Father to the Man

by John Gribbin

Genres: Science Fiction; Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

Nobel Prize-winning scientist Richard Lee has stirred up fanatical religious hatred with his controversial theory that chimpanzees and humans may have shared a common ancestor as little as three million years ago. When this hatred loses him both his reputation and his beloved colleague Marjorie, Lee retreats into hiding with his experiments and with Adam, an apelike creature thought by some to be Lee's own deformed love-child, or even a kind of Frankenstein's monster. But Adam is growing up, and the astonishing secret of his genetic parentage cannot remain secret forever, especially once investigative journalist Louise Henderson scents a story in the remote Norfolk village where Lee has gone to earth.

Release date: December 14, 2012

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 248

Sample

Housing was still cheap in Norfolk. The recent run of severe cold winters, with winds howling in from the east across the North Sea, bearing their burden of snow, were in no measure compensated for by the increasing warmth of the summers, since that warmth seemed to bring with it, more and more as the years went by, a drifting, light, but persistent, rain. The farmers complained bitterly, as farmers have always complained, come rain or shine. It was bad for the crops, they would say, shaking their heads – and worse for the livestock. The only thing that kept their heads above water was the subsidy from the EEC. Then they would depart, still gloomy, in their late model Jaguars or Land Rovers, and every summer the news would carry stories of mountains of food of one kind or another, stored away in warehouses at great cost as a result of the European common agricultural policy.

The same news, of course, carried the stories and pictures of the starving in Africa, South America, and the East.

The farmers, in fact, couldn’t afford to leave the land, thanks to their subsidies. Anyone else who got an opportunity to move south and west leaped at the chance, even if the cost was the ruinous mortgage they would be burdened with, in trading upward in price, but downward in quality, from a large, comfortable old house near Norwich to a modern box on a housing estate south of London. Which was how the old former vicarage, on the outskirts of town, came to acquire a new owner.

It seemed a little large for one man on his own, with its five bedrooms and the converted coach house standing in the grounds of more than an acre. But he had the money, and he was respectable enough – something to do with the University, though it was never clear exactly what – and the sellers were glad, in their own words, ‘to find a mug and get out while the going was good.’

The conversion work on the building was a minor talking point in the nearby village for a week or two. The repairs to the high wall, now topped off with barbed wire; the refurbishment of the coach house; the computer and other equipment installed in the workshop-cum-laboratory of what soon became known as ‘the Professor’s’ house. But people soon had other things to interest them and gossip about; the election, in which the government, as predicted, returned to power with a reduced majority, but nothing seemed to change; the weather, which, according to the old men in the pubs, was always the worst they’d ever known. And if the Professor seemed to have a strange taste in pets, well, that certainly explained some of the work on the grounds and the coach house.

Within a few months, the Professor was accepted as a part of the surroundings. Quiet, keeping himself to himself, occasionally dropping in to the pub for a pint and a sandwich, but mostly either shut away in the house or off in Norwich, doing whatever it was he did at the University. He left people alone, and people left him alone, in the time honoured English tradition.

It was the hot patch of sunlight, creeping round the room, angling through the loosely fitting curtain, that woke her. She raised a hand to cover her eyes, automatically, half conscious. The dirty sleeping-bag that had covered her fell to the floor, revealing, if anyone had been there to see, the painful thinness of her limbs and body, flat chested, almost sexless, dressed in a tee-shirt almost as grubby as the sleeping-bag. Both arms and the upper part of each leg were marked with livid, purple-black bruises, in stark contrast to the pale white of the surrounding skin. Perhaps – almost certainly – the girl/woman (her age was almost impossible to guess from her appearance) had once been pretty. Perhaps – just possibly – she could be pretty again.

Her tongue felt as if it filled her mouth to overflowing, and tasted like a carpet covered in cigarette ash. She licked her dry lips, experimentally, but found no relief. Swinging her legs to the floor, she sat up, then leaned forward, head flat on her knees, as a wave of dizziness passed across her. Christ, she thought, I need a hit. Where the Hell’s Tom? Lifting her head again, cautiously, and balancing the weight of her body by leaning on the bed with her right arm, she watched the curtain as it seemed to ripple and wave, moving towards her and away again, as her eyes and brain tried to adjust to the reality of the room.

