The Trespass (13 page)

Telomeres, as I’ve outlined before, are effectively the ‘tip’ of any given chromosome, and we became convinced that the composition and length of these tips was the key to understanding the ageing process with its associated links to health in old age and the human life span. Now, a cell’s normal life is around 50 divisions, and tests on a cross-section of human subjects have shown that cells that have stopped dividing have much shorter telomeres.

Telomeres become shorter with time because unlike the rest of a chromosome, they don't replicate during cell division. The shortening of these tips acts like a sort of clock, which ultimately causes the cell to slow down and stop working. There has been some experimentation with an enzyme called telomerase that slows the erosion of these telomeres – and lab experiments with this enzyme have met with some success, although I wouldn’t personally consider these to be spectacular. What it did tell us – or what we understood from the results of these experiments – is that we were on the right research track.

The right track. Potzner ran a hand through his greying crew cut. So close. So near to a breakthrough. How could it have happened? Just as he was coming to terms with the possibility of salvation, just as he had begun to dare to hope... His fists bunched and he read on.

Then came the Red Earth material – well, you remember how we found the telometric loop anomalies – it proved the point. These were super telomeres like we’d never seen before in any subject. There appeared to be no degeneration or shortening of telometric strands despite the obvious age of the material. I can now say conclusively that the age of the subject was in excess of 500 years – possibly older – at the time of death. Death was caused not by ‘normal’ cell senescence but by something else. What that is right now I can’t say – I’d need more tissue samples to reach a conclusion as the original material is breaking down rapidly, which is no surprise given that we had to perform an invasive operation just to get through the resin block. Incidentally, we are still unsure of the composition of this outer coating – whatever it is, it’s not something we’ve seen before and its preservative qualities are nothing less than astonishing. Nevertheless, the small sample we retained also seems to be degenerating too fast for us to save.

In summary, Jim, I’m real sorry – I know what this means to you, believe me, but I can’t proceed without fresh material derived from the source.

Do let me know if you need any more information at this stage.

Kind rgds

Art Keegan,

Head Dept. Molec. Biology

Mob: 07720 8732567

Potzner looked at the solitary photograph on his desk. It was a fun shot, taken before Abigail had become housebound. They were in an amusement arcade and Abi had just won the jackpot. Some passing trucker had offered to take their photo to mark the occasion. She looked so… so carefree. So happy. He picked up the frame and etched a kiss onto her celluloid cheek, then placed the photograph carefully back in its usual position.
Everything’s going to be fine. We’re going to live forever, you and me, babe. Imagine that! We’re going to live forever...

He held his head in his hands and wept.

Dracup peered cautiously over the low wall. It didn’t give him much cover, but at least the sky was moonless and the expanse of the garden lay in comforting shadow. He stepped forward gingerly into the open. Immediately he felt exposed and foolish. What was he doing in a stranger’s garden in the middle of the night? And yet, it was not an unfamiliar landscape. He had been here long ago, in another life. How old had he been? Eight or nine? A pang of grief stabbed home. Natasha’s age. The thought gave him a fresh focus, and he peered into the darkness, searching for the marker he prayed was still in position. The sundial. If it had gone, leaving no reference point... No! There was something, a broken contour on the flatness of the grass.

He edged carefully up the lawn, keeping to the borders and fearful that some hidden security light would flood the garden and leave him stranded in its glare like a fly in a spider’s web. Dracup risked a glance to where Farrell stood guard at the gate. It was hard to pick the agent out, but then Dracup discerned a movement against the whitewash of the house. A second later a torch flashed once. All okay. They had simply walked up the drive, Dracup conscious of the weight of the shovel in his hand, Farrell striding ahead confidently. Business as usual for him.

The house was in darkness, with only a single light showing upstairs, candle-like behind the small window – probably the bathroom. The place was comfortably asleep.
And so it should be
, Dracup thought.
It’s 3.30 in the morning
. He held his breath as he moved slowly forward towards the object. He realized he was grinding his teeth, as he used to in his parents’ home when he wanted to creep down the old staircase without alerting the grown-ups to his presence; he imagined the noise of his teeth rubbing together would obscure any noise issuing from his own movements. Dracup shook his head.
Nuts. You’ve always been a bit nuts.
Now the stillness had a volume all of its own which seemed more unsettling.

Something rustled in the hedgerow and he dropped to his haunches, crouching low. He waited thirty seconds. Nothing jumped out at him. No lights flicked on.
Keep moving
. He took a breath and went forward again. Sara would be home by now, fast asleep in her own bed.
Or maybe not. Maybe she’s somewhere else altogether
. He shook his head, unable to sustain the thought. He felt diminished without her, as if some central process inside him had been shut down.

Enough. Concentrate.
He reached the object and squatted next to it, running his hands over the stone column. Relief washed through him. The sundial still presided over the garden, a solid connection between now and the past. He traced the Roman numerals. Five, six,
seven
. Dracup looked to see the direction of the angle created by the VII. He measured seven reasonable paces from the dial and found himself by the herbaceous border. With some misgivings and considerable sympathy for the owners he began to dig. The noise jarred his senses, and he worked the shovel as cautiously as he could into the stiff earth, keeping one eye nervously on the Farrell corner of the property.

After a few minutes he had succeeded only in creating a superficial hole, no more than a hand’s breadth into the stubborn soil. He bit his lip in frustration. He couldn’t even be sure he was digging in the right place. Dracup retraced his steps to the sundial and measured out another seven paces. It brought him to the same spot. With a sigh of resignation he resumed the laborious task of softening the earth with the edge of the spade. Sweat ran down his back as he worked, and soon his shirt was soaked through. To add to his discomfort it began to rain, lightly at first but then more persistently. Dracup cursed as he toiled away until he realized the rain was beginning to work for him, rather than against him. The more soil he exposed, the more effective the softening rain became.

