The professor turned slowly and gazed inscrutably at his young visitor.
“Lucky guess,” he said finally, “but sorry, still no cigar,” he turned to leave again.
“I came here, Professor to talk to you about the anomaly with your ‘Device’.”
Phillips stopped and turned back to Julie.
“What anomaly?”
“The memory anomaly, Professor,” said Julie. “I think the memory effect is caused by quantum entanglement.”
▽
▼
▽
Part Nine
Every day after lunch, Phillips and the other prisoners were turfed out into the recreation hall for two and a half hours. Two sets of double doors opened off from the room onto the great outdoors where the inmates could go for short walks around the heavily-fenced grass areas.
Phillips invariably chose to stay inside and sit at a table with his notes and ‘work’. He interacted with the other prisoners very little, and most of them seemed as wary of him as he was of them. Every two weeks he had a visit from Julie, where they would discuss The Device, and try to fully understand the physics behind its operation and how to accurately control it, but more than this they discussed its implications and what it would mean to mankind’s future.
Phillips had been hyper-focussed on the mountains of papers in front of him for the last forty minutes. Although he had realised that he needed desperately to go to the toilet twenty minutes ago, he had not managed to tear himself away from the set of calculations he was currently trying to solve. He told himself time after time that when he completed the next equation with which he was grappling, he would take a moment and have a pee, but the toilet break had not happened. As he finished one calculation, the next begged for his attention with irresistible urgency, and his bladder was put on hold one more time.
A twinge in his groin took him by surprise. For a moment he thought he was going to wet himself right there in the recreation hall. He carefully placed his pencil onto the table, and breathed slowly, mentally trying to sooth his irate bladder. The crisis passed, and Phillips was well aware that only extreme good fortune had prevented him from an embarrassment he might never have survived. He rose carefully and headed with some urgency towards the lavatories.
Sitting on a toilet inside a cubicle, the long-repressed torrent finally exploded from him. It was an enormous relief, however, when gates have been forced to stay closed against an almost irresistible force for so long, hinges tend to become seized. Reanimation is often a painful affair.
For many years, Phillips had sat down to urinate. Somehow it felt more dignified than standing, and as the years diminished his physical abilities, he found it eminently more relaxing. But even as a fitter younger man, standing in front of a line of urinals had never appealed to him. Micturition for Phillips was as private an affair as defecation; a locked cubicle was the only civilised place for the act.
The Professor heard some people enter the toilet, but what piqued his interest was the furtive whispers in which they spoke. They obviously had failed to realise that someone may already be in the lavatory, secluded inside a cubicle, and so they went about their business as if in private. However, Phillips was there, within earshot, and he felt trapped. In prison the first rule you learn is to mind your own business. Curiosity was as unwelcome in gaol as a luddite at a technology fair. To overhear someone else’s conversation was as dangerous as having the conversation yourself, and from the tone of the voices on the other side of Phillips’ cubicle door, something was about to be said that he really didn’t want to hear. With sudden resolve the Professor rose, hitched up his prison trousers, and marched confidently into the main body of the toilet.
He was met with four pairs of malevolent eyes, the scariest of which belong to the notorious Jock Fager.
“What the fuck are you doing in there?” Fager sneered in his thick Glaswegian accent.
“Just having a pee,” said Phillips. He waved his hands in the air. “I haven’t heard anything, I haven’t seen anything, and I shall leave you fine gentlemen to whatever…” He looked from one accusatory pair of eyes to another, “… God bless!”
The Professor almost ran to the door.
“Oi, Professor!” Fager yelled after him. Phillips turned slowly, trying to hide his extreme fear.
“You keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll rip your fucking tongue out o’ your fucking head!” Phillips nodded submissively. “Now fuck off!” concluded Fager.
▽
▼
▽
Part Ten
The next day the Professor sat eagerly waiting for Julie at his usual table. He had all the paperwork ready for her arrival. Every other Wednesday was visitors’ day, and today was that special day that had become the sole focus of each fortnight.
They only had a window of fifty minutes every two weeks, so every second counted. Julie arrived and went quickly to the table. Phillips thrust some papers at her.
“Right, I need you to look at…” Phillips began hastily without looking at her. His eyes scanned a notebook in front of him, “… pages seven, fifteen and thirty-five.”
“And hello to you also, Professor,” she said.
Phillips looked up.
“What? We don’t have time to go through pleasantries at every visit. I asked you how you were two weeks ago. I really don’t expect that much has change since then.”
“Professor,” Julie said forcefully, “we have two years to work on this. Even if you can function like a robot, I can’t. I need a little human interaction now and again, all right?”
The Professor breathed deeply and tried to relax.
“I’m sorry, Julie. I’ve never been good at anything other than work. So, I focus on what I’m good at. I know I’m a pain, a cantankerous old pain in the arse, I know… You’re right. You come all this way every two weeks and I just…”
“It’s okay, Professor. Really, but I just need to talk a little… Sorry.”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“I would really like to know how you’re doing,” Julie asked.
