Gravity's Chain (2 page)

‘I've tried, Caroline, believe me, I've tried…but I just can't drive the image of him on you out of my mind…'

She started crying again.

‘…and I feel so wretched, so disgusted and I plead with myself to let go, but I can't. I can't let go. I feel betrayed, Caroline, betrayed that you saw him instead of your family, you chose him over your mum, your dad, Mary and I think it must have been so important for you to see him instead. You just left them waiting at the restaurant, feeling like useless shits. There must be a reason why you did that, you must have an answer.'

‘I wasn't ready to meet them.'

‘We came back here to meet them, gave up our life in England to meet them.'

‘I just wasn't ready. That's all, there's no other reason.'

‘There must be.'

‘Oh please, Jack, please, I can't stand this shit any more.'

‘Leave me then.'

‘You know I can't do that to you.'

‘So what do I do?'

‘Stop drinking, it's destroying you. It stirs up every ugly thought you could have. Perhaps without drink you mightn't want to find answers all the time.'

‘Oh, I knew we'd get to the drink soon enough. You really think all this is that simple? Turn off the tap and all our problems disappear? It's easy to blame the drink, but it's not the booze—it's you. If you want to blame, blame yourself.'

‘Fuck you, Jack.'

‘Is that the best you can do?'

Caroline pulled a dictionary from the middle of a line of books and hurled it at me, missing by a metre.
‘Get out.'

‘Ding, ding, round one, it's Caroline Mitchell in the blue corner. She's coming out fighting, ladies and gentlemen—first the dictionary, now Michener and Mailer, all the heavy volumes. Shit, Caroline.' A book landed on my leg, the hard corner stabbing my thigh. I stood up, but before I could get my balance she charged, knocking me into and over a chair. I got up, but was knocked down again. In our grapple two more chairs went over. Once on my feet I gathered some strength. She held a footstool which I battled from her grip, smashing the glass top of the coffee table. Then she was at me again, clawing at my face as I swung a fist, hitting her so hard on the back it sounded like a sandbag dropped on a wooden floor. She groaned and withdrew, but only as far as the bottles and glasses left on the table. One at a time she threw them at me, each missed as I dodged, smashing against the wall. I reached the stairs, crouched almost to the floor and took the steps two at a time before running into the night. I waited an hour. By the time I returned Caroline was in the spare room at the bottom of the stairs. I crept past and went
up to the now empty bedroom beside the ghoulish scene of our fight and slept until four o'clock this morning.

There will be no work today. The tequila tastes too good, its bite too satisfying, and so I pour my third; and I sit, waiting for the dawn, for the disconnection from the world to end and for Caroline to wake up. I know I'm a vandal, gratuitously smashing our marriage. Now for the day of reconstruction, the long slow job of finding all the pieces and fathoming how to put them back together. It takes longer every time. One day the pieces will be scattered so wide that some will be lost and we'll never be able to fit them all together. The thought of a solitary life made me shiver: all the empty time, all the drink to fill it with and all those ugly thoughts to keep at bay. So why hasten what I fear most? If I knew that perhaps we might avoid nights like last night. I long to hold her, to nuzzle in her hair and feel the balm of an embrace. It is an ache not even drink can soothe.

The arm of land on the opposite side of the bay was just visible; the first sign that the long slog of night was ending. In half an hour it would be light enough to launch the boat. If I prepared slowly I could fill the time. I set about this task with evangelical enthusiasm.

The
Winston
is stored in a shed that always smells of diesel and rubber. A single naked electric bulb hanging from the central beam lit the top cabin of the motorboat while leaving its hull and the shed deep in shadow. When I pulled back the tarpaulin, dust flickered in the bright light. Fuel, electrics and engine checked out. Two wetsuits and a wooden box full of pots, with a red nylon rope on top, had been dumped on one of the rear seats. I hung up the wetsuits and took the box into the house, leaving it next to the door of the spare room where Caroline slept. She
had been up after I'd come back to the house last night because the downstairs phone had been taken from the bottom step into the room; the lead snaked across the tiles and under the closed door.

Contact now could be fatal; I've made this error countless times. But I opened the door slowly and whispered, ‘Are you awake, Caroline?'

She had left the blinds up and the room was lighter than I'd expected. She turned in bed, her back a solid wall to me. ‘Not much chance of that with you banging around out there.' She was hoarse from last night's shouting.

‘Sorry.'

‘I doubt it.'

Turn away, I implored myself. Turn away now and leave the questions till later. ‘Who did you ring?'

‘Mary.'

This was a finger in the electric socket moment. ‘Mary?'

‘Precious sister Mary, that's right.'

‘Why?'

‘That's what you want, isn't it? As you keep saying, that's why we came back so we can kiss and make up.'

‘What did she say?'

She half turned, but not far enough to see me. ‘What are you so nervous about?'

‘Nothing. What did she say?'

‘My, oh my, you're a curious rabbit this morning.'

‘Caroline.'

‘She didn't say anything. She wasn't there. Perhaps I should just drive over and see her.' She pulled the covers high up to her chin. ‘Now you run along and take the boat out.'

