Experiment With Destiny (24 page)

XIV

THE small white room was cold and silent, like a chapel of rest. Pale net curtains veiled the world outside beneath the drawn burgundy drapes. Beyond them, rivulets of condensation trickled like tears down the windowpane. Even the walls clung with sorrow. All was still, save for the distant murmur of voices from the street outside. Such an eerie stillness, she thought.

             
Carol turned slowly, her eyes registering every detail with litigious care: the painting on the wall, thick brushstrokes of vibrant oils; the shadowed crucifix with its tortured bronze body; the ornate mirror nestled atop the dresser; shelves lined with paints, inks, pencils and brushes; and wooden crates, some paint-smeared, stacked with rolled canvases and blocks of paper or card. These were the tools of a passionate, creative personality and yet the room felt empty…devoid of character, as though the spirit of the artist had been violently ripped away by the night’s tragic events.

             
She was alone in the room but she felt like an unwanted intrusion within a chamber of mourning. Her eyes returned to the blemished wallpaper beneath the painting and the tiny hole at the centre of this stain. She tried to picture what could hardly be imagined, and shuddered with the attempt, grateful that her client had not had the presence of mind to photograph his shocking find before its removal from his wall. Then she left, closing the heavy wooden door, and descended to another altogether different world.

              “Do you believe in God?” he asked, pulling the chords of his bathrobe tighter around him as if it might provide some reassurance.

             
“No.” She studied him momentarily then returned her attention to the portable computer on her lap. “Who does these days? Science has triumphed, has it not? Evolution now proved beyond all reasonable doubt and all that…I mean…obviously for some people it’s important to hold on to belief in…well…a higher power?”

             
Gino shrugged, as though the universal questions of life and meaning were of no consequence, then took a seat opposite her, watching her fingers tapping eagerly against the keypad.

             
“I’m just logging in to your file and then we can begin, Mr Dereloni.”

             
He nodded, feeling a little detached from the processes that now flowed from his awful awakening and discovery. “To be honest, I never really thought much about God…until now. Our family…being Italian…we have that strong Catholic tradition that stubbornly resists all the Eurostate legislation thrown at it…but it’s not something I’ve ever really…valued. I mean it’s always been there…at a subconscious level.” He gestured toward the painting above the fireplace but she was too preoccupied with the screen nestled in her lap to see. “So much of my work is based around Catholic themes and imagery…like that one, Self Portrait in Gethsemane, but I’ve never really considered it as anything more than symbolism…a convenient vehicle for my artistic messages of hope and humanity.”

             
Carol looked up and smiled blandly, as though responding to a conversation she had somehow missed. Gino continued, undeterred. “It’s been dormant, until now…didn’t seem all that relevant to me. But now I’ve woken up. I can see that life is out of control…that we’ve gone too far and crossed boundaries that were never meant to be crossed…seen things that were never meant to be seen!” He shook his head. “I’ve always tended to be sceptical about modern life and where it’s taken us…about our apparent lack of values…morals…within this secular age. But this…what’s happened…it’s like a wake-up call, don’t you think? Not just for me…for everyone…for humanity!”

             
She opened her mouth but found herself lost for an appropriate response. He carried on. “Perhaps science has taken us much too far for our own good…raised more questions than it can answer…fundamental questions about the meaning…and value of life itself? It’s given us…you, me…not just the scientists, the doctors…it’s given all of us the power over life and death…the power to choose whether an unborn child lives…or dies…in your own home…or someone else’s home.” His eyes filled with tears. “That can’t be right…surely? We aren’t qualified…or anywhere near expert enough to make those kinds of decisions…” He wiped the moisture from his cheeks. “Just because we can, doesn’t mean we should…right?” He searched her eyes.

             
Carol fixed her face with a professional ‘reassure-the-client-you’re-on-his-side’ smile. “So, Mr Dereloni, tell me about Jennifer,” she said.