“I’m all right,” said Phillips with a shrug.
“What are the other prisoners like?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have much to do with them…” The Professor cocked his head to one side and stared Julie in the eye. “I’m not an idiot, Julie. Is this really what you want to talk about?” Julie furrowed her brow, shook her head then looked away. “If you need to ask,” continued the Professor, “for god’s sake, just ask.”
Julie sat down and studied the old man’s face.
“Well, did you… do it?”
“You’ve sat there every other Wednesday for eight months,” he said calmly. “Why have you never asked?”
“I don’t know,” Julie stammered. “Maybe I just don’t want to hear…”
“… That your beloved Professor killed a man?” Julie shrugged and sighed. “If it helps, I didn’t kill anyone,” Phillips continued, then snorted a laugh through his nose. “I can’t say there weren’t times when I could have happily wrung the annoying bastard’s neck.” Julie turned away and involuntarily bit her lip. Phillips feared that in his attempt to handle the situation with a light touch, he had instead made things worse. “Julie, I’m sorry, really, I didn’t mean to upset you… Look, he was a good man, really. As I say, he could be a pain at times, but can’t we all… I mean look at how I’m messing this up right now. Julie, please look at me.” She turned wet eyes to him. The level of her reaction confused him. “Did… did you know Alan Newton?” Julie instantly erupted into full-blown crying. The Professor took her hands. “Shit, sorry, I had no idea you knew him.”
“I didn’t know him,” Julie said trying to control her crying.
“You didn’t know him. Then why are you so upset?”
She shook her head, then laughed through the tears.
“I don’t know… It just sort of hit me.” Julie pulled a tissue
from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “So what happened?”
“I… I don’t know,” Phillips sighed. “We were trying The Device for the first time. Alan thought we shouldn’t go ahead with the experiment.”
“Why?”
“Well, he was fearless when it came to theories, but…”
“But what?”
“I don’t know,” Phillips said bowing his head. “Maybe he was right. Maybe it was reckless to go ahead. Maybe it was too soon.”
“Well, that was your decision,” Julie said coldly, “and that one’s on you.” Phillips jerked his head up and stared at her. “We have to take responsibility for our actions, Professor. If you had something to do with Alan’s death, then…”
“Julie,” Phillips said slowly, “I didn’t kill him, and I have no idea how he ended up buried in the woods.”
Julie laughed tensely.
“Sorry… of course… sorry,” she said, then smiled. “So, what do you remember?”
Phillips sat back and pushed some papers around on the table in front of him.
“When I regained consciousness, three hours had passed. I was amazed. The first attempt and I had travelled three hours into the future.”
“And Alan?” Julie insisted.
“Alan wasn’t there,” Phillips said with gravitas, “I… I never saw him again.”
“But,” stammered Julie, “you must know something? People don’t just vanish into thin air!”
“Julie, up until that moment people didn’t time-travel either. This is a whole world of stuff we don’t understand, but there are answers. Everything is knowable because everything is logical… cause and effect, Julie.”
“But what if there are things we can’t know? What if at the quantum scale, cause and effect have no meaning?”
“Really?” Phillips exclaimed, “we’ve been working together for eight months, and now I find out that you’re another determinism denier.”
“I’m not denying anything,” Julie insisted. “I just think it arrogant to be so certain in the face of uncertainty.”
“And I think there are people who use that argument to avoid facing challenges that scare them.”
“I don’t deny that, Professor, but the universe is a very big place and we are very small. Responsible science leaves no room for hubris.”
Phillips moved the papers around on the table, then glanced at his watch.
“Shall we get on? We only have twenty-five minutes left.”
▽
▼
▽
Part Eleven
James Boyce-Futch, the Governor of the prison, looked up as Phillips was marched into his office by a guard.
“Stop there!” instructed the guard.
Phillips halted in front of the Governor’s desk.
“Professor?” said Boyce-Futch. He waited expectantly for a few moments. “You asked to see me.”
“Yes…”
“Yes Sir, Phillips,” barked the prison guard.
Boyce-Futch looked towards the guard and smiled pleasantly.
“Thank you, Clive. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”
“Very well, Sir,” the guard responded dutifully, then nodded stiffly and left the room.
“So Professor, what did you want to see me about?”
“I’ve been here eleven months now… Sir…” Phillips began.
“Mr. Boyce-Futch will do, Professor,” the Governor interrupted gently.
“Well,” said Phillips, “I’ve been continuing my research, as I’m sure you know, and… well… I need the machine I’ve been working on, to be able to move forwards. You see, I’ve done just about all I can do on paper. I really do need the actual machine.”
“The machine?” Boyce-Futch repeated awkwardly. “Would this be the… erm…”
“Yes… the Time Machine,” Phillips said with insincere levity, “yes Mr. Boyce-Futch, that machine.”
