Gravity's Chain

by Alan Goodwin

  ‘Angel.’ She dragged on a cigarette and blew smoke to the side as she discarded her name like a piece of rubbish. In contrast to Lucy, Angel’s make-up was heavy, hiding a row of spots on her chin.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Angel.’ Her face was pleasant enough with its frame of black hair, whereas her body positively simpered in her dress. ‘Tell me, who would you rather spend the night with, Lennon or McCartney?’

  ‘Lennon,’ she said without hesitation.

  ‘I thought so.’ I leant forward and whispered in her ear, to which she nodded and walked to Bebe, who stood at the side of the party watching. Together they left. I’d marked her with the smallest nod at Bebe, like a cat marking a favourite garden post.

  The party died an hour later. Near the end, Lucy left with George, glancing at me over her shoulder, pleading for an understanding. She knew Paul McCartney was the wrong answer and wanted—no, needed—to know why. Unfortunately I was in no mood to ease her despair. Once they left, only two groups of guests seated on opposite sides of the room remained, slouched in chairs, drinking wine straight from the bottle as they laughed at their silly slurred jokes. Bebe was in the doorway, hovering. He sought me out and casually told me he’d spoken to some people about Driesler and it was still looking good for me with the Nobel committee. I never asked Bebe how he knew these mysterious people: I just accepted that after all his years at Taikon it was natural. I thanked him with a stroke on the shoulder, which was warmly accepted with a grateful smile, and downed another tequila.

  Angel was waiting in my hotel room. She sat in the middle of a huge burgundy sofa, holding a cigarette aloft in one hand, a drink in the other and her legs crossed, jigging her airborne foot to a secret tune. The sofa cushions were soft and she’d sunk deep, pulling her already short skirt higher to reveal a stocking top. She acknowledged me with a professionally indifferent nod and took a long pull on her cigarette. Without speaking I pulled a small bag of coke from a case in the wardrobe. We did two lines each off the glass-topped coffee table. I didn’t need to ask her agreement; Bebe would have ensured her willingness before issuing an invitation to the party. After so much drink, the coke was a bomb.

  We had sex three times. I don’t make love now; I have sex. I do it because it’s there, just something else to fill the emptiness. I once saw a nature programme about some monkeys that engaged in constant and meaningless shagging. The males were at it constantly, copulating with total indifference that verged on boredom. And the males groomed their mates at the same time. Hips pumping, they would remove a flea and munch away. That’s how I am now: I just go through the motions. There was no excitement with Angel; in fact there never seems to be excitement with any woman these days. The joy is in the anticipation, the knowledge that I can have sex with no consequences and no effort.

  I’d forgotten Angel’s name by the following morning. Such a situation should call for some cunning and guile, but I was past such a pantomime. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked, without opening an eye to protect me from the pain nesting in my head after the drink and drugs.

  She moved a bony knee into my back. ‘Angel.’ Her voice cracked from thousands of cigarettes and a dry mouth.

  ‘Real or professional?’

  ‘Didn’t worry you last night.’ She shifted sharply to find some yearned for comfort and grunted when it eluded her. ‘Shit, my head is thumping, that coke was some shit.’ The bed wobbled as she levered herself to her feet. It took several attempts to find her balance and she groaned when she took her first steps. ‘God, I need a piss.’

  ‘Classy.’

  ‘That didn’t worry you last night either.’

  ‘You got your rewards.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said with heavy sarcasm.

  She walked around the corner of the bed and into view as I finally prised open my eyes. ‘Smart prick,’ she muttered in my general direction. I watched her pad her way to the bathroom, her feet lazily scuffing the thick pile of the carpet. She was slim and tall, but with enough flesh on her thighs and hips to nicely round her body. The skin of her buttocks was translucent, as though the tougher brown skin of her back was rubbed away by the demands of her job. Briefly she half turned as she struggled to find a light switch on the inside bathroom wall. I closed my eyes; not wanting to see what I suspected would be a face considerably less attractive than it had been in the soft lying light of the evening.

  Several minutes later, accompanied by a toilet flush, she returned. Her breasts were heavy and swung in time to her walk. She slipped into bed and put her hands between my legs. I’m not much of a morning man, but I answered her invitation and entered a well-known and well-worn place.

  Afterwards Angel propped herself up with a pillow, pulled the sheet up to her chin, which was a strange shyness given all we’d done, and lit her first cigarette of the day. What dedication to her profession: a fuck before a fag. Impressive. She took an enormous drag and blew out smoke like a geyser. Inevitably she coughed and then sighed with the relief of the nicotine. ‘So how come you haven’t married again?’ She spoke as she exhaled her second drag. This time smoke chugged out in little puffs on her words.

  This was a conversation I wanted to avoid. ‘Just haven’t.’

  ‘Afraid of the commitment? Is that why you spend your time with girls like me?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Why did your wife kill herself?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I read about her in a Times article.’ She saw my look and rolled her eyes. ‘What’s with the surprise, the fact I read the Times or that I can read at all?’

  ‘Point taken.’

  ‘It said she hung herself. Why did she do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s forget this now, shall we?’

