Being Arcadia

by Simon Chesterman

  A few taps at the keyboard and Magnus pulls up a personnel file. “Dr. Lucian Smythe,” he reads. “Educated at Eton and Oxford, appointed Waynflete Professor of Pure Mathematics at Oxford two years ago.”

  “He’s a professor?” she interjects. Smythe was introduced to her as a fellow at Magdalen.

  “Yes,” Magnus scans through the file. “One of the younger to hold that particular post, but mathematicians do tend to burn out quite early.” He looks at her curiously. “Oh, I see that you’re still looking for that professor. But you told me that he or she taught both Starr and the woman Sophia Alderman, also known as Phaedra. Dr. Smythe is younger than both of them. It’s not impossible, but it does seem highly unlikely.”

  It is indeed a stretch, but she has vowed to explore all possibilities, however slim. “What has he been doing for your Project Raven?”

  Magnus pores over the screen for a moment. “Relatively abstract work looking into how a computer simulation might process data vastly more complicated than that system could contain. He’s written some quite interesting papers on Gödel’s incompleteness theorem that we think might have some useful applications.”

  “And do they?”

  Magnus faces her. “In part. Yet we’re still years from a working prototype.” He stands. “Let me investigate Dr. Smythe further. In the meantime, we should get you back to school. Having saved you from a life of crime, I can’t have Aunt Jean and Uncle Arthur accusing me of undermining your education by encouraging truancy.”

  They exit the same way they entered, analysts ignoring them, the guard nodding absently as they leave. A thought turns over in her head as they ride the elevator back to the surface. “If Moira wanted to get in and out of your system undetected,” she says as they cross the lobby to where the Bentley is waiting outside, “don’t you think she would have done so?”

  A check in Magnus’s gait suggests that she has struck a nerve.

  “Is it possible,” she continues, “that Moira broke into your system not to take information but to give it to you?”

  “Or to draw attention to it,” her brother finishes the thought. “And, in particular, to get me to draw your attention to it. Hmm. An intriguing possibility that I shall ponder.” They have reached the Bentley and he opens the door for her, uncharacteristically chivalrous today. “The car will take you to Paddington Station. Let me think about this, but do drop me a note if, by some miracle, you come up with an idea before I do?”

  She smiles, despite herself. “Goodbye, Magnus. And go eat your muesli bar—you saw very well that it has chocolate chips.”

  His lips curl upwards. “I confess that it is nice to have someone in the world who at least comes close to understanding me. Cheerio, Arcadia!”

  He closes the door and taps twice on the roof. The Bentley glides away from the headquarters of Universal Exports Ltd., wending its way back into the London traffic.

  It is at the second corner that she realises: the Bentley’s acceleration is more hesitant, the lane changes less assured. The route is consistent with a journey to Paddington Station, but it is a different driver.

  The partition separating the front cabin from the passenger compartment is opaque glass. A button would lower it, but she prefers to know whom she will confront before opening a door.

  Phone Magnus? Difficult to do so without attracting the driver’s attention. A text message then:

  Magnus, driver switched? Planning to exit ASAP.

  The reply comes in seconds:

  Backup vehicles on way. Sit tight. M

  Sit tight? Her brother must be trying to irritate her. The Bentley cruises alongside the Thames but is caught in the evening traffic, coming to a rest at traffic lights. She resolves to get to the station by herself and pulls gently on the door handle, which moves freely but does not unlatch the door. The child lock is engaged, meaning that the door can only be opened from the outside. She is about to see if the power windows have also been disabled when the partition between her and the driver is lowered.

  As before, it is the shoulders she notices first, an actor’s posture even as the driver turns to regard her. “Hello again, Arcadia,” says the former substitute teacher who came to the Priory School to spy on her but saved her from Headmaster, later returning to warn her about Moira and almost getting killed by Lysander Starr.

  “Hello Miss Alderman,” she says. “Or Mr. Shampie, or Phaedra, or whatever you would like to be called today.”

  “You can call me Sophia,” the teacher replies. “Phaedra was a name I never cared for.”

