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Drag 17

by Huw Edwards

Published by Frank Bone Industries

Copyright © Huw Edwards 2010

ISBN: 978-0-620-48891-4

Cover design by Maryna Henderson

Cover photograph by Bengt von Veh

Produced by Mousehand

www.mousehand.co.za

Set in Bembo, Copperplate and Fontin Sans

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

means without the prior permission of the copyright holder.



For all my mothers



1

Prologue

Jack

Something crawled across the page, uttered up, bumped the

globe o the desk-light and dropped down. He put on his glasses,

leaned in or a closer look: it was a moth, tattered and worn out. It

uttered up, bumping the light again. The devil knew why it kept

that up. He didn’t. He was a mathematician, not an entomologist.

He understood the light, not the moth. He should probably switch

o this bloody light and sleep. The trees outside were alive withtweets. It was dawn already. He circled his lips and blew the moth

o: it uttered away across the lounge.

He took o his glasses, sighed, and closed his eyes. This maths

had been alive or as long as he could remember, ever since his frst

subtraction. Even those frst ferce circles he’d drawn as a child

had evolved into numbers, the round crayon lines breaking down,

rather quickly, into the shorter, straighter lines required or ones

and twos. Those early numbers had stepped down into ranks and

marched in his head like an army at the ready, just as these were

marching now. Scribbling with crayons in his playpen, he hadn’t

known those numbers as Local Afnity Theory, but they were,

they were these same bloody numbers. LAT had impinged on him

always.

The ranks came again, flling his head rom top to bottom, like

they’d done ten minutes ago, and ten minutes beore that, and so on

… or orty bloody years. An operator shouted an order and Local

Afnity Theory came to a halt. The whole ormation squared its



2

corners and straightened its lines. The ranks parted, an answer

marched through the middle, stomped to attention and presented.

‘Proo!’

Yes, this was proo. Why hadn’t he seen this beore? The proo turned to the ranks behind, raised a fst, and the whole army cheered

as one.

Hoo-aah!

‘Crikey!’ He’d cracked Local Afnity Theory!

He opened startled eyes, and stood up. Everything started

spinning: the light, the desk, the pages on the oor. He thrust out

a hand to stop rom alling. Water! He lurched towards the kitchen.No, not water. He needed air! He couldn’t breathe. He stumbled,

lost balance, and crashed onto the bookcase. ‘Unngh!’

A yellow eye was looking at him. That was the teddy bear’s eye.

The teddy bear was on the oor, on its side, its cheek pressing on

the carpet. He sat up, fngering the texture o his own cheek. He’d

also been on the oor, also with his cheek on the carpet. He musthave crashed into the bookcase and knocked the bear o the top.

He’d cracked LAT!

LAT was everywhere: in the fles on the shelves, in these scattered,

scribbled-on pages, and in this pencil dust on his fngers. He pushed

up o the oor, sat himsel in the chair. He elt fne, oddly enough;

a little thirsty perhaps, but this wasn’t a pressing thirst.

LAT was pressing!

He closed his eyes and called it together. His grand equations

ticked and owed, orming eortlessly into every confguration

he could think o. Each time the ranks parted, the proo marched

through the middle, stomped to attention and presented, then

turned to the ranks, raised a fst, and …

Hoo-aah!

He grabbed a pencil o the desk. Where was his pad? Where the

devil was his pad? There! On the coee table. He stepped through

the pages, got the pad, came back, and started copying LAT as he

saw it: bright, gleaming, and standing at attention. The pencil went



3

through the page and snapped. He tore the page o, ung it aside

and grabbed another pencil. He didn’t scribble this time, he wrote

neatly. He didn’t want Phoebe in any doubt about this.



I

THEORY



7

1

Phoebe

She cupped her ame and lit a cigarette. She liked Franco’s. Sheliked these wrought-iron tables and chairs, the white tablecloths,

the plain thin-lipped teacups, the haloumi salad and the lobster

bisque. She’d like it better i Jack were here. Was it too much to

ask that he be on time or once? Especially since he was the one

who’d called at two in the morning, saying he couldn’t talk on the

phone. Whatever this was about, it was too important or the phone,

apparently. O course it was. Jack’s stu was always so important. Asi her stu wasn’t! As i she didn’t have to prep or Monday’s lecture;

as i she didn’t have Sue Scroper’s blasted thesis to read. The woman

would no doubt be in her ofce frst thing Monday whining about

that. ‘Are you fnished yet, Dr Phillips? How much longer, Dr

Phillips?’ God knows why she’d volunteered to supervise that thesis

in the frst place. She shouldn’t even be lecturing this semester, to

say nothing o Sue Scroper’s thesis!

