by Peter James
I wind that tape, trying to analyse what I had intended. Did I want to kill him? Or did I just want to throw the rock for no other purpose than to vent something out of me?
There’s a part of me that hopes that the latter is the truth, but my conscience tells me differently. This, as Luke and Phoebe told us, is one of the flaws of us Parent People. A flaw that defines our species. They told us that we have failed emotionally to keep pace with our advances in technology. We’re a species that is on the verge of being able to travel faster than the speed of light and so much else our ancestors could never even imagine, yet hasn’t learned how to deal with the hatred in our hearts. A species that can still only resolve problems by throwing rocks at each other. How can I argue against that? How can I download copies of the morning newspapers and read all the terrible stuff going on in so many places in the world and persuade my kids that no, they are wrong, we have learned to do things differently now?
This is my first diary entry in a long, long time. I just lost enthusiasm for writing it. I lost enthusiasm for everything. After years of therapy, I feel a little stronger now. Perhaps I’m slowly getting better. John and I rarely talk about it any more, as if we’ve made an unspoken decision to put the past behind us and concentrate only on the future.
You are taught as a child that your parents are right, that you must learn from them, and pass on that stuff, in turn, to your own children. It’s a strange moment when you realize that the world is no longer as you understood it.
None of us knows what the future holds. Perhaps we’d go mad if we did. We have dreams into which we escape. Dreams that we hold in our hearts. In my dreams Halley is alive and well and growing up, and John and Halley and I do things together and are happy. We go on holidays and we visit theme parks and museums and we play in soft white sand by the ocean and we fool around and laugh a lot. And then I wake.
Sometimes when my memory is being kind to me, the rock I threw at Dr Dettore feels like a dream. But mostly I live it, every hour of every day. I take pills at night and sometimes they’re my friends and they let me sleep, and if they are being really good friends to me, they let me sleep all through the night without dreaming.
Those are the rare days when I wake refreshed. When I feel there is something to look forward to. I’m sure that’s when you really know you are happy – when you wake up wanting to embrace your future, rather than trying to squirm away from your past.
From time to time I Google Dr Dettore, and the names of Luke and Phoebe Klaesson. But nothing new ever comes up. To the outside world, Dr Dettore died in a helicopter crash, end of story. The mystery place that we went to remains a secret. After we returned, John spent months at his computer, on Google Earth, trying to find the island, but he never did.
The police tried, too, but they had no success either. Not that we gave them much help. We never told them Dettore was still alive. We felt that if that got out, sooner or later some fanatic group would track him down – and the lives of everyone on the island would be in danger. Despite everything, John and I do love our children. We’re their parents, we always will love them. I worry about them all the time. About how they are getting on, their health, and I have this constant fear, which never goes away, that if anything were to happen to them, we would probably never know.
We made a decision not to have more children. John immersed himself in his work. I’ve become involved in a number of local children’s charities. We have two dogs, black Labradors called Brutus and Nero. They’re adorable, and good guard dogs, too. We don’t feel in danger any longer, but we are still careful over security. I expect we always will be.
It is one of those rare days today, when I feel happy. Not for any reason I can define except, perhaps, because of how far the past has now receded. I came across a quotation from a book of the wisdom of American Indians, which in so many ways now sums up where John and I are, regarding Luke and Phoebe.
‘Although we are in different vessels, you in your boat and we in our canoe, we share the same river of life.’
129
Mixing his drink had become John’s ritual every evening when he arrived home from work. Alcohol helped him numb the pain. The heartache of the loss of his children was constantly with him, but so was another loss of something else, almost equally important to him: the passion he had once held for his work. The truth was that since leaving Dettore’s island he felt, in ways he could not define, a changed man.
He kissed Naomi, poured himself a large whisky on the rocks, then went into his den and logged on to check his emails. Outside he could hear the bleating of sheep in the fields around them. Spring. New life starting over. The air was warm this evening, and the forecast was fine for the weekend. He would get the barbecue and the garden chairs and table out of the garage. Maybe this year, for a change, they would have a good summer.
Then he froze. He read the first of the new emails that had just downloaded in disbelief. Then he read it over again, before running to the door and yelling for Naomi to come in and see this.
She stood with her hands on his shoulders as he sat down in front of his computer, and they both stared silently at the words on the screen:
Arriving 15.30 tomorrow, Saturday, Gatwick Airport, North Terminal, British Airways Flt 225 from Rome. Please meet us. Your children, Luke and Phoebe.
130
Naomi clutched John. Her eyes danced with happiness, but also with a thousand questions. ‘Is this real, darling? It’s not a hoax?’
‘It’s a real email,’ he replied. ‘But I can’t tell who sent it.’
‘Can’t you find out where it’s from? Its source or something?’
‘It’s a Hotmail account. You can set one up in a couple of minutes from any internet café in the world. It won’t be traceable.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows if it is real – but it would be a pretty sick practical joke.’
‘Do you think they’re coming home? Permanently?’ she asked.
