Outside court, Mitchell asked to be left alone to start work again.
Dear Jack,
I’m sorry I’ve left it so long to write. I know I should have said something before, but somehow it all seemed too hard. I read about your sentence. I’m glad you avoided prison—you certainly didn’t deserve that.
Things were pretty rough after your little confession. My God, meeting after meeting, more debriefs than if I was a spy coming in from the cold. Mason was as wild as any man could be without bursting blood vessels. He swore vengeance against you, and I think he got what he wanted. He could never understand how, having got away with it, you turned yourself in. I tried to persuade him just to release you, but that isn’t his way, and no one was listening to me any more. I warned you this would happen. Taikon will make sure you never get anything. You won’t be able to fart without having to pay for it.
As for me, well, I survived. You know me. In fact I’ve been assigned to look after your old sparring partner, Frank Driesler. Yes, I thought that might amuse you. Nothing has been announced, but he has been signed up as the next big thing. I’ve only met him twice and both times he could do little but talk about you. He really is quite obsessed. Only time will tell, but I’m sure it won’t be anywhere near as much fun as the time with you.
I miss you, Jack. You were a complete idiot at times, but there was never a dull moment with you. I admire you for that; in fact I admire you for what you did. Taikon can take all the material stuff away from you, but they can never take away your genius. Your achievement will be with all of us until the day the human race just gives up.
Finally, I’m sorry about the Nobel not going your way. It will be yours one day, once all the rage has died down and what you did in that hotel room is forgotten. If anyone deserves it, you do.
I hope one day we meet again.
SIXTEEN
I woke early as the first daylight spilt over the horizon. The sea was calm and the clouds high; it was a perfect day for fishing. There was a rhythm to my days now, so much slower, so much more purposeful than before. Lazily I set about making a pot of tea. ‘Tea’s on the bench, we’re leaving in twenty minutes,’ I called up to the bedroom.
There was an early morning chill and a gentle breeze rustled the treetops. In the boat shed fridge I found a trevally and cut it into strips for bait. I cranked the tractor and followed the time-honoured procedure. Ted from the bach at the far end of the bay had already parked his tractor and was waiting for me to pull up behind him.
‘Ready for some marlin, Jack?’
‘Hope so, Ted.’
He tipped his cap to the back of his head to check the sky and we walked along the beach together.
‘Will you two come along for a drink and a game this evening?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Maybe, Ted, I’ll let you know what we’re up to later.’
He nodded and returned to his boat, whistling tunelessly.
I glanced at the rock outcrop in the distance. The day after the storm was the last time I had seen Mary. Whatever hopes I may have harboured, there was no grand reunion.
In the six months since we had spoken on the phone and exchanged the odd message. A peace of sorts was declared, but it was never enough for her to forgive me the past. Or so she said. I wasn’t so sure. We had a history, a grand history, and that’s never easy to forget. Mike had told me that she was thinking of going to Australia to teach. He said it every time we spoke, but still she remained in New Zealand. I couldn’t help but think that one day, perhaps when I least expected it, I’d look up to see her driving along the beach and back to me.
Back at the bach I went to the kitchen.
‘You really do make the most awful tea, Jack.’
‘Sorry, Dad.’
He poured his drink down the sink. ‘You put too many bags in and it’s stewed to buggery.’ He poured hot water into the pot and added just one bag. ‘Looks like a beautiful day, we should catch something today.’
‘I reckon. Ted would like us to go for a game tonight—I said we might.’ I waited for Dad to finish his tea. ‘I forgot to tell you, the lawyer rang yesterday—settlement on the house has been brought forward a week.’
‘That’s great.’
‘Once we have the money we can really get this place into shape.’
We fished all day with limited success and returned home in the late afternoon. I towed the boat back to the shed and watered her down. After a shower I asked Dad about going out, but he felt too tired, so I strolled along the beach, my feet kicking the gentle surf, to tell Ted. When I returned Dad was asleep on the sofa. I checked my phone. There was a missed call from Mike and a message from Mary. It said nothing in particular—they never did—but it was contact and while it continued there was hope.
On one side of the front room was the small wooden desk I’d bought at a second-hand furniture shop in Whangarei. Spread across the top were pieces of paper covered with my reworked pencil equations of Einstein’s cosmological constant. This was a more modest endeavour than the spiral field maths I’d first glimpsed in the rain patterns on the window, and the chances of publication were nil—thanks to Taikon. But I didn’t care. I pondered sitting down to the last series of numbers, but it was too nice an evening, it could wait for another day. After covering Dad with a blanket I went and lay on the bank leading to the beach. Listening to the sea I lay back and watched the stars’ nightly rebirth as darkness came.
Excerpt
When Jack Mitchell watched streams of water pouring down a window pane after another fight with his wife, he glimpsed the infinite.
At last he grasps the elusive chain of thought which will ultimately lead to his solution of the scientific disparity between the theories of Relativity and Quantum. However, amidst the triumph of creating the radical new Superforce Theory, the young scientist’s wife has her own appointment with eternity.
Her suicide the day after Superforce’s birth begins a reckless journey for Jack. The technological implications of Superforce are immense and, as first his theory and then his life are taken over by a multinational corporation, Jack begins to unravel. With his life spinning dangerously out of control, his corporate minders, who are grooming him for a Nobel Prize and a return on their investment, send him home to New Zealand to cool off. But a rival theory emerges and in the tense months leading up to the Nobel announcement old demons re-emerge…and someone who knows him very well begins sending anonymous letters that stir painful memories…with disastrous consequences.
About the Author
Alan Goodwin is a first-time novelist. He lives and works in Auckland where he is the managing partner in West Auckland’s largest legal practice.
Copyrigh
HarperCollins Publishers
First published 2006
This edition published in 2010
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1, Auckland
Copyright © Alan Goodwin 2006
Alan Goodwin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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