She tapped her ash, and watched till she caught Raoul’s eye. Up

he came, threading through the tables in his black-and-whites. The

waiters here weren’t bad either. Oh, but she couldn’t look, could

she? Jack would say she had a ‘thing’ or students. He was always on

about it. She became too involved with them, apparently. It wasn’t

as i he even cared. All he cared about was LAT. But that didn’t stop

him giving her his knowing look every time the subject came up. It

wasn’t a knowing look. Jack didn’t know how she elt. He thought

he did, but he didn’t.

‘Dr Phillips?’



8

‘Hmm? Oh, same again, thanks.’

Raoul took her cup, glanced at her breasts, then threaded back

through the tables. They were always looking at her like that. They

were wrong. Her breasts were too small, she had reckles and a bigat ass. Not that Paul ever noticed. He wouldn’t notice tomorrow

night either. He’d be too busy playing the role o Paul Bruner,

President o the Mount Barum Astronomical Society, a role which,

in his mind, ar outweighed his role o husband.

As or Jack …

Jack had disappeared or fve days … then phoned at two this

morning, wakened Paul, got her into trouble … and now he hadthe audacity to be late! They’d agreed to meet at ten-thirty. It was

quarter to eleven, at least. She’d skipped out o her seminar early

or this!

About a third o these outside tables were occupied. The waiters

hovered on the sides; Norton’s amous pigeons poked around on the

square; cars hummed up and down Old Street, hooting at bicycles

itting between.Four years she’d put up with Jack; our years in this out-o-the-

way student town, with its backwater aculty, its high clear air and

its telescope. Well, she wasn’t here or Jack or the aculty. She wasn’t

even here or Paul. She was here or the Mount Barum Astronomical

Society’s telescope. Doctor Phoebe Phillips could get tenure at any

university she pleased: Western, Brent, Ledbridge, they were all

baying or her. Jack would do well to remember that.

They would all do well to remember that.

Here was a number ten now, best he be on it.

Hewas on it. Even rom here, Jack’s gangly rame was unmistakable.

He threaded to the ront, bumped into someone, engaged or a

moment, then lurched or the door as the bus pulled o. It sat on

its brakes, wheezing gas, and spilled him onto the pavement. He

walked to the ountain, scattering the pigeons, then looked around,

holding o the sun with his hand. She stood up, waved. He noticed

her and came across, sidling through the tables.



9

‘You’re not very subtle, you know. Dear Lord, Jack, you look

awul.’

‘Ta.’

She came round the table, kissed his matted cheek. ‘I didn’t meanit like that.’ He smelled o soap, hadn’t bothered with his hair as

usual. His cowlicks were sprouting all over his head. This poor man

hadn’t slept in a week! ‘When last did you sleep?’

He plonked the briecase down, sat behind it.

‘Jack?’

‘I cracked LAT.’

She stopped halway into her own chair. ‘What?’‘LAT. It works.’

His grin came rom nowhere, and she slumped down. ‘That’s

not unny. You should see your ace. You scared me. I thought you

were serious.’

There was no raised eyebrow, no ippant remark. He just clutched

that briecase and stared at her with red, haunted eyes. God, he

was serious— Hang on, she saw what was going on. Jack thought he’d cracked LAT. He wanted her or analysis. That’s what this was

about.

Well, she wasn’t doing it. She wasn’t poring over LAT equations

all weekend with Jack, not a chance. And or what? To have Paul

moan about all the time she spent with him; and about her Society

obligations; and about this and that and the next thing. Paul’s

moaning never stopped. Well, he needn’t worry, she wasn’t doing

it. She was putting her oot down this time. It would be the same as

last time. They’d fnd the mistakes, they always did. Besides, Jack

had disappeared or fve days. There was still no word about that,

no apology, nothing. She’d had to call the College yesterday to

check i he was even alive.

