Seven Point Eight (17 page)

Where the electromagnetic field I measured sits in all this, I merely speculated for now. Is it the soul or spirit? There were so many unanswered questions. Why is the electromagnetic field of a psychic so strong and vibrant? What is the source of the human EM field? Does it issue from the brain? Is there a line of upward causation from matter to spirit, or downward causation from spirit to matter? Are the soul and consciousness the same thing? What had I really been measuring all along: an electromagnetic field, the soul, or consciousness?

 
Trying to conclusively prove the existence of this field was frustrating though. Tantalising anecdotes and studies refer to ‘false limb syndrome’, in which amputees claim to feel their severed appendage. For example, pain and itching is often felt in the area where the arm or leg would have been. How could this be the result of nerve endings that do not exist anymore? Could these sensations be due to the electromagnetic field I measured?

Maybe the field is some kind of blueprint for the body to follow. DNA, from what I’ve read, gives instructions to build proteins, but how do these proteins know what an arm, liver, or ear is supposed to look like? This information could be contained within the field.

I discovered something called Kirlian photography, developed by a Soviet in 1961. His pictures show what seems to be an energy field around living things, and he called it an aura. I prefer ‘Human Electromagnetic Field’ as a term though, as it sounds more scientific.

Anyway, this was just what I needed: clear visual evidence for the Human Electromagnetic Field. I decided to create a camera.

***

Developments took place in the physical as well as the intellectual world. While out horse riding, I took a detour through some woods near the cottage, and soon found myself riding alongside a woman. She looked quite athletic and had a mane of incredible, chestnut coloured hair. In synchronicity we rode silently, until the woman broke the mute spell.

“Do you ride here often?” she joked, an amusing ice breaker.

“Twice a week,” I replied. “You?”

“Ditto.”

“Beautiful dappled horse you have there,” I said in admiration.

“Thank you. I call her Laika.”

 
I had to smile at that.

“You’ve been following the space race.”

“It’s the ultimate travel destination,” she mused.

“This is Hadron, a very proud stallion that I’ve just broken in.”

“Hadron?” she queried.

“It’s a new term applied to strongly interacting particles in quantum physics,” I explained, although she didn’t appear to understand. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in particle physics by any chance?”

“Close, I studied chemistry.”

“What do you do now?” I asked, becoming more interested in her by the minute.

“I work in a lab close by. You?”

“I think, research and write.”

She laughed and gave Laika a kick, spurring her horse into a canter. Intrigued, I copied and we ran in reign. She led me to a small cottage on the other side of my hill. We tethered the horses to a fence and they grazed happily as we stood, soaking up the chemistry and physics of sexual attraction.

Five minutes later, we stumbled into her sitting room. She attempted to kick off her riding boots as I fumbled with the fastenings on her jodhpurs. I was in too much of a hurry to strip, and partially removed her jodhpurs before enveloping her in my arms and carrying her to the sofa.

The sex was fast and furious but she liked it that way, having no qualms about welcoming a stranger into her body. Wow, a liberated woman! She finished just before I did, the brevity of no concern to her as she expected seconds. I didn’t complain. The dessert was certainly sweet, as seconds should be. After the second climax, she lay on the sofa, feeling as satisfied as I did, and lit a cigarette.

“I’m Eleanor, by the way,” she said.

“Paul,” I replied.

We shook hands.

***

Our alliance began on the 15
^th
of September 1962 and by the time our first anniversary arrived, I’d made satisfactory progress with my book. However, my purpose in life was ailing. I caught Martin Luther King’s speech, in which he declared ‘I have a dream’. In my case, it felt like ‘I
had
a dream’. A vision of my purpose was something I craved.

Eleanor and I became comfortable though. Maybe I was finally ready to settle down, as we enjoyed an easy relationship. I felt loved and appreciated, and in turn, I had the utmost respect for her. While it wasn’t an earth shattering romance, we fitted together, interlocking like an enzyme and its receptor. We followed the Space Race on the TV and radio, and I collected all the newspaper clippings, displaying them on the wall near my desk.

During that time, Max retreated further and further into the recesses of my conscious mind. Eventually, I started to feel stagnant so in the autumn of 1963, I took up a lecturing post again. I did this as much for the intellectual challenge, as well as the need to preserve my savings.

Nevertheless, the director of my life’s script decided to deliver a game changer again. Max reappeared in my life in May 1964, strangely preoccupied and with new objectives. However, I gave my allotted task little thought, as in our conversation he inspired me without realising it. I had a light bulb moment, the
Eureka
we all desire. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?

9

The Golden Girl

I left
Tehran
and arrived in
London
on the 30
^th
of September 1962, apprehensive in respect of what I’d been signed up to. It had been several years since I’d lived in
England
, and I noticed the difference in temperature straight away. It was a shock to the system being thrown from desert weather to the climate of
England
.