  “So what brings you back into my life now? If it’s to warn me about my homicidal twin then I fear you’re a day late.”

  The light changes to green and Miss Alderman—Sophia—directs the car forward. With the partition down, a muffled groan can be heard from the front seat. A faint odour of burnt clothing floats in the air. A look confirms that the original driver has been tasered and now lies incapacitated in the front passenger seat.

  “He’ll be fine,” the teacher says over her shoulder. “And no, I’m not here to warn you about Moira. It seems that I have misjudged her all along. In her own peculiar way, she seems set on trying to help you. But you must know that she’s not your twin—at least, not in the sense that you mean.”

  In the distance, police sirens blare against the rush hour traffic. “And what sense would that be?” she asks.

  “I mean it is true that she is your identical twin, but you weren’t born at the same time.”

  The sirens begin to get closer. “This is what you came to tell me? Because I should warn you that those police cars are coming for you. Next time might you introduce yourself before carjacking my ride?”

  “Oh Arcadia,” Miss Alderman—it is simpler to think of her as that—says. A look in the rear view mirror and she spins the wheel to the right, turning sharply down a narrow side street. “I did want to warn you, but not about Moira.” The V8 engine of the Bentley roars as they accelerate, tyres squealing as the heavy vehicle manoeuvres around a corner. The sirens are now accompanied by the protesting horns of cars they have cut off or nearly hit.

  “I don’t think it’s realistic to outrun them,” Arcadia warns. “There is almost certainly some kind of tracking device in this vehicle, perhaps more than one.”

  At the wheel, Miss Alderman’s face, reflected in the mirror, registers determination but also uncertainty. They may need only a few moments together, but it will be hard to talk while evading the police.

  “Find a carpark,” Arcadia says. “The tracking device is most likely linked to a two-dimensional map of London. If you can get into a multi-level carpark they will be able to follow you to the area but won’t know which level you are on. Cameras will spot you going into the parking lot, but they aren’t normally present on every level.”

  A raised eyebrow in the mirror. “Not bad,” Miss Alderman says. “Let’s just hope you keep using your powers for good rather than evil.” The car swerves again as the teacher sees a carpark and veers onto the ramp. A screech of metal on concrete accompanies their entrance, the Bentley’s front corner scraping against a wall. “Oops. I hope you’re insured,” Miss Alderman says, looking down at the incapacitated driver as she puts her foot down.

  After climbing three levels, the Bentley slows and comes to a halt near a lift lobby. Miss Alderman’s hands on the steering wheel are white; a sheen of perspiration glistens on her brow.

  “You should go,” Arcadia says. “I’ll put in a good word for you, but you did taser a government employee and steal and crash their car.”

  “I can’t always be running away from you, Arcadia,” the teacher says. But unbuckles her seatbelt nonetheless.

  “What did you come here to tell me?”

  Sirens now echo in the carpark. They have a minute, possibly less.

  Miss Alderman reaches over the lowered partition to take her hand. “Arcadia,” the teacher says, looking her in the eye. “There’s so much I want to tell
you, but I don’t know if there will ever be time. So let me just say what I need to: stay away from Joseph Bell. He’s trouble. The man has ruined too many lives already. Don’t let him ruin yours.”

  Dr. Bell?

  Miss Alderman opens the door and steps out of the car. She does the same and for a moment considers going with her former teacher. Yet they both know she can do more to help by staying with the car.

  “Will I see you again?”

  For the first time a flush of colour appears on the teacher’s face. “I think so, Arcadia. I hope so.”

  And with a last lingering look, the substitute teacher, actor, and more enters the fire escape beside the lift lobby to flee from her side once again.

  6

  DISCIPLINE

  It is late by the time she returns to the Priory School. The burly agents sent by Magnus questioned her multiple times about the attack on her driver, doubtless hoping that each new round of inquiries would prompt a fuller response. She replied—through breaths caught short to give the appearance of being near tears—that the man (or perhaps it had been a woman) wore a hat that covered his features. When the carjacker realised that they were being followed, he (or she?) turned into the carpark and fled on foot. No, she did not know why someone might have wanted to kidnap her. No, she could not help them identify him as she never saw his face. More short breaths, a welling of tears, and a request to pause for a moment as it was all too much.

