Eric McCormack - Cloud

Hearing this, I felt a little uncomfortable, but I knew Miriam’s assessment of me had been right. When I wasn’t deluding myself about my eternal love for her, I’d actually spent long periods of my life getting along quite well without her.

“She was very wise about love,” said Sarah. “She used to tell me that first love is often a kind of self-love, a delight in the idea of being in love. In your case, she was afraid that to preserve that idea you’d have insisted on staying with her no matter how harmful it might be to you in the long run.”

Again, I understood how well Miriam had seen through me. I’d been so smitten with the notion of myself as the great lover I’d barely given a thought to the reality of what might have happened if we’d stayed together. Would it have taken very long for me to start resenting her — even hating her — for being stuck with her and that old man in their gloomy manor? But instead of facing the truth about myself, I’d spent my life blaming her for making true love impossible for me thereafter. My “broken heart” had become an excuse for my self-serving behaviour over the years.

“Sam knew all about your relationship with her because she’d told him everything, even before you did,” said Sarah. “But he still loved her and wanted to marry her. She tried to be as good a wife to him as she could. But unfortunately, you were the only one she really loved. She never got over you.”

The only one she really loved . What a grim irony, to hear that. All these years I’d convinced myself that I’d loved her and that she hadn’t loved me. Now I had to face the truth: my broken heart had never been more than a piece of self-indulgent nonsense— whereas she’d truly loved me.

“Yes, for the remainder of her life you were like a ghost that kept haunting her,” said Sarah. “She knew you’d always believe she’d treated you badly, and that made her feel tremendously guilty.” She paused and shook her head slowly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my profession, it’s how good we are at guilt. My mother just piled it on herself for having done something in your best interest.” She sighed. “What a price we have to pay for being human.”

WE SAT SILENTLY for a while. Then, I suppose to get away from this sad topic, Sarah told me that she herself was engaged.

“We’re planning to get married in the next year or so,” she said. “He’s a lawyer in Edinburgh. We’ll try and find a house in some little town between there and here so that we can both continue with our work.”

Children? I wondered.

“We’re not planning on having any,” she said. “Mother would probably have thought that was a good thing. She was sometimes afraid that our family was cursed. Even if her fear wasn’t rational, it was quite understandable.”

OUR TIME WAS RUNNING OUT. Sarah made me promise, next time I was in Scotland, to come and visit her again for a more extended period. She’d love to show me more of the kinds of patients she had to deal with at Eildon House — she knew I’d find them fascinating.

This keenness, like a child wanting to show off her toys, reminded me of Dupont and how proud he’d been when he introduced me to his prize volunteer, Griffin. At the thought of what that had led to, I shuddered.

THE PHONE ON HER DESK RANG. She talked into it for a few moments then replaced it with a sigh.

“Oh dear,” she said. “The people from the ministry have arrived for our meeting. I’m afraid it’s something I can’t get out of.”

I assured her I understood. Anyway, it was probably about time for me to start heading for the airport — my flight was due to leave at four, with a much earlier check-in. She said there was no need to drive back the same route I’d taken. She pulled a map out of her desk and showed me a quieter, alternative road to the coast. At that, we both stood up.

“I’ll walk with you to the front door,” she said. “If you’d like, I’ve time to let you have a look at Professor Artimore. We’ll be passing near his cell on our way out. You remember I mentioned him — the most notorious by far of those criminal academics? People have actually offered to pay just to see him in the flesh. His research caused an uproar when it became public at the trial. He’s one of the strangest types we’ve ever had to deal with at Eildon House.”

Of course I was happy to go with her.

SHE TOOK ME ALONG a side corridor that led to a room with a door that differed from any of the other doors we’d passed. It was reinforced with metal struts and had a small, barred rectangle for viewing the occupant.

Sarah Mackay glanced through it then waved me over. “Take a look,” she said.

I peered into a small, sparsely furnished room with a caged bulb in the middle of the ceiling. Under it an elderly man sat strapped by the arms and legs to an upright wooden chair bolted to the floor. His grey hair was straggly and long. His face was grey, too, except for some angular bluish marks right in the middle of his forehead — they looked like letters of the alphabet, but from where I stood I couldn’t quite make them out. His cheeks were lined with anxiety or pain. His eyes were half closed with a faraway expression, as if concentrating on some problem.

After I’d had a good look, Sarah and I continued on our way. She was obviously keen on hearing my impression.

“Well?” she said. “He looks relatively ordinary, don’t you think?”

I actually thought he seemed more than a little stressed.

She smiled at that.

“You’re quite right, of course,” she said. “And he certainly has good reason to be. Let me tell you about his case.

“Artimore was a renowned professor of linguistics at Edinburgh University. His main interest was in finding out how language first began to develop amongst human beings. I’m told that’s still one of the great mysteries for scholars.

“In the course of his historical research, the professor came across a rather sadistic, unethical linguistic experiment that had been tried without success as far back as the Egyptian pharaohs. Indeed, over the centuries it had been repeated over and over again — there was even a Scottish connection: in the late fifteenth century, King James IV of Scotland, who fancied himself quite a student of linguistics, had tried the same experiment, in vain.

“Linguistic scholars, including Artimore himself, had always denounced the entire effort as barbaric. But at the back of his mind, he believed his colleagues would feel quite differently if the experiment were to lead to a breakthrough in linguistic studies. So he made up his mind to try it.”

I’d no idea yet what exactly this Professor Artimore had done, but his rationale did sound similar to Dupont’s — that the end will justify the means. I readied myself to be appalled.

“The professor got in touch with some kind of underground market in human flesh,” said Sarah Mackay. “Through it, he acquired two newborn infant girls.”

I didn’t really need to hear any more than that. But human curiosity, like a dog’s nose, can’t control itself. I waited for more.

“He was a bachelor and lived alone in a Georgian villa in the New Town, one of the most exclusive parts of Edinburgh,” said Sarah. “He’d already had a room specially prepared in the basement, so he put the two infants down there with a serving girl to look after all their needs. The serving girl was a deafmute — that was vital for the experiment. She would be the only human being the children came into contact with, so they’d never hear language being used.

“From the day of their arrival in his house, and for the next five years, Artimore spent hours each day behind a one-way glass, observing the infants develop. Every grunt or gesture or attempt to communicate with either the maid, or with each other, he made meticulous notes on.