Gravity's Chain (3 page)

T
he fame thing has been very, very weird. One minute I'm a Kiwi bloke by the beach and the next I've landed on planet fame. How could it leave anyone unaffected, untouched? What a blast, though. Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered but there's something surreal about it. All those people who wear the T-shirt or buy the magazines have absolutely no idea what I've done. Everyone's told how important I am and I become important. The really weird part is that as science gets more fundamental, the average person understands it less, but the scientist becomes a greater object of admiration and all the more famous. No one except a handful of physicists understands Superforce, but everyone thinks I'm great. The real people who do real things that make a difference to lives, no one wants to know them. Image is all that's important. But then, who am I to argue?

Bebe and I had argued after the show. This was usual: we argued four or five times a day. It was unusual, though, for him to sulk. He sat in the car, his back half turned and his fingers lightly drumming his leg. Bebe was like a Gandhi in Armani. He was Indian, early fifties, and bald apart from small patches of
cropped grey hair above and behind each ear. And he was delicate. I often thought a good breeze might knock him over and a slap with a wet towel could snap him in two. His expensive black suit hardly appeared to touch his limbs. At times when walking he looked like a billowing sail. Bebe's father, a successful shipping manager, moved his family from Madras to England in the late sixties and so Bebe was raised and educated as a middle-class Englishman. With a first class degree in electronic engineering he'd been employed by the fledgling Taikon Corporation of the seventies and had grown with the firm as it powered through its subsequent boom years. As with many of the whiz kids of the early years he'd been retained but moved into areas away from its current cutting edge technology. He never voiced any resentment against this move, but then Taikon wasn't known for allowing published criticism of its products or management style.

Our chauffeur-driven Mercedes pulled away from the Albert Hall. Finally Bebe broke his pose of indifference and fiddled with an electronic organiser, its beep the only noise in the car's lush interior as we queued in traffic.

‘That was a good show,' I offered.

He hummed a minimal response and raised an eyebrow, but kept his attention on the organiser, prodding its padded black buttons with a spindly finger.

The just completed show was the last of four at the Albert Hall and the last of twenty in England. I stretched my legs, flexing tired and stressed muscles. There might still be another ten countries to go, but as each segment of the tour finished I was closer to an end. I call my appearances shows because they're so much more than a mere talk or lecture. Bebe had helped to develop the multimedia presentation of Superforce once Taikon
had secured my signature on their considerably detailed and restrictive contract. ‘More rock than science', ‘Physics explained in a new and stunning way'—that was how Taikon's relentless and consummate publicity promoted the show. I lived the project in the beginning; I had to, the contract demanded that of me. (That bloody contract: that all-encompassing and imprisoning source of more money than I'd ever dreamed of.)

Now Bebe and I were sidestepped as the tech boys and spin-doctors set about their own meticulously choreographed responsibilities, leaving the two of us unconnected from our creation. What had once been fun was now a job like any other: I turned up when and where I was told, performed the show and then did my own thing. Bebe was there to clean up the shit that threatened to seep out, because my own thing had become wild and very unscientific. In that sense he was no more than a glorified minder. There was still the money, though. Endorsements and commitments might have me caught in an ever-tightening web, but they were producing more money than several thousand careers in science. According to Bebe, resentment in the scientific community was rising and those who had once fawned over my achievements were now slow to say such nice things. It didn't bother me. There was a time when criticism would have driven me to a darkened room with enough booze for a month. I guess success and money has vanquished those insecurities. And now I've defeated fears of my peers, I don't give a shit about them or their views any more. Bebe warns against such feelings of infallibility, but I tell him that the sad bastards are just jealous.

I stared out of the car window as we inched our way through crowded London streets back to the Dorchester Hotel in Park Lane. It had rained all day, turning the streets and pavements to
black glass. Pedestrians, hunched against the rain and wielding umbrellas like shields, jostled each other in an endless search for space. Some bravely competed on the roads; others stayed in the relative sanctuary of the footpaths.

