Out of the mouths

“Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected praise.”

A short story

“Sally must be allowed to rest.” Doctor Emily Parkinson snapped the folder shut with what she hoped was an air of finality. Her words made absolutely no impression on the horde of journalists jostling each other on the front steps of the Institute. A battery of microphones was thrust in her face and a dozen questions snapped out simultaneously.

“How does the Institute feel about the death threats?”

“When will we be able to speak to her?”

“Have you any comment regarding the Royal Society criticism?”

“What will you ask her?”

Using the folder as a shield, Emily pushed past them. Hugh, puffing out his chest behind her would be in his element talking to the media; leave it to him. She was tired. Elated, yes; bursting with fresh ideas, well who wouldn’t be? But right now exhausted, in possession of a pounding headache and, above all, desperate for a chance to get things in perspective.

After all, not everybody gets to talk to an animal.

Sally, a mountain gorilla had unlimited access to some of the corridors and rooms of the Oxford Institute for Animal Research. Since she had learnt the combination code locks, she could wander freely from the nursery where she had been incubated, through the outdoor play area and into a bathroom complete with an outsize shower where she would spend several hours at a time under the hot water flow humming to herself.  Her other favourite places were the kitchen and the television room although since the installation of a CCTV camera system, she went to the latter less frequently.  Why? Well that was one of the questions Dr Slade had on her list to ask her during the next few weeks.  Did the bright lights upset her? Or was there another reason?

As she negotiated the chicane that led to the car park exit, Emily fumbled for her ID card. Security was nervous. Publicity about the project had, predictably, leaked and Animal Rights activists had joined forces with religious groups and were picketing the entrance to the drive; three staff had received death threats and one contractor had pulled out of supplying them after two of his vans had been torched by demonstrators.

“Is she okay?” Ben, the face behind the thick glass at the exit cabin was on his usual watch. He handed the clipboard through the car window.

“Tired, but I think she’s looking forward to tomorrow.” Emily scribbled her name and badge number and pushed the clipboard back.

“She’s a sweetie, isn’t she? Goodnight Dr Parkinson.”

Since Kate, her daughter, had married and left, the family home felt emptier than ever.  Emily poured herself a huge glass of red wine and picked at the Thai fishcake and lemongrass ready meal she had bought on the way home. She eyed the sleeping tablets next to her glass. Two, together with the drink would knock her out for hours, but what was the alternative? Lying awake in restless anticipation of tomorrow, rehearsing the simple questions she would ask Sally and visualising the look of studied concentration on her great, hairy face as she sought after an answer.

“Who are you?”

What would she reply? ‘I am Sally’? What did that mean? A combination of sounds that she had come to recognise as defining her existence in this world. From infancy her eyes had flickered in response to the soft call…. ‘Sally!’

Emily fantasised that she would say something extraordinary. ‘I am your friend.’  But what was friendship? Even less tangible than a name.  Involuntarily her eyes strayed to the other friend who used to fill her life with his impossible ways. Communication between Philip and Emily Parkinson had been frequently even more complex. But since his death, she knew another definition of a friend – that something which you only really know when it is snatched away.

She settled down on the sofa and pressed the ‘play messages’ button on the answering machine. Sixteen messages waiting. That wasn’t unusual. The first four were from Professor Hugh Mason the project manager. Hugh was micro-managing again. He and the rest of the project team would be behind the one-way mirror, watching, recording, analysing and fending off stupid questions from journalists. They could communicate with her via a tiny earpiece, but Emily had made it clear that this was only for emergencies.  The pattern of her interaction with Sally was well-established; firstly a play and reward session lasting usually half an hour, then Sally would give voice to a soft ‘ungh ungh’ to indicate that she wanted to use the decoder and the communication would begin.  After ten minutes of this Sally would roll her lips back and lope away to spend some time alone.  The process clearly exhausted her as she would fall asleep soon after.

The next eleven messages were related to the project and a message from Kate. She was apprehensive. She talked about nearly nothing for a few minutes, then finished abruptly with;

“Mum, you will take care won’t you?”

