The Genesis Flaw

by L. A. Larkin

  Serena leaned forward, her hair partially obscuring her face, eyes downcast.

  ‘Rubbish. Of course you will. Where’s my feisty friend, Serena Swift, gone? You’re a fighter, missy, and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘Yeah. And I’ve been all brave in front of John but I’m secretly wondering what the hell I’ve just gone and done.’

  ‘Aw, mate, I wish I could give you a hug. I know it’s been hard for you,’ Tracey said, stretching out her hand and touching her monitor.

  ‘Thanks, Trace.’

  ‘So what made you do it?’

  Serena knew the journalist in Tracey couldn’t resist wanting to know more. ‘I saw Al Bukowski attacked by a geneticist in the lobby. This guy was screaming about Project New Dawn, saying it would make things worse and it wasn’t too late to stop it, whatever “it” is.’

  ‘What’s Bukowski doing in Australia?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Serena hesitated. ‘But I have a theory.’

  ‘Come on, mate. You can tell me.’

  ‘If I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t act on the information. I’ve signed a gagging order. I’ll end up in serious hot water if you do.’

  ‘Mate, you know I can’t give you that promise. But I will give you my word I’ll never reveal my source.’

  Serena, sitting on the edge of her bed, pulled up her long legs and crossed them. Tracey had become her constant companion in London, in many ways filling the void left by her losing touch with John. Serena trusted her totally but at the same time recognised that if she confided in Tracey, an exceptional journalist, she had to accept that the news hound within her would pursue the story.

  ‘The word is the Asia-Pacific CEO has committed suicide and Bukowski wants Gloria to keep it quiet.’

  ‘Now, that is interesting and, let’s face it, not a good look for Gene-Asis. I haven’t heard anything, so I’ll do some digging. Now, who assaulted Bukowski? A relative of the suicide?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. It was a Dr McPherson. I’ve looked up his bio and he’s a plant geneticist. But not just any old researcher. Department head at Harvard. Poached by Arthur Phillip uni. Then nothing since 2011. The university said he’d disgraced the faculty.’

  ‘Oooh, I love a bit of disgrace. Let me have a quick look at this bloke and see if I can find out anything. Keep going,’ Tracey said as she tapped away at her keyboard.

  ‘They really didn’t like me asking about him and no one would tell me where he was. They’re obviously hiding something.’

  ‘Those instincts of yours are going to land you in trouble one day, my love. Here we go, Dr McPherson. Yes, he does seem to have vanished, doesn’t he! I wonder why? Nothing in the media about being disgraced. Oh, hold on, what’s this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Looks like he tried to publish a paper in December 2011 in Bioscience Journal. It was about to go to print when it was pulled. He then tried The Lancet and Scientific American and was turned down. I’ve got some quotes here from peers criticising his methods and saying his findings were invalid. Odd, though, I can’t find the actual research anywhere. It’s usually available.’

  ‘What was the paper on?’

  ‘Doesn’t say, but there was a big barny over it. A Dr Munroe really slagged him off.’

  ‘P. Munroe?’

  ‘Yeah, Philip, how do you know him?’

  ‘He’s one of the four scientists behind Project New Dawn. He works for Gene-Asis.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … maybe McPherson worked on New Dawn too.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe he didn’t make the grade, or he cocked up somehow, and got the boot. He could just be holding a grudge.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, it’s worth sniffing around. But don’t get your hopes up, my love. I mean, what’s more likely—that he’s got a grudge or that one of the biggest companies in the world is covering up selling dangerous stuff to millions of people? That kind of story only comes along once in a lifetime.’

  ‘Come on, Trace, you and I both know Gene-Asis funds every research lab they use to verify product safety. If they want scientists to say their products are safe, that’s what happens. What about that researcher who was fired for claiming their GM potatoes caused stomach cancer in rats? Why was he fired? Because Gene-Asis funded his faculty. So, instead of making people sit up and take notice, his research sinks without a trace. Not even The Post ran the story. Why not?’