‘My God, this place is crazy,' I said to Bebe, but still with no response. With an exaggerated movement I pulled a hip flask from my pocket and took a swig. Bebe disliked my drinking even though he participated in its cover-up, yet even this provocation brought no reaction. ‘Oh, come on, Bebe, I said I was sorry. Come on, snap out of it.' I had resorted to whining.

Finally he turned. ‘I may be many things, Jack, and my God you rarely let me forget them, but I'm not some sort of cheap gossip.'

‘I know, Bebe. I know.' I sighed and thrust my hands deep into my trouser pockets.

‘Boring you, am I?'

‘You know you're not, Bebe. It's just that I've explained myself so many times, and said sorry so many times I don't know what else to say. Nothing makes a fucking difference.' Bebe winced at my swearing. I always enjoyed his offended response. ‘Anyone would think we're an old married couple.'

‘No wife would put up with your…nonsense.' His voice trailed off into silence.

‘Right.'

We both watched the traffic for a while, neither speaking.

‘I'm sorry, Jack, that was thoughtless of me. Sometimes I just forget what happened to Caroline. I didn't know you back then and I just don't realise what I'm saying. Still, it was very thoughtless and I'm sorry.'

‘It's all right, Bebe. You shouldn't have said that and I shouldn't
have asked you to do that thing with Driesler.'

‘No, you shouldn't.' Peace was declared.

As usual Bebe changed the subject. ‘You know, Jack, you have an unhealthy obsession with Driesler.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘There's no perhaps about it. Look, forget him—don't let him get to you this way. The man is a lone voice and his attacks won't hurt you if you just ignore the fellow. He'll be forgotten within a week. You see if he isn't.'

I laughed at Bebe, something he rarely appreciated except at the most opportune moment. ‘Come on, Bebe, you don't really believe that, do you? I certainly don't and I'm bloody sure good old Frank Driesler doesn't either.'

‘Try and forget him, Jack. You're right, he's wrong. Simple.'

‘Such faith, my friend, such faith.'

‘Deserved.'

‘And how do you suggest I take my mind off him?'

‘I don't know, take up fishing or origami, or…go shopping and spend some money, but just stop beating yourself up about him.'

‘What about drink, girls and drugs? That might help me forget him.'

‘I was thinking about something that might not mess your life up and give you some hope.'

Our car pulled up to the Dorchester. There were a good hundred people around the hotel entrance. Most were just ordinary folk, there for a glimpse of me or maybe an autograph, but there were some photographers and reporters who stepped forward and raised their cameras and tape recorders, ready for instant action.

I turned to Bebe. ‘You're right—I'll cast Frank Driesler from my thoughts. I'm right and he's wrong and I apologise again for suggesting that you…'

‘I'd rather forget about it now, apology accepted, let's say no more. Now, let's go forth, and remember, no comment on this. We're not at an approved question session, so nothing has been through the boys.' He winked at me, leant over and held the door shut until the driver rounded my side of the car and opened it.

‘My lips are sealed,' I smiled, ‘no need to worry. I know the drill.' As I uncoiled from the back seat of the Mercedes, camera flashes lit the darkness, catching me for a split second, painting my face white and hair grey. These would be good pictures for the morning papers—good pictures of my new grunge image. The last company polling had revealed a dip in the past six months in the youth groups. My jeans and baggy sweater, and the new messed hair that cost a fortune to perfect, would be across the inside pages of all the tabloids in the morning, helping improve my ratings with the young.

The rain was a mere drizzle now, just enough to dampen but not flatten my hair. I paused to sign four or five autographs and turned to a new battery of photographers.

‘Jack, Jack.' Two reporters broke from behind the photographers, both flashing hand-held recorders in my direction as though offering prizes. ‘Jack, just a couple of questions, please.'

‘Come on, chaps, you know the rules,' said Bebe from his customary position just behind my left shoulder.

