Alan Goodwin - Gravity's Chain

‘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?’

‘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.’

Driesler had reacted to my outburst, describing me as arrogant and prone to irrational statements. He’d accused me of being more worried about the Nobel Prize than about the truth.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ I knew defeat when I saw it; I just wish I’d done the business with Lucy. That would really have given George something to chew on.

Now Bebe was reminding me he had power in our relationship and I accepted the lesson. Silently he took the evening’s itinerary from his pocket and laid it on the end of the bed before leaving.

I needed more sleep, but that was impossible now. Perhaps Bebe was right: Mary might not go and without her the evening could just be bearable. Shit, who was I kidding? Of course Mary would be there. Mary, my dead wife’s sister: the sharer of secrets. I hadn’t seen her since Caroline’s funeral, when she had just stared and stared: every time I looked up, there she was, meeting my eyes. When I had arrived she was standing with her parents and two sisters, as though joined by the hip rather than by genes and grief. Caroline’s father, frail from arthritis, studied the ground, her mother the sky. It was a fitting symbol of the years of fractures in their marriage. Like many of their generation, they had stayed married long after the love died. Caroline had despised them for their weakness. Mary thought them noble for protecting the children from divorce. The three sisters stood like Kennedy wives, all dressed in stylish black, all with smooth black nylon calves that brought an unwelcome surge of desire. Mary was the only one to acknowledge me, even if it was with hostile eyes. Other family members had offered some welcome, though it wasn’t much more than a whispered hello. The day was bright and sunny and everyone wore sunglasses, to hide wet and red eyes. My dark lenses hid the absence of tears.

I was deep in fatigue at the funeral. After Caroline’s death and the initial burst of police and medical activity I’d worked continuously for three days. Ideas came in a flood during that strange period and I struggled to keep pace with them. Through each day and night, standing at the whiteboard overlooking the sea, I furiously scribbled, printed and erased. This was the final frontier of Superforce; this was when I stormed the city walls of the theory. The details still took a year and refining the paper nearly as long again, but this was when the pieces of spiral field maths and deception were forged. In those three days it was as though I was listening to the most beautifully harmonious music as each note slipped into its rightful place. I knew where every equation belonged and how they all worked together. The feeling brought unbelievable happiness, but it was also the saddest of times—not because Caroline was dead, but because I knew I’d never encounter such heights again.

To be honest the funeral came as an interruption and it showed. Appearances were too mundane for me to consider and I wore old trousers, a blue shirt and faded tie. It was bound to pull some looks, but that wasn’t the reason for Mary’s ferocious stare. She had more to hold against me than bad taste in the clothing department. Guilt and grief are an awful mix, a high-octane emotional fuel. No wonder she behaved that way, no wonder she didn’t speak to me. What could she say? It was all or nothing and she chose nothing. I kind of understood—kind of.

E ven with an early evening drizzle the bars and cafes of the Viaduct were full. This was Auckland’s smart set at play, attempting to impress, talking loudly as though what they had to say was important enough to be heard by everyone. The men were hard at work with the women, cajoling and pushing as far as they would go without a call to the police. Even at a glance it was easy to see those who would succeed and those who would fail. It was all in the eyes. Either they welcomed or they glazed over in the way only the truly bored can achieve. What hard work. I might fleetingly miss the chase, but when I saw it in action I thanked my lucky stars I no longer engaged in the ritual. It was straight to the kill for me.

The drizzle vanished quickly as the lower clouds cleared and a weak sun filtered through. This instant weather change occurred in the space of my walk from one end of the Viaduct to the other. I was back in Auckland all right. I even started sweating as I returned to the Hilton with its sharp white lines designed to conjure up the luxury of a cruise ship. Bebe was anxious to brief me on the press questions for the evening and I have to admit I kept him waiting longer than necessary while I changed. Petty, I know, but sometimes he’s such an easy target.

A small gathering of press and news crew cameramen greeted us at the entrance to the Turkish restaurant in Mission Bay. I was on my best behaviour, politely answering with a smile all the banal questions. Yes, I was happy to be home, yes, I had missed Auckland and yes, I was looking forward to the shows. The inevitable question about Driesler I ignored with an even sweeter smile.