Did you find out what was different about Molly and Jason? Why they showed psychic ability, and the others didn't?
Yes, we did. It was a priority. We brought in those poor kids and ran every test we knew on them. Barkworth told the foster parents that a rare genetic disease had been found in their birth parents, and the children might die if they weren't treated. Molly went to a private hospital in New York, Jason was in Los Angeles. I was with the team assigned to Molly. Hair, saliva, and blood samples. Lumbar punctures. Angiographies, brain scans, biopsies, EEGs, ENGs. If we could think of a test, we ran it. If we could take anything from their bodies to examine, we took it. And we found nothing out of the ordinary. We sent the kids home after three weeks and ran more tests on every sample. Still nothing. Barkworth was as close to despair as I'd ever seen him. He knew we were onto something–we all did—but one positive result from multiple case studies wasn't enough. If we couldn't pinpoint the reason they were special, we were finished.
Then we found the correlation. It changed everything. A junior researcher had been looking into the family histories, comparing the twin's birth mother and sperm donor to those of every other subject. It was a long, tedious, piece of work. When she brought me her findings, I checked and double-checked them before going to Barkworth. The correlation was the surrogate mother. We had chosen the mothers for their physical and mental health. We checked their family history to avoid common genetic abnormalities. But the junior researcher discovered Jason and Molly's mother was the only surrogate who had a history of natural multiple births in her family. She was a twin. Her mother was a twin, as was her grandmother.
Mags stood up, resting her hands on the desk. When her fingers started to ache, she realised she'd clenched her fists. She walked to the window.
The last thing she wanted to do was to read more. Not only was she a twin, but so was her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother.
Mags looked outside. The winter sun bounced off the snow-packed street, making it hard to look at. Three black cars slowed as they approached the house. Mags moved away, not wanting a neighbour to see her.
Back at the desk, she put her phone where she could see it, and turned the page.
How much worse could it get?
Chapter Thirty-Five
There's a camera in my room, pointed towards the bed. The chair in the far corner, where visitors sit, is out of range. That's where I work out. I've developed my own circuit training over the weeks. I get out of bed, making sure I look weak and unsteady as I walk around the room, and I head for the chair. Once I'm out of view, I start my first set of dips, using the arms of the chair. I kneel to do bicep curls, lifting the chair by its armrest. Push-ups are next. When I started, it took all my willpower to manage one. Now, even with my toes on the headrest, I manage three sets of thirty.
They trust me to take their pills. I rarely see a needle these days. At first, I took the pills, then I kept them under my tongue, flushing them away later. Whatever they are, they keep me slow, confused. I keep up the act. They take my dazed condition for granted, and they're getting sloppy. Good.
Today, something unexpected upends my routine. Something glorious. Something so beautiful, it makes me ashamed of my doubts. After today, I know I am not alone; the universe has not deserted me. I am part of a greater plan.
The pills they give me this morning are the strongest. Yellow, oblong, bigger than the others. Last time I took them, I was unconscious for over an hour. So I know what to do. Five minutes after pretending to swallow them, I let my head slump against the pillow and close my eyes. Ratched comes in. Simon is with her. She seems nervous. Hard to tell, but there's a tightness in her voice, and she's double-checking everything. Her behavior, plus the stronger sedative, puts me on my guard.
"Check him," she says. I sense Simon at my side. I stay limp and relaxed. He checks my pulse, lifts one eyelid. I roll my eyes back in my head. I'm not sure I can fool him. Ratched saves me.
"Hurry," she snaps.
When Simon speaks, it takes everything I have not to sit up and stare.
"I don't think he'll be breakdancing anytime soon. The drugs he's on, he can't tell me what day of the week it is. Poor sucker doesn't even realize he's in Boston."
Boston. Back where it started. It makes sense now. This is where I came for the drug trial and the procedure for my sleep disorder. So the American didn't come to me, I came to the American. And his father. I'm probably in the same building where they operated on me. And they know who I am. Those pictures, the ones she drew. They know I'm the Bedroom Killer. That's what the TV guys call me. They can't understand that what I do is not killing. Nobody understands it. I have to get out.
Ratched and Simon leave me. I'm still holding my breath, so let it out as softly as I can. If I am in America, how can I reach her? How will I get back to England, to London?
I have no answer. It's the lowest I've felt since the connection broke. I lose my last hope.
Then it happens. At my worst moment. When I'm on the brink of giving up.
The door opens. I don't dare open my eyes even a fraction of an inch. I cannot let them discover I'm not taking their drugs.
It's the American. He is not alone. His voice is different. He's talking quietly, as if not wanting to disturb me. This considerate behavior is new. It's for the benefit of his companion. Not his father. Who, then? I assumed the American's father was in charge. Was I wrong? Is he here with the real boss?
"Sometimes we look after people here. This man suffered an injury to his brain. We have studied the human brain for a long time, so we agreed to help. We hope he might make a full recovery."
A second voice. A child's voice. What is a child doing here?
"Is he asleep?"
"We give him special medicine to help him sleep, honey. He won't wake up. Don't be shy. Let's take a closer look."