Emily knew that Sally’s hairy paws could twist her head off in seconds. But there was less danger from her than any other living creature. Since she had held the tiny gorilla in her arms on the long flight back from Uganda’s Entebbe airport, an unbreakable bond had forged between them.  Kate knew this too; what she feared was anticipated in the last message on the answering machine. The moment she played it and registered the menacing silence she knew whom it was from. Then the male voice spoke:

“We know where you live.  Stop the project you sick cow or you’ll be the one with brain damage.”

So much for private phone numbers. Emily had long got over the cold panic these messages once caused her. She considered phoning Jeff in security, but the sleeping pills took over. The last thing she remembered before blackness descended was the warm, earthy smell of gorilla on her jacket.

The sound of her car approaching sent a ripple of activity through the demonstrators camped on the grass outside the Institute gates. Many were still asleep in their tents; some were wandering round in the bitter January pre-dawn with sleeping bags wrapped around them. But two men and a woman broke cover and, before the police cordon could react, raced across the green towards her car.  Emily checked the doors, they were locked.  But she had to slow for the gates to open, and in that moment they were on her.

Had they been alert to her early arrival, the demonstrators would have had full monkey suits on with antennae sprouting grotesquely from the heads, they would have climbed over the vehicle, bending the wiper blades and snapping off the wing mirrors. As it was, the police rapidly seized the two men leaving a flaxen-haired girl screaming abuse through the driver side window.

‘Look straight ahead.’ Emily recalled the training. Leave the confronting of these people to the police. Above all remain dispassionate – for the most part these people were exercising their democratic rights to protest. Anyway arguing with them was a lost cause. With agonising slowness the huge barrier gates slid sideways.

“Sally should be free in the wild,” the protester shouted, her face pressed against the glass. Spittle ran down the glass. Behind her the police were wrestling with the men. Then the windscreen was obscured by an adhesive poster bearing the message ‘Keep animals dumb!’ That would require steam cleaning to get off.  Inside Emily, something snapped. She wound down the window.

“Do you know where Sally came from?” She spat back. “Do you know anything about her?”

The woman blinked. Clearly the last thing she expected was a reply.  Emily, rage mounting, faced her, noting the expensive waterproof coat she was wearing.  “You have no idea do you? Sally’s parents died at the hands of poachers. She was having her last feed from her mother when a ranger picked her up and brought her to our office in Mbale. She would have died if we’d taken your advice you brainless cretin. Now I’ve got to get your dumb poster off my windscreen. Get lost!”

The gate was wide open. Emily caught one last glimpse of the protester before the security guard twisted her arm behind her back and threw her onto the frosty ground.

“That wasn’t very clever!” Charlie, the early shift gate keeper looked annoyed.

“I know, but they stand up just shouting things they know nothing about…” Emily tailed off, aware that her actions had probably sparked off another row amongst those whose job it was to ensure the safety of the staff.

“Anyway Emily,” Charlie sighed, “Glad you’re through okay. Leave me your keys and I’ll get that sticker off for you.”

Staff were free to come and go at leisure at the Institute for Animal Research. But Emily was nevertheless surprised to hear the whirring of the floor polisher. She glanced at the wall clock. Six-forty. It could only be Brenda.  As she approached the noise, the sound of singing confirmed her assumption. Brenda, in her late fifties was also a refugee from Uganda.  Only she had left to avoid Idi Amin, not poachers.  She had on headphones and sang whilst she worked – loudly. A few people had complained recently, but Brenda carried on regardless. As Emily rounded the corner she caught the end of a spiritual:

“Old Nebuchadnezzar called “hey there!?
When he saw the power of the Lord”

“Morning Brenda!”  Brenda swayed to the music. Emily had to jump to one side to dodge the floor polisher as it swung round in a wide arc.

“And they had a regal time in the house of Babylon
Shadrach! Meshach, Abednego!
Oh, Abednego!!”

“Morning Brenda!”  This time the floor polisher stopped and Brenda’s face split in a wide beam.

“Ah Doc-tor Par-kin-son.” Brenda picked the headphones out of her ears. “What time is this you’re calling it? Won’t our girl be asleep still?”

