, had only been in his life a month, he’d become preoccupied with her, which disturbed him. He’d secured her a place on a psychology course at university, her choice of subject, while drawing up a programme of research based on her talents. However, he’d invested his time and emotions above all, organising her life, helping her settle, and extending his kindness. He’d seen the gratitude in her eyes and hadn’t requested anything in return. Did he wish to make a move?

  The night before the first test, Max decided to take her to a restaurant for fine wine and luxurious food. Tahra accepted graciously and at seven o’clock that evening, he waited in the entrance hall of The Institute. She strode elegantly down the stairs, wearing a deep red dress with paisley swirl that reached her knees, and a black coat. During her time in London, she’d discovered make up and had accentuated her dark eyes with black eyeliner and mascara, and her lips with a crimson shade of lipstick. She crossed the hall like a panther and stood before Max, presenting herself like a delicious buffet which he wanted to devour.

  “I hope this is appropriate,” she said, gesturing to her dress, “I’ve never been to a restaurant in London.”

  Hopelessly enamoured, Max finally found his tongue. “It’s perfect.”

  She offered her arm and Max took it, leading the way to the taxi waiting outside. It whisked them straight to a restaurant in the West End, and it pleased Max to see Tahra so happy. His previous dates were impervious to the wonders and freedoms London had to offer, whereas Tahra reacted as a child would in the toy department of Harrods. When she entered the restaurant, heads turned and eyes watched her. Max felt honoured to be her date.

  They perused the menu and reached a decision, awaiting their meal over a glass of wine. Tahra’s upbringing had been based around her father’s Islamic beliefs, so alcohol had been a no-no, therefore she enjoyed the taste and savoured the freedom of being able to drink it. In London she felt like a liberated young woman, protected but not smothered. There was no reason to return to Tehran, not with a salary and a course of study at university to look forward to. It seemed as if she really had the world in the palm of her hand.

  Max pondered her presence here over his glass of wine.

  “You look very beautiful tonight,” he said, with more humility than he would normally show.

  Tahra smiled and lowered her eyes. Although she’d become used to his acts of kindness, his direct compliment and apparent physical intentions towards her perturbed her. Could she reciprocate? Should she encourage him by accepting his invitation, for what was intended to be a romantic meal? Or was she entitled to sample some freedom with a wealthy and handsome escort?

  “I value your kindness, Mr Richardson. You’ve made me feel more than welcome.”

  “You can call me Max, you know,” he said, dismissing formalities.

  “Max…I won’t let you down, I promise I’ll be worth your trouble.”

  He seemed unsure how to take her comment, but replied. “I’m sure I won’t regret bringing you here.”

  When their meals arrived, he regularly glanced over at her, watching her lick her lips to catch a dribble of sauce, and he couldn’t help but imagine it elsewhere... She caught his gaze, although didn’t know how to respond.

  “I’m so happy about the test tomorrow,” she declared, as if trying to divert his attention. “I want to show you what I can do.”

  “Actually, I’m so confident you can deliver that I’m skipping the initial tests.”

  Tahra gave him a puzzled look. “Why would you do this?”

  After a pause, he decided to be truthful. “Until recently, I had an advisor…a very trustworthy advisor who recommended I go to Tehran to headhunt you. She informed me that you had…superior abilities.”

  “Then it was no accident….it did seem strange, you being in Tehran.”

  “So, you understand why I’ve invested so much time and money in you?”

  Was he trying to distract her from his physical attraction, in favour of his belief in her as his business protégé? Was he trying to convince himself? Most of all, did she believe him?

  “Yes, I understand my responsibilities,” she replied.

  They ate silently for a few moments, Max demonstrating mounting sexual tension on his behalf and Tahra coming to realise that maybe he did expect more of her. Finally, she decided to mellow the atmosphere.

  “Why are you so interested in people with special talents?”

  Her question surprised him, but he attempted to answer. “My mother was an amazing woman, highly perceptive, wise, and clairvoyant. She told me where to find you, just before she died. My mother’s gift helped put me in the position I’m
in today.” He paused to take a mouthful of wine and pondered his next point. “I believe everyone at The Institute has an important place within the context of the cosmos as a whole, but I don’t really under the significance. I think my mother did.”

  He toyed with his glass, unsure whether to continue with what he was about to say. Tahra looked at him with persuasion, as if aware he might reveal something significant and formative about his personality.

  “I had a series of strange experiences when I was eighteen.” He remained contemplative for a moment. “These experiences changed my life…I wish they’d lasted forever, but they didn’t.” In that poignant moment, he decided not to continue the conversation.

  They ate their meal silently for a while, as Max seemed retrospective but finally, they made light conversation. As the date progressed, Max’s admiration for her grew and he got the impression that she developed a sense of respect for him. He paid the bill promptly and helped her into her coat, standing close enough to smell her perfume and latent sexuality.

  Tahra felt his warm breath on the back of her neck. In that moment, she wondered how it would feel if he put his arms around her, or what the consequences would be of an affair with her benefactor. Did she want him, or did she merely want him to desire her? There was clearly a difference.

  ***

  Back at The Institute, Max walked her to her room, realising the time had come to declare his intentions. He felt nervous, like a teenager waiting to ask his first crush for a kiss. She opened her door but didn’t flick on the light, pausing in the doorway in realisation of the inevitable. Max saw the opportunity, she’d left it open. He stood close to her, gently lifting her chin so she could meet his gaze.

  “Tahra, I’d like to make love to you.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise and she fell silent for a moment, before finally replying.