by Alan Goodwin
‘Unusual to never introduce yourself at a party.’
‘It happens.’
‘Do you know her profession?’
‘We didn’t talk for long. She told me she’d come from Russia about three years ago and did marketing or something like that.’
‘Did you know she was a prostitute?’
I looked at the table for what felt the longest five seconds of my life. Perhaps they knew everything. Somehow, in just a day, the boys in blue had unravelled the whole damn sordid night. Was it worth keeping up the pretence? Was it really worth digging my pit deeper and adding shiny sides to make escape ever more impossible? Then I saw Bebe’s face, urging me on. ‘I suppose it’s possible, but I certainly didn’t talk about anything that indicated she was one. The only thing she offered me was…’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to get her into any trouble.’
‘Truth is always the best option, Mr Mitchell.’
I felt the interview swing back on track. ‘Coke. She offered me some coke.’
‘Didn’t know her name but she offered you coke?’
‘I guess she was looking for a good time. I’m famous, it happens a lot, some girls want me as a kind of prize.’
‘Did you accept her offer?’
I laughed nervously. I could feel Bebe breathing down my neck. ‘No, no I didn’t take her up on the offer.’
‘So, Mr Mitchell, you were standing with this Russian lady, whose name you didn’t know, discussing the use of recreational drugs, when Jo Thompson arrived. Did you go straight to Ms Thompson, or did you wait while someone else spoke to her?’
‘As soon as I saw her I went over.’
‘Was the Russian woman still with you?’
It crossed my mind to drop the script. If they knew who she was perhaps they had already spoken to her and knew what I was about to say was crap.
‘Yes, she walked over to Jo with me.’ Neither policeman revealed a flicker of emotion. ‘I spoke to Jo first, then introduced them to each other.’
‘How did you manage that?’ asked Ryan, suddenly holding me with his most intense stare of the evening. ‘How did you introduce the Russian to Jo if you didn’t know her name?’
‘I didn’t, I just introduced Jo to her.’ Shit, Bebe was good, he’d thought of everything, except for them knowing who Claudia was, of course.
‘And then what happened?’
‘The three of us talked for a while. Bebe came over; I talked to him about some Taikon company people I needed to meet and when I rejoined the conversation, the two of them, Jo and the Russian, were talking about…talking about doing some drugs.’
‘Coke?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though they’d just met?’
‘I know, but that’s what they discussed. They asked if I wanted to join them. I declined. They left. I went with them because I wanted to get something from my room.’ This was the part of the script I felt most uncomfortable with. I told Bebe I should stay away from saying we left, but he said anyone could have seen us leave together and that had to be covered. It had sounded weak in the bedroom. In the harsh surroundings of the interview room it sounded insipid.
‘What did you need from your room?’
‘Some notes I wanted to talk to a Taikon executive about.’
‘Go on.’
The bloody quicksand of lies: I was sinking faster and deeper and now I could almost feel it on my chin. ‘We got into the lift together. They were talking, pretty much ignoring me. They got out of the lift on the fifth floor, I think, yes, the fifth floor, and that was the last time I saw either of them.’
‘But you never returned to the party?’
‘No, I got to my room and looked at my notes, felt they weren’t ready to talk about, then just crashed out. I felt really tired. It’s not unusual for me to crash out after a show, especially if we’ve been travelling. I mean, I hadn’t shaken off the jet lag.’
‘And you never left your room?’
‘No.’
‘Never went to their room?’
‘No.’
‘Ryan paused again, flicked his notes and glanced at Orton. ‘And that’s the truth, Mr Mitchell? You know that lying to the police is an offence?’
‘Yes, it’s the truth and yes, I know that lying to the police is an offence. I wish I could help more, Detective, and I know it seems strange, but that’s how it happened.’ There—sunk without trace, head covered and the last bubbles of breath on the quicksand’s surface.
‘Thank you, Mr Mitchell, that terminates the interview,’ Ryan checked his watch, ‘at 8.15 pm.’ He pushed the tape button. ‘You’re free to leave. Hope you have a good flight. Detective Orton will show you out.’ Without further comment Ryan picked up his file and left the room.
I didn’t like Ryan any more. He knew I was lying. He knew I knew he knew I was lying. The real question was how far he’d go to prove the point.
Orton reunited me with Bebe and we returned to the hotel in silence. In the lobby I collected a fat envelope from the desk, then went to the room where I collected my travel bag before driving to the airport. We were late, but made the gate just in time. I settled back to yet another plane trip, yet another ride on the knife-edge of extinction.
Dear Jack,
I suppose I always knew you wouldn’t meet me. Why should you? You know nothing of me. I feel that perhaps I should have told you more, then you would have come, but it’s too late now. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in my life, if there’s one rule I live by, it’s never to regret what’s happened. Understand by all means, but never regret—it’s such a devouring pastime and one that leads nowhere.
Why did I want to meet you? That’s such a complicated question, yet at the same time so simple.
