Gravity's Chain

by Alan Goodwin

  Quickly I was on my feet and pulling Mary clear of the water. She stood, but there was no strength in her legs and she buckled under her own weight. Half carrying, half stumbling, I managed to get her across the rocks, over the road and to the shelter of the cliff where we leant against its solid face, panting for breath. The waves were calmer, but I knew it was just a matter of seconds before bigger ones would come again. I hauled Mary over my shoulder, dropped my head and ran as fast as I could. Another wave crashed over the rocks and swept down the road, but I kept my balance and pushed on regardless. Finally, with no further monster waves, I came to the end of the road and felt the welcome softness of sand. Clumsily I lowered Mary and sank to my knees, panting. Mary was awake but silent, her body convulsed with shivers. Her cheeks were white and her lips blue. The hollow look in her eyes frightened me and I knew there was a new threat now. Although far from rested I stood and hitched her back onto my shoulders.

  Fatigue attacked as I was halfway back to the bach. Wind and rain still tore at me, but their discomforts were nothing compared with the screaming complaints of my body. Shoulders, legs, back and arms were all stretched to breaking point. I imagined muscle and tendons breaking strand by strand with almost audible pings.

  I couldn’t climb the bank from the beach to the bach with Mary on my shoulders so I ended up dragging her. I’d crawl, then turn and start hauling her dead weight up the slope, the sand giving way and slipping us back, but never to the starting point: each time there was a gain. Several times Mary groaned and feebly pushed out a leg, but her efforts were hopeless. Once we were on the grass at the summit of the bank I could only pull her to the bach as though she were a dead body ready for burial. The last act was to drag her inside and slam the door shut on the storm.

  I didn’t even contemplate the stairs but got Mary into the downstairs bedroom where I’d last seen Caroline alive. She lay on the floor, murmuring as her body shook with cold. Upstairs I found some old trackpants and a sweatshirt. Mary was now close to unconsciousness, her eyes rolling in their sockets. I fought with her sopping clothes, yanking at trousers, jumper and shirt. She wore no bra. The sudden revelation took my breath away. Her breasts were as I remembered, pale and strong, the dark nipples erect from the cold. Slow with guilt I bent and laid the lightest of kisses on each nipple.

  Appalled, I quickly struggled with the sweatshirt, then lifted her into the bed and tucked the blankets under her chin. I made up two hot water bottles and put them on either side of her.

  For once I deserved a drink. I drank tequila and listened to the wind and sea as they slowly calmed. Suddenly I felt colder than I could ever remember and I shivered uncontrollably. Finally I allowed myself the luxury of savouring my achievement. I had saved Mary. I had prevented her loss and I felt the joy of triumph. The drink washed over my tired and aching body and disturbed my stomach. I drank through the remnants of the storm and fell asleep on the sofa as the wind abated and the rain died to the occasional drizzle.

  The sky was clear in the morning and the air electric clean as always after a storm. Gulls squawked with delight as they paraded on the beach, poking and prodding an array of gourmet treats washed up the night before. Waves gently rolled on shore without the power to trouble a toddler. There was a half glass of tequila left in the bottle, which I finished with one gulp. With some caution I went to Mary’s room. I’d never considered that she might die in the night, but now, in the cold light of day, it struck me as a distinct possibility. I opened the door and with great relief saw her move.

  ‘Is that you, Jack?’ Her voice was feeble and she coughed.

  ‘Yes.’

  I hesitated at the door. ‘Come in,’ she urged.

  ‘I’ll make you some coffee.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack, thank you for saving my life.’

  ‘Christ, Mary, at one point I thought you’d gone. I thought I’d never see you again.’

  Her voice cracked and she fought back a sob. ‘Me too.’

  I sat on the side of her bed, both of us lost for words, as though what had happened was too much for us to contemplate and erased all our history. ‘I’ll make that coffee.’

  She didn’t have the strength to answer and simply lay back in bed, her eyes slowly closing. She slept most of the day, waking only in the afternoon for a drink before sleeping again. By the following day she’d regained some strength and easily sat up in bed for coffee.

  Satisfied that she was comfortable, I set about the task of removing the boards from the front windows. Within minutes, though, I felt exhausted again and for the first time realised how draining the rescue had been. Although I had regained some strength, I regretted having started, but was determined to keep going, so I took shutters back to the boat shed, storing them where they’d been kept before.

  ‘Is this where she died?’

  Mary’s voice made me jump. Pale and shaky, she was standing in the door, just where I had been when I found Caroline.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Where did she…hang herself from?’

  I pointed to the middle of the shed and the central beam where I’d found her hanging. For the briefest of moments I saw her again, saw those slowly swinging feet and their painted toenails. ‘There.’

  Mary shuddered, stared at the spot for a minute and walked away. My instinct was to follow, but instead I finished the job of replacing the boards. It was an hour before I sought out Mary, who was sitting in the front room nibbling on some toast. Tired beyond belief, I lay on the sofa. ‘Mary, I need to know what you meant in the hospital.’