Mr. Richardson met me at the airport himself. For such a wealthy man, he displayed chivalrous behaviour and helped me with my possessions, tipping a porter generously to transport the heavy luggage to his car. He had a fine vehicle in dark green, an Aston Martin DB4, whatever that means, and he reeled off a list of specifications that made as much sense to me as Chinese. All I remember is that it was fast, and I felt my back press into the seat as we pulled away. Suffice to say, it didn’t take long to reach our destination.

Throughout the journey though, I felt uncomfortable due to the way he looked at me. Despite his age of approximately forty years, he was very handsome with no trace of grey in his dark hair, but my previous intuitions held. His heart was hardened in some way, although I couldn’t figure out why. What lay beneath his perfect gentleman persona? When I looked into his eyes, I saw glimpses of two personalities. One suggested kindness, while the other…I don’t know. Which aspect of him dominated? Maybe Mr. Richardson could be any one of these at the drop of a hat. However, I believed he meant a lot to my future in some way. He could make things happen, and I wanted to bask in his powerful aura.

He took me to a place called The Institute, my new home and place of work. It looked so austere – how could I stay in this clinical place? The lady of the house, Miss Tynedale, didn’t seem to like me but Mr. Richardson ushered me up the stairs. I noticed the paintings on the wall as he escorted me, recognising Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton, although none of the others. He took me to a room on the top floor and paused outside, hand on the door knob.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

When he opened the door, I didn’t see a cold and austere room. Someone had taken the time to decorate and furnish it Middle Eastern style. Orange and gold drapes hung at the dormer window, and there were cushions scattered over the bed, which had an iron frame. I saw some possessions I thought I’d left behind, like my favourite childhood toys. Not knowing what to say, I felt overwhelmed and stood in the middle of the floor.

Mr.
Richardson
walked up to me, and carefully brushed the hair away from my face with affection. I got the feeling this was a rare moment for him and he appeared to want to say something which would make him vulnerable, but he drew back.

“I hope you like your new home, Tahra, I had the decorators in to make you feel at ease.”

What a thoughtful gesture. I told him ‘thank you’ with sincerity, showing my appreciation and this seemed enough for him, for a while at least. His generosity made me nervous, but he made me feel accepted. I’m often the odd jigsaw piece, maybe because of my gifts but also due to my ethnicity. Mr. Richardson honoured both of these qualities, and I started to believe my time here would be a blessing. Maybe I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

***

Max sat quietly in his private study at home, watching the first burnished leaves fall from the trees in his garden. Although his new protégé, Tahra Mamoun, had only been in his life a month, he’d become preoccupied with her, which disturbed him. He’d secured her a place on a psychology course at university, her choice of subject, while drawing up a programme of research based on her talents.
 
However, he’d invested his time and emotions above all, organising her life, helping her settle, and extending his kindness. He’d seen the gratitude in her eyes and hadn’t requested anything in return. Did he wish to make a move?

The night before the first test, Max decided to take her to a restaurant for fine wine and luxurious food. Tahra accepted graciously and at seven o’clock that evening, he waited in the entrance hall of The Institute. She strode elegantly down the stairs, wearing a deep red dress with paisley swirl that reached her knees, and a black coat. During her time in
London
, she’d discovered make up and had accentuated her dark eyes with black eyeliner and mascara, and her lips with a crimson shade of lipstick. She crossed the hall like a panther and stood before Max, presenting herself like a delicious buffet which he wanted to devour.

“I hope this is appropriate,” she said, gesturing to her dress, “I’ve never been to a restaurant in
London
.”

Hopelessly enamoured, Max finally found his tongue. “It’s perfect.”

She offered her arm and Max took it, leading the way to the taxi waiting outside. It whisked them straight to a restaurant in the
West End
, and it pleased Max to see Tahra so happy. His previous dates were impervious to the wonders and freedoms
London
had to offer, whereas Tahra reacted as a child would in the toy department of Harrods. When she entered the restaurant, heads turned and eyes watched her. Max felt honoured to be her date.

They perused the menu and reached a decision, awaiting their meal over a glass of wine. Tahra’s upbringing had been based around her father’s Islamic beliefs, so alcohol had been a no-no, therefore she enjoyed the taste and savoured the freedom of being able to drink it. In
London
she felt like a liberated young woman, protected but not smothered. There was no reason to return to
Tehran
, not with a salary and a course of study at university to look forward to. It seemed as if she really had the world in the palm of her hand.

Max pondered her presence here over his glass of wine.

“You look very beautiful tonight,” he said, with more humility than he would normally show.

Tahra smiled and lowered her eyes. Although she’d become used to his acts of kindness, his direct compliment and apparent physical intentions towards her perturbed her. Could she reciprocate? Should she encourage him by accepting his invitation, for what was intended to be a romantic meal? Or was she entitled to sample some freedom with a wealthy and handsome escort?