Next Of Kin (Unnatural Selection #3)

Next Of Kin
(Unnatural Selection #3)

Ann
Somerville

‘Next Of Kin’ Copyright © 2012 by Ann Somerville

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been
used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or
organizations is entirely coincidental.

For more information please visit my website at
http://logophilos.net

Smashwords Edition 1,
June 2012

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Published by Ann Somerville

The lump
next to me stirred and revealed a sleepy face from under the
covers.
“What’cha
reading?”

I stroked
Nick’s messy hair. “Story on the BBC site. Why are you awake?” My
poor husband hadn’t come home until nearly three in the morning and
it wasn’t even eight yet. I had to get up soon but there was no
need for him to.

“Just
am.” He rubbed his head against my side, and draped an arm across
my stomach. “You’re frowning. What is it?”

“A new
study about ISH. Apparently a new study published in
Science
posits that ISH-positive people
age less rapidly than non-ISH positive people.”

Nick
groaned and put his arm across his eyes. “Fuck. Not
again.”

Even knowing
his sensitivity on the whole vee thing, his reaction took me aback.
“What?”

“Remember the
weight loss vampires?”

I screwed up
my face, trying to remember. “Umm?”

“The weight
loss fanatics, trying to get ISH treatment for obesity. You
remember—they sued the NHS over it in 2009. They lost, and then a
bunch of private specialists were prosecuted for deliberately
infecting patients with HIV so the ISH would take.”

“I was away a
lot that year with our first natural history series. I didn’t get
much of a chance to look at UK news. Sorry.”

“I
forgive you. Anyway, it was a nightmare. Vees being asked to bite
complete strangers, HIV and hepatitis parties held to infect
people. Absolute madness. The government finally had to make it
illegal to use ISH for non-therapeutic purposes and weight loss,
and brought in licensing for private doctors to use it at
all.”

“I knew
they’d done that, yes. I was a bit surprised it had taken them so
long.”

“This’ll
be the same, only worse. Anti-aging is a multi-billion dollar
business. ISH will be the fountain of youth, and you’ll have people
fighting in the streets trying to get clinics to treat
them.”

I thought that
was a bit pessimistic. “It’s only one study.”

“Bet you ten
quid.”

“You’re on.
I’ll take it out in trade.”

He
grinned up at me. “Here or in Sweden? You’ll lose, you know. Give
it two months. One month. Even by the time we get back. Do you
think it’s true?”

I blinked at
the sudden change of tack. “I don’t know. They’re measuring
telomere shortening. Apparently vee morphs show the—”

“Remind
me what telomeres are?”

“The
ends of chromosomes. Short telomeres are linked to aging and
age-related diseases, but it’s not clear that lengthening them will
increase life span. It’s possible the longer your telomeres are,
that you’ll age less rapidly, but no one’s proved that
conclusively.”
That was
a seriously shortened version of a terribly complicated subject
that I only understood at undergraduate level myself. I’m not a
cell biologist or a geneticist, after all.
“Anyway, this study suggests that ISH
positive individuals have longer telomeres than a comparable group
in the wider population. It’s a long jump from that to saying this
proves they won’t age as fast. That’s the BBC’s putting a spin on
it.”

“They won’t be
the only ones.” He threw back the covers and got up, leaning in for
a kiss and a hug. “Need a pee, then I should try to go back to
sleep. Are you getting up?”

“Yes. Want
some tea before you go back to bed?”

He shook his
head. “No, thanks. Lunch?”

“You’re on. I
think you’re worrying about nothing, love.”

