The only hint of activity came from the light-pulsing inks on the lids of the Biodoh boxes which, at Dora’s insistence, were stacked by the bed. Their presence was still an affront to Kirkham, but during the night hours—while Dora and Timmy slept—he had confronted and overcome his fears.
The reason he abhorred Biodoh was that it appeared to give men, women, children the ability to create life. That led logically and inescapably to the annihilation of God, which in turn meant that the personality known as Timmy Kirkham was about to be snuffed out of existence for ever. Only God—not the manufacturers of Biodoh kits—could promise life beyond the grave.
Kirkham had found a simple, if distasteful, solution to his problem.
His own giant caterpillar had not been nearly as good as Timmy’s first effort, and that had made the task of dismantling less harrowing than he had expected. The silver plugs came easily out of the grey module and all movement ceased. A purely mechanical operation. Nothing to get upset about.
His second project was a slightly larger caterpillar, with a single eye, which would crawl towards a source of light until the intensity of radiation passing through the iris reached a certain level, at which point the pseudo-creature would turn away. That, too, had been far less successful than Timmy’s version—Dora had been right when she said the boy had a special talent—but it had crawled towards the light, hesitated, turned away, wandered, and then had been drawn to the brightness again in a manner which suggested complex motivations.
Kirkham’s understanding of its operating principles, however, had enabled him to see that it was no different to a battery-powered toy car which would not run over the edge of a table. He realised, with a surge of gladness, how naive he had been to equate a crude Biodoh construction with the unique complexity of a living being.
And, in the throbbing quietness of that night-time hour, while his son slipped nearer to death, it had been an emotionally neutral experience for Kirkham to scoop up the one-eyed caterpillar, open its belly, and return its various components to inventory.
Timmy died on the twelfth day of January, in the early hours of the morning.
John and Dora Kirkham stood beside the bed, hand in hand, and watched the lights on the dianostic panel gently extinguish themselves. Mercifully, there was no other sign of the final event taking place. Timmy’s small face shone with the peaceful lustre of a pearl. Kirkham could feel other lights fading away within himself—God had never intended the loss of a child to be entirely reconcilable—but one precious flame continued to burn steadily, sustaining him.
Dora gave a deep, quavering sigh and grew heavy in his arms. Kirkham led her from the room and into their own bedroom. Accepting his guidance, she lay down on the divan and allowed him to draw the duvet over her.
“I want you to stay here for a while,” he said. “Try to get some rest. I’m going to call the clinic.” He went to the door.
“John!” Dora’s voice was weary, but firm.
“What is it?”
“I … I’ve been making things harder for you—but I was wrong. I was so wrong.”
“I know you were, darling. As long as you realise it, nothing else matters.”
She managed something like a smile. “It happened just as Timmy was leaving us. I just knew it couldn’t be the end. I knew we would see him again.”
Kirkham nodded, fulfilled. “You’ve got the message. Don’t lose sight of it. Not ever!”
He turned out the light, closed the door and went towards the stair. From his right there came a scrappy little sound, like that of a small object falling over. He halted in the middle of a stride. The sound seemed to have come from Timmy’s place of rest.
Without giving himself time to think, Kirkham flung open the door of his son’s bedroom. Timmy’s body lay calm and unmoving in the dim light. Not knowing what he had expected, Kirkham advanced into the room.
I should have covered his face, he thought.
He approached the bed and drew the sheet upwards over the carved marble features. An instinct prompted him to pause and brush strands of hair away from the child’s dewy forehead. He had completed covering the body when he became aware of several crumbs of grey material clinging to his fingers. It looked like Biodoh cortical putty.
It can’t be, Kirkham told himself. You’re only supposed to press it against your wrist. Timmy can’t have been pressing it against his forehead—that’s not in the instruction manual. There was a sound from behind him.
Kirkham whirled, his hands fluttering to his mouth as he saw the tiny upright figure emerge from the shadows of a corner. It walked towards him, arms outstretched, dragging its left leg as Timmy had once done. Its lips moved, and Kirkham thought he heard a faint distorted sound.
Da…Da…Dad.
He threw himself backwards and fell, overturning a chair. The figure came closer—naked and pink, moving with a ghastly crippled clumsiness—while he lay on the floor and watched. Its lips continued to move, and its eyes were fixed on him.
“John?” Dora’s voice filtered out of another universe. “What’s the matter, John?”
Kirkham tried to visualise what would happen if Dora came into the room—suddenly he was competent, able to protect her from the fate which had already overtaken him.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he called out. “Stay where you are.” He rose on to his knees and allowed the miniature figure to approach him. Suffer little children to come unto me, his other self quoted, sneering. Kirkham closed his eyes and waited till the smooth cool body blundered against his legs. He lifted it, and, using his thumbs, split it open at the thorax, exposing the nerve cords running up into the head. He hooked a fingernail around them and pulled them out, and the small object in his hands ceased to move.
All I have to do is return the parts to inventory, he thought, keeping his gaze averted from the figure in the bed, smiling his new kind of smile.
A purely mechanical operation….