I think in the end it was more for you than me, although I admit there’s much about seeing you that will calm me. It’s for you, though, Jack, that I worry more. I know there’s pain, and all I want to do is ease that pain. Perhaps when you’ve read this you’ll still find the time to come, although I admit time, money and patience are wearing thin. At least with this letter I will have given you an answer, one that I hope will remove your worries.
I wanted to tell you a story. Here it is.
Have you ever been to Marrakech? It’s a wonderful place. I was once told that you don’t talk about Marrakech, you have to experience it. Never was a truer word spoken. But of course I must try to tell you of the golden stone walls at sunset, the ochre buildings profiled against a clear blue sky, the palm tree oasis leading the eye to the snow-capped Atlas Mountains in the distance. In the square I would watch snake charmers and jugglers perform for the tourists, while the storytellers attracted the true citizens.
In the Café de France I met Edward. He never really told me what he did in the city—‘something in carpets’ he’d say as if that explained everything. To escape a Europe on the verge of imploding, he had gone to Morocco in 1968 with two friends on a hippie excursion and when they grew bored he stayed on. Edward might have traded his mane of long hair for a neat short back and sides with a precise parting and replaced the kaftan with a white linen suit, but his business was only semi-legitimate, he’d explain with a twinkle in his eye. There was mystery aplenty to draw me to him and next day he helped me take my bags from the Hotel Ichbilia to his tiny one-room apartment on the Rue Souq al-Kebir. It was my first and last holiday romance. At least I have that experience, if precious few others.
He insisted on taking me to the desert. It would be his privilege, and besides, he told me, he’d spent years by himself and it was nice to have someone else around for a while. He left me in no doubt that ours was a temporary liaison. He was answerable to no one and could do whatever he wanted when he wanted; Edward’s life centred only on Edward.
Once we were back in Marrakech, Edward invited me to accompany him to one final destination, one he assured me I would enjoy, and we drove northeast to the Cascades d’Ouzard.
The falls were broken into ten or so streams of water that dropped nearly a hundred metres to pools below like so many sparkling ribbons. Above them a patch of rainbow formed in the spray and the sound of water thundered in the gorge. A dusty path led down to the river and I somewhat reluctantly left the cool sanctuary of an olive tree’s shade and descended in the fierce midday heat to the water below.
We rested a while before clambering across the rocks to a more secluded area. Edward took the lead. He skirted one pool, then started to climb a boulder as tall as himself, his feet slipping on the slimy sides. At the tip he surveyed the area as though he was a king and pointed to one side. ‘There’s a beautiful spot over there. Let’s take a look.’ I followed him up the boulder and when he offered his hand I accepted. There was a moment when I felt my feet give way and I thought I might fall. Instantly his grip tightened and he pulled me to safety. His strength was surprising.
We entered a little grove where we were completely hidden from the falls and any other tourists. There was a small pool, no more than two metres across, crystal clear and still. I leant over the rock edge. Perfectly reflected in the water I saw the rocky sides of the gorge with the bushes clinging to them, and the sky above. I even thought I saw the dunes of the desert and the crazy throngs of Marrakech, as though everything wonderful I’d experienced was entwined and visible in that pellucid water. Without moving, I called Edward over and asked him what he saw.
Do you know what he said, Jack? Do you know what he saw in that magical pool?
‘One handsome guy called Edward,’ he replied. ‘You need to look beyond yourself,’ I said, but he had already turned his back and begun to climb out of the grove.
You could be his son, Jack. Like Edward you see only yourself. Don’t turn your back. That’s what I wanted to say to you. I wanted to tell you to look beyond yourself.
If you change your mind I’m at 26 Whittly Place, Avondale. However, my time here is short.
If I could have turned the plane around I would have done so, taken a taxi and settled my disquiet by meeting this person. I was no longer afraid of her; it was my curiosity that needed calming. Now I wanted to keep my appointment, now I wanted to talk to her. But it was too late and there was nothing I could do. We landed in Wellington that night, took in some interviews the following morning, a sound check in the afternoon and my show in the evening. After a brief reception I was to leave that night for America.
I thought when I arrived in New Zealand that I would be anxious to leave and in some ways I was—sour thoughts of my past and the interview with Ryan had done little to make the stay enjoyable—but a part of me was now screaming to stay.
You’d think I had enough on my plate as I set out across the Pacific. However, life sometimes just keeps digging the shit. Bebe casually passed me the latest copy of New Scientist, picked up in Wellington Airport. Perhaps he hoped that the casualness of the moment might somehow take away the bite of the contents. It didn’t. The front cover boasted a multicoloured pattern revolving around a diagonal axis. Above the graphic was the headline, ‘The Patterns of Life’, and below it the promise of an article and interview with Frank Driesler. Oh, I could hardly wait.
The Patterns of Life
* * *
We live in fascinating times. First came Jack Mitchell and Superforce, now comes Frank Driesler and his Life Patterns. Science is on a rollercoaster and for most of us it’s becoming harder to predict where the ride will end. However, Driesler thinks he has all the answers and in his new self-published book sensation, The Patterns of Life, he sets out to answer them. He makes bold claims about changing the face not only of physics, but of biology, economics and even psychology. He doesn’t just want to change the way we do science; he wants to change its very nature. He tells Barbara Clay how he’s doing it and shares his thoughts about the future for the sometimes uneasy relationship between society and science.