How the Hell had she got into this mess? Tomorrow, she promised herself (as she did every day), she’d get the place cleaned up a bit, put on a dress and go round to the college. She wasn’t sure just how long it had been since she last went in, but she knew she could make up the lost ground. Hell, it was her final year, after all. She’d done all the real work. Just got to take a couple of interviews, a written paper, piece of cake. Then she’d be a qualified nursery nurse, and she’d get a job, and she wouldn’t have to depend on Tom for the stuff, and anyway she didn’t really need it, much. But she could really use a hit just now, just to get her up. Where the Hell was he?

An adrenalin flush took her to her feet and across to a table, littered with dirty coffee mugs and a McDonald’s carton still containing a part-eaten cheeseburger and some cold chips. She lifted one of them to her mouth, then dropped it back on the table. An empty polythene bag, smeared with traces of white powder, and a hypodermic syringe, its needle crusted with a rusty scar of dried blood, were among the clutter. Energy suddenly drained, she stood at the table, supporting herself with both arms, hands gripping its edge tightly, head down, while she was wracked by a fit of coughing.

Christ, if only she had a hit, she thought, she’d walk out of here, before Tom came back. If she could just get straight, she’d be out of here, for good. And if he tried to come after her – well, she knew enough about him to keep him out of her way, and anyone else’s for that matter, for a good ten years. It’d be worth going down herself just to see his face when they busted him. Just one good hit, and a couple of hours to herself. That’s all she wanted.

When the door opened, she’d slumped to the floor, shivering, but still holding herself upright by the leg of the table. She didn’t notice the sound of the door, or the cool draught of wind. But the voice registered, and she looked up as he spoke.

“Still here, then?”

“Tom! Jesus Christ, where were you? I need a hit, I need it now, c’mon …”

Vaguely, she took in Tom’s companion. A short, dark girl. She looked familiar. Maybe she’d met her in college. Who was she? What was she doing here? The expression on the intruder’s face suggested something was not quite right in the room. But Tom was talking again.

“Pamela.” He said it slowly and carefully, as if talking to a small child, “Pamela, this is Liz. You will be nice to Liz, won’t you?”

He turned to the dark girl. “Look, I’m sorry about this, Liz. Pam was supposed to have the place cleaned up a bit. But I guess she overslept. Maybe she isn’t feeling too well.”

Liz seemed largely unconcerned. Pam, rising unsteadily to her feet, still using the table for support, got a good look at her face, and realised why. The pupils of her eyes were so small they were practically invisible, leaving a bright blue pair of irises with no dark centres. Shit! Tom had got the stuff, and he’d been giving it to this bitch, instead of to her. She turned, reaching for his arm.

“Tom, please.” She smiled. He’d always said how much he liked her smile. “Just a small one, huh? Then I’ll get the place cleaned up, I promise.”

He smiled back, but only with his mouth.

“Well, I dunno. It’s hardly worth bothering. Me ‘n’ Liz, we can cope. P’raps you’d best just get dressed and get back to your own place. We’d like to be alone for a while, anyway.”

His arm was round Liz’s waist, possessively. She leaned against him, head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, obviously now hardly aware of her surroundings. The penny finally dropped for Pam. Liz – this slut – this, this … her brain could find no words. This person was her replacement. She sank back on the bed, trying to puzzle it out. What had happened when she first came here with Tom, was it six weeks ago (or six months)? Hadn’t there been another girl around for a time, before she moved out and left the two of them to get on with it? There was a strange feeling of déjà vu about the whole scene, if only she could get it straight in her head, but with her role very different from last time. Hell, it didn’t matter. All she needed was a hit and she’d be in control.

“Tom, please. Just give me the stuff. Just a tiny bit. Then I’ll get my clothes together. Hey, I can get back to my place, easy … if you just give us a small hit. Please?”

He relented.

“Okay, baby.” He kissed Liz thoroughly, as if establishing his possession of her, and steered her into the one comfortable chair. “Just wait there, Liz, while I help Pam get her things together.” He pulled a plastic bag from his jeans, and turned back to Pam. “Here it is, baby. Just a little one, okay? For old times. Then you’ll be a good girl and run along back to your place?”

