"Don't bother. You're evens now."
"Wasn't four people a bit of an over reaction?"
Elaine came over to look at the pages spread out before Wallet on the dining table. "Don't ask too many questions, Rob. A few scores were settled last night." Elaine ran a sharpened fingernail across the Times, slicing the paper open at the headline. "So, you're our manager now? Does Susan know that?"
"Their words, not mine."
"Mm. Don't start to believe everything you read in the press. But then I don't need to tell you that, do I?"
6 (April)
After the washing up was done and everything dried and tidied away, the moment came for Patrick Wells to relax. His ritual now, as an evening of homework marking began, was to carefully and fastidiously select the right music to supplement his mood and prepare him mentally for the grammatical battlefield ahead. The study of his house was a small converted bedroom. It had a large desk facing the window and an antique low backed chair with hand carved arms crafted from rosewood. One wall was covered by shelves of reference books, another concealed by his record collection and it was here at approximately seven pm every night that Wells would run an index finger across the spines of his album sleeves looking for the right choice. The perfect choice.
His day had been fraught, yet no more nerve shredding than usual. His evening meal was still settling, but the choice of wine had been good enough to prevent too much interruption. Now his gaze glided across John Coltrane and Robin Trower before arriving at Pat Metheny. Jazz, blues, no, he wasn't free wheeling tonight, he wasn't feeling smooth enough to let his homework soundtrack mollycoddle the text-speak interpretations of Twelfth Night; he needed something edgier to counter the gangsta cap poppin and bitch lickin of Aguecheek and Malvolio.
He continued on past Loreena MacKennitt's Alhambra concert; too much attention needed there. Dan ar Braz was seriously considered, but then the Celtic sounds might start to make him confrontational. He wasn't looking for a fight. He passed Stravinsky and Mussorgsky, even Elgar drifted by, dismissed as too bombastic. James Last, Mantovani, Matt Munro. Not even the toothy charms of Olivia Newton John circa 1972 could stop his roving finger! Wells stood back a moment, hands on hips, his square shoulders topping off a tall mathematically angular body as his head looked right, left, up and down. Maybe he should just continue listening to Radio 4 until his mind was made up. Perhaps Mark Lawson would have the answer.
"HelloPacoGrano's new one man show at the Omnicon in Washington finally arrives at Covent Garden after two years of legal arguments. I'll be asking him what it's like to be caught up in the expensive world of the corporate lawyer. The comeback announcement of seventies band Toten Herzen has once more put the subject of old rockers who can't give up their guitars back into the spotlight. And why an Iraqi film about tortured Sunni insurgents is causing headaches for organisers of the first Liverpool Film Festival."
Wells had frozen. His whole body solidified in a tight, gripping strangulation. The wall of record sleeves was suddenly an unrecognisable puzzle of narrow lines and slivers of meaningless titles. This was a tiny room, he thought. A tiny world. A world in which time wasn't linear, it was all around us, swirling and swooping like a flock of birds. He sat down, swivelling his antique chair to face the radio and waited; waited for the feature on Paco Grano to end, waited for the Sunni insurgents to miss out on a chance to tell their story to the festival-goers in Liverpool. No, he waited to hear how and why Toten Herzen were coming back now, why now and not in a hundred years or a thousand years or any time long enough for Wells to die without hearing it, seeing it, experiencing it and all the sick nastiness that followed them as surely as plague follows infected rats.
An unsteady personal truce that had lasted thirty years was gone in a moment. All the bad feelings that had settled like sediment would now be stirred up again. Outside the study the sun had already set. Wells knew it would return in the morning, but he could feel an inner sunlight fading. The stubby pile of exercise books on his desk was the first victim of anger churning inside him: they were scattered across the room. He pinched his forehead, pushed himself back from the table immediately regretting what he had just done and stepped out around his desk to gently pick them all up. But there, already, the dagger-like logo of Toten Herzen had been carefully drawn on one of the covers. He shook his head. Why is this happening now? Slumping into his chair and faced with the outward symbol of a group of people he detested, he mined his subconscious, dug down and extracted every particle that might provide a response.