* * *

              “Welcome back after those messages from our sponsors…let’s go straight back to our newsroom where Ted Hallder has an update on the ‘foetus-on-the-wall’ story.” The cheery voice-over was drowned beneath a short burst of drama-laden news-theme music and the equally dramatic spinning of the INB logo. Ted adopted his gravest expression and shuffled his set of papers to set the seriousness of tone required. On the giant screens over his shoulder was a full-colour library graphic of a human foetus drifting like a curled astronaut through an amniotic sea.

             
“Good morning British Eurostate viewers,” his tone is pitch-perfect sombre. “As Cardiff-based artist Gino Dereloni struggles to come to terms with his shocking find on waking this morning – a human foetus nailed to his bedroom wall – we will be speaking to the experts who, perhaps, can help us…as well as Mr Dereloni…to make sense of this pre-natal horror. I am joined…” The camera pans out. “…by Doctor Alec Bamber, consultant gynaecologist at the University Hospital of Wales in Cardiff where the foetus is currently undergoing a series of tests.” Dr Bamber, stick insect thin and wispy white hair, leans forward with obvious enthusiasm and clears his throat noisily…readying himself. “Now we know the foetus was…well…I guess we can say…dead…by the time the paramedics arrived at the scene…”

             
“Indeed.”

             
“So perhaps you can help us understand a little better…the foetus itself and its development, by the 24-week stage, and how Endterm Six works…I mean, specifically, was the foetus alive or dead at the point it was nailed to the wall?” There was a flicker of distaste in the consultant’s watery eyes.

             
“Well…of course we can only speculate…until the tests are concluded…”

             
“Of course! Please speculate Dr Bamber, on our behalf.”

             
“Indeed…well…after 24 weeks the foetus generally measures between six and seven inches and is almost fully formed…limbs, digits, vital organs…and of course its sex is already determined well before this point…”

             
“We understand this was a male foetus…in this case…”

             
“Quite so. Yes…after 24 weeks we have a fully formed human…in miniature, of course…but all the essential ingredients. It…he…is able to hear sounds from beyond the womb…mother’s voice…perhaps the father…and he can move around, change position if you will. He has begun to develop eyebrows and a certain amount of body hair such as eyelashes…toenails, fingernails…oh…and even has his own unique fingerprints by this stage of development!”

             
“So, Dr Bamber, the question we’re all asking…dead or alive when it was nailed to the wall?”

             
“Ah…well…we won’t know until the forensic tests are concluded. But generally speaking…Endterm Six in clinical trials has been found to be 92% efficient in…killing…in…stillborn termination. But inevitably a small percentage will survive and remain alive through the…”

             
“They call it flushing…the ‘flushing’ phase…don’t they?” Dr Bamber scowls.

             
“The medical term…”

             
“So what you’re saying is that this tiny 24-week-old male human being…this boy…pre-boy…could…might well have…been alive…aware…cognisant…when his emotionally unstable mother flushed him out and pinned him to Mr Dereloni’s wall?”

             
“Well…I…”

             
“My God!” Ted shakes his head. “The horror…” The consultant tries to force a reassuring smile. “The sheer horror of that!”

             
“Of course this is merely conjecture and we must stick to the known facts until such time…”

             
“And of course, Dr Bamber, this is one of the main reasons campaigners…even pro-abortionists…have been calling for its immediate withdrawal from the market…the fact that it can result in medically unsupervised premature live births…that and the controversial self-disposal issue? What did ProLife dub Endterm Six? The unlicensed home-murder kit with a tin-it and bin-it pack complete with flesh-eating acid to get rid of the evidence?”

             
“Ah…but this is such emotive, irrational language…almost hysteria…from those with a clear agenda that blatantly ignores women’s rights…”

             
“But Dr Bamber, it’s not just the lunatic religious fringe expressing…severe reservations, emotive language or not, about this new off-the-pharmacy-shelf DIY approach to birth control. Several of your eminent colleagues around the country have questioned the wisdom of allowing women, many of whom may be in vulnerable positions or unstable states of mind, access to medically unsupervised home abortion kits.”

