Abigail would appear from time to time to suggest he take a break, watch television with the family or join them for meals, but when he agreed he did so with palpable reluctance. It wasn't really that his feelings for them had diminished; it was just that this thing was somehow bigger than that.
Once or twice, they had become curious as he sat at his computer with the large black headphones covering his ears. Katie had said they made him look like Mickey Mouse and they had all laughed at him.
“You look so engrossed”, Abigail had said. “What on earth are you listening to?”
“Oh, it's just a boring lecture on circuit design,” Peter had lied, closing his laptop and changing the subject. Although sharing the discovery with Abigail might have proved easier in some respects, he was worried where it could lead. Ironically, it was the desire to protect that was now pushing his family away, but in spite of this knowledge he felt powerless to stop.
On his second night back in Bracknell, after tucking the kids into bed, Abigail slipped into a silk negligee in an attempt to entice him to an early night. He realised that turning her down, only to continue work on the laptop, would not be taken well - although if truth be told that was all he longed to do. He forced a smile, closed the PC, and approached his wife. She was still an attractive woman. Her pale skin had lost some elasticity over the years and a few dimples of cellulite had appeared around the thighs, but she had never lacked sex-appeal. Tonight however, as she moved towards him dressed in black lace, swaying her hips, and smiling seductively, Peter felt nothing. At any other time he knew he would have been sufficiently aroused, but currently his libido seemed at an all time low. He tried to feign interest and excitement, but Abigail wasn't fooled.
“Peter. Did something happen while you were up at the lakes?”
“Other than burying my dead brother?” he replied sarcastically.
“You know what I mean.”
“No! I don't think I do.”
“Look, I understand that you're upset at losing Martin, but this is something different. You're distant – distracted - obsessed with something - and you've hardly spent any time with Sam or Kate since you got back. It's just not like you, and I'm concerned.”
“I just need to sort some things out - find some answers - work things through. You know - men are from Mars etcetera - I need some time in my cave.”
Abigail put her robe back on and folded her arms, staring at him intently. “Are you absolutely sure there isn't something you're not telling me?” she asked very slowly, letting her words sink in.
Peter looked into her eyes, wondering how to respond without actually lying. “There's nothing else you need to know.”
She studied his face for a few seconds, her stare glancing from eyes down to mouth, up to forehead and back to eyes again. Abigail could be a formidable lie detector, a talent honed through ruthless interviewing of countless unsuspecting job applicants. She turned away with a huff, clearly not entirely satisfied, but perhaps too tired to argue any more. “I'm going to bed. Just do what you want.”
He briefly considered opening his laptop again, but instead, followed her upstairs.
Brushing his teeth, he stared at the tired, ageing face in the mirror. Unfamiliar bloodshot eyes, underscored with dark shadows and framed with greying wisps of dishevelled hair and a three-day stubble, stared back at him. He suddenly felt unworthy of his wife's latent advances, let alone Isabelle's affections.
In the bedroom, Abigail had switched off her bedside light and was facing the wall. The air was heavy with unresolved anger and frustration. “Would you like me to do the school-run tomorrow?” he asked, getting under the covers.
“That would make a change,” she replied coldly.
“Okay, well, I'll take care of it then. Might even make you a cup of tea, if you play your cards right,” he added hesitantly. There was no reply.
“Okay, good night darling!”
Again no reply.
Peter was awoken by the alternate ringing and vibrating of his mobile on the dresser across the room. The bed was empty and light was penetrating the thin curtains. He glanced at the clock: 9:30am. He had overslept, Damn! Abigail would be on her way back from dropping off the kids. He staggered out of bed, but the ringing stopped before he could pick up. The display showed a missed call from Doug Richards.
In the kitchen, still in his pyjamas, he made himself a cup of tea and entered the study. Powering on the laptop, he dialled Doug's number.
“Y’hello?” came a low pitched grunt from the other end.
“Hi Doug, it's Peter. Sorry I missed your call... How are you doing? Out of hospital yet?
“Doing good thanks. Yes, got out yesterday, just waiting for the results of an EEG.”
“Oh, I didn't realise it was that serious. Are you okay?”
“Guess I'll find out soon enough. Feel all right so far though.”
“Good! So what's up, have you worked out how to put the audio and video together yet?”
“Not exactly, but I did get another idea.”
“I'm listening.”
“Did you say Martin just deleted the files rather than formatting the disk?”
“Yes, but I checked the recycle bin - it was empty.”
“I know, but assuming it was one of the last things he did, then there's a good chance we could still recover the files from his disk using some data-forensics tools. I just sent you the details in an email together with a link to where you can download some software that should do it. Do you still have access to the PC?”
“It's up at my sister-in-law's in the Lake District. I suppose I could make another trip up there later this week.”
“Where do you live?”
“Bracknell.”
“Would you pass anywhere near Wolverhampton on your way up?
“I could do. I'll probably take the M6 through Birmingham, why?