After three hours of silence he found the answer.
Terence Pearl: Blog post
Are we at risk from ourselves? Human and antihumans cannot exist side by side in a relativistic universe.
A question that came up in a recent pub quiz I frequent left me in a confused state for several days. It was a trick question: who devised the thought experiment known as Schrödinger’s cat? Now the obvious answer is of course, Erwin Schrödinger (a detail predictably lost on the other quiz contestants), but the reason for leaving its mark on me wasn't the fact that the question came up, but the implications of the original experiment. In short, a cat in a box is either dead or alive; until the box is opened and the cat's condition observed it is both dead and alive.
The idea that a cat can be both dead and alive is called superposition: being in two opposite states at the same time, and the reduction to one state at the moment of observation is described as a collapse. There have been numerous interpretations of the experiment, but what struck me was the possibility that the issue of matter and antimatter had not been taken into account. If everything has a duplicate, it's anti-form, let's call it, then objects can exist in two states. Not necessarily alive and dead, but in some other form of superposition. That would mean somewhere in the universe there is another Terence Pearl!
Associates of mine would probably shriek at the thought of there being two copies of me, but Yves Sunier and Diana May Ronson at the Institute of Quantum Biological Studies in Vienna have considered the possibility and implications of every human being possessing an anti-matter version of themselves. In a recent paper published in the Vienna School's journal they gave a name to this anti-human: the Janome, after the double faced Roman god Janus, and postulate what properties a Janome would have. Where antimatter differs in that it has opposite charge and spin to matter, a Janome would have to portray some outward (anti)human equivalent of this opposition.
So, just as scientists question why matter seems to outweigh antimatter in the observable universe, an asymmetry brought about by baryogenesis, Sunier and Ronson have left open the question: where are the Janomes?
All around us, according to Alexei Berkoff, the Ukrainian philosopher and author of the book Quantum Effect and Supernature (Megelev, 2002). Berkoff argues that all elements of myth and folklore can be explained by looking to quantum mechanics and theoretical physics. In a symposium held in September 2011 at the University of Kiev, Berkoff, Sunier and Ronson shared a stage and discussed the possibility that Janomes could account for the myth of the vampire, werewolf, ghosts and other elemental forms that are found throughout the world's cultures in their folklore.
Accepting for a moment the idea that the vampire is an example of a Janome, separated from its original body it would contain a different physiology on account of the charge and spin of its component antiparticles, it could be prone to annihilation if it came into contact with some bosons and hadrons (the particles responsible for forces), it might well interact differently with light resulting in three dimensional shadows where its four dimensional self blocks out antiphotons (Solidity of Nothing: the effect of anti-light in four dimensional space. Wadjanewski and Soamas, 2009).
What Berkoff refuses to be drawn on is what happens to the real human if the antihuman comes into existence? 'That is a postulation that strays too far into moralistic philosophy, which Erwin Schrödinger may have been prepared to discuss, but not me. The ephemera of morality is a
radioactive by-product of factual research.' What is common to many myths and legends is that the human body must first die before its Janome can come into existence.
Is death caused deliberately or accidentally by contact with the Janome? Does it kill us or come into existence after death? Is there a superposition regarding human existence and what causes the collapse that brings about the Janome's life? Sunier and Ronson don't have the answers yet, but as scientists in the field of theoretical and experimental physics continue to unravel one quantum mystery after another we may soon know how these supernatural creatures come to exist and perhaps, if they pose a threat, how to stop them existing in the first place.
7 (April)
The flowering of the daffodils and crocus was an event Terence Pearl could relate to. Finally, after the long winter, and the sneaky hide and seek with early spring cold snaps and snow, these delicate characters were able to safely uncurl their heads and look out across a garden exhausted, but alive. The vivid striped green leaves and chaotic mix of colours were the first tentative musical notes of a composition still in its opening bars, but give it another couple of months and the symphony would be in full flow.