‘What’s in the briecase?’

He smoothed his fngers over the ap. ‘This is it.’

Oh, right … frst he disappears, then he phones at two in the

morning, and here he was with a briecase ull o … nothing! That

couldn’t be ‘it.’



10

‘Are you cross?’

‘I’m not cross. I’m just— Well, or Pete’s sake, I haven’t heard a

peep in fve days!’ She was damn-well cross, she had every right to

be cross.He held up our fngers.

‘Five, Jack!’

He wasn’t convinced, but he conceded. ‘I was busy.’

‘Busy? O course you were busy! You’re always busy.’

Raoul came with her tea, recognised Jack. ‘Morning Proessor,

what can I get you?’

‘Cavendish, double, with ice please.’‘Er, we only do that rom twelve.’

Jack cocked his head rom side to side. She could see him repeating

Raoul’s words to himsel, putting some mocking slant to the accent.

‘I’ve had tea or our straight days. Can’t you change that?’ That was

his charming voice, but Raoul stayed adamant. Unortunately or Jack,

his charming ace looked like it had been to hell and back. She’d never

seen his beard this long. It never got beyond a short stubble. It was acentimetre on rom that now, tinged with his sandy brown at the tips.

He looked at Raoul with those wild red eyes, and conceded. ‘Tea.’

Raoul set her tea out, then threaded back through the tables.

‘What do you mean that’s LAT? Where’s the rest?’

‘Shortcut.’

Oh riiight. He was always pulling out shortcuts; he pulled out

shortcuts like rabbits out o a ha—

Without warning, he launched into exposition. She tried to click

her mind out o her astronomy seminar, out o the hugeness o

the Crab nebula, down to his teeny sub-atomic world, but he was

already at that terriying pace o his. She was trying to ollow, she

wanted to know, but it was too much. She opened her mouth to

stop him— Oh, why bother! He’d disappeared or fve days. There

was still no apology, only all his LAT terminology ricocheting

around her like bullets. Let him carry on, let him. She had more

immediate things to worry about. She needed something to wear

or tomorrow night’s Society do.



11

She’d wear her blue dress. No, not with Jeremy Sneddon and the

rest o those wheedling arts leering over their champagne at her.

She’d wear the black one. Or the green? Oh, she didn’t know! She

didn’t even want to go to the blasted Society do.She lit a cigarette and reocused on Jack. Local Afnity Theory

ew rom his mouth and ared his nose. He shaped it with his

hands, turned it in his brain, breathed it in and out again. She could

watch him or hours like this. It was poetry as much as precision.

And this was dierent. It sounded precise. He wasn’t postulating; he

was laying down act. But dear Lord, he was talking ast.

As suddenly as he’d started, he stopped. ‘What do you think?’

She didn’t know what to think. ‘Show me.’

He pushed the briecase across the table, then clutched it back. What

on earth? Ah ... Raoul came up rom behind and laid out Jack’s tea.

‘When last did you eat?’

Raoul took the cue and oered the menu. Jack’s nose was in the

teapot. She beckoned or it. He needed to eat. It was hard to tellbehind all that guzzle i he was more gaunt than normal, but that

tatty cardi was hanging on bones.

Raoul went back through the tables.

‘You have been burning both ends, haven’t you? How long have

you been up again?’

He held up the same our fngers, then poured his tea, added

milk, and stirred and stirred and stirred and—

‘Jack!’

He jolted, spilling tea everywhere.

‘I’m sorry, you were o somewhere.’

He’d been miles away. She dabbed the spill, covered it with a

serviette. He poured more tea, and stirred and stirred and – tink,

tink, tink – tapped the spoon on the lip.

‘Now can I see?’

He pulled a ace. ‘I can’t drink this. I need a proper drink.’

‘I want to see the new stu !’

‘Feel like a walk?’



12

She grabbed at the briecase; he pulled it back. ‘Not here, Phoebe,

too many people.’

‘Oh or Pete’s sake. No one here will understand LAT.’

‘You will.’What on earth did he mean by that ? He stood up, slinging the

briecase on his shoulder. That blasted cardi really needed to be put

out to pasture. Honestly, one o these days she was going to take

that cardi and cut it to pieces. It wasn’t even green anymore, more

like a worn, over-washed yellow.