  ‘I’d rather not comment on that.’ Tracey looked away, sheepishly.

  ‘Precisely, not even the media can stand up to them.’

  ‘Mate, why are you doing this to yourself? It must be torture. Why not move on, build a new life? Your dad would have wanted that.’

  ‘I can’t now. Not when I’m onto something.’

  ‘You know more than you’re letting on, don’t you?’ she asked, smiling her characteristic tight-lipped grin; Tracey didn’t like her teeth. ‘Come on. Fess up. What were you copying?’ Tracey clicked her pen very fast, as she often did when she was excited.

  ‘The press releases on New Dawn.’

  ‘Jesus, tell me about them.’

  ‘But, Trace …’

  ‘I promise I won’t print even a syllable. Not unless I can verify it from another source. You have my word.’

  Serena took Tracey through what she’d read in Gloria’s office, which wasn’t very much.

  ‘Hmm. That Vitrboost sounds huge. But there’s nothing that rings alarm bells.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m going to find McPherson.’

  ‘Jeez. You are obsessed.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Serena, ‘but what have I got to lose?’

  Serena fixed herself a quick snack of cheese on toast and a cup of tea. The phone rang.

  ‘Mate?’

  Serena turned on her screen and there was Tracey staring at her.

  ‘Trace. What’s up?’

  ‘I think I’ve found something interesting in last week’s Australian.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know you said that Dr Munroe worked on New Dawn …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you know you said that Dr McPherson has done a vanishing act.’

  ‘Yes. And?’

  ‘Dr Munroe is filed as a missing person. He was last seen arguing with the Australasian CEO of Gene-Asis.’

  Chapter 13

  Serena had caught the red-eye flight from Sydney and then hired a taxi for the forty-minute trip to the remote Shelleyman Bay. Blinking away tiredness, she drew back the wooden shutters of her Balinesestyle accommodation. She then placed the new Tbyte she’d bought at the airport in her handbag. She’d paid cash for the phone and faked her name and contact details on the sales document. She was keen to ensure her phone calls remained private. Call it paranoia or intuition, but she felt safer that way. On the plane, she’d set up a new Hotmail address under a false name.

  Walking down a narrow path to the beach, Serena felt the cold, damp sand beneath her feet turn scorching hot as she stepped from under the trees’ shade. Out at sea, about twenty surfers faced the horizon, waiting for their wave. One approached, and she watched one young surfer bend and contort his body like a Play-Doh man, riding the crest till the bitter end. A matted, sun-bleached head disappeared into the foaming surf as the surfer’s board shot skywards.

  A few minutes later, Serena meandered through the beach’s car park, settled herself at the first café she could find and ordered a Sunrise. It was baking hot already, but her freshly squeezed juice arrived beautifully pink and cold. A large blue umbrella provided shade from the sun as she sat outside The Three Sisters café.

  Tanned holiday-makers strolled by wearing very little, bar baseball caps, shades, swimmers and the occasional well-worn daypack. She could smell sun lotion on the breeze. Life seemed relaxed here. The town had a friendly vibe and Serena was confident that people would be willing to help
her.

  She went to the counter, where a cappuccino machine spluttered. A dark-haired woman making the coffees was clearly one of the sisters; Serena recognised her from a huge surreal painting hung behind the counter. In it, the three women were sitting on the back of a whale drinking tea.

  ‘That’ll be four dollars, thanks.’

  ‘Lovely juice.’

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it.’

  As Serena handed her the money, she asked, ‘I’m looking for my old uni professor, Dr McPherson. Do you know him?’

  The woman had her hand in the till, retrieving Serena’s change. She toyed with the coins, staring fixedly at them.

  ‘No, sorry. Have a good day.’

  She gave Serena the change and turned back to the cappuccino machine without looking at her again. Dropping a coin in the tip jar, Serena stepped out onto the pavement, wondering who to ask next. She’d try the café opposite. As she walked off, she glanced at the woman she’d just paid. There stood all three sisters, huddled in close-knit conversation. Serena felt their eyes follow her as she crossed the road.