What is so wrong with the old way of doing science?
I’m not saying everything that has been done should be thrown out. I just believe we have taken a wrong path and it’s time to put that right. The line from Galileo, through Newton to Einstein and now Mitchell is mathematical. However, although great technological advances have been built on this maths it doesn’t take us any closer to really understanding why things are the way they are. We have slaved for three centuries over equations that we hope will explain how everything works, but they don’t, not really. An equation might describe the orbit of the earth around the sun, but it can’t explain the simplest organism. It is time to find out what lies behind nature’s mask, to find out how things really work, not just an abstract mathematical description.
And you think you have the answer. Can you explain how it works?
The idea is rather simple. Instead of equations I use rules. For example, take spots on a cheetah. Our conventional teaching tells us that the array of patterns is the result of genetic mechanisms, but I really don’t think that’s right—nature is working to rules that create those patterns. On a computer I can generate a program that mimics the cheetah’s markings and the rules behind the program are really simple and quite basic. It’s the same with the solar system: if I draw the orbits of the planets I make a pattern, one that I can recreate on a computer with a program based on simple rules. Therefore one does not need a crafted mathematical formula to explain the orbits, all you need are the rules to make the pattern.
The beautiful thing is that you can reverse the process. I’ve written programs from which I find the resulting pattern mimics something found in the real world, for example a butterfly wing. From these simple rules grows complexity.
Who makes the rules?
I’m not sure anyone ‘makes’ them. The question is a philosophical or religious one and is no different from asking who or what made the equations that currently underpin physics. What I’m saying is that nature conforms to basic rules that are not mathematically based and to understand them we have to look beyond the maths because maths as a tool doesn’t help us here.
All those out there who struggle with maths should rejoice, because they will no longer be excluded from the scientific elite. Physics will no longer be a club where the price of admission is the cult of higher maths. It will also help people from all fields to contribute across the various disciplines.
This leads on to comments you’ve made about these rules crossing the boundaries of our science disciplines. Why is that important?
Specialisation is a curse on modern society. We cram ourselves into ever tighter compartments and we lose so much in the process. We fail to see the wider picture, fail to appreciate how everything is connected. This doesn’t just happen in science, it happens everywhere. We only have to look at law or medicine to see how specialisation forces people into increasingly small boxes. You can’t see the whole sky if you’re looking at a small patch out of the top of your box; just think about what you might be missing, what wonders might be out of sight. There might be this solitary grey cloud over your piece, but the rest is a beautiful blue.
What I like about the rule-based understanding of nature is that it breaks the walls down. If basic rules explain, for example, economics, which I think they do, then the physicist can do economics and vice versa. At the moment everything is disconnected and so people just don’t communicate with each other any more, they shout because there are all these box walls around. Who listens to the shouting man?
Do you think science and society communicate?
On the whole I don’t think they do communicate and that is a real loss. Part of the reason is that the deeper science becomes, the less the ordinary person understands.
Are we back to the maths thing?
That’s right. I mean, apart from a handful of physicists, who understands spiral field maths? Yet to truly understand Mitchell’s Superforce, one must know how the maths works. Those who don’t are excluded and rely on what others tell them. That robs almost everyone of true unde
rstanding. And if you don’t understand you can never truly appreciate.
It seems you’ve done a lot of talking about Mitchell over the past few months.
I think a lot of it has been exaggerated by the media, but there is a very basic difference between us. Don’t get me wrong: I think Mitchell has done some good things. Some of the work he has put into his show helps to explain the impact science has on our society and that’s a good thing. For example, helping people understand how Einstein has contributed to the laser and so to modern mass communications really does help to break open those boxes I’ve been talking about and it’s good for improving the communication between science and society. Yet, Mitchell himself is still in his own mathematical box, however smart and special that box might be. His theory doesn’t explain everything. I think it’s a really basic mistake to think that just because you can unite relativity and quantum you can explain the universe. In fact I think it’s arrogance beyond measure. In the past, physicists said that once we united these grand theories we would have an understanding of everything. Well, we have believed our own press, but, of course, it doesn’t explain very much of nature; it doesn’t explain why the butterfly has a patterned wing.
The other thing I’m unsure of about Mitchell is the way he goes about informing. He seems to live this lavish life of the rock star. Where is the humility? Where is the humanity for that matter? I think there’s a moral and ethical standard for a scientist and he’s eroding that standard by the way he conducts himself.
You seem to be questioning his ethics. Why?
In a way I am, yes. Let me explain. I think in many respects Francis Bacon has proved to be the greatest prophet in history. In 1627 he published The New Atlantis, which told the story of a traveller shipwrecked on the shores of a fabulous land where man has discovered that science can serve faith and restore him to the state of grace before the Fall. Man achieves this goal by controlling nature through the technologies that flow from science. This improves the people’s material lives and thus leads them to happiness. The land is ruled by Solomon’s House, a group of scientist priests who improve lives morally, not just materially.