“Well, that’s a rather tall order, Professor. You see most of our inmates are busy making ceramic ashtrays or crafting wooden coat-hooks. Very few request permission to work on their… Time Machines.”
“I do understand that it is a rather unusual request,” said Phillips. “But I suppose I’m not the usual inmate.”
“That you are not. What does this machine comprise of?”
“Oh, it’s actually a very simple affair,” explained the Professor. “A metal box with a run-of-of-the-mill electron gun…”
“Gun!” Boyce-Futch exclaimed.
“No, no,” said Phillips waving his hands in the air, “an electron gun… a device for producing electrons, much like the ones used in the old glass tubed TV sets.”
“Ah,” said Boyce-Futch, “a cathode ray tube.”
“I had no idea that you were scientific.”
“I’m hardly an academic,” said Boyce-Futch, “but people would do well to remember that I’m no bumbling idiot either.”
“Who would think such a thing?” said Phillips flippantly.
Boyce-Futch stared at the Professor. His lips tight across his teeth.
“What else does this machine comprise of?”
“A standard particle detector that reads the spin of the electron, and a small needle. And that’s it,” concluded Phillips.
Boyce-Futch shook his head.
“Sorry, no, this is a prison, Phillips.”
“But it really isn’t anything dangerous or something that could cause any trouble,” the Professor pleaded.
“Well, it did put you in here,” said Boyce-Futch.
“With respect, a false accusation of murder put me in here.”
“If you say so,” said Boyce-Futch. He sat back in his chair. “Look Phillips, I’m not an unfair man. A good sort like you shouldn’t really be in a place like this. I mean, there but for the grace of God, and all that. Look, if you keep your head down, play ball, maybe… just maybe, I may be able to do something.”
“That would be wonderful, Sir,” said Phillips. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. In fact, if there is anything I can do… to help you?”
Boyce-Futch laughed, then cleared his throat.
“Well, Phillips, you may have noticed that this place is full of criminals?” The Professor nodded and smiled. “Having someone I can trust, someone that probably shouldn’t really be here, on my side… keeping an eye on things… you get my drift.”
“I do.”
“Well, I may be able to bend a few rules for someone like that.”
Boyce-Futch nodded his head, then looked down at his desk. He pressed a red button on his phone.
“Yes, Sir,” came a female voice from the loudspeaker.
“Send Clive in, will you, Joyce.” Boyce-Futch looked up to Phillips. “So, we understand each other?”
“We do,” said Phillips, simply.
The two men stared at each other in silence.
“You know that this may all be academic by next week?” said Boyce-Futch.
“Why?”
“You have an appointment with the parole board on Thursday.”
“But… I’ve only done eleven months,” said Phillips.
“It’s standard practice with a conviction like yours; first parole hearing in month twelve. Don’t get too excited, though. It usually comes to nothing… However… with a good word from the Governor…”
The guard appeared at the door.
“Come on, Phillips,” ordered the guard.
The professor turned and walked towards the entrance.
“Professor?” called Boyce-Futch. Phillips looked back. “This machine of yours. Is it… real? I mean, does it really work?”
“If I could control time at will,” answered Phillips, “do you think I’d be choosing to spend it in here?”
▽
▼
▽
Part Twelve
During the winding route back to the cell block, Phillips found himself wringing every ounce of subtext from the conversation he had just h
ad with the Governor. If he wanted to get his machine inside these walls, he was going to have to deliver something substantial.
By the time he had been marched back to the recreation area, an idea had blossomed in the rich soil of his imaginative brain. He stood and watched the warder, who had accompanied him, walk away with self-important but dubious purpose.
He scanned the room carefully until he found what he was looking for. Then he sat down, keeping an eye trained on a group of four prisoners that hovered threateningly in a secluded corner. Finally, the group started to move, and judging by their direction, the Professor’s previous assumptions had been flawless. If he could get some usable information about this group’s illegal operations, maybe that would be enough to gain favour with the Governor.
He stood up and followed the four men at a good distance. Phillips stopped at the end of a corridor and watched the group enter the lavatory. He casually leant against the wall. Over the next few minutes, he was joined by a number of other inmates who all assumed a position, either sitting or leaning, in the same overly self-conscious manner as had the Professor.
The door to the lavatory opened, and one of Jock Fager’s minions poked his head into the hallway. He nodded to a small bald man, who immediately shuffled towards the toilet. He was inside a mere two minutes before re-emerging and scurrying away back towards the cell block.
Phillips watched this process repeat several times until he was the only one left. The head appeared at the toilet door again and looked up and down the corridor. His gaze fell on Phillips. The man stared, then narrowed his eyes. If Phillips was going to do this, he needed to do it now. The Professor started to walk slowly towards the man.
“What do you want?” the man said aggressively as Phillips reached him.
“The same as everyone else,”
“You?” the man laughed.
“Why not?” said the Professor. “I’m human. Stuck in here like everybody else.”
The man looked Phillips up and down.
“Fuck off!” he said simply.
The Unforgiving Minute Page 4