“It's just that I'm going there for Kal's funeral on Friday. Thought it might be useful to meet up, if it's not too far out of your way.”
Peter looked at his diary. “Let's see, Friday...yes, I could do that. It can't be more than a half hour detour, what time's the funeral?”
“One o'clock. I'll send you the address by email.”
“Okay. Well, see you Friday then.”
“See you Friday.”
Two funerals in two weeks, he reflected. He scanned the email and clicked on the link. The data forensics software vendor was offering a free thirty-day trial on their disk recovery suite. Perfect, he thought. Providing they didn't limit the functionality, he could install the software on Martin's PC, recover the files, and then uninstall it without having to part with any money. Starting the download, he leant back, wondering why he hadn't thought of this before. Talking to Doug reminded Peter of his own student days. Looking back, life then had been so simple - no commitments, no ties, just endless possibility and that sense of freedom and invincibility which is the privilege of youth. While the extent of his knowledge had undoubtedly increased since then, he wondered whether his mind was still as sharp. What did they call it – neuroplasticity – the degree to which the brain is able to create the new pathways necessary for learning? How hard would his university course-work seem now? he wondered. Other than skimming the scientific journals once in a while, he had not done any serious maths or physics for years. These days most of the calculations involved in his work were taken care of by the CAD software. Feeling a sudden urge to test himself, Peter decided to go and dig out his old university notes.
Access to the attic was via a hatch in the ceiling of the upstairs landing. As he released the hatch door and pulled down the retractable ladder, a shower of fine reddish-brown dust floated down around him. Climbing the steps, he flicked on the light and looked around. A lifetime of accumulated junk lay scattered in the dim and dusty loft space. Cardboard boxes, odd items of furniture, suitcases, rolls of carpet – all too good to throw away, but evidently not quite good enough to actually use - w
ere heaped across the rafters. Why on earth had they kept all this stuff? As he gazed around at the forgotten fragments of a past life, he was filled with a stifling sense of frustration and regret. Each item triggered memories which seemed to widen the chasm between what could have been and what was. Forty-five years on the planet and what had he really achieved besides a couple of kids and an attic full of junk?
In the far corner, he spotted a box labelled in black marker pen with the word UNI. Inside was a stack of manila folders and four ring binders filled with lecture notes from his undergraduate physics courses. He leafed through a few, but it was all fairly basic – no challenge there. He spotted another box further into the eaves. Stretching awkwardly across the first box and placing one foot on the next rafter, he grabbed the edge and pulled it towards him. Brushing away the dust and cobwebs with the palm of his hand, he peered inside. At once he recognised the contents from his post-graduate research into string theory. This was more like it - finally something to stretch the old grey matter to its limits. He opened one of the notepads detailing his investigations into the possible geometric shapes for the additional spacial dimensions of the universe, as posited by string theory.
In the absence of experiential evidence of such extra dimensions, it was generally assumed they must be curled up into the same tiny sub-atomic scales as the proposed strings of which they were composed. The precise shape of these curled up dimensions was thought to determine the way in which the strings vibrated - similar to the way the size and shape of a violin determines its resonant frequencies and ultimately, the sounds produced.
In string theory, it was hoped that the right shape and hence the right set of resonant frequencies would give rise to the fundamental laws of physics we observe in the universe today. The problem was that there appeared to be an almost infinite number of these shapes and as yet nobody knew how to determine which ones corresponded to reality. There were certain symmetries, which could be used to narrow down the possibilities, and some rather nifty geometrical transformations, which could reduce the complexity of the mathematics, but the task remained one of Herculean proportions.
Just as Peter was trying to recall some of the underlying mathematical processes, he heard the front door slam downstairs. He waited a moment for the shouting to begin, but the house remained eerily quiet. He lifted the box onto a roll of carpet, and crouched down beside it. There was barely sufficient light by which to read, but descending to the study and confronting Abigail was something for which he wasn't yet ready. His mind returned again to the complex six-dimensional forms known as Calabi-Yau shapes, after the two mathematicians to first discover them.
The human brain, having evolved in a world endowed with only three apparent spacial dimensions, was probably incapable of ever visualising these higher-dimensional forms, even though mathematically, such things were quite well understood. This gave such research an abstract feel, causing one to question whether it could have any bearing on the real world or not. The only possible way to get a sense of what a higher-dimensional universe even meant, was by trying to imagine a world with fewer than three, such as in Edwin Abbott's 1883 satirical novella, “Flatland”. Although intended as a comment on the social hierarchy of Victorian culture, the essential idea had been seized upon by both science fiction writers and mathematicians grappling with the notion of higher-dimensional space-time.