  ‘I know.’ She stared at the sea. ‘You broke my heart when you went with Caroline.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And do you know what hurt the most?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never saw me and told me to my face—you never took responsibility for what you did. You sent Caroline to do your dirty work and you just slid away.’

  ‘I turned my back, Mary, I know that—it was what my mother was trying to tell me.’ Mary looked quizzically at me, but there was no need to explain. Don’t turn your back, look beyond yourself, she had written: the message couldn’t have been clearer. ‘What did you mean in the hospital, about my being responsible for Caroline’s death?’

  ‘For so long it amazed me just how ignorant you were of the effect of what you did. You never used to be that way, but it was as though some cosmic switch was thrown in your head and you just forgot about other people. No one mattered but you and Caroline. You forgot that actions have consequences. You refused to take responsibility.’

  ‘But I didn’t kill Caroline.’ I sat with my head bowed, my chin almost on my chest. My words were barely audible.

  She laughed and threw back her head. ‘You did, Jack. You mightn’t have dragged her out there and strung her up over that bloody beam, but you might just as well have. I have to take some blame—I accept that. That’s my penance.’ The first tears slid down her cheek. ‘Believe me, I still lie awake at night and want to scream at the dark.’

  ‘Why do you take any blame, Mary?’ For the first time I looked at her. I was shaking.

  ‘After you and Caroline came back from England and the arrangements were made for Caroline to meet Mum and Dad, they were so happy. I’d never seen them so happy. You have no idea just how much Caroline’s estrangement hurt them. It was bad enough for me, but they used to sit in silence night after night, unable to even broach the subject. They only talked about what she’d done as a child. That’s all they had, the past—the future was gone. And then suddenly, as though she’d risen from the dead, she was back. And then she failed to show up that night at the restaurant and all the shit started again. I hated her for that. It’s funny, but after all the stuff with you and going away and her letter, I never actually hated her, but I did that night because she’d given them hope and taken it away again. She had to be punished, Jack, she had to be pun
ished for putting us through all that again.’ She was sobbing.

  ‘What did you do?’ Seeing her so distraught brought the first tears to my eyes.

  ‘The morning she died she’d rung me. She was so upset. You’d argued and she was so desperate she had to talk to someone, and there was no one but me.’

  I remembered the broken phone from the morning of her death, the cord snaking across the floor.

  ‘There was my chance, so I told her about the letter, Jack. I told her about our letters. I told her how you’d apologised on the bottom of her vile letter from London and I told her how we carried on writing after that. It couldn’t have been worse. Shagging she could have understood—sex wasn’t that important—but she thought she had your entire mind, your wonderful bloody mind, but she didn’t. I had some of it still and she couldn’t bear that betrayal.’

  ‘You should have told me.’ I gripped my head in my hands.

  ‘I blamed you too much. If you hadn’t written those words at the end of her letter, none of this would have happened, but there was that little bit of kindness left in you—and it was enough to kill her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ I whispered in my grief.

  ‘You’ve repaid your debt now, Jack. There’s no need to be sorry.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, there are much greater debts for me to pay, believe me.’

  Detective Ryan,

  I’m writing to tell you I wish to amend the statement I made about the unfortunate death of Jo Thompson. I lied. I know you never believed me, and you were right to be so suspicious. I’m available for re-interview at any time.

  I was in the room with Jo and the Russian prostitute. Drugs were taken. Honestly, I can’t remember where they came from. I had enough in that room to knock out an elephant.

  For too long I’ve avoided the truth of what I did. Well, no longer. I lied to you and to Jo’s family and you all deserve to know the truth.

  Yours faithfully,

  Jack Mitchell

  THE NEW ZEALAND HERALD

  Mitchell Sentenced

  * * *

  At the Auckland High Court yesterday world-renowned New Zealand scientist Jack Mitchell was sentenced to one year’s supervision.

  The 30-year-old founder of the Superforce theory pleaded guilty to a charge of perverting the course of justice. The charges arose following the death of 31-year-old Joanne Thompson at Auckland Hospital in March of this year. Thompson died from a cocaine overdose, taken at a celebrity party at the Hilton Hotel held for Mitchell following his successful national speaking tour.

  When interviewed by police, Mitchell denied any involvement but later admitted his role in the cover-up. In mitigation, Mitchell’s counsel confirmed that the charges and court appearance had ended his lucrative contract with the Taikon Corporation and that the cancellation of Mitchell’s shows across the United States, together with the loss of other commercial deals, had left him bankrupt and out of work.

  In sentencing Mitchell, Justice Simon Paine told him that he was one of the world’s most gifted men and it personally saddened him to see him before the court. However he accepted that Mitchell’s belated actions in admitting his role and his plea of guilty saved him from a custodial sentence.

  Outside court, Mitchell asked to be left alone to start work again.

  Dear Jack,

  I’m sorry I’ve left it so long to write. I know I should have said something before, but somehow it all seemed too hard. I read about your sentence. I’m glad you avoided prison—you certainly didn’t deserve that.