‘I still have to pay.’

He wasn’t listening, he was pacing. Dear Lord, he was all over theplace. She caught Raoul’s eye, signalled or the bill.

Jack strode o down the pavement.

She skipped to catch up. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I thought to make a stop at Tom’s, then go on to St Bardolph’s

… all right?’

She was fne with that. It was a nice day or the park. No tellinghow many nice days they had let; best she make the most o this

one— Oh, she didn’t want to think about how long they had let.

She didn’t want to think about the blasted Reclamation! ‘Just don’t

think about it, Phoebe.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Talking to yoursel again?’ He lited his chin, scratched his

guzzle, and headed o up the street. She skipped on ater him.

He noticed her holding her arms. ‘Cold?’

‘No.’

‘Want my cardi?’

‘With this dress?’

She wouldn’t wear that cardi i was the last thing on earth, he

knew that. He was just taking the mickey again. She stepped o the

pavement. His arm came across her chest, holding her back. They

waited, and the bus whooshed past. Dear Lord, it wasn’t Jack in

another world, it was her. She hadn’t even seen that bus.



13

A car hooted at a bicycle; another bus whooshed past. It was

a typical Friday morning. Only it wasn’t typical. Nothing was

typical. Nothing would ever be typical again. They’d said goodbye

to ‘typical’ the day the bubble had been verifed. That had been ashock, dear Lord! The whole world had stepped into the middle o

the road and been slammed into by a blasted bus. At least that’s what

it elt like. Everyone had denied the Blackoot fndings initially …

but they couldn’t deny them orever. They didn’t have orever, did

they? The Blackoot Report said they had our years, our years

beore that carbon dioxide rose up out o the Atlantic and triggered

the meltdown. The Blackoot Report was very specifc about theCO2, the our years and the meltdown. The Blackoot Report was

specifc about everything. It was certainly the most proound piece

o statistical mathematics she’d ever seen. She still couldn’t get over

the scope o it.

Louis Blackoot had measured everything, every environmental

actor under the sun, rom the sun itsel down to sub-atomic

gravity. Then he’d put all his calculations and his measurementsinto his melting pot and revealed that CO2 bubble, deep on the

ocean oor. There was no doubt about it: that bubble was rising.

Louis Blackoot’s predictions were mathematical acts, as certain as

one plus one equals two. That Report was one hundred per cent

quantifable. In our years’ time, that bubble would surace, and the

world would be plunged into meltdown … i not sooner! Yes, the

Blackoot Report was mathematical act; yes, Louis Blackoot (God

rest his soul) was an unparalleled genius, but he couldn’t possibly

have predicted the gross, unparalleled stupidity o the Reclamations

… and now they’d be drilling in Hancock. That would be the fnal

nail in their cofn. The Earth was doomed. Nothing could save

them now.

‘Phoebe?’

Jack was beckoning rom the other side o the road. She looked

right, looked let, then skipped across to him.

They walked up Bergatramp Street to jolly old Humphrey



14

Bergatramp, on his horse. The pigeons shued on his blade, cooing

and bobbing and pufng out their purple hearts.

‘Dr Phillips!’

That looked like Helen Durnham. She was with some others,sprawled on the grass at the statue, surrounded by bags and tipped-

over bicycles. She lited her hand, waggled fngers at Helen.

Perhaps this was too hal-hearted? She held her hand above her

head and waved more vigorously, as i she was happy, as i there was

no Blackoot Report, no Reclamation in Hancock, no impending

meltdown, and no Corporation.

‘Who are you waving at?’‘One o my third-years.’

Helen was bright as a button, but she didn’t have a hope o passing

this semester. The Blackoot Report had aected her badly. The

Blackoot Report had aected everyone badly. Helen, poor thing,

had given up hope.

Jack seemed to realise something. ‘Don’t you have a lecture

now?’‘I only have the eight-thirty seminar on Friday. You know that.’

‘It’s Thursday.’

‘What do you mean?’

He didn’t answer but his expression stayed adamant.

‘It’s Friday, Jack.’

He wasn’t convinced. She could see him counting back the days.

