The Universe versus Alex Woods

by Extence, Gavin

‘Fuck you. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Do you have any Diet Coke?’

  ‘I have some cheap cola in the fridge. Is that good enough?’

  ‘It depends. Does it have sugar in?’

  ‘Yes, it has sugar in.’

  ‘It’s okay – I’ll get some Diet Coke from downstairs. I can drink generic cola if I have to, but not with sugar. It sends me funny.’

  ‘You’re already funny.’

  I didn’t know what to say to this, so I said nothing and went downstairs to retrieve a bottle of Diet Coke from my cache in the stockroom.

  When I got back, Ellie hadn’t put on any more clothes, but she had cleared some space on the table for my drink and muted the television, which was tuned to one of those trashy music shows where the female performers are always bending and wriggling and the male performers are always grabbing their balls and karate-chopping the camera. Most music videos are made in such a way that even an orang-utan would understand what’s going on. Anyway, I don’t think Ellie was really watching it to begin with – my understanding was that this was not the kind of music she was into. She was, however, the kind of person who needed a lot of ‘stuff’ going on in the background in order to function properly. That’s probably why she’d lowered the volume rather than turning the television off. It was another minor distraction for me to contend with, alongside the underwear; and this, combined with the short interruption, made it difficult to dive straight into what I really wanted to talk about. I opted instead to resume the ‘small talk’, thinking that this would provide an easier approach.

  ‘Interestingly,’ I remarked, ‘a standard two-litre bottle of cola has about seventy-five teaspoons of sugar in.’

  Ellie gave me a look as if I’d just told her that I had webbed feet.

  ‘That’s about the same as an iced chocolate cake eight inches in diameter,’ I added.

  ‘Yes, Woods, that really is the most fascinating thing I’ve heard all day.’

  ‘I was just trying to be conversational,’ I said.

  ‘You need a lot more practice. Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we? How’s your friend? Is he still crazy?’

  Sometimes, in her own way, Ellie was really quite sharp.

  I spent the next ten minutes explaining how Mr Peterson wasn’t exactly ‘crazy’ – not in the normal sense – but he was still suicidal. And for as long as this was the case, there was no chance he’d be allowed to leave the psychiatric ward.

  ‘So maybe it’s best if he stays there,’ Ellie concluded. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I said. ‘I mean, maybe for now, but not in the long term.’

  ‘At least at the hospital he’s got people looking after him.’

  ‘He doesn’t see it that way.’

  Ellie shrugged. ‘How do you see it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘It’s all very muddled in my head. It’s like things are trying to pull into focus but they’re not quite able to. But I think . . . Well, I don’t see things now as I did a week ago. Everything’s a lot more complicated . . .’

  I trailed off and had to think for some time before resuming. ‘Ellie, I’ve never told anyone this, but you know when I was in my coma for two weeks? After the meteor?’

  I thought she was bound to make some comment about this, but she didn’t. She just nodded and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Well,’ I continued, ‘I’m glad I woke up – obviously – but, at the same time, I’ve often found myself thinking that it wouldn’t have mattered if I hadn’t. It wouldn’t have made any difference. Not to me anyway. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘No,’ Ellie said.

  I thought some more.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So what I mean is that when I was in my coma, there wasn’t anything bad. Actually, there wasn’t anything at all. There wasn’t dreaming. There wasn’t darkness. There wasn’t even time. As far as I’m concerned, those two weeks simply don’t exist. They didn’t happen. And I think it’s exactly the same thing with death. Death isn’t anything either. It’s not even a void – not for the person it happens to. Do you understand that?’

  Ellie exhaled a long jet of smoke, then said: ‘When you’re dead, you’re dead. I mean, it’s a bit depressing for a Sunday morning, but that’s what you’re trying to say, right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s what I believe and that’s what Mr Peterson believes too. But the point is, if that’s true, it shouldn’t be depressing. And it certainly shouldn’t be scary. I mean, I can see why it should be scary from an evolutionary standpoint, obviously, but not from a logical standpoint.’

  ‘Jesus, Woods! It is scary, it isn’t scary . . . I did not sign up for this when I opened the door. Do me a favour: spare me the mind-fuck and just tell me what you’re trying to say in plain English.’

  ‘I’m saying that death is the easiest thing in the world. It’s only dying that’s terrible.’

  Ellie grimaced and rubbed her head.

  ‘Okay. Forget that. The point I’m trying to make is this: for ages I just couldn’t stop dwelling on the fact that Mr Peterson was going to die, but now . . . Well, now something’s changed. It no longer seems like the most important thing in all this. You can die well or you can die badly, but death’s just death.’

  Ellie blinked at me for a few moments.

  ‘I don’t want Mr Peterson to die badly,’ I concluded.

  ‘You mean you don’t want him to die in the mental ward?’

  ‘Yes, that’s part of it. I mean we don’t know how long he’s got left. It could be several more years. But I don’t think he should have to spend more of that in hospital than is absolutely necessary.’

  Ellie didn’t say anything. I spent some time staring off towards the unopened curtains, then realized that it probably looked like I was staring at her underwear, which was festooned all along the radiator below. I snapped my eyes back to her face.

