"Today's post mortem ..."

"That poor loony? Yes, how could I forget?" And there it is, the release of humour energy, emitted this time with a chuckle, polluting the radio waves and thence the air with its awkwardness.

"I found something rather interesting. I'd like to keep it for teaching purposes."

"Really? What is it?"

But for some reason I do not want to say precisely. "It's a rare type of tumour of the ovary."

"But nothing to do with her death? She definitely died from hanging?"

"Definitely nothing to do with her death." But I am wondering whether that is the truth or a lie, or both. She died from hanging herself, but did she hang herself because of that strange little thing inside her? Could it somehow have spoken to her? Was she driven to suicide by its tiny whisperings?

"And this ovarian thing, what are you going to do with it?"

"Keep it in formalin in the department. It will be useful for teaching medical students and nurses. It's a type of teratoma."

"Sounds disgusting," he opines. This time he treats me to a guffaw. Before I can argue, he says, "Only joking, Doc. Let me have it in writing and I'll see what I can do. I'm sure there won't be a problem."

I am forty-two, Anna is forty-four. We married eleven years ago, after a three-year engagement. Love at first sight? That counts for nothing, I think. Love at millionth sight is the only thing worth having. And we managed that, although a pall was gathering, imperceptibly, as the clocks ticked and the calendars told of days pa.s.sing. At first, we did not want children, wanted just to enjoy each other; after all, I had a new job as a consultant cellular pathologist, she as medical PA to one of my colleagues, a consultant surgeon. But it was not only the sidereal clock that was ticking, for Anna began to change, perhaps psychologically, perhaps biologically, perhaps both; I cannot say when it began, but I do know that I became aware that she looked at the world and, more importantly, our relationship differently. Whereas until then she had considered, and whereas I still considered at that time, two was the optimal number, at the time she donned a different perspective, wore gla.s.ses of a different type, a stronger prescription. The pairing had run its course; she wanted to move on, as she saw it. I saw it as change, as boat-rocking, as dissection and rea.s.sembly, and not necessarily for the better.

But you know women. I at first refused to see that there was a problem, then I refused to believe that it was a major one, then I refused to talk about it, then I refused to argue about it. Then I capitulated.

I rationalized that things had changed anyway; Anna was no longer satisfied to waltz down the corridors of time with only me, and the rosy tint of retrospection was all I had remaining of the first part of my marriage. Anyway, a baby might not be too bad. Slowly, then, I began to foster paternal feelings and, such was my success, that they grew strong, but nowhere near as strong as Anna's. Nowhere near.

She became obsessed, I belatedly realized. This was more than a desire and little less than an obsession; it became the achievement by which she was to be measured. Nothing less than success was permissible. She even had names; she asked me for my opinion on these, but this was too strange and strong for my blood, and I declined. So, without my input, our baby-to-be became either Samuel or Samantha, and she talked in her restless sleep to her little "Sam".

Trouble was, something was wrong. Just as it took me a while (because I am dim, you see) to spot that Anna yearned for an end to our exclusive relationship, so it was a year or more before it dawned on me that really by then something should have happened. The contraceptive pills had been consigned to the sewers for fourteen months by the time I realized that Anna's eyes were haunted by the fear of infertility. She didn't say anything, but it was there; perhaps she feared to speak its name and thereby conjure the beast.

The management meeting is as I feared. We sit in an airless, windowless, spiritless room and we are all imbued with a sense of hopelessness at our failures. Beset by worries of finance, we who run the department are doomed to run around the same, worn arguments of how best to combat the failures, fight the failures, battle against a rising tide of entropy; it is easy to see how dire the situation is, because we revert to the code that is management speak, so that we talk glibly (and meaninglessly) of "rapid improvement events", "doing a piece of work" on such and such, of auditing this, that and the other, of the rising number of "code red adverse clinical incidents". No one looks me in the eye, even when they greet me as I sit down. It is, I am sure, my imagination, that the conversation died as I entered the room.

We were tested, by which I mean, I suppose, "humiliated". No doctor wants to be a patient, to experience the role of supplicant; you go into medicine to be above other people, giving it out, rather than below them and dependent on them. It was worse for Anna, of course questions after questions, blood tests, urine tests, swabs, smears and pipelles, even a laparotomy but I had my fair share. I had the questions, I had the blood tests and urine tests and, of course, I had the small cubicle (sound-proofed, I fervently hoped), the sterile pot, the adolescent thoughts of dirty women, and the wrist action.