She couldn’t believe this, she could not believe it. Here they were,

the luminaries o Norton University, standing in the middle o

town, arguing over what day it was. No, she wasn’t arguing. She

was a doctor o astrophysics, or Pete’s sake! She knew what day it

was. She just couldn’t check because she’d let her blasted phone

at the ofce. She started waving to Hel— She couldn’t ask Helen!

They’d just spent ninety minutes in a seminar together, discussing

red-shit variances in the Crab nebula. She couldn’t ask Helen what

day it was.

‘I’ve been in my Friday seminar, Jack, I should know.’

He wasn’t listening, he was staring at the pigeons on Humphrey



15

Bergatramp’s sword, and clutching that damn briecase, still

convinced it was Thursday! Well, this was one argument he was

not walking away rom. She rummaged in her bag, ound her purse,

and started back across the road.‘Where are you going?’

‘Back in a tick.’ She skipped over to the news-stand, put in her

money, and took a copy o The Globe …

Friday, 1 September 2017 . Thank God! It was Friday.

She skipped back to Jack’s side and presented her evidence.

‘Here!’

He put on his glasses and unolded the paper. The untidy hair, thestrained eyes, and that blasted cardi all disappeared behind it. He

stood there, and stood there, and stood there, in his scued shoes

and brown pants, gripping the sides o The Globe .

What on earth was taking so long?

Finally, he bent down a corner and peered over his rims. ‘The

Corporation is going ahead, despite the Stephenson fndings.

Bastards!’‘What?’

‘The Reclamation … in Hancock … it’s going ahead.’ He looked

at her as i that was obvious.

‘It’s not about the Reclamation, Jack. I know about the blasted

Reclamation. It’s about the date!’ She went round to his side and

slammed a fnger into the date. ‘See, Friday!’ She reached up, tapped

his head. ‘You’ve lost a day, my darling.’

He glanced at the date. ‘Shall we get that drink?’

Ω

She put the bottle on the counter. All she needed was to be caught

in Park Road Liquor at eleven on a Friday with this big slug o

Cavendish in ront o her. She wanted out o here. Still no sign o

Tom, though. She leaned over, trying to see into the back ofce,

then eyed the bell. She hated the bell. It was so damn colonial—

‘Yeeaii!’ Icy fngers were gripping her neck … Jack’s fngers. A bag



16

o ice was propped in his one hand; he removed his fngers and

slammed them down on the bell.

Ting!

‘You’re so inane!’ Honestly! She liked the earlier Jack better,the Jack at Franco’s, the nervous, owl-eyed, sleep-deprived Jack.

Since they started walking he’d been insuerable: hurrying her up,

walking ahead, ull o go, go, go.

Tom came through rom the back with none o Jack’s go, go, go.

Tom rather crept through, bent on his stick, dressed in that same

grubby salt-and-pepper coat. He stuck out his tongue, moistened his

lips and addressed Jack. ‘’Ello Proessor. Bin a air notch since we’ve’ad you in ’ere.’ Tom seemed pleased with Jack. ‘Missus Brenner.’

He greeted her with less enthusiasm.

Two gnarly fngers went up to a white eyebrow. ‘’Ow kin I do

you olks?’ Tom’s skin sagged like ripples under his eyes.

She nudged the Cavendish orward. ‘And three packs o Sabres,

please. The blue ones.’

‘Oh, I know it’s the blue ones, Missus.’What did he mean by that? Shity bugger. Tom never looked

directly at her when he spoke. But he did judge her, and lumped her

with Paul, calling them Brenner all the time. It wasn’t Brenner, it

was Bruner ; and it wasn’t even Bruner, it was Phillips. Doctor Phoebe

Phillips. Oh, but this colonial ossil wouldn’t dream o a woman

keeping her own name.

Tom moistened his lips, still eyeing Jack, as i it wasn’t proper or

the two o them to be in here together. ‘’Ow’s Mr Brenner then?

Awlright?’

Judgemental old art. Why couldn’t he just bag the blasted

Cavendish? ‘Paul’s fne. The same, you know. Work, work, work.’

‘No rest or the wicked, ’ey Missus.’

‘I guess not.’

Why was she even engaging Tom? And why was she deending

Paul, making as i everything was so sweetly normal?