  ‘He told me that you went back to see him in the hospital,’ I said. ‘You know, the other day, when I was waiting in the car. Well, actually, he said you went back to shout at him.’

  ‘Yeah, about that: I know he’s your friend and everything, and you probably think it was really terrible of me to act that way with a dying man, but, well, I couldn’t really help it. He was just being such a pain.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And I know what you were trying to do. Thank you. I think it helped.’

  Ellie didn’t blush exactly – Ellie never blushed – but I noticed that she did look away and start fidgeting with her cigarette lighter. I got the impression that if I’d been sitting within easy striking distance, she would have punched me.

  ‘You know, Woods,’ she said after a while. ‘In a way – a very odd way – what with how Rowena’s been with me and everything . . . well, you’re kind of like a brother to me. A very weird, socially retarded brother, obviously, but a brother all the same. That’s kind of how I have to think of you.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘What I mean is that you usually annoy the hell out of me, and most of the time I can’t even begin to figure out what’s going on in that very bizarre place you call your brain, but still, despite all that, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I shouldn’t be looking out for you when stuff like this comes up.’

  It took some time to sift that last sentence for compliments. I was almost certain that she’d been trying to say something nice, and that she was expecting me to say something nice in return, but before I could start to think about what that something might be, she’d already got bored and turned back to the television.

  ‘Ellie,’ I said eventually.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I like your bangs.’

  This was the best I could come up with under the circumstances.

  That night, I wrote down the facts, which were these:

  1) Mr Peterson doesn’t want to die right now.

  2) But he does think there will
come a time when he will no longer want to live.

  3) The problem is that when this time comes, he might not be physically capable of acting on his wishes.

  4) This is why he attempted to kill himself, and why he will continue to be a danger to himself if released from the hospital.

  5) He is not depressed. He is thinking clearly.

  6) He said, in his note, that he wanted to die peacefully and with dignity, which is probably true of everyone.

  7) But he has already proven that this is no simple matter. Suicide is neither peaceful nor dignified. It is unreliable and messy.

  I looked at these facts for some time, and eventually added an eighth:

  8) He wants the right to choose for himself.

  Then, after some more time, I crossed out fact eight and rewrote it as follows:

  8) He should have the right to choose for himself.

  That was the second hardest thing I’ve ever had to write.

  It was another three or four days before I discussed ‘the facts’ with Mr Peterson. I had to accept and internalize them first, so that I could be one hundred per cent prepared for the conversation to come. I knew that there was no room for doubt any more. My arguments had to be airtight, and delivered with absolute conviction. That was the only way I could proceed.

  I chose a moment when the ward was quiet, when we were least likely to be disturbed, and I kept my voice low so that neither Count Tolstoy nor the Catatonic would be able to hear what was said.

  I started by telling Mr Peterson that I had a few things I needed to say, and that he should only interrupt me if anything I said seemed incorrect to him. Then I set out the facts, one to seven, pretty much as I set them out for you: same words, same order, altering only the pronouns. It was here that all my preparation paid off. I was able to speak calmly and clearly throughout, with no stumbles and no hesitation. I knew that in this instance, emotion would not be my ally. For what was to follow, I needed Mr Peterson to understand that each and every point was clear in my mind.

  He didn’t interrupt me once; I didn’t expect him to. I knew the moment at which he’d start talking. It would be after I’d delivered point eight: You should have the right to choose for yourself. To which I added a coda:

  ‘And whatever that choice is, I want to support you in it. If the time comes when you no longer want to live – when that time comes, I want to help you die.’

  Now, I’d hate for you to think badly of Mr Peterson. Rest assured: he made every attempt to put this idea in the ground there and then. My suggestion horrified him – as I’d known it would. But this was a fight he was never going to win. The facts were already agreed, and incontrovertible. He needed my help. And when it came to arguing the point, I’d had time to rehearse; he had not.

  He talked at me for about ten minutes straight, but it was all completely insubstantial – repetitive, incoherent ramblings about how I’d misunderstood his wishes, how I hadn’t thought things through, how utterly preposterous I was being – that sort of thing.

  I waited until he’d run out of steam, then said: ‘I think it should be quite clear that I have thought this through. I’ve spent days and days thinking it through. If any of the facts I’ve laid out for you are incorrect, then please correct me. If you can’t remember any of the facts, I’d be happy to repeat them for you.’

  Mr Peterson said that I should forget the goddamn facts. The facts were no longer relevant. ‘The only fact that matters,’ he said, ‘is that I can’t let you help me. Not like that.’

  I waited a few moments so that I could be sure he’d hear me very clearly.

  ‘Actually, that’s not your decision to make,’ I said. ‘You think that you should be allowed to choose your own destiny, and I agree. One hundred per cent. All I ask is that you extend me the same privilege. I’ve made this decision based on what I think is right – based on my conscience. To take that away from me would be unforgivable. If you respect me at all, you have to let me choose.’

  I don’t know how many minutes ticked by after that – maybe two, maybe five. Several times Mr Peterson looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but on each occasion he pulled himself back. I didn’t need to say anything else. The longer the silence went on, the more secure my existing words became.