‘You won't go anywhere until I come back, will you?'

‘Don't worry, I'll be a good girl. I won't do anything without you.'

I withdrew and stood outside the door for a moment. I had to go. If I stayed her curiosity would be aroused, turning the mocking to the seriously suspicious. I searched the house for the car keys and put them safely in my pocket. With no car there could be no escape. Taxi, what about a taxi? Her wallet was on the table. I took and hid it in the bathroom. There was no one she knew well enough to rescue her. Mary was too far away, and the chances of her dropping everything on a work day and coming to the bach were very remote. I took a bottle of whisky and left the house.

My parents bought the bach in Ohawini Bay in 1976 when I was six with money left to them by Dad's mother when she died that year. I only ever saw her at Christmas when Dad drove her up from Cambridge where she lived on my uncle's farm. I have no memory of her except for a picture Dad kept in his bedroom. She was a stern woman, her hair pulled into a bun and large brooch at her throat. The picture always reminded me of the suffragettes. The bach was a simple two-level structure. On the ground floor there were two bedrooms on either side of the stairs and a storage shed that could be reached only from the outside. Upstairs there was the main living room and kitchen with another bedroom off the side. The bach had been well looked after by the previous owners and although the decor was twenty years old it needed no repair.

When Mum and Dad bought it, there were just a handful of older basic wooden baches in the bay. The place swelled with tents and caravans in the summer holidays. A large pack of
children played all day on the beach and on the grass paddock behind the beachfront homes. However, gradually most of the old baches disappeared, replaced by bigger, improved baches, or in some cases whole new homes.

Despite development the bay remains isolated in modern terms, any property growth prevented by the natural constraint of rock spits at either end of the beach and the hills behind. The only access is by road from Oakura Bay and then across the beach to the ramp leading up to the baches. Dad bought a little metal boat with an ancient outboard motor from Mr Cummings when he upgraded to a larger motorboat. I can't remember what Dad enjoyed before the boat, but afterwards his life contracted to a solitary love of taking it fishing. Every holiday, and almost every weekend, was spent at the bach. We would drive up on the Friday night, a pillow and blanket for me on the back seat. We'd arrive at midnight and I'd get a soft shake to wake me. By the time I was ten it was just Dad and I who drove up. Mum stayed in Auckland.

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.

THE NEW ZEALAND HERALD

Scientific Holy Grail solved

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.

TIME Extract from ‘Person of the Year' edition

The Magician

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.

What excites many scientists is the originality of Mitchell's ideas. Until a year ago there were a number of competing ideas and theories that it was thought might lead to the Theory of Everything. String theory was the leading idea. No one was thinking along the lines of spiral field maths and the fundamental importance of deception. Now all the old ideas, including string, have been swept away. Francis Mink, MIT professor of theoretical physics, who contributes an article in this edition on how Superforce works, was one of the leading proponents of string theory. He says of Mitchell's work, ‘It comes from nowhere, it's completely left field. In ten years this theory may allow us to alter matter itself; the very building blocks of our world will be open to manipulation.'

For creating such possibilities, for changing our world and conjuring a map for the next,
Time
has chosen ‘The Magician', Jack Mitchell, as the Person of the Year. Next year may be his again. The Nobel Prize seems a certainty and greater fame inevitable.

RADIO NEW ZEALAND

Report by science correspondent

We have been waiting for the return home of Jack Mitchell ever since he first published the Superforce Theory. There have been many promises of visits, but there have always been reasons given for cancellation. Now, however, he is bringing his world tour to Auckland and Wellington. The show, a multimedia explanation of
his theory, has been well reviewed throughout the world, turning Mitchell from scientist to entertainer.

He will, of course, be welcomed with open arms. There are few more famous people on the planet. He is bound to receive a hero's welcome, especially in his home town of Auckland.

However, the return may be a time of mixed emotions for Mitchell. This will be his first return to New Zealand since the tragic suicide of his wife, Caroline, four years ago. The well-oiled publicity machine around Mitchell, which toils endlessly to maintain a wholesome image, is unlikely to expose their man to any difficult and compromising public appearances.

The visit also comes at an uncomfortable time professionally. Until last week, Mitchell's Superforce Theory had been universally accepted and lauded by the world's scientific community. Now, for the first time there is a voice of opposition: someone is saying that Mitchell is wrong.

Frank Driesler is a scientific maverick. The son of a Californian minister, he was the youngest physics professor in Caltech history, a position he left to set up a successful computer games company called Efde. He has neither talked nor published any physics for seven years, but suddenly he has broken his silence to condemn spiral field maths and Superforce Theory in an article published last week in
Scientific American.

There are more than reputations at stake. The technology giant Taikon, which stands to benefit hugely from its association with Mitchell's winning formula, bankrolls his tour and publicity. Then there is the Nobel Prize, which Mitchell has publicly stated is so important to him. Both Taikon and the Nobel Prize committee are controversy shy but a controversy is exactly what Mitchell appears to be heading into.