“It is early,” Emily admitted. “I won’t wake Sally for an hour or two yet. I needed some time to check the programs. Anyway, you don’t normally start this time yourself!”

“I had special permission.” Brenda looked even more delighted than usual. “We had our church New Year party yesterday. I told Hugh, I said, ‘I need to be there all evening long. We’ll be praising and singing to the Lord; then there’s supper’ – I said he could come along too if he wanted. But he isn’t a believer and that’s the sad truth of it.”

Emily smiled. Hugh was a dyed in the wool atheist. Brenda was an optimistic battering ram. It was the immovable object and the unstoppable force. “I take it he said no?”

The look on Brenda’s face was one of genuine disbelief. “He said, ‘I’d rather eat broken glass.’ And what about you, Doctor? Do you not need the Lord?”

Emily smiled and started down the corridor. ”Don’t you start on me, Brenda.” But the question demanded an answer. “It would take a lot to convince me,” she said finally.

“Ah, you clever types.” Brenda began plugging her headphones in again. “Too much learning doth make you mad.”

“You have to be mad to work here.” Emily retreating down the shiny corridor could hear her floor polisher starting up again. Then it stopped.

“Doctor!” Brenda was staring at her.

“Yes?”

“Ask her. Ask Sally. She’ll tell you.”

“It took a moment or two for Emily to realise what Brenda was proposing. Then the penny dropped. “Ask Sally about…you know..?”

“Ask her. You say to her, ‘Sally is there a God?’ Let her tell you.”

Excuses sprang to her lips. “No. It’s out of the question, I have to follow protocol, the questions are already decided on. I couldn’t suddenly spring that on her, there are too many undefined concepts…”

As she closed the door to her office, Emily felt haunted by that last look on Brenda’s face. Why did she suddenly feel like a child that had been caught doing something naughty?

“Sally, are you still awake?” It had been a long day. Sally had been exuberant, lapping up each new chance to interact with Emily. Then the project log reports needed updating, each new observation recorded in detail. Emily felt exhausted.  The Institute management had made rooms available for staff to stay, should they choose, to avoid running the gauntlet of the protesters. She had an overnight bag and was looking forward to winding down.

“I’ve come to say goodnight, Sal.” The great black shape disentangled herself from the swing and peered round. Suddenly she clapped her hand over her eyes.

“I can see you.” Emily admonished wearily.

The ape parted her fingers and gazed at Emily. Suddenly she bared her teeth. ‘ungh ungh.’

“You want to talk some more?” Emily placed the back of her hand against her mouth and waggled her fingers.  Sally clapped her hands in affirmation. “Okay, just let me get a coffee.”

Six weeks ago amid heightened media hype, the decoder implant in Sally’s brain had first sprung into life. The decoder acted as a mediatory interpreter. Obviously being a gorilla meant that Sally’s vocal cords were unsuitable for human utterances.  So the decoder interfaced with the speech centres in her brain, then via a wireless link to a computer.  The early results were patchy; Sally’s frustration became apparent as she barked her needs to Emily only to be met with garbage from the decoder loudspeaker and subsequent incomprehension.  Emily would never forget the real breakthrough that had occurred in the second week when she was about to close the link. A great hairy paw had been placed gently over her hand.

“What is it Sally?”

The huge eyes stared at her. The lips moved in a soft sigh. Simultaneously from the loudspeaker came the unmistakeable sound: “Em-lee.”  She threw her arms around Sally and cried her eyes out. That moment was described in New Scientist as ‘the defining moment in Human-Animal Evolution.’

Since then Sally had become able to name colours, identify favourite foods, ask to use the toilet (she was fastidious about her personal hygiene) and acquired a variety of social skills. Yesterday she had made her first abstract observation.

“Emlee, not happy?”

Which had caused the daily review meeting to run long into the night. How on earth had Sally picked up intangible concepts such as happiness and misery, not to mention being able to identify a lack of happiness? All the same, when Emily arrived home, she was painfully aware that not one of her colleagues had actually enquired the source of her melancholy.  Strange, she reflected, looking at the picture of Philip on the bedside table, all this effort expended communicating with an animal, yet we fail to pick up sadness when it is right in front of us.  It would have been their anniversary.