Although still requiring leaps of imagination, one could just about force oneself to contemplate beings – Flatlanders - living in a purely two-dimensional world, such as the surface of a piece of paper or the image on a television screen. These rather dull individuals, having neither height nor indeed any notion of up or down, can just swivel around within 360 degrees of lateral movement and interact with other Flatlanders, all appearing as mere horizontal lines to each other. The next step in the thought experiment is to imagine a three-dimensional sphere passing through Flatland from top to bottom. As three-dimensional beings, we humans can easily imagine such a thing, an orange perhaps breaking neatly through the paper. But to the Flatlanders such an event would appear very other-worldly. At first, an orange dot would manifest out of nowhere, grow into a wide orange line before shrinking back to a dot and finally disappearing altogether. Similarly, a four-dimensional sphere, or hypersphere, passing through our own three-dimensional space, would emerge first as a ghostly dot hovering magically in mid-air, gradually expand into a familiar three-dimensional shape before once again shrinking down to nothing.
As Peter mulled over the implications of these apparently science-fictional concepts, he realised once more that the absence of such phenomena in the observable universe, meant that if higher dimensions did exist, they were surely too small to notice. He pulled another notebook from the box, this one containing studies into various aspects of quantum mechanics and field theory. He squinted at the tiny scribblings covering the now slightly yellowing leaves of the pad. The faded blue ink and style of his penmanship across the pages rendered it almost illegible in the current light. He shifted awkwardly trying to capture more of the naked bulb's sparse illumination, but his back was starting to stiffen from crouching in the confined space. He had no choice but to seek out a more comfortable reading environment. Reluctantly, he placed the pads back into the box and began to carry it carefully across to the hatch. A number of loose wooden planks of varying length formed the makeshift walkway across the rafters, but as more and more junk had been dumped in the loft, the walkway had turned into something of an obstacle course. Out of nowhere, a high-pitched scream of “Peter!” rang through the house. For a split second, the muscles of his body tightened in reflex. His right foot jerked sideways slipping from the plank, onto which he had just placed his full weight. He felt the soft glass-fibre insulation compress beneath his slipper, as his arms flailed out in vain for support. Amid this ungainly ballet, the cardboard box launched into the air, and Peter began to topple sideways, sending his right leg through the ceiling below.
“Bugger!” he shouted, as a large section of plaster broke away beneath him, eliciting yet another ear-splitting shriek from below. Peter's pyjama-clad body came to rest across the planks and rafters, one leg dangling through the new and irregular shaped loft opening, the other crumpled painfully beneath him. He then watched in helpless dismay as the box of files and notepads completed its arced trajectory and vanished through the floor of the attic with another plaster-ripping crash a few feet away. This was followed by another loud scream, and a series of dull thuds, as the box tumbled down the staircase beneath.
“What the hell are you doing up there! Jesus Christ, Peter!”
“I'm fine, thanks for asking!”
“Just look at the mess!”
Peter withdrew his leg, and poked his head through the hole to survey the damage. Abigail was standing at the top of the stairs, looking both confused and irate. She was covered in dust and plaster from head to toe, and from Peter's upside down vantage point, looked strangely like an angry clown.
“Well, it was about time that ceiling was repainted,” he offered finally.
“Bloody hell Peter! You do know we have Craig and Vanessa coming to stay this weekend?”
“Oh, not empty suit and the poison dwarf? Do we really?”
“I wish you wouldn't call them that, and yes, don't tell me you'd forgotten.”
“I don't remember ever knowing, let alone forgetting. When do they get here? They're not coming Friday are they?”
“Oh, you're impossible. They'll be here for lunch on Saturday.” She paused, looking at him quizzically, her upside-down head tilting sideways. “Why, what are you planning on Friday?”
“I need to make another short trip up to Littlewick to recover some files I was working on from Martin's PC.”
“You've got to be joking!”
“It's all right, I'll drive up on Friday and be back in time for lunch on Saturday.”
“Leaving me to clear up all this mess, prepare the meals, and get the house tidy
for our guests?”
“Oh for fuck's sake, give me a break will you? I didn't do this on purpose, and despite the pain in my knee - which I seem to have twisted quite badly by the way – not that you'd care – I can Hoover this up in a jiffy.”
She continued looking at him for a moment, shaking her head from side to side, opened her mouth as if to speak, then tutted and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door as she went.
For a few seconds Peter remained with his head through the hole examining the way in which the plaster had broken. It seemed vaguely reminiscent of his earlier thoughts on the Flatland scenario. Although he had never before crashed through the ceiling, he felt a peculiar sense of déjà-vu.
CHAPTER 10
The bright red Mini Cooper sped along the dual carriage way of the A14 carrying the three young friends across Essex and into Cambridgeshire.
“These things are actually surprisingly spacious, aren't they Brian?” said Doug, sliding his seat back into Brian's legs until he yelped in pain, and then inching it forward just a fraction.
“Oh yeah – it's a regular TARDIS!” groaned Brian, shifting over to the seat behind Susan. “Unless you happen to be sat behind some fat bastard in the front, that is! “
“That's no way to talk about Susan,” said Doug with a smirk.
“Now-now children!” said Susan, putting on an upper-class matronly voice. “Stop the squabbling or mummy will get cross and spank you!”
“Is that a promise?” asked Doug.
Susan chuckled and then blushed. She likes me, thought Doug.
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