And, unlike my husband, I have done very little to be proud of in my lifetime. My diary says as much.
Things are not improved by the fact that Mark, like most other Duos, secretly thinks Monos are stupid. That we are mentally circumscribed by our inability to remember what happened two days ago. That we have a myopic understanding of the world around us. He lacks the courage to say this to my face. But whenever I open my mouth, I can see Mark thinks as much. My diary indicates that I’ve endured twenty years of patronizing jibes from my Duo husband.
But I shall not dwell on these matters. I shall not think of my own inadequacies, either real or imaginary. Not when my spirits are finally lifting.
I grab a couple of large refuse bags from the garden shed and begin shoveling the leaves into them with renewed energy. Something rings in the distance. It sounds like the doorbell. It must be the postman.
I unlock a side door in the garden hedge and walk around the corner of the house to the front. A man is standing on the porch, his face turned at an angle away from me. He isn’t the postman. His face is chiseled thin, with a strong, angular jawline. Hints of gray abound on his temples. His snowy button-down shirt is immaculate, pressed to perfection. His Oxford brogues are polished to a high sheen.
“Can I help you?” I say.
The man jumps before turning to look at me.
“Oh,” he says.
His eyes settle on me, taking in my dirty overalls and shoes. His irises are steely gray in color, almost magnetic in focus. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a photographic badge attached to a black folding wallet. It’s in the shape of a snowflake with a crown on it.
“DCI Hans Richardson, Cambridgeshire Constabulary. I would like to speak to Mark Evans.”
“Why?”
“We would like him to help us with an investigation.”
“What are you investigating?”
“The death of a woman.”
I gape at the detective.
“Surely not…er…the woman on the news this morning? Whose body was found in the Cam?”
“Actually, yes,” he says with a nod. “I’m the senior investigating officer on the case. I’ll be grateful if you could get Mr. Evans. He’s your husband, I presume.”
I nod. Something isn’t right with the universe this morning, but I’m unable to place my finger on it. My eyes dart past Richardson; his checked blue-and-yellow patrol car is right outside our house. A uniformed driver is behind the wheel, his mustached face blurred by the tinted windows. A couple of neighbors are poking their heads out; one has even emerged onto her front porch to stare at us, still in her purple dressing gown. It’s a shame a pesky row of terraced houses lies on the other side of the road.
“Mark’s at work in his study,” I say, eager to remove Richardson from my neighbors’ line of vision. “Follow me.”
I lead the detective around the corner of the house, noticing that his silk tie bears a small repeated motif. It looks like the Greek pi symbol I learned in school ages ago. Nettle bounces up to us. Richardson stoops down to scratch the dog’s head, eliciting a vigorous wag in return. As we step through the side door leading into the garden, I decide to be brave and ask:
“What was her name?”
The detective purses his lips before answering:
“Sophia Ayling.”
The name does not ring a single factual bell in my mind.
“Why is her death…er…being treated as suspicious?”
“I cannot say.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. Your garden’s lovely, by the way. Really interesting.”
“Thank you. I’ll get my husband.”
Richardson nods. I begin walking down the garden path to retrieve Mark. Alarm rushes into and floods my heart, blotting out everything else. Mark surely cannot be linked to Sophia Ayling. I’ve not learned any facts about her. To confirm this, I pause in my tracks to pull out my iDiary and tap in her name. Nothing shows up.
I reach the door of Mark’s den and tap its surface. A loud groan issues from within.
“I’m writing, Claire.” Mark’s voice is muted, but I hear a distinct note of exasperation in it. “I’ve told you not to disturb me whenever I’m writing. You should type this down in your diary tonight. Spend a bit more time learning this fact.”
“It’s urgent, Mark. Please come out.”
I hear a muffled curse, followed by an eventual patter of footsteps in my direction.
The door swings open with a loud creak, revealing Mark’s neatly ordered study. My husband is standing before me with unfocused eyes. There is even a slight wildness in them. If he had been writing over the past hour, the act must have caused him great agitation.
“A detective wants to speak to you. DCI Hans Richardson of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary. He’s investigating the dead woman on the radio this morning.”
Blood is draining from Mark’s face. His left hand is trembling.
Scientific American
It’s All Down to Our Genes
Scientists Have Found the Gene and Protein Responsible for Society’s Memory Divide
15 September 2005
Scientists at Harvard University have identified the genetic switch responsible for short-term memory differences between Duos and Monos. The gene regulates the production of a protein, cyclic AMP response enhancement-binding protein, more easily remembered as CREB.
Blood samples taken from five thousand volunteers confirm that both adult Duos and adult Monos have very low levels of CREB, in contrast to adolescents younger than age eighteen. Yet Duos still have more CREB in their blood than Monos do, thus giving Duos two days’ worth of short-term memories instead of one.
Scientists are certain that this protein is inhibited at the age of twenty-three for Duos and eighteen for Monos, thereby accounting for society’s memory divide. They are trying to understand how and why this is so, and whether this has always been the case.
Duo Patrick Kilburn, the project’s lead researcher, believes that this genetic trigger may be switched on by a synchronized combination of physical and emotional stressors. Both forms of trauma must be present at the same time for this to occur, he insists. Mice subjected to simultaneous physical and emotional shocks, he says, have elevated levels of CREB and better short-term memories.
A spokesman for the International Memory Fund (IMF), the organization financing the research, says, “The discovery of this genetic switch raises the delicious possibility that humanity can be helped to acquire better memories in the future. At the very least, all Monos may be converted into Duos someday.”
Chapter Two
Mark