“You want to talk, Sally?” She asked again. The gorilla leapt up and down on all fours, then seized her hand and dragged her towards the door.

“Here, steady on,” Emily laughed, infected by the creature’s enthusiasm. “It’s late, I’m tired but as it’s you, we’ll have another go.” As they barged down the corridor, Sally’s grunts converged on the word for ‘hurry’ that she had just learnt. “Okay, I’m going as quick as I can!”

The viewing area behind the one-way mirror was empty. Hugh was off on a conference, enjoying the glory. Kabinda and his programming team were analysing data in the comfort of their own office. And not a reporter in sight. The only sound was Brenda singing as she dusted the window ledges.

‘Hurry!’ Sally grunted. She watched impatiently as Emily logged into the decoder application and waited for the communications to establish.  Emily checked the project log. Good, today’s data was compiled and the system right up to date.  Kabinda might be a bit of a prima donna, but he was thorough. The screen showed a progress bar as the implant in Sally’s head synchronised itself to the computer.

“Okay Sally, what’s on your mind?” Emily clipped the roving microphone to her jacket. Sally would receive auditory information of her question, augmented by the implant busily doing its job. All the same Emily used the exaggerated hand gestures to convey her intent. She traced a question mark in the air and pointed to her head.

The gorilla hunched over . ‘Uh…uh…uh.’ The speaker relayed her message. ‘Choc.’

“Oh no, not more sweets!” Honestly, this was like having a child all over again!

‘Huh-ooo’.   ‘Please.’

“No, Sally. We can’t have your teeth going rotten.  Maybe tomorrow.”

The gorilla looked peeved. But Emily knew it wouldn’t last long. She opened a book and pointed to a character in bright, primary colours.

‘Beeder Bob.’

“Builder Bob.” She corrected. Say it again, Sally.”

And so it went on. The ten minute sessions were a thing of the past. After an hour Sally showed no signs of flagging.  She was an extraordinary pupil. Little things she had seen on television kept emerging in the dialogue. Her aptitude was not so much growing as mushrooming. As Emily was dropping hints about closing the session, Sally pulled her close in a huge, hairy hug and murmured something. Muffled as it was, Emily’s heart skipped a beat.

‘Sally big like you.’

“Big like..?” Emily had to be sure. She was shoved away and Sally’s hands cart wheeled around in the air in the recognised sign for extreme size.  ’Big, big, big…’

Her throat was choking up again. Early on in the project Hugh had warned against the dangers of personal involvement. But it was too late. This intelligent creature had communicated beyond their wildest expectations. How could she not respond to her need for affection?

“I love you too, Sally.”

The gorilla laid her head sideways on Emily’s shoulder. She’d got that posture from the television as well. From behind her Brenda’s voice floated in.

‘Lord of all gentleness, Lord of all calm, whose voice is contentment, whose presence is balm…’

“Sally?”

Sally’s huge head turned, the eyes peering into her own. ‘Uh?’ There was no mistaking the upwards inflexion of her voice.

“Is there a God, Sally?”

‘Uh?’

“Is there…no, forget it.” Emily rubbed her head to signify erasing the thought. But Sally wasn’t taking any notice. For a few moments she mused.

“Okay, Sal. Let’s call it a day.”

‘Make Em-lee.’  She cupped her hands like a potter moulding clay.

“No, Sally, I didn’t make you!” But the moment she said it, Emily realised she had misread Sally’s intent. Sally’s hands swung round in wide arcs.

“What’s big Sally?”

The hands swung round furiously.

“Really big. Massive.” Sally nodded. Then both thumbs came up.

“Really good?” That was unusual. One thumb meant something was good. Emily, herself, was one thumb. Food was one thumb. But two thumbs was something excellent. Sally hadn’t finished yet. More double thumbs. She was conveying something exceptionally big…and outstandingly good. Emily’s mouth went dry.  It couldn’t be..?

“You think there is a God, Sal?” More vigorous nodding.  She hopped around, swinging her hands. Then the word was squeezed from the loudspeakers.

‘Sally know God.’

“That’s enough!”

