The Universe Versus Alex Woods (43 page)

I suppose the ping-pong ball analogy must have whetted his appetite for more of the same. For some reason, he seemed to get a kick out of these ludicrous comparisons – not to mention all those mind-boggling numbers and scales in which fundamental physics excels. Of course, the display pods already gave us a fair number of statistics and analogies. There was the standard example used to illustrate the structure of the atom, namely: if you scaled an atom up to the size of a football stadium, its nucleus would be a single pea placed on the centre spot and its electrons would be dust motes orbiting close to the furthest seats. Everything else would be empty space. Then there was the terminal velocity to which the hadrons were accelerated in the LHC: 99.999999 per cent of the speed of light. At this speed, the hadrons would be looping the twenty-seven-kilometre accelerator tunnel approximately eleven thousand times every second. But Mr Peterson was not satisfied with this information alone. Before long, he had me working out all kinds of ridiculous maths problems.

How long would it take one of those hadrons to get back to Zurich?
he asked.

I scribbled my calculation on the back of his notepad, which I’d had to hold up to the display screen to read. ‘If it took the A1, just under a thousandth of a second,’ I answered. ‘In comparison it’s going to take us about three hours in the car.’

How about from Zurich to the Sun?
Mr Peterson asked.

‘Eight minutes twenty seconds.’ (I didn’t have to figure that one out.)

How about us?

‘Driving?’

Yes, driving.

This calculation took a little longer. The answer I came up with was a little over one hundred and forty years, if we drove twenty-four hours a day and stuck to the motorway speed limit.

But I think the number that made the biggest impression on me concerned the lifespan of the ‘exotic’ particles created in the LHC. The longest-lived of these particles could exist for only a few hundred-millionths of a second before decaying; the shortest-lived were so unstable that their existences couldn’t even be ‘observed’ in a conventional sense. They popped into being and were gone in the same tiny fraction of an instant, so quickly that no instrument had yet been invented that was sensitive enough to register their presence, which could only be inferred post mortem. But the more I thought about this, and the more I thought about how old the universe was, and how old it would become before it suffered its final heat death – when all the stars had gone out and the black holes had evaporated and all the nucleons decayed, and nothing could exist but the elementary particles, drifting through the infinite darkness of space – the more I thought about these things, the more I realized that
all
matter was akin to those exotic particles. The size and scale of the universe made everything else unimaginably small and fleeting. On a universal timescale, even the stars would be gone in much less than the blink of an eye.

But this was not an analogy I felt like sharing.

When I called Ellie that evening – after the second appointment with Dr Reinhardt but before Herr Schäfer’s
boeuf bourguignon
– she told me that my story had ‘gone viral’. A couple of journalists phoning the shop had, overnight, become a dozen transient reporters who took turns doing their pieces to camera in front of the shop and haranguing my mother for an interview. So far, she’d answered only one question, which had caught her off-guard as she was opening up in the morning. She’d been asked how she was feeling.

‘I’m upset, obviously,’ she’d replied.

A thesaurus was consulted, and by mid-afternoon my mother was quoted as being ‘distraught’. After that, she said nothing at all, which was taken as further confirmation of just how dismayed she was feeling. People wanted to empathize with her suffering, and a wall of silence was not going to deter them.

‘I told you,’ Ellie said. ‘This story’s got “public interest” written all over it. It’s going nowhere. The appeal’s still running every hour. They’re still showing that fucked-up photo and making references to your “disturbing” note.’

‘Things like this have a lifespan,’ I philosophized, ‘and it’s not—’

‘You’re all over the internet too,’ Ellie ploughed on. ‘People are
discussing
you on forums! I’m surprised you haven’t seen. They do have the internet in Switzerland, right?’

‘They invented the internet in Switzerland,’ I said. Then my heart fluttered against my ribcage. ‘Who said anything about Switzerland?’

‘Everyone! That’s where everyone’s saying you’ve gone. Apparently, it’s the only country in the world that will provide medical assistance to foreigners who want to kill themselves. I assume that’s what’s going on here? If you were planning to drive the old man off a cliff, you could have done that in Dorset. No need to go abroad. Even the police have that part figured out.’