  ‘People don’t just hang themselves. There had to be a reason for her to do such an extreme thing.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this, Angel.’

  ‘Did she leave a note?’

  ‘Life isn’t like the movies. No, she didn’t leave a note.’

  ‘And there wasn’t a hint of what had gone wrong in her life?’

  ‘Look, she left no note, she said nothing, she had no fucking reason to kill herself, but she did—she hung herself and she left me alone. Satisfied? Now let’s move on.’

  Angel took one long last drag of her cigarette and stubbed it meticulously in the glass ashtray, making sure nothing was left burning, and then she lay back and stared at the ceiling. ‘You blame her, don’t you?’

  ‘What? What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve no idea what went wrong for her, you don’t understand, so instead of facing up to the hard questions, you just blame her for leaving you alone. How self-centred is that?’

  ‘You know nothing about my wife, or about me. Don’t presume to understand.’

  She got out of bed and gathered her scattered clothes, remaining silent until she reached the bathroom door. ‘I understand all right, Jack. I understand completely. And, what’s worse, I’m right but you can’t even admit it.’

  ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘Did you ever stop to think that perhaps, just perhaps, her death did have something to do with you? Stop blaming her, look in the mirror.’ She shut the bathroom door.

  ‘Too bloody right I blame her,’ I shouted at the closed door. ‘It’s her bloody fault for leaving me alone.’

  What a relief once she’d gone. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated her time, but I could have done without the free self-help session. And worse, she had forced the impending return to New Zealand to the front of my mind. So many demons awaited me at home, I’d need feet as well as hands to count them. Perhaps there was a way out. I’d avoided going back twice before, so maybe there was a chance again.

  Bebe was with me just a minute after Angel left. I’m sure he waited just down the corridor so he could get to me immediately. He always had a key for my room, but had yet to enter when I still had a girl with me. Perh
aps he bugged the room: I’d put nothing past Taikon. He was clutching newspapers, laptop and a notebook. We discussed the day’s schedule as I washed and dressed and read the papers together as we always did. The tabloids had had some fun with my comments of the night before. Bebe muttered as he read, making the occasional note, but when finished he told me he was still sure the committee was on side. He had also spoken to those who mattered at Taikon, including George, who I hoped enjoyed his night with Amanda. The message was that they were far from pleased and as expected there would be tightened security, but that was the likely extent of the repercussions.

  I tentatively suggested to Bebe that I postpone the trip to New Zealand and concentrate on a more measured response to Driesler, but the company had already discussed and discounted such an idea. It was agreed that a return to my home country with all the positive press it would attract far outweighed any other consideration.

  ‘I know it’s going to be hard for you going back, Jack, but it’s time you faced up to what happened.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  There was no stopping it now. I was going home. Shit.

  THE TIMES

  Editorial

  * * *

  This newspaper has always supported and admired Jack Mitchell. At a time when science and what we might term normal society are growing further apart, Mitchell has succeeded better than anyone in bridging the gap. The scientific enterprise at times appears incomprehensible to the average person, a dangerous divide as we engage in debates about GE, stem cell research and cloning. Mitchell’s own Superforce theory is built on maths that no one with anything less than a university degree can hope to understand. This carries many dangers, given the importance of the theory and the new technologies it may produce. How important, then, that, with his current show, Mitchell should try to explain not only his theory, but also science generally, in a way we can understand. As science continues to shape our world it is essential we grasp its fundamental concepts. What a shame that Mitchell has let himself and his great enterprise of popularising science down. The kind of gutter-sniping he has engaged in with Frank Driesler is really beneath him. We hope that this is an isolated incident and that as he returns to New Zealand with his tour he concentrates on what he does best.

  THREE

  From the moment the automatic doors of the airport open to suck me inside, I’m directed by computer chips. They ensure I sit in the correct seat on the correct plane, send my bags to the correct baggage train and guide me to the correct gate. Throughout my stay in the airport, machines and electronics control my every move. The airport is technology in critical mass. And wherever there’s technology there’s rampant consumerism.

  Once upon a time you could only buy a paperback and a bottle of whisky, but now airports mimic malls with their dominating brand names and Hollywood faces selling beauty to the ugly by image and sex appeal alone. When baggage allowances restrict my luggage space, I’m presented with an unlimited choice of items for which I have no room.

  I also dislike airport architecture. Actually, I loathe airport architecture. It’s just plastic and steel merged into award-winning designs, temples to modern technologies the way railway stations were to a bygone age. Give me the solid protection of those bricks any day; there’s something about modern buildings that give the impression of imminent collapse.

  You’d think I’d be happy to leave the airport, but it only means entering an even worse place, the plane. Flying freaks me out. I often ask myself why I’m afraid of something so wondrous. Often I’ve watched birds and imagined the exhilaration of swooping and banking, of the wind against my face and my stomach in my throat with the bare-arsed excitement of it all. But we aren’t designed to fly. My only thrill in a plane is relief at avoiding a seat next to the fat sod I’ve suspiciously eyed in the lounge or the screaming kid who’s wheeled a toy between my feet.