  Things were pretty rough after your little confession. My God, meeting after meeting, more debriefs than if I was a spy coming in from the cold. Mason was as wild as any man could be without bursting blood vessels. He swore vengeance against you, and I think he got what he wanted. He could never understand how, having got away with it, you turned yourself in. I tried to persuade him just to release you, but that isn’t his way, and no one was listening to me any more. I warned you this would happen. Taikon will make sure you never get anything. You won’t be able to fart without having to pay for it.

  As for me, well, I survived. You know me. In fact I’ve been assigned to look after your old sparring partner, Frank Driesler. Yes, I thought that might amuse you. Nothing has been announced, but he has been signed up as the next big thing. I’ve only met him twice and both times he could do little but talk about you. He really is quite obsessed. Only time will tell, but I’m sure it won’t be anywhere near as much fun as the time with you.

  I miss you, Jack. You were a complete idiot at times, but there was never a dull moment with you. I admire you for that; in fact I admire you for what you did. Taikon can take all the material stuff away from you, but they can never take away your genius. Your achievement will be with all of us until the day the human race just gives up.

  Finally, I’m sorry about the Nobel not going your way. It will be yours one day, once all the rage has died down and what you did in that hotel room is forgotten. If anyone deserves it, you do.

  I hope one day we meet again.

  Regards,

  Bebe

  SIXTEEN

  I woke early as the first daylight spilt over the horizon. The sea was calm and the clouds high; it was a perfect day for fishing. There was a rhythm to my days now, so much slower, so much more purposeful than before. Lazily I set about making a pot of tea. ‘Tea’s on the bench, we’re leaving in twenty minutes,’ I called up to the bedroom.

  There was an early morning chill and a gentle breeze rustled the treetops. In the boat shed fridge I found a trevally and cut it into strips for bait. I cranked the tractor and followed the time-honoured procedure. Ted from the bach at the far end of the bay had already parked his tractor and was waiting for me to pull up behind him.

  ‘Ready for some marlin, Jack?’

  ‘Hope so, Ted.’

  He tipped his cap to the back of his head to check the sky and we walked along the beach together.

  ‘Will you two come along for a drink and a game this evening?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Maybe, Ted, I’ll let you know what we’re up to later.’

  He nodded and returned to his boat, whistling tunelessly.

  I glanced at the rock outcrop in the distance. The day after the storm was the last time I had seen Mary. Whatever hopes I may have harboured, there was no grand reunion.

  In the six months since we had spoken on the phone and exchanged the odd message. A peace of sorts was declared, but it was never enough for her to forgive me the past. Or so she said. I wasn’t so sure. We had a history, a grand history, and that’s never easy to forget. Mike had told me that she was thinking of going to Australia to teach. He said it every time we spoke, but still she remained in New Zealand. I couldn’t help but think that one day, perhaps when I least expected it, I’d look up to see her driving along the beach and back to me.

  Back at the bach I went to the kitchen.

  ‘You really do make the most awful tea, Jack.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  He poured his drink down the sink. ‘You put too many bags in and it’s stewed to buggery.’ He poured hot water into the pot and added just one bag. ‘Looks like a beautiful day, we should catch something today.’

  ‘I reckon. Ted would like us to go for a game tonight—I said we might.’ I waited for Dad to finish his tea. ‘I forgot to tell you, the lawyer rang yesterday—settlement on the house has been brought forward a week.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Once we have the money we can really get this place into shape.’

  We fished all day with limited success and returned home in the late afternoon. I towed the boat back to the shed and watered her down. After a shower I asked Dad about going out, but he felt too tired, so I strolled along the beach, my feet kicking the gentle surf, to tell Ted. When I returned Dad was asleep on the sofa. I checked my phone. There was a missed call from Mike and a message from Mary. It said nothing in particular
—they never did—but it was contact and while it continued there was hope.

  On one side of the front room was the small wooden desk I’d bought at a second-hand furniture shop in Whangarei. Spread across the top were pieces of paper covered with my reworked pencil equations of Einstein’s cosmological constant. This was a more modest endeavour than the spiral field maths I’d first glimpsed in the rain patterns on the window, and the chances of publication were nil—thanks to Taikon. But I didn’t care. I pondered sitting down to the last series of numbers, but it was too nice an evening, it could wait for another day. After covering Dad with a blanket I went and lay on the bank leading to the beach. Listening to the sea I lay back and watched the stars’ nightly rebirth as darkness came.

  Excerpt

  When Jack Mitchell watched streams of water pouring down a window pane after another fight with his wife, he glimpsed the infinite.

  At last he grasps the elusive chain of thought which will ultimately lead to his solution of the scientific disparity between the theories of Relativity and Quantum. However, amidst the triumph of creating the radical new Superforce Theory, the young scientist’s wife has her own appointment with eternity.

  Her suicide the day after Superforce’s birth begins a reckless journey for Jack. The technological implications of Superforce are immense and, as first his theory and then his life are taken over by a multinational corporation, Jack begins to unravel. With his life spinning dangerously out of control, his corporate minders, who are grooming him for a Nobel Prize and a return on their investment, send him home to New Zealand to cool off. But a rival theory emerges and in the tense months leading up to the Nobel announcement old demons re-emerge…and someone who knows him very well begins sending anonymous letters that stir painful memories…with disastrous consequences.