‘Sure,' I said to the reporters. Bebe closed in on me, grabbed my elbow and attempted to guide me toward the open hotel door. He knew Taikon strictly prohibited any comments by me unless made at a press conference where my appearance was
the product of hours of preparation. Much like a presidential TV debate, questions were anticipated and answers formulated by a select group of advisers. All I did was remember the script. Saying anything impromptu in a situation like this would be taken badly by the company executives, and Bebe would be held to account. I know he apologised, but he really shouldn't have made that comment about Caroline.

‘What's your response to Frank Driesler's recent comments, Jack?'

‘Much the same as I felt about his old ones.' I saw the look of surprise on the journalists' faces. They knew how choreographed I was; suddenly they sensed a story and moved closer. Bebe's grip tightened and I felt his spindly fingers dig into the flesh of my arm. He was pushing toward the door with his body now, but I resisted and held firm. ‘In fact he doesn't seem to have anything new to say, but I guess that's what you get when you only have one idea.' I sensed the crowd around heave closer as other journalists closed in on this unexpected bonus.

One reporter took a more decisive step and blocked my route to the hotel door. ‘How do you feel about these attacks, Mr Mitchell? Driesler seems to be getting personal.' Even before I answered I saw a disturbance in the crowd closest to the hotel door as minders from inside, now aware of what was happening, came forward to pull me away from the reporters. My actions had taken them by surprise. They should have been outside waiting for me, but because I never stopped they had become lazy. Great security. Imagine if the man in front of me was a madman with a gun. Bebe was pushing again and so I was jammed up tight to the reporter. I leaned toward his tape recorder.

‘I'll tell you how I feel.' Suddenly Bebe was using all his
strength and for a moment I thought he might move me. ‘I want Driesler to put up or shut up. It's easy for him to sit there and crap on about how he's got this marvellously different way of doing science and it shows I'm wrong, but where's the proof of what he's saying? Well, I'm sick of waiting, sick of his stalling and promises to reveal all when the time is right. Come on, Frank, put whatever it is on the table and open it to peer review. Let's see what you're talking about. Until then I suggest you shut up.'

Hands on my shoulder from the rescue party pulled me roughly toward the door. A cacophony of questions followed me. The reporters, their appetites whetted, wanted more. I knew they would. Once in Chicago eight months ago I'd made a comment on my way into the theatre for a show. Like piranhas sensing meat, the rest were around instantly, hoping to feed on the comment and wanting more. I didn't give them any more, just like this time; I enjoyed the tease, the moment of chaos when the controls around me slipped for an instant. Taikon's response after Chicago was to tighten security around my public movements and then leak to the press that there had been threats to my life. Recently, though, as I'd been a good boy and there were no actual threats to my life, the added protection had started to relax. Now I'd taken my chance and Bebe would pay. He really didn't deserve the shit coming his way, considering all he did for me in clearing up what went on behind closed doors. And there was no doubt he would shoulder the responsibility if something went wrong. Taikon might know about the parties and the drink and the drugs and the girls; they might accept it as the cost to keep me happy. However, Bebe was their insurance and we all knew if anything went public then the blame would go his way,
leaving the company squeaky clean and us down the proverbial river without anything remotely resembling a paddle. Oh, what the fuck. There has to be some risk: where's the fun without risk?

‘Well done, Jack.'

I easily succumbed to his pushing now, like a suitably chastised child. ‘Well?'

‘Well what? If that's casting Driesler from your mind I'd hate to be around when you actually think about him. What the hell were you thinking of?'

‘The man's a fuckwit. You know that and I know that and it's time someone said so instead of all this pussy-footing around.'

‘Driesler is many things, but he's not a…what you say. The company will take care of him, but when the time's right. Jack, you shouldn't underestimate him. He can damage you, and all you do with these kinds of comments is draw attention to him and show that you're worried about his claims. Think about the Nobel, Jack. Comments like you've just made won't win you any friends with the committee—you know how they hate disputes.'