Honey? Was this his daughter? But her accent was wrong. She sounded British.
Footsteps, then her voice again, closer.
"Dad, I know him. He's the man from the accident outside our house. I fetched a blanket for him. A van knocked him over. Mum called an ambulance. It's him, it's him."
"He looks like him, doesn't he, Tam? I thought the same at first. But it's not. That poor guy is in London. I checked on him a few times. Last I heard, he was out of hospital and expected to recover."
"How odd. He really looks like him. Uncanny, what?"
"Sure, Tam. Uncanny."
I hardly hear what the kid is saying. My life has been turned upside down. She was there—the kid—at the accident. She came out of the house. It's her. The American is her father. That's how he had the drawings. She's the one who's calling me.
She's here.
I won't have to escape if I move now. Can I risk it, with her father here? I hesitate and decide to try. There may never be a better chance.
I tense my muscles, open my eyes a fraction to get an idea of where she is. She's half-turned away. She has short dark hair, her neck pale. I cannot see her face. Her father is about to take her hand, lead her away. I brace myself.
The door opens. "Sorry, Mr Barkworth. There's a call for you." It's Simon. "They said it was urgent. Something about your wife."
Too late, I'm too late. Three seconds later, I'm alone.
I lie back, try to take in what this means. As I think about it, there's an unfolding in my mind, a tiny flower of awareness. I know what is, and I weep with gratitude. Then I think of the danger. If I feel it, maybe she does too. She might say something to her father. I turn my attention away from it, do everything I can to ignore it. I can't let it unfold. Not yet. I have to find my moment, make my move when it's quieter.
But it has to be today. I cannot hide what's happening inside me for long, and she is close by.
I will not lose her again.
Today.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Transcript continues. Ava Marston, September 20**
When we discovered the link
with families who produced twins naturally, Barkworth jumped on it. He wanted funding for a fresh study; we would focus on women from families with a history of twins. But the answer was no. Governments had come and gone, supporters had retired or died. There was no more money available for a project which had become a joke in Washington. We expected to be closed down.
What changed their mind?
Luck. One lucky break changed everything. Jesus. I still think of what happened as a piece of good luck. I never considered what it meant for Jason. Poor kid. He wasn't a person to us, just a name on a report.
He had a skateboard - one of those long ones. I don't know what the kids call them. He used to ride the hils in LA. One day he didn't come back. They found him beside the road. In hospital, they drained fluid from his brain. There was swelling on the cerebellum, and that kind of damage makes recovery unpredictable.
He regained consciousness and was released. During the months of recuperation at home, our local teams showed up as usual, asked their questions. The parents didn't complain. They still believed we'd saved him from a fictional genetic disease.
In the remote viewing part of the interviews, Jason failed every time. It didn't matter if he was the sender or receiver; the ability had disappeared. We had scans of his brain before the accident and compared them to the scans afterwards. Barkworth had one of the country's best neurologists working at Edgegen by then, and they poured over the data together. They identified damage to a specific part of the brain on the right hemisphere. Barkworth was convinced he had identified the area of the brain that provided the telepathic connection with Molly. That was when we moved onto Stage Three.
(crying sounds)
Ms Marston? Ava? Do you want to take a break? Here let me, let me, hold on a second. Here you are. I have tissues. Would you like something to drink?
A glass of water, please. I'm sorry. It's just... I mean... I persuaded myself it was justifiable. I let myself drift into it. We said Stage Three was in the interests of science and progress. The greater good. What a fucking joke.
Are you okay to go on?
Yeah, sure, I can go on. Twenty years too late, but I can go on.
Stage Three moved from theory to practice. From observation to interference. From interpretation of data to playing God. Barkworth reminded us of the contracts we'd signed. Then he tried to inspire us, talking about the next generation of scientific research, the new frontiers we could explore. We were the architects of the next stage of evolution, he said. Stage Three of our research would pave the way. He didn't sugarcoat it. There was no point. We were all scientists, we all spoke the same language. Experimental surgery, that's what was next. Not to heal anyone, but to reproduce Molly and Jason's connection.
In the weeks that followed, as we digested what we were expected to do, the research team stopped pretending we were friends. The excitement of the eighties was long gone, but now we didn't even want to socialise outside the lab. No more Friday night drinks. The company Christmas dinner didn't happen that year, or any other year afterwards. No one in the team was sleeping together anymore.
No one quit. At least, that's what I thought. Now I'm not so sure. Tony, who'd lost his kid to leukaemia, didn't like Stage Three. He didn't like it at all. He was careful to hide his disgust, but we all saw it. I wondered if he would confront Barkworth, or if he'd walk away. A month after Stage Three began, he died in a car crash. An accident. Yeah. Right. The worst thing is, I believed it. Poor Tony. He was the best of us.
Stage Three involved invasive surgery on human subjects. There was no way anyone would agree to this at government level, but Barkworth had found a new source of funding. He may have lost the faith of a new generation of politicians, but a few believers from the early days were now running departments in the military, CIA, or other agencies. The money came back, that's all we knew.