Tom put his elbows on the counter and twirled a dirty-edged

fnger at Jack. ‘I got me a bit a’ the inside ap, Proessor. Just



17

yesterday, I ’ad ole Fadey Brewster in here. Know Fadey? Works

down at ’em silos.’

Jack shrugged. He didn’t know this Fadey person, evidently.

‘Anyways, ole Fadey’s got this cousin, see … or nephew or summin… does geologic surveillance er the Corporation—’

‘Surveys.’

‘Excuse me, Missus?’ Tom’s esses spluttered through his teeth.

‘Geological surveys.’

‘Surveys, that’s it. Oh, you know Fadey then, Missus?’

‘I don’t. I just— Never mind.’

‘Awlright missus.’ He returned to Jack. ‘Turns out Fadey’s cousin’sbin doin’ surveys over in Hancock. He says there’s this ginormous,

grawnshy tunnel-driller parked square on the common.’ Tom

protected his ‘inside ap’ with the side o his hand. ‘They’s goin’

ahead with the diggings.’ He nodded his head, then jabbed that

fnger at the door. ‘Right on our doorstep, not twenty miles away.’

Jack played along, pretending not to know, giving Tom his glory.

‘Scurryin’ under like rats, they are.’ The old man moistenedhis lips again. ‘Ain’t no good’s gonna come a’ the business. Them

Corporation wiggos are ull a’ shenanigans.’ He was pleased with

the word, seemed to think it a ftting end to his inside ap.

It wasn’t inside ap. The Globe’s ront-page headline screamed out

the side o Jack’s briecase: HANCOCK IS GO! Couldn’t Tom just

bag the blasted Cavendish? And quite rankly, she didn’t care or

Jack’s attitude. Jack hadn’t spent months fghting to stop it. Best he

go back to being the nonplussed Jack, the Jack who’d stepped o

the blasted bus.

The Hancock decision was a travesty! Them Corporation wiggos

were ull o worse things than shenanigans. They were genocidal

maniacs. The Corporation had dismantled environmental law clause

by clause to make way or those blasted Reclamation chambers.

There was nothing let now except the din o stupid public opinion.

That ginormous tunnel-driller (or whatever Tom called it) was due

to start in a week. The underground chamber it dug would provide

shelter or a ew thousand people, the ew who could aord the



18

premium. For two years, while it ‘reclaimed’ living space rom the

ground, that mechanical monster would spew its dust into the air,

blackening her moons, her planets, her stars, her everything …

and the dust would cement this greenhouse tomb. Whoever hadthought up the Reclamations had killed the world. Without the

dust they might have survived the CO2. Oh, but the Corporation

didn’t want that, did they? They didn’t want the world to survive

naturally. With Reclamations, they’d cornered the market on

survival. That’s how they’d become so damn powerul in the frst

place. By screwing up any chance o environmental recovery, the

Corporation, via the Reclamations, had become the exclusivechannel or the continuance o the species.

‘Two o those plastic tumblers, please Tom.’ Jack was pointing to

the shelves behind.

Tom strained on his stick and reached up, hooking the tumblers

with his fngers. ‘You olks settin’ er a picnic then?’

‘Something like that. Make hay while the sun shines, ’ey Tom?’

‘Right you are, Proessor, right you are.’ The old goat crept to thecounter and, fnally, bagged the Cavendish and the ice.

Jack grabbed his ice. ‘See you, Tom.’

‘Good on yer, Proessor.’ Tom raised his two-fngered salute,

watched Jack out the door, then rung up the stu. ‘That’s fve

hundred and thirty-our fty, Missus.’ Tom was always so apologetic

about money, but he wheedled up and took it rom her, nonetheless.

‘’Ave it good then.’

She stood her ground and drummed her fngers, waiting or her

change. She didn’t care about the money – this silly global dollar was

going to the dogs, along with everything else – but she’d be damned

i she’d let Tom get the better o it. He crept away, poked in his till;

crept up and handed over her change. ‘There you go, Missus.’

She dumped it straight in, trying to show that she didn’t care

where it went, then smiled sweetly, grabbed her cigarettes and her

Cavendish, and went out ater Jack.



19

Jack

He waited or her to step through the gate and ollowed on. She put

her sunglasses up on her head and handed him the packet with the

Cavendish. ‘Just popping to the loo. Won’t be a minute.’