  And it amazes me how much a plane can shake on take-off without actually falling apart. Far from feeling as though I’m sitting in a state-of-the-art machine, I might as well be on the number 58 bus on its way to town. Perhaps this is why I really hate flying: it’s the overwhelming fear of, well, of dying. When I’m about to spend the next twenty-four hours in a machine half the size of a rugby field, suspended ten thousand metres above the ground, I don’t want to feel the thing creaking and groaning before it’s gone anywhere. And then when the shaking gives way to something approaching smooth flight, there’s that moment when the plane feels as though it’s about to drop out of the sky. I spend the entire flight thinking I’m never more than two seconds from extinction.

  I made the mistake of sharing these thoughts with Bebe. He was unsympathetic, probably because he’d heard it all before. All he could offer me was the suggestion that I do some work. Now that was a novel thought, an original concept. What work is there left for me to do? I mean, come on, what do I do as an encore to the Theory of Everything? Really, I’ve done myself out of a job, done away with any further interest in physics. All that’s left is bits and pieces, some mopping up here and there. When you’ve eaten the most succulent of meats, who eats the scrag-end? I haven’t done a thing for six months and can see no point in starting now. So what else is there to do on a plane to distract from the slightest change in engine tone that signals decompression and an imminent fatal dive? Drink. It amazes me how much I can drink in twenty-four hours when there’s nothing else to interrupt the rhythm. By the time we crossed the blue waters of the Manukau Harbour and dropped out of an Auckland dawn, I was fucked. Customs and passport control came and went without registering. During the drive from the airport to the city Hilton, I slept.

  It was mid-afternoon when I woke with a category one hangover that burnt every contour of my head and hurt most parts of my body simultaneously. Category ones were rare, but like migraines they were at times irresistible, and fighting them was useless. Total surrender was the only option. To be honest, that suited me. As soon as I woke I felt an uncomfortable feeling of doom, that as soon as I stepped from the hotel I’d be mugged by the unpleasant ghosts of my past. In the room, protected by my mega headache, I felt the demons excluded. Only Bebe could gain access, which he did, politely, in the late afternoon.

  ‘Will you look at this?’ He waved an email in the air as though swatting flies. He was obnoxiously happy, and my grunt of half acknowledgment was not enough. ‘It’s really rather wonderful for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Quite amazing.’

  I rolled over to face him. For a moment I felt as though I’d left my head in its old position and it took several seconds for it to catch up with the rest of my body. ‘All right, Bebe, I give in. What is it you’ve got there?’ I tried lifting my head, but failed and let it settle again on the soft pillow.

  ‘You have an invitation, Jack.’ He danced a little jig. ‘You shall go to the ball, Cinders.’

  ‘Bebe, please, I know you love the pantomime, but just tell me and then let me go back to sleep.’

  ‘Your old school is having a class reunion tonight and you’ve been invited. They arranged it for tonight especially so you could go. They’ve been in liaison with Taikon’s New Zealand office. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘It would be if I was going. And by the way, Bebe, great security from the office here—these people could be anyone, and they get hold of my itinerary.’

  Bebe pulled out a chair from under the desk and sat down next to my bed. He lowered his head and rubbed its bald top. I recognised this type of silence. Again I attempted to rise from the cushioned safety of my pillow, succeeding this time in propping up my throbbing head with a hand. I didn’t need to ask the question, I knew the answer from the silence and rub of the head, but confirmation is always better than ignorance. ‘You’ve already accepted, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said without raising his head.

  ‘Bebe, I don’t want to go. In fact it’s the last thing I want to do.’

  ‘Why?’

&nb
sp; ‘Because there will be people, well a person, there I don’t want to meet. Actually if I waited a hundred years it would still be too soon for us to see each other again.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mary—Caroline’s sister.’

  ‘You went to school with Caroline’s sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does she feel the same about you?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘Then maybe she’ll stay away if she knows you are going to be there.’

  ‘No, she’ll be there. She won’t talk to me, but she’ll be there, like a one-woman vigil of dislike. The urge to see me suffer that embarrassment will be far too strong. And I don’t want that so wave your wand, Bebe, and undo what you’ve done. I can sleep, I can eat, I can drink and I can sleep some more. Tomorrow I do the show, then I go to Wellington, then I leave New Zealand in one piece.’ My head thumped and for the first time I felt sick. ‘Is there something else, Bebe?’

  ‘Not that easy to get out of tonight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s been run past the top brass. The office here wouldn’t have released the information without orders from above. London thinks it is a good idea for you to attend, a chance for some positive publicity after the debacle at the Dorchester. You know, the chance to show you at your best, remembering good times, being among friends.’

  Again I knew the answer, but again I asked anyway. ‘And how will anyone know I’m at my best?’

  ‘Some local press will be there to cover the event. It’s a feel-good story, Jack. A couple of questions, bland answers, you know, the sort of thing you were supposed to have done at the Dorchester.’

  ‘So this is payback time, is it?’

  ‘That’s pretty much how it goes, Jack. You might not like it, but George wants this to happen and you can’t afford any more mess-ups with the company. There are enough nervous people around, what with the Driesler affair and then the Dorchester fiasco, without you causing another stir here.’