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Authors: Gavin Extence

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The Universe Versus Alex Woods (27 page)

BOOK: The Universe Versus Alex Woods
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Dr Weir traced a couple of orbits of her coffee cup with her right index finger, then said: ‘Well, from an evolutionary standpoint, it probably owes a lot to ancient hunting rituals. Like most sport, it’s about hitting targets, perfecting one’s hand–eye or foot–eye co-ordination, outwitting an opponent and so forth. And, of course, there’s a high degree of tribalism too. That’s true of all team sports. An enjoyment of these sorts of activities is probably very deeply ingrained in the human psyche – and the male psyche especially, though to varying extents, of course.’

‘I’m not a big fan of hunting rituals full stop,’ I said.

Dr Weir smiled. ‘No. But these things manifest themselves in many different forms. For example, many scientists believe that some of our mathematical abilities have their roots in the kind of spatial skills our ancestors needed to hunt prey and elude predators – understanding trajectories and forces, acceleration and deceleration, general mechanics. Our brains have evolved excellent software for comprehending natural laws. So maybe when you sit down and solve mathematical problems for six hours, the satisfaction you experience isn’t
entirely
different to the pleasure others find in sports. They may have a common source. It’s an interesting thought.’

‘I don’t think the football team would buy it,’ I said.

‘No, maybe not. But really, Alex, there’s nothing wrong with being cerebral. I think you’ll find that in a few years things will get much easier for you.’

‘Yes, I expect so.’

‘Are you still hoping to become a neurologist?’

I liked the way Dr Weir asked this question. I’d been telling people that I probably wanted to be a neurologist since I was about eleven years old, and for some reason, this was seldom taken seriously. People seemed to find it either funny or peculiar or baffling. But Dr Weir took the idea very seriously – although these days I had started to have second thoughts, as I explained.

‘I think I’m leaning back towards being a physicist again,’ I said.

Dr Weir smiled.

‘I’m still very interested in neurology,’ I clarified, ‘but . . . well, I think I’m more drawn to the simplicity of physics. I like the idea that you can explain all these incredibly complicated phenomena using incredibly simple laws. Like e = mc². To tell you the truth, I don’t think there’s anything quite as wonderful as that. You can write it on a postage stamp but it tells you how the stars work. You don’t really get that kind of perfection anywhere else in life. I seriously doubt that neurology could ever be
that
perfect. I think you could probably spend a thousand years studying the brain and it still wouldn’t make people that much easier to understand.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Dr Weir said with a little laugh. ‘But whatever you end up doing, I hope you’ll consider coming to Imperial. You know, in this country there’s really nowhere better to study science.’

‘Yes, I think I might like that,’ I said. ‘Although I’m not sure about London itself yet. I mean, it’s extremely crowded. I’m not sure how I’d feel about living in a city this big.’

‘Yes, I can understand that too,’ Dr Weir said. ‘You know, I wasn’t born in London, Alex. I grew up in the countryside, like you. In Cornwall, actually. But I don’t think I could live anywhere so remote any more. I like having everything around me – all the museums and libraries. The only downside is the light pollution. Most nights in London you can barely make out Polaris, and anything above magnitude two is near impossible.’

I thought about this for a while. I tried to picture myself studying science in London, but for some reason, the image wouldn’t quite crystallize.

‘Dr Weir?’ I asked. ‘What grades would I need to get into Imperial?’

‘You’ll need three As, Alex, and at least two of them in science or maths.’

I thought some more. ‘I think I’ll try to get four,’ I said. ‘The three sciences
and
maths. You know, just to be certain.’

Mr Peterson collected me from Bristol Temple Meads just after eight thirty and then I spent the next half-hour telling him about London. There was no chronology. I told him about how insanely busy the tube had been on the way home, how incredibly large and full of people London was in general (I estimated you could fit at least fifteen Bristols inside it), how Dr Weir had said that I could probably get into Imperial if I continued to get top grades at school, how I’d come to the conclusion that I probably wanted to be a physicist rather than a neurologist because I wanted to help figure out a ToE – a Theory of Everything – which was the highest aim of modern cosmology and would finally crack the problem of how the universe
works
. Mr Peterson said this was a good goal to shoot for. But that was about all he said. Being out of practice, he found city driving – even off-peak city driving – extremely stressful, and he wasn’t much of a multitasker at the best of times. In hindsight, I probably should have kept quiet and let him concentrate. (I was over-stimulated: I’d drunk too much Diet Coke that day.) But as it happened, getting out of the city was not the problem. We made it to the undulating A-road leading back to Glastonbury and Wells without mishap. Mr Peterson relaxed, and eventually I talked myself to a standstill and fell back to daydreaming about my future scientific endeavours.