After all of which, it transpired, I was the one at fault. Of course, that was not the language used the patois was strictly non-blame, neutral and sympathetic but the implication remained the same, no matter what linguistic cosmetic was used. I was the commander of a less than optimally trained army; my little lads were few and far between; many of those who did turn out on parade were a bit weak if not seriously crippled; barely one in a thousand was going to manage that long swim through treacle that is the lot of the spermatozoa. They hastened to a.s.sure us that we should keep trying, that it was not impossible that we might conceive, but I could see that Anna, like me, did not credit their no doubt well-meant plat.i.tudes. Her disappointment distorted her face, even as she tried not to show it. When she looked at me, I wondered if I saw reproach, but it was only fleeting; even if it had been there, what would have been the point in protest, in pointing out that it was not my fault? Of course it was my fault. If not mine, then whose? And we live in a society that, despite the rhetoric, must always find someone to blame.

"Dr Fairclough speaking."

A pause, then a slight gulp. "Sorry to bother you."

"What can I do for you?" The automated telephonist at the hospital has a wicked sense of humour; I frequently field calls for what in PC-speak is the GUM clinic but what most right-minded people refer to as the clap clinic.

"You did the ... the examination on my fiancee. On Valerie."

And the tenor of the conversation, of my mood, of the whole wide world and all its hidden places, changes. "Oh." It is my turn to hesitate. "Yes, I did." It is an admission of guilt, of course, as much as confessing to murder or theft or rape. Or perhaps all three. I do what I do without a thought of what I am doing, until someone rings me up and accuses me of it, and then I am forced to confront my crimes.

"The Coroner's Officer John Barclay rang me up. Said you wanted to keep something from it."

My eyes do not flick to the jar on my desk because they have been there since I came to appreciate who was talking to me. Has it changed expression? Is the mouth now a little more closed, are the legs a little less flexed? Rubbish.

"You're the next of kin?"

"There's no one else," he a.s.sures me. "What is it that you want to keep?"

My mouth is not dry, but it is filled with viscid saliva that soon becomes mixed with sophistry. "Just a small thing. She had a small growth in her ovary; it's quite interesting, for a pathologist. It could be used to teach nurses and doctors, and suchlike."

"A growth? You mean like a cancer?"

"Oh, no. Not like that ..."

"She said that she couldn't sleep at night. She said that she heard a voice. Not 'voices', just one voice."

His is a voice I don't want to hear, I think. All I can find to reply with is "Did she?"

"She said it was like a child's voice."

Oh, Jesus, no ...

"It didn't say anything that made sense, she said. But then it wouldn't, I suppose, would it? Not if it was a child."

He is just talking, I realize, because he needs to talk. He is grieving. I look again at the homunculus. No, I am sure, it hasn't moved.

This is all just coincidence.

To him, I say, "It must have been very distressing."

"She didn't leave a note, either." He sounds half puzzled, half angry at this lapse in etiquette. "I'll never know why she did it. Not really. But I wonder if it was the voice that made her."

"Maybe," is my weak offering.

There is another long pause before he says, "Well, if it'll help with training and suchlike, I don't see any harm."

"Thank you," I say, although it is little more than a croak and a little less than a whisper.

We continued to try for a baby, "for Sam" as Anna put it, either unknowing or uncaring of my shudder each time she said this. The months turned, as they will, into years, but without the success of a pregnancy. We had success aplenty in other things in our careers, in our friends, in the trappings of modern, western, secular life but not the one thing that she most needed. No, in the only thing that she needed. And because of her unhappiness, I fulfilled my side of the marriage contract, and I became unhappy too. No marriage can survive two unhappy people; one, and it might just make it, but not two. The bonds perished, became little more than cracked dust. We would have divorced within the year.

And then the miracle occurred. Anna fell pregnant, and everything was all right again.

I am seriously worried. She really should have answered by now. I do not recall that she said anything about visiting her parents, or going shopping, but I tell myself that I really should not be worried. Anna has always been independent. The loss of the baby hit her hard how could it not but only for a short while; she is still fragile, but I know she will survive. She does not need to be wrapped in swaddling clothes, I know.

I try to report cases of inflammatory bowel disease, gastritis, colonic polyp but cannot. It has been many years since the delights of the pigments of histology looked like high art to me; now, at a superficial level, they merely resemble cartoons and, at a deeper one, everything in my life that I abhor. The thing in the jar does not look at me it cannot for so many reasons although I cannot but feel that we are aware of each other. Yet what is it thinking? Part of me knows that it is not thinking at all, part of me is completely certain that it is, although I cannot say what. What would such a thing think? What could it think? I am a scientist, a rationalist, and I know that all it has ever experienced is darkness, grease and hair; without experience, there can be no sentience.

