‘The fact is no one knows why we humans grow old; why we slip into decay, cease to function. Scientists have been divided on the subject for decades. Some say it’s evolutionary, a method by which the species keeps replenishing itself. Then there’s the telomare theory which posits that with each successive reproduction the cells in the body get weaker, and so they eventually fail. Or it’s DNA damage through chemical, radiation or viral infection that causes ageing; or the auto-immune theory that blames antibodies for attacking tissue. Those and a hundred other similar theories. But in truth no one has yet been able to discover what the trigger is that starts the onset of ageing.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Gareth, shaking his head. ‘You’re giving me a Christmas lecture!’
‘I think you deserve the courtesy of an explanation at the very least,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t wish to know…’
Gareth thought the man had the look of a cat playing with a mouse. He sighed despondently. ‘Explain,’ he said. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘Think on this, Gareth. What if we could find the ageing trigger, find some way of blocking it? What if we didn’t have to grow old and die? Can you imagine how many billions that would be worth to any company that could develop that? It would be the dominant player in the market for a century to come.’
‘Whatever,’ said Gareth, half-listening. He thought about rushing the old man, making for the door beyond him through which Tremain had disappeared. He’d no idea where it led.
Lambert-Chide, in any case, had all but turned off from what Gareth said, had stepped inside his own world. His attention was distant. ‘I would not have to die,’ he said. ‘I would not have to yield to a twisted natural law that allows a jellyfish to live almost indefinitely, whilst I, being all that I am, having all that I have to offer the world, has to succumb to a miserable, ignoble inevitability.’ Lambert-Chide rested heavily on his cane, his breath rattling in his throat. ‘Such a prize would be worth taking any risk, don’t you think? The means totally justifying the end.’
‘You’ve said it yourself; the means to turn off the trigger doesn’t exist, so it’s a moot point. You’ve had your time, more than most, and you’ve been a wealthy man too. Difficult for me to feel anything but pity for you and your delusions. And no, the means do not justify the end. Holding me here against my will for God knows what reason; people having died already whilst you and Doradus — whoever he is — play your weird games between you thinking that you’re both outside the law. You’ll pay for it, sooner or later.’
The old man clapped mockingly. The soft skin made little noise. ‘Bravo, Gareth! That’s the spirit! A rousing speech is just what’s needed. Very Henry the Fifth!’ He lifted the book, but turned his head at the sound of the door being opened behind him.
Tremain entered, holding onto a woman by the arm. She had her head down, long hair unkempt, and she appeared to be drunk, for she found it difficult to place one foot in front of the other, staggering uncertainly. Tremain’s grip was firm; he was all but preventing her from falling over.
At first Gareth didn’t recognize her. She was dressed plainly in a sweatshirt and jeans, her feet, he noticed completely bare. There were a few spots of what appeared to be blood on the front of her sweatshirt. She groggily lifted her head, her eyes rolling, blinking at the light as if it were far too bright. She looked across at Gareth but there was no sign of recognition, only a bleary, vacant stare.
‘Erica!’ Gareth exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He saw Tremain’s hand move instinctively towards the inside of his jacket where he kept the gun. ‘What have you done to her?’ he said angrily, wanting to go to her aid but obeying Lambert-Chide’s raised hand. ‘What has my sister done so wrong that you have to treat her like a dog? You think she stole your precious jewels?’
Lambert-Chide bade Tremain take the woman over to a chair, and Gareth watched as she was allowed to slump heavily down to the seat. Her head rolled briefly, then her chin rested limply on her chest.’
‘Erica you call her? That’s as good a name as any,’ he said. ‘And don’t let this upset you; she is far from being treated like a dog — quite the opposite. She is merely being kept sedated, for her own good. Such a feisty creature. It looks worse than it actually is.’ He rose from his seat, the book in one hand, the cane in the other. He put the end of his cane under Erica’s chin and raised it. There was a brief flash of recognition in her eyes, which quickly turned to anger, but it faded as fast as it rose. ‘Your sister and I are long and dear friends, is that not so, Erica? We are renewing an old and cherished acquaintance. Thankfully we didn’t have to rely solely on Muller to find her; I had more than one team on the case and we caught her less than a week ago.’
Gareth could not hold back any longer; he went to her, noticing how Lambert-Chide waved Tremain away as he stepped forward protectively. Gareth dropped to his knee before her. Saliva had glazed her chin and he wiped it carefully away. ‘You bastards!’ he said. ‘This is inhuman.’ He brushed her hair back from her forehead with a tender hand. A spark in her pretty eyes told him she knew who he was; but it was sorrow she flashed him. He could feel her fighting the drug, trying to regain control of her mind and limbs, and her fingers grasped his tightly. ‘I’ll get you out of here,’ he promised, and meant every word. He rose to his feet, anger swelling up inside him. He stared into the barrel of Tremain’s gun, his passion threatening to plunge him into doing something foolish. He forced himself to calm down. Now was not the right time. But he’d find it.
‘Many, many years ago, my father met a young woman,’ said Lambert-Chide. ‘He was still grieving the loss of his wife, my mother, at the time, and thus one might say susceptible to the attentions of any young opportunist, and clearly this particular woman was highly skilled at the game. She landed him hook, line and sinker. So much so they’d hardly known each other before he announced they were to get married.’ He came over to Gareth, the book clutched to his chest. ‘A little digging on my part soon revealed her for the fraud she was. I confronted her, unbeknown to my father, and naturally, faced with such overwhelming evidence she melted away lest her fraud be disclosed to the police.’ He handed the book to Gareth. He saw that it was a photograph album. ‘My father was a keen amateur photographer. Take a look at the pages marked with the strip of paper.’
He resisted for a second or two, then did as he was bid, opening the album at the marked pages. There was a large photograph on each page, roughly eight inches by ten, black and white images but acquiring the sepia tint of age. One of the photos showed a large white-painted stucco garden shelter supported by four stone columns, an arched, glazed window casting light onto the seated figure of a woman. She was sat on a cushion, wearing a light summer dress, head bent to a book.
But it was the picture that appeared on the opposite page that drew Gareth’s attention. It was a head and shoulders shot of the same seated woman, the image snapped as she looked up from her book, as if disturbed in her reading, quite natural and un-posed. What Gareth found disturbing was the woman’s face. He looked from the photo to Erica and then back again.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said at length.
‘Yes you do,’ countered Lambert-Chide. ‘The woman in the photo is of Evelyn Carter, my father’s young fiance in 1939. The woman sitting before you is the one and the same.’
‘That’s impossible!’ he said. ‘So there’s a resemblance, maybe even a family likeness, who knows…’
Lambert-Chide shook his head firmly. ‘You say we do not have the trigger that turns off old age? Well you see the answer before your eyes. Here is proof we do not have to grow old and die.’ His laugh was brittle and mocking. ‘And well you might be amazed, Gareth. The woman sat here, the one you call Erica, the one you call your sister — well, I’m sorry to tell you she isn’t; your sister died at birth. This woman is your mother.’