  Eventually, Mr Peterson could only wave me away, pleading that he needed time to think. But I knew the conclusion was now beyond doubt. I could see tears in his eyes. It was the only time I ever saw him cry.

  The next day, it was settled. Mr Peterson asked me if I understood exactly what I was agreeing to, and I confirmed that I did.

  ‘I’m not going to change my mind,’ he told me. ‘At some point, I’m gonna want it to end.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I just want that point to be as far away as possible.’

  ‘I’m putting myself completely at your mercy here, you understand that?’

  ‘That’s not really how I think of it.’

  ‘That’s how you should think of it. That’s the way it is. I can’t go into this unless you’re clear on that.’

  ‘I’m clear,’ I said.

  From that point on, there could be no turning back. Our pact was made.

  THE CANNABIS FACTORY

  In the beginning, the situation was akin to a car crash. It was captivating but it was also confusing. Although something had clearly happened – something traumatic and vaguely sinister – the deeper nature of that something was difficult to define. For some time, no one was sure what had gone wrong – or where or why – and it would take a thorough sifting of the wreckage before conclusions could be drawn and guilt assigned.

  Under British law, a number of crimes had been committed: that much was established early and was never in dispute. But if this was the case, then who was the victim and who the perpetrator? As I’m sure you’re aware, this was the key question that preoccupied the media in the weeks following my ‘arrest’ at Dover, and thinking mutated through several distinct phases.

  Initially, most commentators were happy to dump all the blame at Mr Peterson’s feet. This option was appealing for a number of reasons. Firstly, he was dead, and therefore not in a strong position from which to defend himself. Secondly, he had no relatives to offend or enrage. Thirdly, he was an American. Fourthly, and most importantly, he was the adult in the situation. Even those who agreed that he had the unassailable right to end his own life if he so chose were aghast at the thought that he’d somehow involved me in the process.

  I was a minor – this was the plain fact that everyone kept returning to – and as such, I lacked the moral competence to make the kind of decisions that had been ascribed to me in those preliminary police statements. I think at this stage there were only one or two dissenting journalists, who pointed out that if I lacked ‘moral competence’, I lacked it by only a few months. But these objections were quickly shouted down, because it wasn’t just that I was underage; it was also self-evident that I was in an extremely vulnerable position. The police had characterized me as an ‘intelligent but extremely naïve, and possibly disturbed, young man’. I had no father, no friends and a mother of dubious credentials and capability. And then there was the small matter of my ‘brain damage’. There could be no doubt that my ethical abilities were compromised. The fact that I’d been the one who’d driven the car to Zurich became irrelevant. If I hadn’t been kidnapped in the traditional sense, then I’d certainly been manipulated – probably in all sorts of ways.

  It was this last point, of course, that opened the floodgate to a further wave of speculation, now concerning the ‘exact nature’ of the relationship under scrutiny. It was already known that this relationship had been ongoing since I was thirteen. Given that Mr Peterson had been happily and devotedly married for almost forty years, with no history of inappropriate contact with children (or, in fact, any contact with children), and given also the lack of a single scrap of evidence to support the suspicion, the tabloids naturally assumed paedophilia. You
can’t libel the dead, and so for a couple of weeks the accusations flew – until, quite suddenly, their wings grew tired and the story’s emphasis shifted once more. It wasn’t that anyone became troubled by the lack of evidence. The paedophile hypothesis simply became old hat.

  So the story shifted and a new villain came into the crosshairs. This time it was the clinic in Switzerland, and more specifically Herr Schäfer, its outspoken founder and director. After all, he was equally culpable in permitting me to attend the Assisted Suicide appointment. From what could be ascertained, he had even encouraged my active participation in ‘the procedure’. After ignoring these charges for several days, he eventually issued a rebuff. If there had been any suspicion of coercion or manipulation – and this applied to my being manipulated also – the procedure would have been immediately cancelled.

  But for the media, the need for further investigation was beyond doubt. My moral incompetence had already been recognized and unanimously accepted. The next step was to prove Mr Peterson had been of unsound judgement, and this battle was already ninety per cent won. As if his actions hadn’t already spoken volumes, there was also the fact that he’d been hospitalized for six weeks on the psychiatric ward. He’d also been in Vietnam, a conflict that had left him permanently (if non-specifically) ‘damaged’.

  Herr Schäfer’s response to these conjectures was terse: the Swiss authorities had read all the documentation, seen the recordings and were satisfied that everyone involved had acted properly, responsibly and in full possession of their mental faculties. Under Swiss law no crime had been committed.

  His mistake, of course, was to mention the recordings. As you probably know by now, it’s standard practice to record an assisted suicide, as this provides the safest possible evidence that it was indeed suicide. But the press had not, at that point, cottoned on to this fact, which opened up a new world of possibilities. In no time at all, the whole country seemed to be screaming for Herr Schäfer to release the ‘Death Tapes’. It was undeniably in the public interest. People had a right to judge for themselves. It was the only way this matter could ever be put to rest.