‘Be careul.’

She icked some blown hair rom her eyes. ‘It’s the loo. What

could possibly happen?’

‘Anything! Anything can happen. That’s what you relativity

theorists don’t appreciate. Anything can, and does, happen.’

‘Oh, don’t turn this into scientifc principle, Jack. It’s the loo,or Pete’s sake. Quantum uncertainty is well and good but,

unortunately, it’s no justifcation or your paranoia.’

‘I’m not paranoid, I’m realistic.’

He got the amous Phoebe Phillips look o doubt, then she headed

o, up the leay side o the park ofce. He watched until she turned

the corner. It was good to see Phoebe again. He’d been so wrapped

up in LAT these past ew days, he’d orgotten time. Shame, shereally was upset about his disappearance. Ha! He’d cracked LAT and

she was worried about a disappearance? Wait till she saw it. There

wouldn’t be any pursed-lipped looks o doubt. Phoebe would doubt

hersel , that’s what … and everything she thought she knew. The

‘new stu ’ was going to rock her to the core.

He strolled across the patio to a bench in the shade. Water sloshed

in the ice packet. It had been chilly hal an hour ago, it was hotnow. He put the packets and the briecase down, tied his cardi

round his waist, then stretched out on the bench. He put on his

glasses and unolded The Globe …



20

By Art Slavatkis

HANCOCK: The Reclamation in

this small rural town has nally been

given the green light. At a press con-

ference yesterday, Tim Cummins, of

environmental group Oxcon, decried

the Hancock decision, and Reclama-

tions in general, calling them ‘global

genocide’ and ‘an execution-styleend to the planet.’

Terence Chaffy, a spokesman

for Trask Industries, the contractor

charged with Phase One excavations,

countered Cummin’s statements by

reeling off the latest stats on what has

become known as Blackfoot’s Bub-

ble. ‘What else do you do against a

3000 km2 sheet of liquid CO2 resting4500 metres below the Atlantic?’ he

asked.

Chaffy’s reference to the bubble’s

depth is a chilling reminder of the

aberrant nature of the monster we

face. Ordinarily, CO2 sinks at this

depth but, as so clearly indicated in

the Blackfoot Report, the bubble is

rising. The Report cites exactly 514

reasons for this anomaly. Chaffy

cited just two: the bubble’s radioac-

tive constituents and the density of its

carbon-saturated surroundings. ‘Too

much nuclear testing and too much

sequestration,’ he said.

‘According to the latest indicators

the bubble is now approximately 50metres off the ocean oor, with the

rate of ascent holding at a ½ metre

per day, exactly as predicted. Its car -

bon membrane is set to break up at

a depth of about 1500 metres. Given

its increasing ascent-rate, the bubble

will go critical on 3 August 2021. As

predicted, the inux of CO2 into the

atmosphere will precipitate runa-

way greenhouse effect.’ Chaffy was

quick to point out that, according to

the Blackfoot Report, any breach of the bubble’s membrane, now or in the

future, will accelerate the meltdown.

With ideas of weighing the bub-

ble down already defunct, trying to

sustain the atmosphere beyond the

surface date is, seemingly, the only

alternative to Reclamations. But, as

the clock ticks, the environmental-

ist argument is being shouted down by ever louder calls for more under -

ground shelters, more living space.

A growing number, discounting the

scientic evidence for the bubble’s

rise, have dubbed it ‘Neptune’s Fart,’

suggesting a divine implication – an

apocalyptic answer to years of CO2

sequestration.

‘There is light at the end of the tun-

nel,’ Chaffy said. ‘The Hancock Rec-

lamation is set to provide sustainable

sheltered living for close on 100 000

people for as long as 40 years. Given

the region’s ideal geology, it is proba-

ble that Phase One will be completed

within the projected two-year time

span. Surface-level alleviation,’ hesaid—

HANCOCK IS GO!



21

He stopped reading, olded The Globe and tossed it aside.

Reclamations weren’t a solution’s backside … and orty years was a

joke. Those underground chambers would never sustain lie or that

long. Fiteen years was the realistic estimate. But then he wasn’t arealist, was he? He was paranoid. The paranoid people said it was

ten, ten years underground beore radiation cooked the lot o them.

