Acid Song (23 page)

Richard looked out over the faces, taking the time to return the gazes of those who would meet his eye. Others looked away, or exchanged glances with one another. There was a quickening in the pulse of the room. Jed sat straighter in his seat, suddenly interested. A man Richard did not recognise fished about in his suit jacket, producing a notebook. At the back of the theatre Greg sharpened his focus.

‘If we lived in a world where the human being was afforded only the dignity of the humble lab rat, genetics would be a considerably simpler proposition. That we don’t is of course one of the lasting achievements of our civilisation, but nevertheless there would be few amongst my colleagues who hasn’t wondered what we might discover, were we able to switch the genes of a developing foetus on and off with impunity, in order to study their effect. We harbour many deep suspicions and intuitions when it comes to the role certain genes play within our development, but are frustrated at every turn by our inability to devise the controlled experiments necessary for the testing of these hunches. Up until now, as you know, most of the evidence we have comes from the study not of function but of malfunction.

‘We seek out patterns of inherited deformity and illness, and from there look for telltale genomic variations, inferring from their existence the function of that version which presents in the nonsufferer. It is for this reason the genetics of disease tends to progress
more quickly than the genetics of development. Now, thanks to the fact that you and I do indeed share much of our development platform with the aforementioned rodents, and our ethical flexibility when it comes to those of the scaly tails, we are not entirely without research options. But, when it comes to those features which many of us would regard as uniquely human – namely the complex and confusing twists of the human brain – our ability to construct worlds from language, such analogies become quickly strained.

‘Perhaps it is this absence of hard data which has allowed such strong orthodoxies to take hold. The development of the human brain, genetically speaking, remains something of a last frontier, and many, myself included, have grown comfortable beneath this veil of secrecy. I have always valued our ability to retain, in our thinking about thinking, the sort of flexibility that reductionist science does not allow. Here, more than with any other physical artefact, we confront something which exists primarily in the terms in which it is viewed. Our mind in the end is whatever it chooses to be. As has been oft mentioned, using the mind to define the mind invites a vicious sort of circularity; and from this fine philosophical point grows the interpretative freedom our Institute has always celebrated.

‘But what will become of us when the veil finally slips? Are we ready for it, or has our denial of the very possibility left us hopelessly unprepared for the realities of tomorrow? That I suppose is the question I wish to pose tonight, and not just in the abstract, for the future is closer than we might imagine.

‘What, for example, will we do when we reach the stage of genetically identifying not just susceptibility to disease, but also to criminality? It is not at all clear how a criminal justice system will or indeed should adjust to what is in essence a radical reframing of the principle of free will upon which our social contracts are framed. And what will we do when the capacity for intellectual development
can be read in the genome of a developing foetus? Many claim that the human brain is too complex for such simple conclusions to ever be drawn, and until the results started to come in from my last piece of research, I would have been one of them.’

The silence between his words was absolute. The devil, his audience knew, was in the detail, and they, like he, could not look away. Richard breathed in, allowing them a moment to become aware of the room’s quiet. The disquiet.

‘My story starts three years ago, when a colleague who I am sure would prefer not to be named in this context, presented me with a set of sequences collected from one hundred and twenty subjects who suffered from, or were related to people who suffered from, a very specific form of learning disability. In particular the sufferers experience a difficulty with the interpretation of symbols, and this affects amongst other things their reading, writing and mathematical ability, while leaving the development of spoken language relatively unscathed. The controversy my colleague was embroiled in surrounded the genetic nature of this phenomenon, with many detractors claiming that no good evidence of heritability existed, and that the geographic pattern of the sufferers supported the alternative hypothesis of some environmental effect.

‘My contribution then was to be a simple one. Could I find a genetic marker unique to the sufferers, which would therefore provide strong support for the genetic case? Thanks to a recent advance in gene expression technology, and some strongly suggestive neurological studies which were able to pinpoint the affected area of the brain for us, the task, whilst still daunting, no longer carried the whiff of impossibility.

‘So I did what any enterprising Institute leader does: disguised the nature of the task and set a team of hard working post docs loose on it.’

Here there would normally have been laughter, out of politeness
if not amusement, but tonight none was so brave. Many in the audience had already anticipated the next step, and those who hadn’t could nevertheless sense the tightening all around them.

‘Sure enough, within time three prime suspects emerged: two of them a single transcription error, the third a simple repeat. There was some initial confusion; it looked as if the key would lie in the way these variants were interacting and yet there wasn’t a sufficiently clear pattern to allow my students to draw a ready conclusion. I however had the advantage of context and was quickly able to dismiss one of the three nominated stretches. What I then noticed was that within the unaffected members of the tested population, there existed a third variation of one of the genes in question, so that rather than having a disruptive and normal version of the gene, there appeared to be two distinct non-disrupting variants out there in the general population. And of course, given this, the obvious question is whether these two variants have any further impact upon the area of development in question: that of symbolic thinking.

‘I suspected the answer in this case would be no, and indeed considered the existence of these two variants strong evidence in favour of the gene not being crucial to this aspect of development. To confirm my hunch I arranged for the collection of data from a second group, in this case a UK study of a cohort of students entering their college years, who were part of a longitudinal study on aptitude and achievement. And I have to report to you today, that going on the preliminary results, I was quite wrong.

‘Variants A and B were both present in the sample group, and furthermore, when I examined the standardised test scores of the students, it appeared that on average the possession of Variant B of the identified gene is worth approximately five IQ points, which is a remarkably strong signal to be emerging from such a small variation within what is the most sophisticated structure in the known universe. So strong, I hardly need tell you, as to be barely credible.

