Soul

71

Los Angeles, 2002

GABRIEL STRETCHED ACROSS THE BED. He’d been back from the laboratory for a hour, but the contents of the envelope kept skipping across his mind like an unsolved puzzle. His mother was at the back of the apartment preparing coursework; through the wall he could hear the muffled sound of his neighbour arguing with his wife; the day’s research lay filed and finished in the briefcase at his feet; the shifting planes of normalcy that constructed Gabriel’s world seemed more or less intact. Except for Julia; except for the niggling thought that beat just under his consciousness.

He switched on his favourite Death Metal album and lay there as the music bored its way through his brain; a pounding rhythm that lulled him into a torpor. Then he reached for a spliff he’d rolled that morning. Still with the headphones on, he went to the window and pulled it open. It was a classic Californian fall afternoon; there was the faint smell of wood fires on the breeze, and a humming bird suddenly appeared, wings whirling invisibly as it hovered over a late-blossoming bird of paradise plant. Gabriel switched off his Walkman, thinking the barely audible beat might scare it away. They were magical, he thought, these creatures, part-bird, part-insect—an example of the wonder of evolution, adaptation by default.

The colours of the small overgrown yard intensified by a couple of notches and he exhaled. The anxiety was still there, but this time he could see it clearly. And the shape of it was Julia—Julia and her ex-husband. With his hands on the window sill, Gabriel leaned out, closed his eyes and sucked in all of the horizon with one breath. The scents, sounds and the warmth of the sunlight jangled in his mind, a myriad of sensation, and the restlessness and energy of youth shot down to his heels.

It was then that he remembered Julia’s face the last time he saw her—her forced laughter, her fingers twisting the phone cable as she talked to Klaus. Apprehensive, Gabriel reached for his cell phone and rang both her numbers—first her cell then the landline. Both were switched off.

‘It seems sensible, you know, to put the house on the market, get the best price we can, then go fifty-fifty,’ Klaus said, scooping up a forkful of rice.

‘Despite the fact that it was my inheritance and my income that paid for most of it.’

‘I’m not responsible for the divorce laws in this state. But I am leaving you most of the furniture.’

Julia’s fury rose, uncomfortably like bile. She stared at her plate; her food was almost untouched. Hoping Klaus wouldn’t notice, she poured them both another glass of wine. It was still their first bottle. She planned to get him drunk; that way it would be easier. Oblivious, Klaus cheerfully helped himself to another serve of paella.

‘I’m so glad we can be civilised about this, and that we can be friends. I mean, you have to understand that my feelings might have changed but the depth of them hasn’t.’

Julia looked down at the knife, resting across her dish stained with the saffron of the paella. It was sharp, razor-sharp.

‘In fact, both Carla and I are looking forward to having you in our lives. And, of course, our child’s…’ It was then that he noticed her trembling hand.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine. I’d like that.’

Klaus reached out and rested his fingers over hers. His touch was completely neutral, almost paternal.

‘What you have to comprehend is that some events are out of our control, Julia.’

Julia pulled her hand away and stood suddenly, the chair shrieking as it scraped back across the wooden floor. ‘I think it’s time I opened another bottle.’

‘Really? But we’ve only just finished this—’

‘Ahh, but this one’s special. A Margaux.’

‘You sure? I mean, you might want to open it when you’ve finished the report, or maybe have someone more deserving to celebrate with?’

‘Believe me, I regard this as enough of a celebration.’

Julia moved into the adjoining kitchen, where she leaned against the wall, her will momentarily wavering as she struggled with a pervading sense of predetermination. What was the sequence of events that had led her to this juncture? Did it matter? Klaus had betrayed her, had betrayed their child and their marriage. How could he sit there now, indifferent to the terrible destruction he was responsible for? What did she have left?

Gabriel’s calf muscles burned as he laboured up the hill, the bicycle wheels flattening against the tarmac with his weight. He reached the crest and freewheeled wildly down the other side. Nothing could halt the instinctive momentum propelling him towards Julia’s house.

72

London, 1861

MR HAMISH CAMPBELL TOOK THE witness stand. Despite a certain gauntness, the young man appeared composed. In fact, his grieving reverberated far deeper than he could have possibly imagined. This had been his only solace: that their affection had made him conscious that he was capable of such a depth of emotion. After the Colonel’s death, he had retreated to the sanctuary of his parents’ house in the North country; his father’s unquestioning joy and pride at the return of the prodigal son a balm to the terrible absence Hamish would now carry forever.

The student had not forgotten his own ambitions, but his mentor’s death had given him cause to reconsider both his studies and his future plans. He had resolved to complete his lover’s writings, continuing in the manner he imagined the Colonel would have wanted.

Under the scrutiny of the whole court he tried to stop his legs shaking. Thankfully, they were hidden by the high podium. He was there after much persuasion by the prosecution, but he also wanted justice. Had James accidentally killed himself? Why had he chosen Lavinia to assist at the ritual and not himself, even after Hamish had tried to warn him of the dangers?

He could not know the Colonel’s mind—least of all now—but he did know that James Huntington had deserved to live a full life. Pouring his grief into a public crusade, which had involved letters to The Times, a lecture at the Institute for the Advancement of Science, as well as several more private campaigns at the Carlton, Hamish Campbell had convinced himself that Lavinia was guilty.