The car was warm, and the road was quiet. The sun was sinking like a distress flare in the rear-view mirror, and I found myself crashing into a comfortable, flickering doze.

The next thing I was conscious of was the white van bearing down on us. Even half asleep, I saw it plain as day. Mr Peterson did not. He pulled out onto the roundabout quite calmly, as if he were manoeuvring into an empty parking bay. The van was maybe five metres away, heading straight for us.

‘Van! Brakes!’ I shouted. It was all I had time to shout. I felt the glancing impact as a small detonation that sent a shockwave coursing through my upper body. The world shifted forty-five degrees to the right, then juddered to a halt. We were left facing off the roundabout at an oblique angle. The van had stopped a few metres away, in the roundabout’s inner lane.

‘Goddamnit!’ said Mr Peterson. ‘You all right, kid?’

I nodded. My heart was racing at about a hundred and eighty beats per minute, but I was surprised to find that my head was perfectly clear. I felt like I’d been plunged into ice water.

When we stepped out of the car to inspect the damage, everything seemed unusually bright and well defined. There were two metres of tyre tracks on the road, and a little glass and plastic from our driver’s-side headlight, and the bonnet had buckled slightly, and the panels adjoining the bumper and wheel arch were badly cracked and indented, but there was no
serious
damage to Mr Peterson’s car. As for the van, it would transpire that it had suffered nothing worse than a small depression between its bumper and its front left wheel, but this was not discernible from our angle. I could only see that it was a white transit van, evidently a business vehicle. The sign on its side read:
THE LONE DRAINER.
I surmised that the driver was some kind of plumber. I could see him through the passenger-side window. He was making angry thrusting gestures towards the small B-road leading off the roundabout immediately to our left. Mr Peterson and I both nodded. Then the Drainer started his engine, indicated, pulled sharply off the roundabout and parked up about ten metres down the road. Mr Peterson and I got back in the car and followed.

The Lone Drainer slammed his door, pointedly, and, after several failed attempts, lit a cigarette. I suspected he was too furious to work his lighter effectively, even though the accident had not been serious, and the damage to his vehicle even less so. He was a short, mostly bald man with the red face of a cooked lobster. He was wearing a red and black checked shirt, huge black safety boots and filthy jeans. I had a lot of time to weigh him up because he wasn’t making eye contact. He was squinting at his bumper and muttering to himself. He didn’t look quite the ticket. Mr Peterson was of the same opinion.

‘Jesus MF Christ!’ he said to me under his breath. ‘This is gonna be a
royal
pain in the ass.’

‘Should we call the police?’ I asked.

Mr Peterson snorted.

‘Don’t you have to call the police when there’s an accident?’ I persisted.

‘Not an accident like this, kid,’ Mr Peterson told me. ‘This hardly even qualifies as an accident. We just have to swap numbers. Then my insurance can deal with it.’

‘Your insurance?’

‘Yes, my insurance.’

‘Because it was your fault?’

Mr Peterson ground his teeth. ‘Yes, it was my fault. Obviously. I didn’t see him.’

‘You didn’t
see
him?’ The improbability of this was already looming large in my mind. ‘How didn’t you see him?’

‘I don’t know how. I just didn’t.’

‘But he was there plain as day.’

‘Kid, I didn’t see him! If I’d seen him, I wouldn’t have pulled out!’

‘You have to pay extra attention at junctions,’ I said.

‘I
was
paying attention,’ Mr Peterson said. ‘I just didn’t see him. I can’t explain any better than that. I’m not infallible.’

‘You’re not high, are you?’

‘Jesus, kid! What kind of question is that? Of course I’m not high! Do I look high to you?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. I thought that if Mr Peterson were high, he wouldn’t have come to collect me. He’d probably have forgotten.

‘The Lone Drainer looks pissed off,’ I pointed out.

‘Kid, will you please shut the hell up for a second and pass me my stick? I’m sure the Drainer’ll calm down soon enough. Just let me do the talking.’