  Eventually, Magnus intervened and said he would arrange another car to take her back to the Priory School. “A substitute car, if you like,” he added drily. Trusting that she had reasons for keeping Miss Alderman’s involvement secret, he seemed satisfied with revealing to her that he, at least, knew the truth—even as he kept it from his colleagues.

  As the car enters the school driveway, she stifles a yawn. The day is catching up with her; the prospect of her dormitory bed inviting. When she reaches the gates, however, it is clear that something is amiss. A distressed Mr. McMurdo shifts about in the lodge, some internal conflict causing his whole body to tense.

  “Good evening, Mr. McMurdo,” she says. “I’m sorry to be so late, but I gather my brother called ahead?”

  “Aye, Miss Greentree. Though there’s nowt respect for rules these days ’n all. ’Taint right,” he mutters. “’Taint right.”

  “What do you mean?” Earlier, he shared his concern about students taking over school discipline, but now seems more agitated. He wants to act on some infraction but has been told not to? She tries a gambit to test her theory: “What has Sebastian been up to?”

  A raised eyebrow confirms her suspicions. She nods, encouraging the porter to speak.

  “Our Mr. Ormiston, he’s a good man,” Mr. McMurdo begins. “But I’ll be damned if I can understand why he’s done left the students in charge. An’ this evenin’, with the teachers out at their dinner ’n all, the students have been runnin’ amok. I keep peace as best I can, but our Mr. Ormiston made me swear not to interfere unless there was threat to life ’n limb.”

  The porter absently sorts some incoming mail into pigeon-holes. “Eighteen years ’n more I’ve been working here, afore you or your brother, even afore that no good Milton came here—devil take ’im. I ain’t seen nothin’ like this.”

  She nods again. “And Sebastian?”

  “Well, Master Harker’s living it up like he were lord of the manor, ain’t he just? Yellow card this, yellow card that. An’ poor little blighters like Arty Saltire are the ones who get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Punished. Extra duties an’ the like he can take. But the abuse is downright mean. Cruelty, that’s what it is, pure n’ simple.”

  Mr. McMurdo has long seen himself as a stand-in for the absent parents of many of the students. He is particularly protective of those who have lost a mother or father, like her, and those whose parents seem to regard boarding school as more of a lifestyle choice than an educational one. Arthur Saltire falls into the latter category—Henry also. Such parents dutifully visit on appropriate days and collect their wards at the end of term, but there is a discernible lightness in their departure when the fruits of their loins are left to ripen in someone else’s care.

  “An’ it ain’t just Master Harker,” the porter continues. “He’s a bad influence on all around him. The meanness that’s comin’ out is unhealthy, I tell you. An’ now he says he’s got somethin’ special planned for tomorrow. I don’t like it. Not one little bit.”

  There does not seem to be much more to learn at this point. “Thanks, Mr. McMurdo,” she says. “I’ll keep an eye on Arthur.” As the words leave her lips, she recalls Mr. Ormiston asking her to promise something similar. Curious.

  She collects the mail from her own pigeon-hole and crosses the darkened quadrangle to the dormitory building and her rooms. It is past lights out, but rules are now guidelines at best. Without even bothering to draw the curtains, she switches on a reading lamp and sits in the chair by her window. As the kettle boils, she takes Mother’s diary from the bookshelf and opens a page at random. It is one of the earlier entries.

  22 July 2000—Oh my goodness she’s so different from Magnus. That boy would wake every two hours and demand to be fed, screaming his outraged end-of-the-world cry until he got what he wanted. Some days I was so tired I thought about crashing the car so I could at least close my eyes. I knew it was crazy, but being sleep-deprived can make you a little batty.