  She entered Max’s café. Long cushions lay on benches lining the walls, and the smell of lemongrass and ground coffee was delicious. Opera music played in the background and a man sang along to Carmen as he cut a slice of cheesecake for a customer.

  ‘Good morning, how can I help you?’

  ‘Hello. I’m an old student of Dr McPherson’s and someone told me he’d moved here. I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction?’

  He leaned over the counter.

  ‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘People round here like to keep themselves to themselves, and we don’t like strangers poking around in our business. G’day to you,’ he said, turning his back on her.

  Taken aback by his hostility, she left quickly and walked around the corner. Spotting the library, she hoped she might find a friendlier face there, but the answer was the same—nobody knew of Dr McPherson. Feeling as unwanted as a leper in a maternity ward, Serena left the library. Next, she tried The Welcome pub. The doors and windows were wide open, and the publican was wiping down tables.

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  Then she called in at the tiny two-pump garage, and asked the female attendant about Dr McPherson.

  ‘You’re a journo, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, an old friend.’

  ‘Can’t help you.’

  Outside, the sun beat down on her head as she considered her next step. Had journalists tried to talk to the professor recently? Perhaps she wasn’t alone in believing he had a story to tell. She began to think he was either a total recluse or he didn’t live in the Bay anymore.

  She noticed a police car parked over the road, with a pot-bellied cop leaning against the bonnet as he chatted to a man she recognised from Max’s café. The cop nodded, his pudgy arms folded across his chest. He was wearing dark shades but she was sure he was watching her.

  Keen to escape his gaze, Serena headed for a park overlooking the beach and sat under one of the many trees offering shade. Lying nearby, under the same tree, was a man with a tanned chest, bare save for a pigskin waistcoat roughly stitched together. His thick blond curly hair had bits of grass and twigs in it and he lay on his back staring at the tree’s branches above. His face fascinated her. A blue tattoo line ran across his forehead and another ran from his ears, down his jawline and across his chin, and disappeared in the reddish-gold tufts of his beard. His green eyes looked at her.

  ‘Isn’t it magic?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, the beach is beautiful.’

  ‘No, I mean the tree.’

  His eyes peered up into its branches again. He was staring at a Norfolk pine. She looked up for a few seconds and saw tiny shards of sunlight piercing the dark underside of the tree’s canopy. When she looked down, he was sitting cross-legged next to her, so close she could see the smooth blond hairs on his arms and smell his unwashed body.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Er, Orange.’

  She leaned back to create some space between them.

  ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘Just a few days.’

  ‘Shame. All you’ll see are the money-monkeys … the shops, the cafés, the bars. You won’t see the real beauty of the place. You won’t sense its spiritual beauty, its energy. Hey, if you like, I can show you the real Shelleyman Bay.’

  ‘I’d love that,’ she replied politely, ‘but I’m here for a reason, and I don’t seem to be having much success.’

  He leaned back on both arms, his eyes dropping momentarily onto Serena’s sun top.

  ‘Why do you have to be here for a reason? Why can’t you just be? You should try it some time. Why don’t you come to our camp at Kin Kin? You can chill out there and just be yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, but I have to find someone.’

  Serena stood, keen to get away from him. His directness unnerved her and she didn’t like him eyeing her body.

  ‘Who do you need to find, apart from yourself?’

  She frowned at him, annoyed by his presumption that she hadn’t already found herself. She knew exactly who she was and felt like telling him so. But, bereft of any leads, she decided to play along with him.

  ‘Dr McPherson.’

  ‘Ahhh, the poor professor,’ he nodded.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Poor bastard. Lives alone in the hills. I don’t know what he did but the cops keep a close eye on him; hassle him and shit.’

  She sat down.

  ‘I used to be a student of his … and I really have to see him. It’s very urgent.’