‘The next step of course is to see whether we can trace the source of the Variant B. In this case the signal itself is tremendously strong, owing to the fact that it appears to be, in evolutionary terms at least, a remarkably recent interloper. Indeed, every piece of data I have thus far been able to examine suggests to me that Variant B emerged only five thousand years ago, and since that time, presumably as a result of strong selective advantage, it has spread rapidly from its geographical centre. So yes, ladies and gentlemen, working in direct contrast to every orthodoxy currently held about the evolution of the human mind, what this research appears to be pointing us towards is a strong racially-based characteristic to intellectual architecture; for Variant B first emerged, as far as we can tell, in Northern Europe… I suppose some of you may have questions.’

It had been spoken. Richard could feel the beading of sweat above his eyebrows. He gripped the edges of the podium to arrest the shaking of his hands. The silence took on a two-tone quality, pulsing inside his head. His chest heaved but his breathing was shallow, as if there was a part of himself he could no longer access. He looked down at the podium, an arsonist unable to view his handiwork. He heard the first seat slap back as somewhere out in the world a member of the audience stood. A throat cleared. Whispers started, filling out into mumbles. Then came the movement, the rearranging of a resting herd, each individual preparing to move with the group, the group itself beginning to pop and crackle.

‘You treacherous bastard!’ Richard recognised the voice. It had been over fifteen years but it was unmistakable. He hadn’t noticed her in the audience, but now seeing her standing before him, dead centre four rows back, it seemed impossible he had missed her. The once dark hair was streaked with grey, and the fall of her skirt hinted that beneath the anger and the protest, hers had been a life of easy living, but her eyes shone as bright and furious as ever. Susan Russell.

Someone began to boo, and other voices joined him. Then the hissing started, that sinister sibilance of the seventies Richard had assumed dead. For a confused moment he wondered if it wasn’t Susan they were objecting to, but one glance confirmed his fear. Bewilderment was melting into hostility. That thing which had kept them all together through the years, the common enemy, was rising again before them. A second heckler stood and began the chant.

‘Racist! Racist! Racist!’

And as was befitting such a celebration, they were transported back in time: to thirty years younger and angrier, thirty years more certain. Excitement sparked and then ignited, and the few moderates did what moderates always do, watched and prepared their stories. Richard caught the eye of Mary, a young woman whose Ph.D. he had supervised. She was a good student, more patient than brilliant, but possessing the scientist’s prime attribute: intellectual bravery, a willingness to be wrong. There was desperation on her face, as if she felt called to act in defence of her mentor, but had no idea what form such heroism should take. Richard smiled at her and shrugged, as if to say ‘this will pass’, though he doubted it was true.

‘Racist. Racist.’

HOTEL ROOMS LOOK better in the movies. Whether shabby or extravagant, illuminated by chandeliers or shadowed by a single naked bulb, the hotel room makes the commonplace exotic. In the movies. In life the sheer kitschness of the everyday permeates all.

Luke sat disappointed on his very ordinary bed, which was neither too hard nor too soft, chosen for its qualities of compromise. The duvet too had been carefully selected to go unnoticed, that it might be killed by age not fashion. The carpet, once thick, was the only clear mistake, a dark mustard which dirtied the room.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Room Service.’

Her uniform was crumpled, her face tired and disinterested. A university student traipsing the corridors, that she might afford beer and petrol. Or perhaps still at school. Nature had cruelly roughened her face and thick make-up had been called upon to hide the damage. She handed over the tray, and produced a docket for signing.

‘Your meal, Sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Luke tried to think of something else to say, a comment that would lighten her evening and make her think well of him. Nothing came and the moment stretched. She didn’t move. Perhaps she was waiting for a tip. Luke didn’t check his pockets. He knew there was no money there.

‘Ah, sorry, I just …’

‘My pen, Sir.’

‘Oh, right, I thought …’

‘Enjoy your meal.’

‘Thank you. I will.’

He didn’t. The corn chips were cheap and over-flavoured, the guacamole was from a jar. His five dollar Coke carried the metallic taste of its can. So this was how it was to be, his grand act of rebellion: alone in a disappointing room he could not afford, tetchy and tired, betrayed by nachos. The television provided the room with its focal point and Luke flicked through the channels as he’d known he would, feigning nonchalance in an attempt to deceive his watching self. Election, election, sport, sport, world news,
Adult channel previews blocked, refer to guide.

Luke referred to the guide.

Luke pressed Enter, 1, toggled through the four offered titles before settling on Naked Ambition, then Enter again. ‘Selection confirmed’ flashed in blue against the darkened screen. He chewed his way through a soggy chip. The beans were salty and there was little sign of chilli. He moved the plate to the bedside table and took a last draught from the can. He waited. The screen remained blank. He referred again to the guide and read the instructions through
slowly, lest he had missed something. He flicked back through the channels, hoping in this way to sneak back up on his pornography dessert, but still the screen was blank.

The disappointment was profound. Why was life so set on betraying him? Was it so unreasonable to want these things – a job he enjoyed, a wife he could love, twelve dollars of sex when he ordered it? He doggedly repeated the procedure. Enter. 1 to confirm. Enter. Same message. Same failure to deliver. Luke’s heart was caught in the hopeful, throat-bothering rhythm of the thirteen-year-old. He picked up the receiver. They didn’t know him here. It was ridiculous he should even care. Why would anyone care? How dare they care, when it was they who offered the service? He cranked up his belligerence, by way of cover.