We looked for subjects. We wanted people with existing neurological conditions. Mild epilepsy, narcolepsy, aphasia, Parkinsons, sleep disorders, Alzheimer's.
Ms Marston? You mentioned experimental surgery. What was the nature of the surgery?
Brain surgery. We operated on their brains.
There was a thorough process to find ideal candidates. It was important they had few living relatives. It was best if they were loners. We knew the procedure might leave them with permanent damage. Some wouldn't survive. Barkworth played that possibility down. But it was better if they were the people no one would miss. There was a generous fund available as compensation for any family members who asked questions.
So this was experimental brain surgery? What does that have to do with twins?
Okay. Okay. To answer that, I need to back up a little. Can we take a break? I need a break. Turn that off, would you?
Level check. Six-forty pm. Are you okay to continue, Ms Marston?
Yes. Let me talk. No questions. If I miss anything, you can ask me later, okay?
Yes. Go ahead.
Barkworth and his neurology team developed an experimental brain graft procedure. It involved a tiny amount of material, a sliver of cells. A thin slice of the cerebellum was removed from the subject—from the part of their brain active in Molly and Jason—and new cells were grafted to replace them.
God help us all.
By this time, we had two Barkworths to deal with. Bradley had joined Edgegen in his twenties. He was bright, capable, charming. If he'd gone into politics, he'd probably be president by now. But he was in the shadow of his father. Bradley never had quite the same drive, or vision. What he had was an intense desire to please Daddy. It's a common enough story. I feel like I'm making excuses for him, to explain what he did. What I think he did. Which no one could forgive.
Organ transplants are commonplace these days. We forget the early attempts, the failures, the deaths. A human body is prepared to protect itself. Introduce a foreign object, and it will fight the invader. Transplant surgery relies on convincing the body to accept that invader, welcome it. Barkworth expected this problem. The best chance of success—perhaps the only chance of success—depended on using genetic material the human brain would be the least likely to reject. Stem cells.
Potential subjects came to Boston, where we gave them a battery of tests. We shortlisted nine candidates.
Once we had our shortlist, we waited. Barkworth never told us where he would find the stem cells we needed. They couldn't be just any stem cells. They had to be those of a twin from a family with a history of multiple births. We didn't know where he would find them. We didn't want to know. I stopped thinking about it. That's the truth. I stopped thinking about it.
In most workplaces, parents bring their infants in to show them off. They pass them around, and everyone gets a turn holding a newborn. I sometimes dream about that, about holding a baby at Edgegen. It's not a dream, though, it's a nightmare. I wake up shaking, sweating, crying.
Around that time, I heard a newborn baby's cry at work. It was during one of Bradley's visits. He was spending half his time abroad. Barkworth told us he was working on a separate project. Nobody minded. As charming and good looking as he was, there was something I didn't like. An emptiness. Maybe I'm projecting. If I can make him more evil in hindsight, can I make myself less complicit? No. I don't think so. Too easy.
It was so short, that cry. Tiny. Piercing. Unmistakable. I was in a corridor near the operating theatre. I stood still, hoping to hear it again. Dreading to hear it again. I told myself, as I stood there, that I'd imagined it. I counted to ten, but there was no second cry, so I walked away. I walked away. But I know what I heard. There was a child in the theatre that day.
The first procedures took place a week later. Three, over the course of a week. Every procedure failed. The brain rejected the graft, or it accepted it with no discernible result. No one could have predicted how the brain would react. It was a setback, but Barkworth scheduled in the remaining six candidates, anyway. Their procedures took place over the next two years. We learned a little more fro
m each one.
Stage Three was put on hold while we examined what we had learned from the subjects. The neurology team improved the procedure and made suggestions for the selection of future candidates.
After the initial failures, Barkworth was cautious. Two or three procedures a year, and we kept the subjects under close observation. Barkworth was convinced the procedure would work with the right candidate.
He was right.
Subject twenty-two—S22—was in his late twenties. He was fit, but he suffered from a rare disorder meaning he had never snatched more than a few minutes sleep in his life. He also suffered from delusions, probably because of the sleep disorder. Many of his delusions were harmless, but he had a fascination with death. He envied those who could sleep, and he thought of death as the deepest, most peaceful sleep of all. His childhood had been troubled. Heh. That's an understatement. Never knew his father, mother was an alcoholic who committed suicide when he was thirteen. Hanged herself with fishing line. He was the one who found her. He talked about her as if she were still alive. I remember there was some debate whether to accept him as a candidate. But Barkworth insisted.
The procedure went well. We transferred S22 to the Edgegen apartment after his initial recovery period and watched him through hidden cameras as the weeks went by. His physical recovery was faster than any of the others, and we became optimistic. No one saw what was coming. We were paying well, and he was not a wealthy man. But, one day, he disappeared. Walked out, never came back. We told him he needed to see us for drugs essential to his recovery, but he ignored that. We spent months trying to track him down, but he was a drifter, and he knew how to exist under the radar. We never saw him again.
The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year Page 17