Emily nearly jumped out of her skin. Hugh burst through the door. One glance was enough to tell her he was livid. The door crashed behind him.

“Emily, what the hell d’you think you’re doing? Asking her questions like that? Are you out of your mind?” His hands ran across the computer keys. Logging Emily out, logging himself in. Sweeping through the lists of sound files.

“Hugh, I thought you were at a conference. What are you doing with the decoder?”

“So I was. Just as well I came back, isn’t it? Just in time to find you playing Lady Philosopher with our dumb friend here. I can’t believe you could do something so stupid.”

“What are you doing with that file?” Emily didn’t know why she asked the question. It was obvious. Hugh had highlighted the sound files from this latest session and was preparing to remove them. Emily grabbed the mouse from his hand. “Don’t you dare delete that…”

“Let go the mouse, Doctor Parkinson.” It was his formal tone. It made Emily see red. Sally retreated to her swing, uttering small whimpers.

“No way! It was a perfectly natural question. Just you didn’t like the answer. Now you want to remove the evidence.”

“Let me have the mouse, Doctor.”

“Call yourself a scientist?” Emily retorted bitterly. “Don’t like the answer, erase the evidence.”

For a moment they faced each other. Then Hugh drew up a chair.

“Sit down Emily.” She hesitated a moment, then sat down.  “Okay, I want to bury this conversation. What’s more it never existed. Do you understand? It never happened. Now wait…” He held up his hand, blocking her reply. “Hear me out. I saw all that last chat. Very touching it was too. Big friendly ape loves her human protector. Excellent stuff, sort of thing we need for publicity. But then you had to go and pull that stunt. Ask her if there is a God! What possessed you?”

“But she replied…”

“You think she said. But what did she really say? ‘Big, good.’ It could mean anything. But you chose to interpret it. You put the idea in her head.”

Rage was erupting in her again. “I did not put the idea in her head! You saw how positively she reacted. And you heard what the decoder made of her thought processes. What’s at issue here is you didn’t like what she said.”

“Have you thought what this could mean for the project, Emily? Really thought?”

“Oh, go on. Tell me how this’ll jeopardize the entire programme. Tell me how all our data is invalid. Anything other than accept it at face value.”

“Emily,” Hugh’s voice was at its quietest and potentially meanest. “Just think of the ramifications for science over what we’ve got in those files. Animals are in touch with God. We humans have lost our Deity but animals just got one better on us.”

“Is that such a bad finding?” Emily’s voice was trembling with anger.

“You tell me. The media’ll have a field day. Science got it wrong. Darwin, Huxley, Muller, Dawkins – the whole accepted and accredited development of scientific progress thrown in the bin. Religious crackpots will go berserk. Schools will have to teach creation again. Can you imagine the outcome? We’ll be back to the dark ages. And why? Because of the say so of a dumb ape.”

“Stop calling Sally dumb, Hugh. She knew what she was saying. Why don’t you ask her again?”

“It’s a loaded question, it’s unscientific. Who knows what damage you have caused already? I won’t have this unauthorised questioning going on in my project.”

“Very well,” Emily had never stood up to Hugh quite so comprehensively. Sure, they had had many professional disagreements, but nothing like this. “I’ll start my own programme.”

“Doctor Parkinson.” The formal tone was back. “If you deviate from the programme structure by so much as a whisper, I will terminate your contract. What’s more I will discredit you so completely you will never work again.  And don’t look and see if this is being recorded, it isn’t. “

“You would effectively close the project! She won’t respond to anyone else.”

“Think about it Doctor. Call it a gagging order if you like; our professional reputation depends on ordered, rational thought-processes. This brand of hysteria doesn’t suit you and it’s deeply unscientific.  If you can give me no undertaking to abide by the schedule that we, note, we have agreed, well, I will consider that to be a dereliction of duty. Now delete those sound files.”

Emily’s hand tightened on the mouse. Then her view was obscured by a hairy forearm. “Sally, what are you up to?”

‘Ungh, ungh!’

“She wants to talk. Let her.” Before Hugh could reply she clicked on the communication icon and the speaker crackled.

“What is it Sal?”

