Alan Goodwin - Gravity's Chain

We’d been to the bach in 1984 when we returned on the Sunday evening to find Mum gone. There was no note, nothing; I’ve never seen her since. Dad stopped going to the bach regularly after that. Even after he bought the Winston with his redundancy money to replace the old metal boat, he rarely came. All his passions died that day and he stayed at home as if that act alone might ease the guilt of not being there when she left. Perhaps he hoped to be there when she returned.

Launching a boat in Ohawini Bay follows a time-honoured tradition. Parked next to the Winston was a tractor. All residents with a boat have a tractor; some customise and paint them. One has flames painted from the engine and is named Hot Betty. Our tractor lacked such trimmings: it was old and grey. A blue belch of smoke coughed from the rusted stack on the third turn of the key. The smell of oil now mingled with the rubber and diesel of the shed. I reversed out, the engine chugging with a husky rev where the ride became bumpy. My bottom slammed into the metal seat when I rode a sunken trough in the grass between the shed and the bach. Once I’d turned, I reversed back and hitched the boat, then headed for the only access to the beach, a concrete ramp to the sand. I drove in a half circle through the gently lapping sea and reversed the trailer and boat back into the water. Unhitching the Winston was an effort and I quickly lost my breath, forcing me to rest several times before I was finished. After floating the boat I pulled it out to a safe distance, boarded and dropped anchor before wading back to shore. The exertion brought a taste of tequila riding a wave of bile and I spat half a cup of sick on the sand. I parked the tractor and trailer on the soft sand at the back of the beach, away from the greedy grasp of the morning tide. Three gulls squabbled over the meagre pickings of my vomit and grudgingly retreated when I disturbed them to return to the boat. The clear night had given way to a grey day, but as the cloud thickened, the wind remained calm. The waves were gentle and just kissed the boat’s hull.

There was no planning to the journey: I just went east for several hours, idled and drifted before going about for the return. As I plotted how to placate Caroline I drained the bottle, but I had no answers. The drink just made me drowsy and more nauseous. When I entered the bay I throttled back, the Winston instantly responding and settling in the still calm sea. Rain had come to the bay and my sweatshirt was heavy and wet by the time I reached shore. So much drink before lunch had left its mark and my movements were unsteady. I slipped when I jumped off the boat and sat back in the water up to my waist. The cold snap of the sea made me scramble to my feet and I ran out of the water. I was too cold to winch the boat on to the trailer before changing, so I headed for the house. Sand crunched under my wet boots as I walked.

The house was empty. I called for Caroline in every room without answer. I calmed myself by checking what appeared to be a full complement of her clothes in the bedroom drawers. To be sure I searched the bathroom, knowing Caroline would never leave behind her potions. Sure enough, in descending size on the shelf, the way she always arranged them, were her cleanser, moisturiser, perfume and eye drops. I convinced myself she must have gone for a walk. I changed out of my wet clothes and jogged down the stairs to go and retrieve the boat. The door of the downstairs bedroom was open and I stepped inside cautiously. The room was empty but for the old box of pans I’d previously left in the hallway, which for some reason had been dragged into the bedroom. The telephone receiver was smashed and plastic pieces lay scattered across the wooden floor. Something was wrong.

I returned to the boat and nervously fumbled with the rope and winching gear. Every few minutes I looked along the beach, straining against the ever-strengthening rain, willing a sight of Caroline in the distance. Each time the beach was stubbornly deserted. The rocks at the far end, where the road from Oakura Bay connects the two beaches, had all but disappeared in the misty rain. The tractor jerked forward in the wet sand as I pulled the trailer and boat clear of the sea before returning to the shed.

The first thing I saw was Caroline’s naked feet, the toes pointed down like a ballerina’s. Her red painted nails looked garish against the dirty concrete floor and the faded wooden legs of the chair that lay on its side just under her feet. The rope that I’d last seen on the top of the box of pans when I’d left it in the hallway was tied around the central beam just to the left of the single bulb, and around her neck. Her head was tilted forward and to the right; strands of blonde hair hung across her pallid cheeks. The gentle wind at my back blew into the shed, making her body sway slightly. I turned and walked into the wind and rain, toward the desolate and deserted beach.

A New Zealand physicist claims to have discovered the Theory of Everything—the so-called Holy Grail of modern science.

Jack Mitchell, who has worked on the problem for four years, has just published a revolutionary science paper in which he claims his new Superforce Theory (ST) is the ultimate theory of physics, which unites all the known forces.

Since the beginning of the twentieth century, when modern physics was born, physicists have been stumped by the seemingly incompatible theories of relativity and quantum. Many scientists, Albert Einstein included, have wrestled with the task of uniting them.

‘The problem in finding a solution has been like mixing water and sand because relativity is smooth in the way it works, while quantum is grainy—hence the analogy of water and sand,’ says Mitchell.

Mitchell was raised in Auckland’s Mount Eden, leaving New Zealand when aged 18 to study at Cambridge University. He graduated with a double first in maths and physics. After several years in London he returned to New Zealand with his wife Caroline, who tragically took her own life two years ago. Mitchell again returned to England after her death and completed his Superforce Theory.

At the heart of Superforce is a new maths called spiral field maths, which allows Mitchell to describe the intricate and subtle weaving effect of the force. ‘The nature of Superforce is that it is deceptive. Look at it in one light and it’s silver, or relativity. In another light it’s gold, or quantum. It’s this characteristic that gives the illusion of incompatibility between relativity and quantum,’ says Mitchell. ‘The trick is holding the force long enough to recognise what you are seeing. The spiral maths allows us to do that. It helps unravel the deception.

‘There’s great beauty in how the force weaves and twists—it’s like watching rain running down a window. A change in the pattern and we recognise one of the forces, just as quickly it’s gone and has taken the form of another. Catching the pattern gives us a final understanding of nature and it’s wonderful.’

His theory has catapulted this New Zealander from the scientific shadows. We are sure to hear much more of Jack Mitchell.

Jack Mitchell’s image is instantly recognisable. Already since February, when the Superforce Theory was published, it has assumed great significance for both the scientific community and society in general. As a result, Mitchell has become a star. Fellow physicists have raced to prove him right and have been quick to point out the practical consequences of the theory. The multitude of uses range from the bizarre to the profound. Our leading scientists may disagree about the detail, but all agree that our futures will be revolutionised by this discovery.