‘I’ve no idea.’ He stared at the email again, reading the short message carefully. ‘They’ll be coming up to their twelfth birthdays. Who knows what their mindsets will be. Maybe they’ve outgrown the island, or perhaps they want to go to university here. Perhaps they’re just curious to see us. Or maybe they’ve been sent to teach us some lessons about how we should be shaping the world.’
‘I’ll have to make the spare beds up – they’ll have way outgrown their original little beds. What about food? What shall we get them?’
‘We could ask them when we see them. Maybe they’d like a treat, something different to the wholesome food they’d be getting on the island. McDonald’s or something?’
She kissed him on the cheek and put her arms around him and clung to him tightly. ‘God, oh God! I sooooo hope they are coming back to live with us. That we can be a family again. Wouldn’t that be incredible?’
John squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t get your hopes up too high, we have no idea what they will be like nor what their agenda is. It’s a pretty cold email. No love or kisses.’
‘We never have had love of that kind, from them.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But I think they do love us, in their own weird way.’
John said nothing.
‘Please don’t let this be a hoax, John. I couldn’t bear it. I’m so excited. I just can’t believe it, I really can’t!
‘Let’s see.’
She stroked his forehead. ‘Aren’t you just a teeny bit excited?’
‘Of course I am! I guess I’m in shock. And at the same time, you know, I—’
He hesitated.
‘You what?’ she asked.
‘I’m nervous. I don’t know what to expect. Maybe they need money – isn’t that why kids go and see their parents most of the time? They’re getting to an age now where they probably want to start buying stuff. You know, music, clothes.’
‘They’re not teenagers yet,’ Naomi replied.
‘Dettore said they would have accelerate
d growth and maturity. They may still only be eleven, but my guess is they’re going to look like advanced teenagers.’
Naomi stared at the bald wording of the email. ‘That reads like – like we just haven’t seen them for a few days. As if they’ve been away on holiday – it’s so strange to send that and no more after eight years.’
John smiled wistfully. ‘The sad thing is, I don’t find it strange at all. That’s how they always were. Clearly nothing’s changed in the manners department.’
‘Are we even going to recognize them?’
‘Of course. And, if for any reason we don’t, Luke and Phoebe are sure as hell going to recognize us.’
131
Naomi gripped John’s hand tightly as they crossed the walkway from the short-term car park and entered the Arrivals hall. They were thirty minutes early – as a Swede, John was always strictly punctual, and they were taking no chances today.
They were both as nervous as hell. John felt a lump in his throat and his mouth was dry. Naomi scanned the hall as they entered, just in case, by any chance, the twins had already arrived, perhaps on an earlier flight. Although of course she knew that was unlikely. She looked at the people seated in the Costa cafe, in the WH Smith bookstore, then all around her. Then she checked her watch: 3.02 p.m. The flight was due on time at 3.30, and they had been monitoring its progress on the Saab’s computer screen. It would be a further half hour, at least, she knew from experience, before they came through – and longer if they had checked baggage.
Both of them wondered whether the children would be travelling alone or accompanied by an adult – perhaps Dettore himself?
They stopped a few yards away from the people waiting in front of the barrier that delineated the walkway out from the Arrivals doorway. Naomi was feeling almost sick with nerves and anticipation. So many questions were going through her mind. All around them stood men in suits holding placards up with names on them. Limousine and taxi drivers waiting to do pickups. She glanced at a few of the names, just in case. In case what? In case there was one for Dettore? STANNARD. MR FAISAL. FRANK NEWTON. MRS APPLETON. OSTERMANN PLC
She was shaking. Excited but scared at the same time. And impatient. Willing each slow minute to tick away. John kept looking at his watch, and whenever he did so, she looked again at hers. But mostly she kept her eyes on that exit doorway. Anxiously watching the people coming through. An efficient-looking businessman pulling a small black holdall strode past. Then an elderly Indian couple pushing a precariously loaded baggage trolley. Then a woman with twin girls, followed closely followed by a man who was talking to her, also pushing a trolley.
Still twenty minutes to go before they could realistically expect the children to come through.
The twenty minutes passed, followed by another ten. There was a constant stream of people coming out now, as if several flights had all come in around the same time. Another ten minutes.
‘I hope to God they’re coming, John.’
He nodded. Then they saw two tall figures emerge and their hopes rose. A youth in his late teens and a girl the same age. The boy was handsome, with mussed-up blond hair, the girl was slender and attractive. They were pushing a trolley stacked with expensive luggage. Both Naomi and John took a step forward. The boy put his arm around the girl and kissed her on the lips. Then the next moment the boy waved at someone in the line of waiting people and the two of them hurried over eagerly. Not their twins.
An airport worker pushed a wheelchair containing a young woman in an anorak, with her leg in a plaster cast, accompanied by another woman pushing a trolley with suitcases and skis on it. They were followed by a small Middle-Eastern group, the women in burkas. Then, following behind them, two elderly people were being pushed in wheelchairs by airport workers. John and Naomi barely noticed them; they were intently concentrating on who would be coming next through the doorway.
