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CHAPTER TWO

It was late. I was in my garden. I'd just finished covering the most tender specimens with horticultural fleece to protect them from the night chill and was settling down in front of the telescope to begin the task of recording the activities of my neighbors when I heard the distant sound of my telephone. This was unusual. I rarely received phone calls. I paused to listen until the final ring, and when I heard the answer machine click to record, I put down my notebook and pen, descended the ladder, walked through the kitchen and along the hallway to my front room. For a moment, I stared at the flashing red light before pressing Play, and the deep voice that came out of the machine shot a bolt of excitement through my body.

I gasped with pleasurable surprise. This was a long-arranged purchase, my most audacious yet, but I hadn't expected it to be delivered so soon. A rare Dichapetalum toxicarium-root cutting found in isolated regions of West Africa, common name "broke-back" because of the sudden seizures and convulsions it causes a few hours after ingestion. This particular cutting was not actually from Sierra Leone. It had been stolen from a botanical garden in Yunnan Province during the long-planned relocation of the parent. If the theft was to be discovered, the technician could go to prison. If the delivery was traced and the provenance proved, I could lose my job—if I still had a job to lose.

I sat down and replayed the message, exhilarated by the prospect of this new package. Some of my detractors might say this was my addiction, toxic plants my drug. But for me, plant collecting was my life's work. I checked my watch. It was 11:00 p.m. With purpose, I went to the hall cupboard, put on Father's full-length waxed coat, lifted the collar, and left the flat.

This part of Hampstead Heath was densely wooded with giant oaks, an understory of beech and, below them, holly, hawthorn, and elder. It was a balmy night, with moonlight enough to see a fair distance along the path leading into the wood. Briefly, I scanned the road ahead and behind, then stepped onto the path. The baked earth was hard underfoot from weeks without rain, and the snap of dry sticks as I crunched over them echoed away into the night. Sometimes the gate to the pergola was left unlocked, but not that night. It meant I would have to go the long way around and squeeze through the gap in the wrought-iron fence. Years before, I'd chosen this secluded area of the Heath for my midnight rendezvous because it was always fairly well populated with people—men—prowling the less conspicuous paths through the trees. I'd never felt any threat from the men. On the contrary, I knew that if anything went wrong, I could attract their attention with a call for help, and so the snap of a twig nearby did not make me spin around. The rustle of leaves did not put me on high alert. I simply continued to walk, my gaze averted, toward the gap in the fence.

It was darker here. The trees denser, obscuring the moon. I ducked down, squeezed through the gap, walked briskly to the wall, followed it to a thicket of ornamental shrubs, and pushed through them. A thrilling energy pulsed through me when I saw that the courier was already standing in the shadow of an alcove, underneath the pergola. He unzipped his jacket to pull out the package, and the exchange was over in a matter of seconds. I let him leave first, waited a few minutes, then made my way back to the path that led to the road. Behind me, twigs snapped and leaves rustled, but I ignored this and quickened my pace. When I emerged from the path, Whitestone Pond was deserted, the surrounding roads silent. I walked to the flagstaff and turned down the hill toward home. The sooner I potted this cutting, the more chance it would have of survival.

It was well past midnight. The high street was all but deserted. I turned onto my road and hurried to the entrance of my block. The building was silent, so I tried not to make any noise as I climbed the stairs to my flat. I took off Father's coat, put on my overalls, and carried the package through to the kitchen. If I could nurture this tiny cutting into a viable plant, it would be the first time it had been achieved in this country. To say I was excited would not do justice to what I was feeling.

I turned on the overhead light in my greenhouse and looked at the padded courier envelope on the bench before me. Inside, the package had been well wrapped in a thick layer of Chinese newspaper. I peeled this away, glancing at the characters, wondering what they said, until I reached a small metal tobacco tin. I frowned at the mistake. Metal doesn't allow a cutting to breathe. It creates a closed, moist environment prone to the development of spores. A horticulturalist should know this. With a sinking heart, I opened the lid.

The tin was filled with a moisture-absorbing substance, similar to vermiculite, that I hadn't encountered before, and in its center lay the cutting, perfectly preserved. I exhaled with relief. Dichapetalum toxicarium, broke-back. In many regions of West Africa, the pulp of its young leaves was traditionally used to dip arrows. Even after all my years of study, the damage such an innocent-looking scrap of vegetation could cause still amazed me.

I filled a seed tray with a mix of compost and horticultural sand, took a pair of tweezers from a sterilizing solution, picked up the cutting, and placed it on a board. I then sliced the cutting into small segments with a scalpel. After dusting each segment with rooting powder, I lay them on top of the compost. I wasn't unaware of the enormity of what I was doing. Each step felt like a sacred ritual and I the high priest. I paused to acknowledge this for a couple of minutes, then shook a sieved layer of compost over the cuttings before finishing with a sprinkle of distilled water. Inhaling deeply, I put the tray in the propagator, closed the lid, and stood back to appreciate my work.

With a satisfied smile, I looked through the greenhouse windows at the night sky. It was beautifully clear. I could see Mars and Saturn. It was the perfect night for stargazing.

I went outside and opened the folding canvas chair that had once belonged to Father; then, taking care not to disturb the plants, I went to the telescope to wheel it into the center of the garden.

But just as I was releasing the brakes, my attention was suddenly drawn by a woman's high-pitched scream.