“Hope so. But
I bet I’m not.”

~~~~~

Our
Swedish holiday had become our own private tradition. The first
visit, in the middle of summer, had been to escape a particularly
nasty situation with a stalker here in Britain. Four months later,
we stayed in the same stuga owned by my friend, Laurens, as our
honeymoon. This year’s visit was to celebrate our
second anniversary. It had been
a big two years for us, especially Nick. He’d passed his sergeant’s
exam and had won promotion to a post at Richmond. His former
partner Andy McDiamond had also moved up in the world and now
worked in north London. Nick missed the Murder Team, but we were
still close to Andy and his sharp-witted wife, Michelle. Nick’s new
job was pretty stressful now he was a middle manager, but he
enjoyed it, even if his immediate boss was a bit of a
prat.

I’d
backed off most of the presenting opportunities Karl had offered
me, but I’d done more film narration for him, as well as writing
scripts and completing a book for his new series on human
sexuality. He’d offered the presenting job for that to an actor
with an asbestos reputation and hide—someone a lot more used to
crazy fans than I ever wanted to be. The series was due to start
showing just after we came back from Sweden. The reaction would be
interesting.

Laurens
and his family greeted us with hugs and squeals—from the girls, at
least—and insisted on giving us supper before we settled down in
the stuga. Nick had relaxed beautifully over the food issue, and
Mia had once again gone to a lot of trouble to make meals he could
eat, and the rest of us would enjoy. Lauren’s daughters had fallen
madly in love with Nick the first time we’d visited, and for a man
who claimed he was no good with children, he held his own in the
rapid fire chatter with them throughout the meal, while Laurens,
Mia and I talked film business. Over the sorbet, Mia turned to Nick
and looked him up and down with exaggerated care.

“What?” Nick
said, grinning at me.

“It’s true,”
Mia said. “You are aging backwards, just like they say.”

Nick shook his
head disgustedly and held out his palm to me. “Pay up.”

“Hang on,” I
said. I wasn’t paying until I was sure. After all, ten pounds is
ten pounds. “Mia, what are you talking about?”

“The
scientists are saying ISH can reverse aging. I’ll find the
paper—”

“No, it’s
okay,” I said, sighing as I pulled out my wallet. I slapped the ten
quid into Nick’s smug hand.

Laurens smiled
in bewilderment at us. “What’s going on?”

“Just the
latest reason why being a vee is going to um, not be very good in
the next year or so.” I smirked at Nick’s self-censoring out of
respect for our young audience. He smacked my leg. “There are
already enough myths about us.”

“But Mia is
right. You do look younger, Nick.”

“Married life
agrees with me, that’s all.”

Mia,
sensing it was a bit of a sore point, wisely changed the subject.
But what she and Laurens said stayed with me, and lying in bed
after celebrating our return to the stuga, I couldn’t help looking
at Nick’s face and thinking he did look younger than he did when we
got married. Like a lot of pale-skinned redheads, his age was hard
to gauge, but a full head of hair and his general good health
meant, to me at least, he looked barely thirty. He saw me staring,
and raised an eyebrow.

“I found my
first gray hair this morning,” I said.

“So
what? You’ve got a couple of gray pubic hairs too. You’re
thirty-six, Anton. Everyone changes as they get older.”

I clutched
reflexively at my groin. “I have gray pubes? It’s not fair. You
haven’t aged a minute since I met you. In fact you look younger
than you did then.”

He rolled over
and gently gripped my chin. “Look, you nit, this whole business is
a load of crap.”

“But the
study—”

“You said
yourself it was a small sample size. I read up some more on that
study and all they said was the telomeres were longer. Nothing
about aging, cancer, nothing.”

“I know
that.”

“So, it’s
crap. You will always be the child bride in this relationship,
Sherlock.”

“That makes
you the cradle snatcher, you realize.”

He kissed me
and tangled his fingers possessively in my hair. “And proud of it.
Now can we get some sleep because I’m really looking forward to
another round before breakfast.”

I’d
never be too old to refuse
that
offer.

~~~~~

We flew
back into Heathrow, and boarded the Tube to South Kensington. As
passengers boarded at each station, more and more carried magazines
and newspapers. Nick’s scowl deepened as his gaze fell on
the
Daily
Mail
screaming
“‘Fountain of Youth’ treatment to send UK broke”. Behind the woman
reading that, a bloke clutched a copy of the
Sun
. I winced at the “Vampires sucking us dry”
headline his hand unfortunately failed to conceal. Obviously the
conservative establishment had made its opinion clear about ISH to
the editors, and this was the result.

“Five minute
wonder,” I said as Nick looked at me with disgust clear in his
expression.

“You
wish.”

“It won’t make
a difference to me, you know.”

He looked into
my eyes. “It already has.”

I wanted to
argue, but a crowded Tube carriage was hardly the place. “No,” I
said quietly, staring intently back.

In my
head, I knew Nick was right to dismiss this latest ISH
sensationalism, and two right-wing rags were hardly convincing
evidence of a sound scientific finding. But my heart understood the
appeal of living younger, for longer. I felt the twinge of
jealousy—but more than that, of fear—that Nick, through pure
chance, might outlive me, or enjoy a long old age in good health,
while I would face the threats of dementia, cancer, and frailty,
and become a burden on him.

We
travelled the rest of the way to South Ken in silence, and waited
for the bus in the same uneasy quiet. But after we’d found a seat,
and the bus set off, I said firmly, “It won’t make a difference,
even if it’s true. I won’t let it.”

“I believe
you, Sherlock.” The nickname was as much apology as affection. I
quickly brushed my hand against his to acknowledge it. “It’s all
bollocks anyway. Let’s forget about it.”

“Let’s.”