So why do I know that it is thinking, even if I do not know what it is thinking?

It turned out that it wasn't all right, though; and it turned out, too, that I was being dim again. She was happy of that there was no doubt but it wasn't total happiness; I had expected ecstasy and I merely got satisfaction. More than that, I now see, it was satisfaction undercut with trepidation. As for me, I told myself that I was relieved, and that I was excited, and that having a child was going to be fantastic. True, I do not think that I could work out the particulars of that fantasy, but I persuaded myself of a vague, generic concept of wonderfulness. I expected the pregnancy to progress from first to second trimester and for things to change, the tension behind Anna's eyes (no doubt there because of her fear that she would miscarry) to fade, and for my own misgivings to become excited expectations.

Except that it did not. If anything, the tensions increased.

I leave early, at half past four, my concern for Anna synergizing with my boredom and distaste for my work and thus prompting me to skive. The traffic is quite light, except for the roadworks along the Tewkesbury Road soon due to get even worse when they close the carriageway completely for a month. I am home in forty-five minutes though. It is a nice house, with five bedrooms, set back from a quiet road, with a paddock at the back, although we do not have a pony. Her car is on the drive, so my heart lifts. And yet, having opened the front door, when the first thing I do is to call out Anna's name, there is no reply, not even an echo; the sound is deadened, swallowed by an empty house. Where can she be? I look at my phone for the hundredth time, but there are still no messages.

I go into the study, sit down, try to think, but it is only an image of the homunculus that comes to my mind. Why cannot I think of anything else? Perhaps a drink ...

Anna was defiant at the same time as she was ashamed and sorry. There were tears in her eyes that refused to stay put and had soaked the make-up of her cheeks, and were now making her sniffle defiantly. I was stunned, just for a moment, but what it lacked in length, it made up for in depth. Reality and realization were not long in returning. Her qualified pleasure, the haunted look, the very fact of the pregnancy itself.

I had been so stupid.

It is dark when the doorbell rings. I am very drunk. I have been dreaming, I think, of the homunculus, although I am confused, and I could be wrong. I make my way to the front door, slowly and, before I reach it, the bell sounds again, this time longer and somehow with greater insistency. I open the door to two men; one in front who is tall, curly-haired, almost boyish-looking; behind him is a squatter, older man who looks unpleasant. The tall one holds something out; the hall light is dim but I make out a shield of some sort. He says, "Inspector Sauerwine. This is Sergeant Beech. May we come in?"

I am confused, addled I suppose with drink and doziness. I ask, "What's all this about?" I let them walk in past me, then I realize. "Is it Anna? Is something wrong?" They are both looking around in that inquisitive, detached air that police seem to have. I say, "Come into the study."

I lead them to the back of the house, proffer seats. The one called Sauerwine sees the whisky bottle and remarks, "Have you been drinking, Sir?"

"Yes. Is that a crime?" I have reacted badly and realize it immediately; wonder immediately, too, why. He does not answer. I ask again, "Is it about Anna? She's not here. I don't know where she is."

"We've had a phone call from her mother."

"Is that where she is?"

I might as well have not spoken, for he does not respond to my question. He says, "She is very concerned about her daughter's welfare. It appears you had some sort of row last night."

I frown. Did we? I don't recall that. I say, "No, that's not true. She's been sick. She lost her baby, you see ..."

He is remorseless, refusing to allow me the satisfaction of having my side of things heard. "Anna's parents have been away. They returned to find a message on their answerphone this evening."

His words make no sense. The homunculus comes into my mind; it is now no longer screaming, but almost smiling, it seems to me. Can I hear a child's voice somewhere? Sauerwine, meanwhile has turned to the other one I have forgotten his name and nodded, at which he leaves the room. I watch him go while Sauerwine reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small portable recorder. He presses the play b.u.t.ton. It is not good quality, but it is Anna's voice, yet not as I have ever heard it before. It is hysterical, sob-ridden, almost unintelligible.

... Oh, my G.o.d ...

... Help, please, help ...

... Mummy, please answer ... please ...

... He's trying to kill me ...

And then there is nothing. No scream, just a sudden, absolute silence.

I look up at Sauerwine who is looking at me, his eyes full of interest, yet dead, as if he has cut himself off from me. I do not know what is going on. This is complete madness. What can she be talking about? I say, "I don't understand. She miscarried last night. It was quite sudden. She refused to go to hospital, though. I tried to persuade, but she would have none of it ..."