I took Mr Peterson’s crutch from the back seat and passed it to him. By the time we reached the van, the Lone Drainer had stopped squinting over his bumper and was staring straight at us. He was still muttering and shaking his head. Mr Peterson extended his hand.

‘Isaac Peterson,’ he said.

The Drainer blew out a steady stream of smoke.

Mr Peterson cleared his throat. ‘Listen, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what happened back there. Is your van okay?’

The Lone Drainer spat on the ground. ‘You know I could’ve
killed
you,’ he said. It came out more as a regret than an observation. ‘What the hell were you thinking? You pulled out right in front of me! Are you fucking
blind
?’

Mr Peterson exhaled through his teeth and waited for a count of three. Then he said: ‘Okay. It was my fault. I’m not disputing that. But I think we should all just be thankful it wasn’t serious. No one was hurt. There’s no major damage. It could’ve been a lot worse.’

‘It’s a fucking miracle it wasn’t worse.’ The Lone Drainer punctuated this sentiment by flicking his cigarette onto the verge.

‘You know, that’s a bit of a fire hazard,’ I pointed out.

‘Let me do the talking,’ Mr Peterson said.

‘Your granddad shouldn’t be on the fucking road,’ the Drainer told me.

‘My grandfather’s dead,’ I told the Drainer. ‘The one I know about,’ I added.

The Drainer decided I was no longer worth talking to. ‘You’re obviously not fit to drive,’ he told Mr Peterson. ‘It looks like you can barely fucking walk.’

‘Jeez!’ said Mr Peterson. ‘What d’you clean those drains with, your
mouth
?’ This went straight over the Drainer’s head, which I thought was probably for the best. ‘Look, buddy, I’ve apologized once. I’m not gonna apologize again. You can stand here hollerin’ all you want. In the meantime, I’m gonna go write you the number of my insurer and when you get that pea-sized dint taken out of your fender, you can send them the bill. Come on, kid. I think we’re done here.’

Mr Peterson started walking away. I followed. ‘You need to get your fucking eyes tested!’ the Lone Drainer shouted after us.

‘It’s no wonder he works alone,’ Mr Peterson said to me.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

‘Of course I’m okay. He’s just some asshole. The world’s full of them.’

‘Yes, I know,’ I agreed.

‘Let’s just give him the number and get the hell out of here.’

‘Would you like me to give him the number?’ I offered.

‘We’ll
both
give him the number.’

‘You just watch where you’re fucking going on your way home,’ the Drainer warned Mr Peterson as they exchanged details. ‘Try not to cause no more accidents today.’

‘It’s been real nice talkin’ to you,’ Mr Peterson said.

I didn’t say anything.

The Lone Drainer spat again, got back in his van, slammed the door, performed a wobbly U-turn and then squealed away in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. I wrinkled my nose.

‘Asshole,’ said Mr Peterson.

While I agreed that the Lone Drainer’s interpersonal skills left a lot to be desired, he had raised at least one valid point. There was no way Mr Peterson should have missed seeing the van. It didn’t seem humanly possible.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive the rest of the way?’ I asked him when we were back in the stationary car. ‘I think it might be sensible, given what happened.’

‘Sensible? Hell, we’ve had one near miss today. I’m not gonna risk anything else. You know what’ll happen if the cops pull us over with the car all smashed up and you driving? I’ll be the one who winds up in the Big House.’

‘I was thinking about what would be safer,’ I said. ‘I think that should be the number-one priority, really.’

‘I’m perfectly safe! I just drifted off for a second. I’m not used to driving these kinds of distances any more.’

‘You didn’t say you “drifted off”,’ I pointed out. ‘You said you didn’t even
see
the van. That’s what’s concerning me.’

‘I don’t know
what
happened. It was all a blur.’

‘Literally or figuratively?’

‘Jesus! It was a wake-up call, okay? I’ll pay extra, extra attention. Is that enough to reassure you?’

‘No,’ I said.

Mr Peterson ignored me. He started the engine, performed a careful three-point turn and rejoined the roundabout.

After a few minutes, I said: ‘Mr Peterson, we’re agreed that the Lone Drainer was an asshole. That’s a given. But perhaps you
should
get your eyes retested. Just to be sure.’

BOOK: The Universe Versus Alex Woods
5.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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