Back came the signals. Big, thumbs up, and another gesture; fingers pointing to all points of the compass. ‘God, all around.’

Hugh had gone pale. “When did you teach her this?”

“I didn’t. This is all, I suppose, inherent.”

“THIS IS NOT INHERENT! Who taught her this nonsense?”

At that moment there was a crash at the door. Brenda’s face appeared, headphones in her ears. “Sorry folks,” she said, her voice too loud, “I thought you’d finished here.” The door swung closed again.

Emily caught the look on Hugh’s face.  “No way. Absolutely no way could she have managed to link with her.”

Hugh’s face had gone from white to crimson. “As you say, no way. But that’s where she got these ideas from isn’t it? Our Bible-bashing zealot, night after night singing her gospel claptrap at the top of her voice. Sally’s smart, as you say. She picked it up, now you think she’s got a direct line to the Almighty. “

“That’s not possible. If you knew just how little Sally responds to other people. Take you for example, you’re here. Is she interested in you? Not a bit. Do you expect me to believe that she’s picked this up from Brenda? Oh come on!”

“Doctor Parkinson. I will repeat my warning to you, formally this time. Our financial support for this project depends on certain outcomes. So far our sponsors are delighted. Something of this nature will cause consternation in their ranks. Our funding will dry up overnight. I cannot allow this misrepresentation to finish the project. Either you cooperate, or you are out.”

Around him, Sally was dancing. It wasn’t for joy, Emily knew. She was getting frustrated. ‘God, here. God all round.’

“Okay,” Hugh exploded. “Where did God come from? Go on, ask her that.”

“As if she’d understand! The big question religious thinkers of all ages have struggled with. Have some sense Hugh!”

“Ask her.”

Emily faced the gorilla, catching her face between her hands and tapping her fingers against her ears. “Sally, listen carefully.” She paused. How could you phrase this one? “God… from where? No, try this. Who made God?”

Sally wrenched herself free. There was almost a shocked look in her eyes. She shambled across to her swing and twisted her fingers into knots.

“That stumped her,” Hugh said grimly. “Now this stops, here and now.” He stood up. “I’ll see you in my office tomorrow morning. A night’s sleep will hopefully help you see sense and you can let me know your decision.”

‘God is.’ Said Sally at last.

Emily picked through her box of personal effects from her desk at the Institute. A few photos, mostly of her and Sally, or Kate and Philip. Research notes, a pot plant – everything she could fling into the box before security ran her off the site. For a few minutes she had contemplated throwing her lot in with the protesters at the gates. Their numbers had increased massively in the last week.  But there were too many nutters  amongst their number. She drew the living room curtains to ward off any telephoto lenses and opened the newspaper.

“Top Scientist discredited in Ape programme.”

It was a surprisingly flattering shot of her. Which implied that somebody out there in medialand had smelt a rat.

The dismissal of Doctor Emily Parkinson, (44) from the controversial project to communicate with animals at the Oxford Institute for Animal Research has thrown further shadows across the troubled programme. Professor Hugh Mason, project manager at the Institute, confirmed that the decision to sack Doctor Parkinson was in light of evidence that she had falsified data relating to Sally, the mountain gorilla at the heart of the project.

She would be angry if she didn’t feel so overwhelming saddened by the whole affair.

Doctor Parkinson has been the main link between Sally and the project team communicating with her. In a tense interview, Professor Mason acknowledged her vital role in the project but defended his decision to dismiss her. ‘Once a scientist allows a personal agenda to distort their vision, much of their research thereafter becomes tainted and invalid.’

It was now two weeks since Sally had made her unambiguous statement of belief. Two horrible weeks. In retrospect she should have resigned straight away and left with her conscience intact. Instead she had buckled under Hugh’s threats and stayed for what turned out to be a ghastly ‘deprogramming’ session.

“Tell her,” Hugh’s voice came through the earpiece. “She’s wrong. She must be made to understand.”

“Sally.” Emily saw new things in Sally’s huge, black eyes. She saw confusion, distrust, and, for the first time, fear. “Sally, there isn’t… what I mean is… God isn’t. We just got here.”

“Emily, make her understand that we came from apes.”