The airport workers halted the wheelchairs. Each contained a small, elderly person. Both had a tiny holdall on their lap. John glanced at them. Two old men, he thought at first glance. Except then he noticed one was wearing an orange T-shirt, blue shorts and sneakers, and the other was wearing a white blouse, denim skirt and sparkly trainers. Male and female, he realized, with a sudden, sharp tug of nerves in his throat.
Their heads were disproportionately large to their tiny bodies, their craniums swollen like misshapen walnuts, the bones clearly delineated beneath the tight, uneven skin. Their eyes were all that John and Naomi could recognize. Blue protruding eyes, wide, round and staring. Both of them had half their crumbling teeth missing.
The female one was pointing at them. The two airport workers nodded and began to wheel them over to John and Naomi. Then they stopped right in front of them.
John and Naomi stared down, unsure for some moments quite what was going on. Naomi looked in horror at their pitiful faces. The faces of people in their late eighties, perhaps even older. The male had a few white wisps of hair either side of his skull. The female was completely bald.
The female looked up and gave a pitiful smile that almost broke Naomi’s heart. Then the male did the same.
‘Hello, Mummy. Hello, Daddy,’ Luke said. His voice was thin and young, like the voice of the child he still was.
Phoebe smiled, a little sheepishly. She looked at each of her parents in turn. ‘You said we could come home, any time, that we would always be welcome.’
Naomi knelt, weeping. She hugged Phoebe, then Luke. ‘Of course, my darlings. There’s nothing your daddy and I would love more. Of course it’s still true. Welcome home!’
John looked at the two men who were standing behind the wheelchairs. ‘Do they have any luggage?’
One shook his head. ‘No, no luggage. Just those little bags.’
‘We don’t need much,’ Phoebe said. ‘We won’t be staying for long.’
‘Why? Where are you going?’ Naomi asked, faltering, through her tears.
She glimpsed John’s tight, ashen face. And in the stark silence that followed, fighting back more tears, she understood.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
When I began researching for this novel, a decade ago, people told me that ‘designer babies’ were the stuff of science fiction. Not any more . . . A decade ago a leading genetics scientist really did tell me that parents in the near future would be able to choose the level of empathy their child could experience. Do they want a sweet, gentle child, who may be trampled on by others in life? Or a tough kid, who could end up being a sociopath? Such choices are almost impossible for us to make. But that future is almost upon us.
As ever I owe a thank you to very many people, but none more so than to those who have believed in and championed this book through its very long and at times despairing journey from inception to publication. My wonderful agent, Carole Blake, who has had faith from when it was just an idea bubbling in my head. My superstar editor, Wayne Brookes, who was passionate about it long before anyone else. All those who gave me utterly invaluable critical input and editorial help, especially Anna-Lisa Davies, Susan Ansell, Susan Opie, Martin and Jane Diplock, Nicky Mitchell and my brilliant assistant, Linda Buckley.
One person, who I met by one of life’s happiest chances years back when he was a Detective Inspector, Dave Gaylor – the career role-model for my Roy Grace character – has been an incredible help to me in so many ways with this book, and I owe massive thanks to him.
Very big thanks also to Steven D. Goodman, PhD, Associate Professor, Division of Biomedical Sciences, University of Southern California for so rigorously checking every biological fact, and to David J. Anderson, Seymour Benzer Professor of Biology; Investigator, Howard Hughes Medical Institute, PhD, 1983, Rockefeller University, Genetic dissection of neural circuits controlling emotional behaviours, who gave me so much material. Also a huge thank you to Dr Penelope Leach, and her definitive work Your Baby And Child, Robert Beard, FRCS, Anthony Kenney, FRCS, FRCOG; Paul Tanner; Raymond Kurzweil, the Cognitive Sciences Department of Sussex
University, and the Rutherford Appleton Laboratory, Dave Chidley of Royal Caribbean Cruise Line, and Leif Karlsson, Master of MV Azamara Quest.
Very special thanks are due to Geoff Duffield, whose vision and passion for this book have been so instrumental in making it happen, and to the entire Macmillan team.
A huge debt as ever to Chris Webb of MacService, whose genius at fixing problems with my computer makes me wonder if he himself is a ‘designer baby’ instilled with technology genes!
I’m incredibly lucky to have Midas as my publicists, and no author could have a greater dream publicity team than Claire Riches, Sophie Ransom, Steven Williams and Tony Mulliken.
There were times when I thought that writing this novel was going to be too hard a task because I was tackling too complex a subject, and Helen has been tirelessly supportive, encouraging me through some of my darkest hours.
And the last words as always to the ever-cheerful Coco, lovely Phoebe and totally laid-back Oscar. They never let me put in too many hours without reminding me that there is a world out there beyond my laptop, and that we should go and take a walk in it . . .
Peter James
Sussex, England
[email protected]
www.peterjames.com
Find and follow me on http://twitter.com/peterjamesuk
COMING IN 2012 . . .
SAY GRACE
ONCE AGAIN . . .
Read the opening chapers of the new
Roy Grace novel from the number
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