The philadelphus would blind with its white brilliance, the messy hebes spreading their gangly stems over everything around them. Teasels and astilbes wooing the bees and butterflies, as the ajuga continued its mission to carpet the flower beds with its green and purple leaves before throwing up spikes of dark violet blossom. Even the interlopers from the buttercup family and the clover clans would be allowed their days in the sun, polka dotting the rich, springy lawn. It didn't look like that yet, but Pearl's memories were as accurate as a photograph; he knew where everything was, what it would look like, how it would make him feel. Green finches and the resident greedy blackbird would provide a choral backing, arguing territory with the blue tits and wobbling wild pigeons blundering in for their scraps of dried bread. The sudden surprise of a leaping frog and the bashful delight of a wandering hedgehog would add the finishing touches to his carefully crafted, meticulously managed Suffolk haven on the edge of the village of Westerfield.
And then there was the tree. Out of the corner of his eye Pearl could see Cedric next door in his kitchen. Washing, brewing up, polishing his cutlery; without sight of his hands it was impossible to know exactly what Cedric was up to, but you could bet any minute now he would be out, standing at the fence to engage in small talk that was merely a pretence to raise the subject of the tree. Here he came. Cedric vanished from the window and his back door opened.
"Hello, Terence."
"Cedric."
"Bit warmer than the weekend."
"Yes. I think there's another cold blast coming though. Maybe one more and then we can relax."
"Aye." Cedric was studying Pearl's garden enviously. Cedric's garden was a cliché. Square lawn, straight path down to the shed. A rag tag of shrubs planted with no awareness of colour combinations or consideration for complimentary forms and textures. He had a potentilla next to a berberis! No height contrast, similar leaf size. It was offensive. But what did Cedric know? He was a retired engineer. His shed was probably bomb proof, but the garden was an affront to aesthetic study.
"It'll be time for a first cut."
"Yes. Be nice to see the stripes in the lawn again, Terence. I still don't know how you do it."
Now that's a bare face lie, thought Pearl. Cedric was told every year to get a mower with a heavy roller, not one of the plastic excuses that doesn't flatten the grass after the blades have passed over it. But no, Cedric doesn't listen and he doesn't listen because he's only after one thing.
"And the tree will be a bit bigger this year. You don't mind if I trim some of the branches again? Keep Wanda from complaining, you know."
"No, not at all." Why doesn't Wanda say this? She gives Cedric the bullets to fire. The tree's branches don't go anywhere near the washing, but Wanda won't have it. It's a territorial thing. Pearl's tree was invading Wanda's space, but Wanda never came out to argue. Instead she sent Cedric forward to start the argument and Cedric wasn't man enough to stand up to her.
"Can I ask you something, Terence," said Cedric leaning on the fence, pushing it forward by several millimetres.
"What?"
"At the quiz last night, Tony's Tractor Boys won the play off, but they were wrong weren't they? The first communications satellite was Telstar not Sputnik."
"It was. I've said for a while now the reason we never win is because we keep coming up with all the right answers." Pearl could hear the phone ringing.
"It's about time we told the question setter. . . ."
"Excuse me Cedric, I need to answer that." Cedric complied. The fence sprang back a few millimetres as Pearl jogged into the house, through the kitchen, down the short corridor and grabbed the phone. "Hello, Terence Pearl."
"Good morning."
"Oh, hello." Pearl repositioned the solitary umbrella in the rack next to the front door.
"How are you, hope you're well?"
"Oh pottering, you know."
"Good, good. Liked the article, by the way. Very informative."
"Oh thank you. Pretty good opening salvo, I thought," Pearl said.
"Yes." The word came out with an uncertain drag about it. "Thing is Terence, it was all true wasn't it?"
"True. I'm not sure what you're implying. Yes, it was researched and checked if that's what you mean."