  ‘You’re not his student. I can tell you’re lying but that doesn’t matter. I can see there’s good in your intentions.’

  ‘Will you help me then?’

  He lay on his back with his hands behind his head.

  ‘I could do, depending on how much you would appreciate the information.’

  She understood immediately.

  ‘How about a donation to help fund the camp?’

  ‘Yeah, that could help. When the cops raided us and pulled up all our “tomato” plants, they left us with nothing to sell. So, times have been a bit tough lately.’

  Serena handed him a twenty-dollar note. He took it and placed it in his waistcoat pocket, and propped himself up on an elbow.

  ‘There are forty of us to feed.’

  She gave him another twenty dollars.

  ‘That’s all I have,’ she said.

  ‘Do you have a pen? It’s kinda hard to find, so I’ll draw you a map.’

  She never carried a pen, relying on her smartphone for everything. ‘You can draw it here,’ she said, pointing to the tiny screen.

  ‘Nah, nah. I can’t be doing with that techno shit.’

  Serena spotted a woman sketching nearby and asked her if she could borrow a pencil. Picking up a discarded paper bag, she tore off a strip and handed both to the tattooed man. He drew a map to Leatherback Point.

  ‘It’s the one with the big “Private Property” sign,’ he said.

  Chapter 14

  Serena sat in her rented car, studying the sketched map and the local street directory, and then set off along Bendigos Way. Lush green bush shrouded the road, and the sound of birds squawking and whooping seemed amplified by the tunnel of tall trees. Bendigos Way came to an abrupt end at a busy beach car park. She must have missed the turn-off. She did a U-turn and slowly drove back up Bendigos Way. A police car went by. Serena couldn’t see the driver and wondered if it was the same cop who’d been eyeballing her earlier.

  Distracted, she almost drove past a narrow turn-off to the left. It was unsigned but she guessed this must be the route: tattooed man had warned her it was an unmade road. As her Volkswagen Beetle swayed from side to side, bouncing up the rocky road, she remembered the car rentals manager warning her not to take it off-road. But it had been the only car left f
or hire, so here she was, bouncing and revving it up the hill. The trees branches intertwined into a thick canopy. When the sunlight broke through, its rays illuminated the dust that swirled behind her. Loose stones twanged against the side of the car. She looked at her mobile on the passenger seat. It had no reception.

  The dirt track narrowed, and wound like a snake into a tighter coil. A battered four-wheel drive zoomed around a corner and passed her without slowing, leaving behind a dust cloud so thick she had to slam on the breaks. When it cleared, she continued, the road levelling out, and to her left she caught glimpses of a turquoise blue ocean through low trees. Three cars covered in thick layers of brown dust were parked at the side of the track. Someone had written ‘C U 2nite’ on the filthy windscreen of an old sedan. A path disappeared down the cliff, which she guessed led to a beach.

  At a fork in the rough road, she came across a dilapidated sign made of two planks of wood with ‘Private Property’ painted on it in black. The Beetle protested loudly as she accelerated up the steep and deeply gullied road. Densely tree-lined, the branches hung so low they clawed at the roof. The track cleared to reveal a wooden cabin raised on stilts, surrounded by trees, which kept it permanently in the shade. A huge deck appeared to go right around the house. A dusty old Land Rover was parked under a torn green tarpaulin strung up between trees and a water tank. To the left of the house was a thriving vegetable garden, and a chicken coop. And, standing in the doorway, behind the flyscreen door, a man watched her.

  Serena got out of the car and smiled nervously as she walked towards the house. The figure didn’t move from behind the flyscreen. Going up the rotten porch steps, she could just make out a man in his early sixties, with John Lennon-style glasses and an ungroomed beard. He wore only shorts. She couldn’t see enough to be sure of his identity but the shadowy face resembled the angry person she’d seen in the Rooneys’ lobby. As her shoe touched the creaky deck, he spoke.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Are you Dr Fergus McPherson?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  He spat the words out in a guttural Scottish accent that she recognised as the Professor’s.