“Sure, Tom.” Her eyes were fixed on his hands, as he began to prepare the shot. She’d do anything he said, as long as she got the hit. But once she’d got it, it would be his turn for a surprise. God, it was almost worth the waiting, now she could see it coming and imagine how good it was going to be. She giggled. She couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face …

“Our client, Ms Barnett, is a respectable, wealthy man. He has his own reasons for requiring privacy, and he is offering a good salary. We have not pried into those reasons.”

I bet you haven’t, she thought at the interview. You don’t want to lose your commission.

“But I don’t think I would be betraying any confidences if I hinted at a romantic involvement, the recent death of our client’s companion.” The client had, in fact, directed the agency to say as much. That was his privilege; he was paying the piper, after all. Unemployment was still high – touching five million in Britain alone. Jobs were hard to come by, and anyone lucky enough to get a congenial post in a private home, with flexible hours and no really arduous duties, would have been crazy to risk instant dismissal by blabbing to the world at large about those things that her employer preferred to be kept discreet – especially if her own past contained secrets she’d rather not talk about.

“While respecting both his privacy and yours, we have, of course, informed him that we have every confidence in your own discretion.”

In other words, Pam thought, with a momentary flash of bitterness, you’ve told him I’ve got a record. Then the anger passed. Well, she’d known this would happen. Any employer was bound to ask why someone with her qualifications would be willing to take a job in the sticks, even if it was well paid. And she should have guessed that the prospect might actually appeal to someone who had his own reasons for laying low. But the interviewer was continuing, and the moment of self-pity passed as quickly as the anger that had preceded it.

“Now, the job involves living in, so you won’t be seeing much of the bright lights. On the other hand,” the interviewer glanced at the screen of the terminal in front of her, “it is rather unlikely that any of your former contacts in London will be bothering you up in Norfolk.”

That was the clincher. Six months in prison – they called it hospital, but it still had bars on the windows and locked doors – six months inside had been bad enough, and she was determined not to get caught up in that mess again. Thank God the HIV had still been in the quiescent phase and they’d been able to knock it out of her system; she had that to thank them for – and more. Tom had got five years. Even allowing for time off for good behaviour, she’d be lost in the country before he got out. She shivered again, remembering the threats he had hurled at her across the courtroom as he’d been dragged away. And, of course, she leaped at the opportunity being offered to her.

She moved in the following week. At first, it seemed so obvious why the Professor wanted his privacy, and why he hid the baby from the world. If that was all he had left, after his wife (or was she his wife? Pam was never quite sure) had died, no wonder he wanted both to hide and to protect it from the world. Not that he ever talked about the past, or offered any explanations. Her duties were described, and the contract specifying instant dismissal if news of any of the work going on leaked out, was signed. She never regretted it.

The Professor’s ‘housekeeper’ was young enough – certainly much younger than him – to cause some comment and gossip in the village at first, but she knew when she was well off, and kept out of the circle of rumour-mongers, not even bothering to deny the allegations which were bound to be made. In a way, she was flattered by the attention. She was, however, as eager as the Professor to avoid gossip. Why shouldn’t he have his privacy? There was nothing illegal involved, as far as she knew, and even if there was, she didn’t want to know.

She’d been assured there were no extra-curricular duties expected of her, and her employer had certainly been most correct in that department, almost old-fashioned. No hanky panky. Sometimes, she almost wished there was. The Professor wasn’t at all bad looking, really, and he certainly wasn’t short of a few bob. It was, she knew, income from something he’d invented. Enough income that he didn’t have to work on anything he didn’t want to any more, but could do his own thing. If he was that clever, she thought, maybe he’d invent something else to make a bigger fortune, and maybe then he’d cheer up and decide he needed some real female companionship. Well, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

In East Africa guns and tanks were increasingly rare in the fighting; combatant aircraft had vanished from the skies. Not because of any belated reluctance on the part of the so-called developed nations to supply military equipment to the embattled tribes – and nobody pretended any more that this was anything other than tribal skirmishing – but because the opposing forces simply didn’t have any means to pay for weaponry on the world markets.

Once, colonial powers might have taken advantage of the opportunity to move in. But for what? Simply painting the map pink, or blue, or green no longer seemed a fruitful exercise, and with agriculture down the tubes, hostile natives and no resources to speak of, the increasingly arid region lacked attractions . . .