“For pity’s sake Hugh! How can I explain that to her?”

‘Ungh…ungh!’ ‘God is.’

In the end Emily had hurled a laptop at the one-way mirror, cracking it right down the middle, and stormed out. Hugh was as good as his word – he produced a comprehensive dossier of her ‘falsified data’ and canvassed support from a number of staff by a combination of threats and promises. She had been barred from the premises.

Doctor Parkinson was unavailable for comment, however, leaked sources suggest that the dismissal followed deep division of opinions between her and Professor Mason about the ethics of the research – a view no doubt shared by the demonstrators outside the Institute gates.

The phone rang. Emily let it. But when the answering machine cut in, she reached for the receiver.

“Brenda, that you?”

“Doc-tor Parkinson. I am really so sorry.” Brenda’s voice was flat.

“Don’t be, I had it coming. Oh, and call me Emily, please.”

There was a pause. Then, sounding very confused. “Emily, do you know what has happened? Haven’t you heard about Sally?”

Emily could feel a cold, sick feeling spreading out from her stomach. “Tell me,” she said faintly.

“Sally died this morning. She tried taking out that thing they put in her head. The talking thing. She beat her head against the wall, poor thing.” Brenda sounded close to tears herself.

Numb shock spread through her. Dimly she could hear Brenda still talking.

“Professor Mason, he called me into his office this afternoon. He said terrible things, said I had interfered with Sally, how else could she have known? Then he fired me.”

Emily could feel the walls closing in on her. This was going to be bad.

“Are you still there Emily?”

“Brenda, tell me please, did you speak to her? About God, or anything like that?”

“You just don’t understand do you? Sally knew about God. Just as every creature on Earth knows. How else does the swallow know when to fly south? How does the sparrow know when to lay her eggs? I didn’t tell Sally anything. I didn’t need to.”

“Sally’s dead.” Emily whispered to herself, trying to assimilate the meaning of the words. She could visualise the tormented animal, trying to root out the uncompromising voices telling her not to believe something she knew to be true. In those last sessions before she had stormed out, she had witnessed Sally tearing at her head, but had been too angry to analyse what she was doing. And now her intelligent friend had cut the offensive link that was causing her to stumble.

She sat in the darkened room all the rest of that afternoon, oblivious to the sound of journalists banging on the door. The phone rang but she paid no heed. Outside, in the cold, a phalanx of reporters had gathered demanding to hear her story.  Cameras would be thrust in her face. Questions, interviews, cross-examinations. She had it all coming. Hers would be a lone voice – no, not quite; Brenda the cleaner might corroborate her account. But who would listen when they found the truth so unpalatable? Hugh would gloss over the whole thing with his characteristic aplomb.

The moment she opened her front door, a lightning storm of camera flashes blinded her. A barrage of questions flew from all angles. She stood there quiet, allowing the cold air to dry her smeary eyes. When she held up a piece of paper they fell silent.

“I will read you this statement. This is all you will get from me so please don’t ask any further questions.” She paused, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “Sally, a Ugandan mountain gorilla has been brought up here at the Institute since infancy. I was, I suppose, her mother. I was the one with whom she learned to communicate, initially by sign language, then recently through the decoder implant developed by the Institute.  Sally showed high intelligence levels from early life, and she was a natural candidate for the programme. At no time did she dislike or resist our attempts to converse with her – on the contrary she actively sought to communicate whenever she could.

Before she died, Sally gave me a message. It is a simple, irrefutable message. I am in no doubt that I have interpreted it correctly or of her genuineness when she said it.  Neither am I in any doubt that this message will be analysed, debated over, discredited and ultimately rejected by those who style themselves ‘rational thinkers.’

Ladies and gentlemen, please pass on this message. It is Sally’s last testament to a sceptical world.  Here it is in its entirety…”

She closed the door and leant against it. Exhausted but triumphant. Through it came the baying cries of the press-hounds. “Is that all?” “What did she mean, ‘God is’?” “Can you comment further Doctor Parkinson?” “Doctor Parkinson, are you saying Sally believed in God?”

“Yes,” She whispered, recalling the look in Sally’s eyes. “She did. And so do I.”