  With Arky, she just lies there looking up at the ceiling, at the mobile, at me. The doctor thinks I’m imagining it but she seems to be doing more than daydreaming. There’s nothing sinister, but it looks—the only way I can describe it is that it looks like she has a secret. Maybe she does.

  If there was any such secret, she has no recollection of it. Hardly surprising, since the absence of language makes it difficult for the brain to store memories at seven months. The entry goes on to describe Mother’s introduction of solid foods.

  On food, too, they couldn’t be less alike. Magnus never saw a calorie he didn’t take a shine to. But Arky suddenly became very fussy when I started weaning her. I was following that Ford woman’s advice, but Arky was so picky. She seemed to enjoy broccoli but then turned her nose up at peas. Sweet potato was fine but then carrots were all flung to the floor. Afterwards I tried kiwi fruit, banana, apple, parsnip, pear—each and every one found a path to the ground. Sometimes she would hold the food out from her high chair and look at me, waiting for me to make eye contact or say something before she dropped it. Never in anger.

  Then I tried watermelon and she gave me a big smile, mashing it into her gums with the two white teeth poking out.

  In the end, it was Magnus who spotted the pattern. So I went back to peas, then banana, then capsicum. The next day it was melon, parsnip, and strawberry. As long as I went in the cycle green, yellow, red, she was happy. And I realised that these were the colours of the traffic lights in her favourite book and of the pedestrian crossing near our home. Magnus said we should blindfold her during dinner as an experiment, but I thought that was a bit much.

  She has read all this before, but the echoes of Mother’s voice still make her smile. She flicks ahead to a moment that was evidently a source or relief as well as frustration to Mother, who had been anxious about when she would begin to speak.

  17 March 2001—Words at last! After all my anxiety it was Ignatius who heard them. Arky woke from a nap when he came home from work. He changed her nappy and put her on the ground. “Where is Mama?” she said. “In the kitchen,” he replied. And off she tottered to come find me. Fool of a man went to change out of his work clothes and only mentioned it at dinner.

  It is late and she has almost finished her peppermint tea, but she treats herself to one more vignette from her second year.

  25 May 2001—I think they’re having a laugh but Ignatius swears black and blue that it happened. Magnus was playing chess against him when Arky sidles up and starts watching them. Ignatius isn’t as
quick as Magnus and while he was thinking, Magnus went in search of cake. Ignatius makes his move and then Arky reaches out to the board and grabs Magnus’s queen. Cake crumbs fly as Magnus cries out that she’ll mess up the board, so Arky puts the queen down but on a different square.

  “Hmph,” Magnus says around another mouthful. “Queen to king’s rook seven. Not bad, but hardly as elegant as knight to king’s bishop six. Either way, checkmate, Father.”

  Poor Ignatius. He’s used to losing to an eight-year-old, but it can’t be good for a man’s ego to lose to his daughter still in her nappy.

  The diaries make no mention of Moira. Did Mother know about her at all?

  It is not unusual for twins to be adopted out separately—Miss Alderman herself once described a study of such twins reared apart during her brief but eventful period as one of the Priory School’s staff. Yet in their last encounter she said that Moira is not really her twin—or that they are identical but not born at the same time.

  So is Moira a clone? Starr said that Moira’s genes have been edited to enhance her intelligence. But the CRISPR technology they used was only developed in the past few years. Fear of “designer babies” led to an effective moratorium on human testing—when a Chinese lab announced two years ago that it had experimented on non-viable embryos, the major journals refused to publish its work due to worries about ethics.

  Pieces of a jigsaw start to fall into place. Moira is intelligent, rational, knowledgeable. But no one would accuse her of being mature.

  Another yawn forces itself from her mouth. She should sleep. One more diary entry. She opens a page towards the middle, from when she was three.

  22 July 2003—So we tried out a new day-care place today. It didn’t go well. One of the boys drew a big red X on the sunflower that Arky was painting. The teacher said she was amazed how well Arky took it, calmly starting over again. But at naptime, Arky pretended to sleep, waiting until the other children were dozing and the teachers having their break. Then she got up and used a permanent marker to write “I am a moron” on the boy’s forehead.