Thirty minutes later he was standing at the side of a muddy pit several feet deep. Panting, he stood back to assess his handiwork. He heard the thrum of an engine accelerating past the house. Somewhere out towards the city a siren’s wail rose and fell. Dracup returned to his work, probing with the spade into the thick mud. Farrell remained out of sight. Dracup hoped he was awake, then realized he had never actually seen the American sleep; he seemed to be on perpetual alert.

The spade hit an unyielding portion of his hole, returning a hollow sound that made Dracup jump in surprise. He threw the spade aside and got down on his hands and knees, scrabbling to clear the detritus away from whatever he had uncovered.

Five minutes later he had exposed the rectangular shape of what appeared to be the lid of a metallic container. Several minutes’ more effort and he had cleared space enough to get his hands under the container and free it from its bed of earth. It was heavier than he expected for its size, but eventually he gained enough purchase to lift it out and set it down carefully beside its former resting place. Dracup sat, exhausted on the damp grass, feeling the rain trickle down his mud-spattered face. He was about to signal Farrell to give him a hand when some intuition made him change his mind.

The box opened easily, and Dracup shone his pencil torch into its depths. Within lay the object from Theodore’s sketch. Elated, Dracup pulled the perished covering aside. Beside it, also wrapped in what appeared to be some kind of waterproof cloth, was a smaller square parcel. Dracup stole a furtive look towards the house. He flashed the torch in a prearranged signal. For a moment there was nothing, then Farrell’s torch pierced the darkness. Good. He had time. Dracup uncovered the smaller parcel and extracted the contents.

He peered at it, running the beam across its surface. It was a wax writing tablet, similar to those he had seen in museums and on boyhood excursions to Roman villas, but clearly modern because it was inscribed with that familiar hand he knew belonged to Theodore. But now was not the time for a lengthy perusal. He rewrapped the tablet and placed it carefully in his coat pocket, then quickly replaced the lid and signalled to Farrell for assistance. As he waited for the agent he marvelled at Theodore’s provision; he was gaining a healthy respect for his grandfather. What better way to preserve a buried message than to inscribe it on wax? Theodore had been neither fool nor lunatic, but something had happened to him, something destabilizing. Dracup watched Farrell’s noiseless approach. He patted his pocket protectively. Whatever Theodore had intended to communicate, Dracup wasn’t prepared to share it with Potzner’s team. Not yet.

They were assembled in the great chamber. Ruth held Natasha’s hand and waited for Kadesh to make his entrance. She was nervous. He had mentioned a matter of discipline, but it was not the usual practice of the
Korumak Tanri
to air such things in public. Over and over her mind was repeating like a mantra:
It is not our way. It has never been our way
. The chanting began, quietly at first, like a gentle wave breaking on a distant shore, then louder, growing in volume until the whole chamber was filled with the resonance of song and subtle drum beat. Ruth felt her heart pounding and joined in with the familiar words.

She looked at Natasha. Her eyes were closed and she was swaying gently with the lilting rhythm. Her growing attachment to the girl gave her new concerns, concerns that overrode even the unwelcome forebodings she had experienced since their arrival. It should be a time of rejoicing, but the unsettled atmosphere was distracting. She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt so exposed, so
unprotected
. Furthermore, the directness with which she had spoken to Kadesh frightened her. She hadn’t believed herself capable of such boldness. But she knew the truth. She hesitated in her recital of the ancient verses and bowed her head low, allowing the knowledge to run free in her mind.
It will never be. He does not want me. He wants someone else.

She raised her head before anyone noticed her distraction and caught Jassim’s eye. He smiled at her reassuringly. At least she had her brother to offer some measure of sympathy. But he was a man, and as such could not enter into discussions of intimacy, of passion, of longing. And, like everyone else, he was under Kadesh’s authority.

She felt a tug on her sleeve and found Natasha’s face looking up at her. “I’m thirsty.”

“We have to wait, ’Tash. Kadesh will speak with us soon.”

“Don’t call me that. Only my mummy and daddy call me that.”

Ruth bent and whispered, “What would you like me to call you?”

“I don’t know. Just Natasha.”

“All right. But we must be quiet now.” Ruth pointed. A procession had entered the chamber. She recognized most of the male acolytes, led as usual by Kadesh. There was one dressed in red, the traditional colour of celebration, walking beside him. She stood on tiptoe to identify him. It was Ibrahim, her cousin. She knew of his long absence, of his training under Kadesh’s guidance. Next to Mukannishum, he was the favoured son. She pursed her lips and wondered at the purpose of the assembly.
A matter of discipline.

The cortège had reached the centre of the chamber. Kadesh held up his arms. Silence fell immediately, and his commanding voice rang out. “Our legacy has been returned to us and it is right and proper to celebrate. For decades our plans have been laid; our people have been sent forth to integrate and befriend, to work alongside and to learn; to listen and to emulate. To become as one with our offenders. It has been a long journey – a journey fraught with many obstacles and setbacks. But we have overcome by our patience, by our commitment and by our obedience to Him who is eternal. And your praises
are
heard by the most high God. It is He who commands us, not I. It is He who is judge, not I. It is He who watches over us to see that we have not fallen into half-heartedness or worldliness. We must remain set apart, a holy people. He alone has guided our hands and has brought us to this moment of triumph.”