"Yes. And a fine piece of writing it was, don't get me wrong, but I felt it could have been, how can I put this, more sensational."
"I see."
"Good. The whole point of this exercise is to provoke and I mean get people talking, not in an inspirational sort of way, there's a time and a place for all that, but cause a stir, whip things up a bit, put Schrödinger’s cat amongst the pigeons." The voice laughed heartily.
"Oh, very good, very droll. I wish I'd thought of that." Pearl spoke with all his weight on the umbrella, rocking back and forth.
"Maybe the next one, you can make it a bit more... dare I say controversial."
"Controversial?"
"Smoke the bastards out, Terence."
"Ah! Yes." Pearl had owned the umbrella for more years than he could remember. British made, built to last. Not like the ones you buy for a pound, but you get what you pay for.
"I thought you were going to write something about anthropology and the expectations of human behaviour?"
"Yes, waiting for confirmation of some references," said Pearl awkwardly.
"You're not writing for the Royal Academy, Terence. This is the internet. We need to wake up the ignorati, all those antagonistic Janomes that have already collapsed on top of the host body."
Pearl laughed again, but apparently the comment wasn't meant to be funny.
"Are you having second thoughts? I'd rather you were honest with me than make excuses."
"They're not excuses. I always mean what I say," said Pearl. "I was looking for an important reference which eludes me, but I spoke to a friend of mine last night, haven't seen him for months. Apparently he's been ill with an irregular heart beat."
"I'm not interested, Terence."
"No, but I spoke to him and he gave me the nod as to the direction I need to look to find this reference, so, you know, we're good to go."
"You mean you're good to go. I hope you haven't told this friend what you're doing."
"Heavens, no. I've been discreet all along. I keep telling you I haven't mentioned it to a soul."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Terence. I don't mean to put pressure on you. You are doing me an enormous favour and I do appreciate the detail and the level of thought you apply to everything that you do. The education system's loss is my gain and you must remind me of that when I get above myself."
"No, that's all right." The umbrella was not prepared to stay in position. Pearl lifted it and put the point down in a slightly different position . . . It worked.
"I'll look forward to the next article."
"Okay. I'll get onto it right away."
"Thank you. Bye."
Pearl put the phone down and considered the possibility that Cedric was, at that very moment, hacking his tree down to the stump. Or maybe he wasn't. The only way of knowing was to go back outside and observe.
8 (April)
There weren't many people who could wake Todd Moonaj at 4am without being sacked. Since being promoted to Sony's Acting Chief Commissioning Officer (and he often left off the word Acting, or used a small 'a' in his correspondence) he had set out on a drive to find the saviours of the music industry: the pushers and pullers of debate; the engine rooms of fashion, the drivers of trends; those with the magic ability to make headlines that write themselves. And above all anyone who could make a quick buck. To do this he needed his sleep and only Constance, his hand chosen PA, had the authority to wake him, preferably in extreme circumstances such as assassination attempts, deliberate asteroid attack or the end of the world. She wasn't sure which category this message fell into so she had taken a chance and called him anyway.
"This is either a wrong number or it's you Constance," said Moonaj fumbling for the bedside phone.
"It's me, Constance."
"Is it the Soviets or al-Qa’ida?" said Moonaj.
"The Europeans."
"Fuck. As bad as that!" He sat up.
Moonaj listened to a summary before rolling out of bed, putting on his robe and heading for his home office for a conference call. His labrador groggily followed to listen in. Coffee cup in hand, he turned on his computer screen and listened patiently to some incomprehensible jibberdy jabbery history lesson about a lunatic journo who had tracked down a dead band (a dead band!), tried to steal a seventy thousand dollar album sleeve, slept in a tomb in a cemetery, killed the band's bodyguard in a former East German ski resort and walked into the offices of EMI in London with a reunion concert deal. Naturally he had been laughed at and thrown out by security. So he tried a smaller label a few blocks away called Sanatorium Treatment.
We Are Toten Herzen (TotenUniverse Book 1) Page 3