             
“I think we need to be clear here…” Dr Bamber was now showing visible signs of irritation. Ted indulged a wry smile. “…medically unsupervised home abortions are not a new phenomenon! They have been taking place behind closed doors for centuries and the number of women who have lost their lives, or been permanently scarred, as a result…well…this product is a quantum…scientific leap forward. Although Endterm Six is very new to the market and represents a step-change, perhaps not suitable for every woman, it has been clinically proven to be extremely safe…”

             
“Not to the unborn child it isn’t!” Dr Bamber spluttered.

             
“Of course not! I didn’t mean…I…I meant…extremely safe for the woman using it…no major side effects and as for the so-called ‘acid’…”

             
“You wouldn’t consider Mr Dereloni’s gruesome graffiti wall a major side effect, Dr Bamber?” The consultant was speechless. Ted seized his opportunity to land the knock-out punch. “And would you also care to comment on the nature of your relationship with Global Chemical Industries, Dr Bamber? Specifically the six-figure sponsorship your post-graduate research foundation benefited from earlier this year?” ‘Gotcha!’ he mused.

* * *

Carol Rigg stopped typing. The flick of a switch sent the electronically coded file into the machine’s memory. Her notes saved, she paused to consider Gino’s every word and gesture…each inflection, sigh or whisper…all slowly building for her a mental picture of the young woman called Jennifer. He wanted a break from the intensity of this scrutiny and she agreed. He offered her tea or coffee, then left the room. Outside, the low chatter of the media people drifted in with the noise of an otherwise passive and unremarkable suburbia.

In her mind’s eye she conjured the fiery, passionate woman with fierce red hair, so elegantly and damningly described by her former lover. Carol had already come to the conclusion Jennifer was schizophrenic…or perhaps bi-polar. Was there a difference? Either way, if just half of the artist’s shocking monologue was true, the life model he’d shared a bed with for seven turbulent months after becoming infatuated with her desperately needed professional help and plenty of it! Of course she needed help! It was stating the bleeding obvious. Anyone prepared to crucify their unborn child to a wall was in need of help!

Gino had painted a detailed and vivid portrait, as he must have done so many times during the past few months, but this time in words rather than oils. It was the portrait of a romantic innocent, almost a child, who hungered for a big, bright world to explore and experience. Carol imagined she could see the bitter sorrow in her piercing eyes, captured so graphically in the expressionist-come-impressionist style oil-on-canvas he’d left poignantly on the table between them throughout the interview. She had the look of a Rosetti, the Pre-Raphaelite romanticism but with the haunted eyes of someone who had discovered all too soon that life was not as sparkling as it first seemed. Jennifer had been used and abused through the naivety of her early relationships, discovering that her fairy-tale princes were no more than emotional paupers and intellectual wastrels. And by the time she posed naked for the artist, her deep scars were obvious. She had shed her idealistic lust for life and wrapped herself in a mantle of bruised shadows; betrayal, fear and insecurity.

Gino admitted it was all part of the initial attraction – seeing the dying vestiges of what she once was and witnessing the throes of who she had become, revelling in her vulnerability and incurable needs and believing, somewhat egotistically, he had the power to revive her and bring her back from the grave. As he painted for her the gratification of their bestial lust, the delicate fragility within rare moments of shared tenderness, glimpses of new dawns and blossoming life, so too he drew the dark lines of terror that permeated their tumultuous relationship. How her charming smile and twinkling eyes would suddenly twist with fear and rage as feelings of persecution and paranoia took hold of her…and she would crave pain…pain for herself and pain for anyone around her…pain was real, tangible, something to cling on to when all other foundations gave away and threatened to plunge her into a terrifying abyss.