Soul

In the distance, Lavinia could hear the rattling of the prison guards’ keys and their footfalls as they approached the cell. Trying to control her violent trembling, she closed the whispering box for the last time.

79

Los Angeles, 2003

JULIA LOOKED AROUND THE TABLE at the four Defense Department representatives. Along with Colonel Smith-Royston, she also recognised a military psychologist from the Psych Division, but there were two others she had never seen before: General Burt Jennings, a muscular grey-haired patrician in his sixties; and the Head of Personnel, Amanda Jane, an African– American woman in her late forties. Flinty and angular, she appeared the most suspicious of the geneticist. Clicking a biro impatiently, she scanned the report in front of her and occasionally peered over her bifocals at Julia with forensic appraisal.

Behind the table a photograph of the President hung above the imitation fireplace; his closely set eyes held a faint gleam of incredulous bewilderment as if even he could not entirely fathom the chaos he had inherited.

Only the crackle of turning pages broke the tense silence as the four officials finished reading Julia’s report.

Feeling anxious, Julia poured herself a glass of water. The general looked up.

‘Let me get this straight. What you’re suggesting is that there may be several genetic factors involved in the individuals of interest, but you haven’t been able to separate those factors from external influences.’

‘Sometimes genetic traits require external circumstances to launch them. In this case, an individual may have this particular mutant gene function, but if something in their environmental experience—call it “nurture”, if you like—doesn’t encourage the gene to detonate, then it’ll just stay dormant on the DNA.’

Amanda Jane leaned forward, her chin jutting out. ‘In plain English, Professor Huntington, you’re telling us it would be a waste of time and resources to genetically profile potential frontline combat troops?’

Hesitating, Julia focused on a point somewhere between Amanda Jane’s eyebrows. Knowing that she was being less than honest, and risking both her career and reputation, Julia swallowed before speaking. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Then simplify, Professor Huntington. It’s what we pay you for.’

‘In plain English, it would not be ethical of me to suggest that, even with the required genetic profile, any particular man could kill in close combat without some later regret or remorse. In the course of my research I discovered that I simply couldn’t isolate this propensity from other factors.’

‘Such as?’ asked the general.

‘Free will, sir.’

Leaving the conference room, Julia felt as vulnerable as a target on a shooting range. On the way down to the main entrance, she noticed a campaign poster for the Candidate, offering wonderfully inarticulate platitudes instead of policy. He seemed an ironically apt choice for the current apocalyptic times.

Leaving the Defense Department building, she stepped out into the sun.

80

Life, confession and

EXECUTION

of

Lavinia Elspeth Huntington

For the MURDER of her husband

Colonel James Edwin Huntington

by

The Honourable Stanley Taylor Williams Esquire

OLD BAILEY, THIS COLD MORNING OF January tenth, in the year of Our Lord eighteen sixty-two. The sheriff, with his attendants, arrived at the prison and proceeded to the condemned cell, where he found the condemned’s father, the Reverend Kane of Anascaul, County Kerry, engaged in prayer with his daughter. After the usual formalities, Mrs Lavinia Huntington was conducted into the press room where her hair was cut short. The executioner and his assistants then commenced pinioning her arms, which operation they skilfully and quickly dispatched. The condemned uttered not another word.

At a quarter of an hour before eight, the arrangements having being completed, the bell of the prison commenced tolling and the melancholy procession was formed, the prison chaplain preceding the culprit on her way to the fatal drop, and reading the burial service for the dead. No sound, if we except the deep sighs of the unhappy woman, interrupted the clergyman as the procession moved along the subterranean passage.

Outside, the gallows were surrounded by a great multitude of people, some of whom had travelled from as far afield as Lancaster to view the hanging of the creature who has been dubbed the Snuff Murderess. A great proportion of the onlookers were female, the fairer sex taking a particular pleasure in the execution of one of its kind, and there was all

manner of heckling as the unfortunate woman arrived by prison cart.