‘Oh.’

I didn’t know what else to say. I thought I could hear Ellie lighting up at the other end of the line.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘It said on the news that they’ve been in touch with the Swiss authorities.’

‘Who have? The police?’

‘The police, the Home Office – whoever it is who deals with this kind of shit.’

I thought about this for a few moments. ‘I don’t think they can do anything while I’m here. Under Swiss law, what we’re doing is perfectly legal. That’s the point.’

‘You’re seventeen.
That’s
the point the police are making. They’re saying it’s a special case and the Swiss authorities should intervene.’

‘The Swiss aren’t big on intervention,’ I pointed out.

‘Oh, stop being so fucking cool about this! There might be people looking for you – you need to understand that.’

‘I do understand that. But I only have to make it through the next twenty-four hours. After that—’

‘Stop!’ Ellie interjected. ‘I don’t want to know. I
really
don’t want to know. Just be careful: that’s all I’m asking.’

I didn’t say anything.

Ellie let fly a final expletive and hung up.

I turned the television on to BBC News. I only had to wait about ten minutes before my photo flashed up. It was not a good photo. I turned off the TV and sat on the bed for five minutes, focussing on my breathing.

I reasoned that there was little I could do about this new turn of events. To my knowledge, Mr Peterson hadn’t once switched on his television since we’d arrived in Switzerland. He’d be quite oblivious to what was going on back home, and I knew I had to keep it that way. The unknown quantity was Herr Schäfer. I had no idea if he had any ‘protocols’ covering this kind of situation. My guess was that he did not.

It took us about fifteen minutes to reach the address, which was in the quiet eastern suburbs at the far end of District Twelve. Herr Schäfer’s residence was modest and functional – another of those blocky, low-roofed, no-nonsense houses that the Swiss seemed to like. A security light illuminated a small patch of plain lawn, so well trimmed it might have been Astroturf, and inside everything was similarly tidy and low maintenance.

Although I was observing him with a hidden hyper-vigilance, upon our arrival, Herr Schäfer gave no indication that anything was amiss. He had the same demeanour as before – a strange mixture of seriousness and nonchalance that at times made his utterances sound like those of a deadpan comedian. It wasn’t that he lacked the appropriate gravitas for a man in his line of work; it was more that this gravitas seeped inappropriately into other areas. He discussed death with the same solemnity that he brought to bear on the meat-to-mushroom-to-wine ratio in his
boeuf bourguignon
. And these were both subjects he talked about at length.

It turned out that Herr Schäfer had not always been in the ‘death business’. He’d worked for over twenty years as a human rights lawyer, and it was his passionate belief in what he termed the ‘final human right’ – the right to die – that had eventually led to him giving up the law to open his private clinic, which was almost unique in its willingness to offer its services to non-residents as well as to Swiss nationals. But human rights, Herr Schäfer believed, should not be contingent on national borders.

It wasn’t a particularly ‘normal’ dinner, needless to say, but after a few minutes, I felt strangely relaxed. Herr Schäfer seemed very comfortable in his role as host, and having a three-way discussion with Mr Peterson was, in some ways, easier than having a one-to-one. It was slightly more involved in that he had to pass me his notes to read before I handed them on to Herr Schäfer, but it also granted him more time to write and more time to rest. And having accepted this practice the day before, Herr Schäfer no longer seemed to give it a second thought. He acted as if this were a perfectly unremarkable way to conduct a conversation. He also had a lot of patience when it came to me practising my German, which I tried to do whenever I could. With a little prompting, I’d soon moved on from simple pleasantries –
es schmeckt sehr gut
–
to more complex, stop-start sentences:
Keinen Wein für mich, Herr Schäfer. Ich trinke keinen Alkohol. Aber ich habe eine grosse Lust auf Coca-Cola. Keine Angst – ich habe einige Dosen im Auto.

But while he had a high tolerance for these halting exchanges, Herr Schäfer was less keen on the way in which I addressed him, which apparently was much too formal.

‘Now that we know each other better, you should call me Rudolf,’ he insisted.