The door opens and the other man comes back in. I see him look at Sauerwine and I see Sauerwine return that look. There is a lot of meaning in the exchange, all of it beyond me. Sauerwine says to me, "Would you come with me, Sir?" His voice has not changed; it is not loud and it has a questioning tone, but I do not think it wise or even possible to argue. We move, Sauerwine behind me, his companion leading. It is a short journey, for we go into the front room of the house. It is Anna's favourite room, where she likes to go and watch interminable episodes of Lost. I have never seen the appeal, myself.

She is in there now, I see. We see her head above the back of the armchair. For a moment I wonder why I did not realize it, but then remember that I have not been in here since I got home. She must be asleep ...

I am led to the front of the chair and my puzzlement increases.

Why is the carving knife on the carpet in front of her? And what is that mess of tissue beside it? And why is there so much blood over her belly?

So much blood.

I hear a small child's voice whisper to me in my darkness. I fear that I will hear it for ever more.

CLUTTER.

Martin Edwards.

"YOU WILL BE aware that your grandfather died in, ah, rather unusual circ.u.mstances?"

I bowed my head. "We can only hope his last thoughts were pleasurable."

Beazell raised bushy eyebrows. "At least his, um, companion, did her best by calling an ambulance. And she tried to administer the kiss of life herself. To no avail, sadly."

"I gather there was no suspicion of ... foul play?"

"Goodness me, no. The doctor was emphatic, and of course a second opinion is required for a sudden death. There is no doubt the poor fellow died of a heart attack, brought on by excessive exertion. Your grandfather was seventy and unfit, he'd led a sedentary life, and frankly, cavorting with a nineteen-year-old foreign woman was the height of folly. I recall advising him ..." Beazell cleared his throat. "Well, that wasn't why I asked you here this afternoon. The important question concerns his last will and testament."

Beazell was a lawyer with a shiny suit and a gla.s.s eye with an in-built accusatory stare, as if it suspected me of concealing a dark secret. His offices occupied a single floor above a kebab house in a back street in Manchester, and the posters in the waiting room spoke of legal aid, visas for migrant workers and compensation for accidents. I was unsure why Rafe (as my grandfather liked me to call him) had entrusted his legal affairs to such a firm. Beazell's services must come cheap, but Rafe was by no means short of money. Certainly, though, the two men had one thing in common. Beazell's floor was stacked high with buff folders bulging with official doc.u.ments, and fat briefs to counsel tied up in pink string. He'd needed to clear a pile of invoices from my chair before I could sit down. Rafe too gloried in detritus; perhaps he regarded Beazell as a kindred spirit.

"I don't suppose wills are ever read out nowadays?" I said. "And presumably there's n.o.body apart from me to read it to?"

"My understanding is that you were his only close relative."

I nodded. My grandparents divorced a couple of years after my grandmother gave birth to their only child, my father. She had a stroke a month before my parents married, and they, in turn, succ.u.mbed to cancer and coronary disease respectively shortly after I left school and took a job as a snapper for a local newspaper. My mother was an only child, and her parents had died young. I was alone in the world except for Hong Li.

"I saw very little of him, I'm afraid, even before I moved overseas. But we got on well enough. He had artistic inclinations, as you must know, and he encouraged my interest in photography."

Beazell exhaled; his breath reeked of garlic. "Artistic? Candidly, I never thought much of his sculpture. However, he told me that, in his opinion, you were a man after his own heart."

"That was kind of him," I said, although Beazell had not made it sound like a compliment.

"The will is straightforward." The lawyer could not keep a note of professional disapproval out of his voice. "He left you the whole of his estate."

My eyes widened: I had not known what to expect. "Very generous."

"There is, however, one condition."

"Which is?"

"The will stipulates that you must live in Brook House for a period of five years after his death, and undertake not to dispose of any items of his property whatsoever during that time. You are, of course, at liberty to enjoy full use of your own possessions, upon the proviso that you retain all of your grandfather's."

The gla.s.s eye glared. Presumably Beazell thought my own possessions wouldn't amount to much, and he was right. Since coming back to England six months earlier, I'd rented a one-bedroom flat in Stoke-on-Trent and, although I was by nature a voracious h.o.a.rder, I'd had little opportunity to acc.u.mulate belongings on my travels. Even so, the flat resembled a bomb site. My chronic reluctance to throw anything away was the one thing which provoked Hong Li to outbursts of temper.