I told Herr Schäfer that this didn’t sit too comfortably with me. ‘It’s a little bit too . . .’ I tried to think of a word that wasn’t ‘reindeerish’, failed and said: ‘Perhaps I could call you Rudi – if that’s okay?’

‘Yes, this is acceptable for me,’ Herr Schäfer agreed. ‘Actually, this is what both my grown-up daughters call me.’

I found this fact a little odd, but said nothing.

Herr Schäfer went on to tell us about his daughters, both of whom still lived in Zurich, as did his ex-wife, whom he’d amicably divorced ten years earlier, and it was during this seemingly innocuous line of conversation that matters took their sudden, dangerous turn.

‘My wife was never very happy with my change of career,’ Herr Schäfer was telling us. ‘Or perhaps I should say that she was not happy with the media attention that my work unfortunately has brought. I’d like to say that this has become easier with the passing of the years, but as you must realize, there are still these cases that remain controversial.’

One look was enough to tell me that Herr Schäfer was no longer talking in generalities. I shot him a panicked warning glance, which I hoped Mr Peterson wouldn’t notice, and as far as I could tell, he didn’t. The problems with his eyes made it difficult for him to pick up on these quick, non-verbal exchanges.

Herr Schäfer sipped his wine without breaking eye contact or changing his expression. ‘
Er weiss es nicht?
’ he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

‘
Nein
,’ I confirmed. ‘
Ich denke, dass es so besser ist
.’

Herr Schäfer nodded thoughtfully.

If you two are going to speak German again,
Mr Peterson wrote,
I think I’d like to go for a smoke.

I passed the note on to Herr Schäfer and, while he was distracted, tried to shoot a second warning glance, this time aimed at Mr Peterson. Given the circumstances, I didn’t think this was a good moment for a ‘smoke’, but my glance either missed its target or was ignored.

‘I would suggest that the small patio at the back would suit your purpose,’ Herr Schäfer said. ‘And perhaps at the same time Alex would be willing to help with the dishes?’

‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ I told Mr Peterson after I’d parked him outside the French windows. ‘Or you should at least try to be circumspect. We don’t know how Herr Schäfer might feel about this.’

He’s in the death business
, Mr Peterson pointed out.
I don’t think he’s going to be offended by a bit of pot.

‘He might if he thinks your judgement’s impaired.’

I got the impression that had Mr Peterson been capable of rolling his eyes, he would have.
Relax
, he scribbled.
It’s pot, not acid.

I took thirty seconds, then went back into the kitchen, where Herr Schäfer had already filled the sink with soapy water and was gesturing to a tea towel that hung above the radiator.

‘So, Alex,’ he began, ‘it appears that we have a small situation here.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘Of course, I knew already that these circumstances were unusual. On some rare occasions we will have people younger than you – children or grandchildren – who wish to be there at the end, to say their goodbyes. But this is in a context where the whole family is present. Your situation is unique in my experience.’

‘Mr Peterson doesn’t have a family,’ I said. ‘I’m all he has.’

‘Yes, I understand that, I think. But let me get to the point. How old are you, Alex?’

‘Does that make a difference?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘I’m seventeen,’ I admitted. ‘I’m old enough to drive and procreate, but I’m not old enough to vote or drink alcohol.’

Herr Schäfer nodded gravely. ‘Some would say that the driving and procreation require more responsibility than the voting or drinking. But we will leave this to one side for now.’ He paused and looked at me for a few moments. ‘Your age has been difficult for me to guess,’ he said. ‘In many ways you seem to me older than your seventeen years, but in others much younger. I hope you won’t mind me saying this?’

‘I don’t mind. I’ve been told the same thing before. I don’t know how to be any different.’

‘You shouldn’t be any different,’ Herr Schäfer said. ‘You should be just as you are. In German, we would describe you as
ein Arglose
, but this does not translate very well into English. “An innocent” is a close approximation, but really this is not quite right.
Ein Arglose
has more the meaning of “one who is without cunning”. It means that you are just as you appear to be – you have no thoughts of deception.’

I shrugged. ‘I
do
have thoughts of deception. It’s just that I’m incredibly bad at it, so there’s not much point bothering.’