(But not beore they started to eed on each other.) The Reclamation

model was horrible. It still seemed so unreal: the Reclamations, the

bubble, the human race scurrying or cover.

A couple walked past. He started to greet them but they didn’t

notice. They were very involved with each other, holding handsand murmuring as they walked down the path, between the poplars

and out onto the brown expanse o the park. No doubt they’d both

be in a Lottery queue on Saturday. They’d pay their money and

go on with their lives, clutching their tickets, hoping that one was

their chance to be ‘secured,’ as the Corporation put it. That was the

worst thing about the bloody Reclamations – no one could aord

a spot. Space or a hundred thousand people made or a pretty bigchamber, yes, but a hundred thousand wasn’t a big number next

to the billions who would lose their lives in the atermath o that

bubble. Even with all the other excavations going on around the

world, Reclamation space came at a premium. The Reclamation

Lottery was the only chance or most people.

He’d be all right. He’d be secured. With his credentials,

he’d be avour o the month. Somewhere in The Globe was

undoubtedly another allacious article proclaiming the virtues

o the Reclamations, saying they were scientifc platorms rom

which to study, analyse and reverse runaway greenhouse eect.

O course they were. Reclamations were the vanguard against the

meltdown. They were brilliant, their logic was astounding: reverse

the greenhouse eect by drilling great big holes in the ground and

kicking more crap into the air. How could they possibly ail?

Phoebe came back, down the side o the park ofce, head down.

She was thinking hard, the breeze blowing her hair and the hem o

her dress. She’d ought tooth and nail to stop them getting Hancock,



22

despite knowing, like everyone else, that it was inevitable. It would

be especially hard on her, shame. The dust rom the excavation

was really going to screw the observatory. Phoebe hated the

Reclamations; but the Reclamations would love her … i only tourther the idea o scientifc imperative. She was adamant, however

– she wasn’t taking their ‘ugly reprieve.’ Knowing Phoebe, she’d

stay adamant to the end. Ah well, the meltdown was our years

away. There was still time to convince her otherwise. Science was

a practical matter. There wasn’t room or all those idealistic ‘screw

the Reclamation’ sensibilities.

LAT wasn’t his alone. He’d climbed on the shoulders o all o them: Galileo, Keppler, Newton, Bohr, Einstein, Hawking, even

Richard-bloody-Feynman. Finally, he’d stood on the square, red-

tressed shoulders o Phoebe Phillips. He’d looked through her eyes

at her stars, and pulled LAT down rom heaven. He couldn’t lose

Phoebe.

She came across the patio in her frst-o-spring dress and removed

some hair rom her eyes. He gripped the briecase, slung it on hisshoulder, and put The Globe in the ap. ‘That was a long minute.’

‘Don’t start with me, Jack. I’m warning you.’

He ell into step behind her, ollowing that abulous backside

down the path and on towards the dam. St Bardolph’s park was bald

and browned by winter, like the last time he’d been here, except

now there was a smatter o blossoms on the poplars. A paddler

stroked along the ar side o the dam. The couple he’d seen earlier

was nowhere in sight.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not lovely, it’s damn hot.’

‘Oh nonsense.’

‘Easy or you to say, you’re wearing that dress.’

She icked the hair rom her eyes. ‘Perhaps i you didn’t have that

cardi, Jack.’

She was always on about his cardies. He liked them old. He wasn’t

wearing it anyway; it was tied around his waist. He was wearing a



23

summer shirt and sweating in his armpits. All right, perhaps that was

his ault, not the weather’s. He’d been sitting at that desk or months.

‘Babies!’ Phoebe pointed to the goslings.

The sot balls o browny-grey u scurried around in a tweetinghuddle, going this way and that, like Form Ones in a ootball

match. An adult sensed the observation. It craned its neck, lowered

its head, then apped and ran at the goslings.

Kwark!

They exploded and scurried or the water, all piling in and

running across the top.

Phoebe watched rom behind her oversized sunglasses. ‘Cute.’Those geese weren’t cute, they were serious creatures. The adult

settled a ew yards out, the brood bobbing behind on the chop.

‘The tree?’

‘The tree it is.’ The ice sloshed in the bag as they went. ‘This ice

is melting.’

‘Well, hurry.’ She wasn’t the least bit interested in the ice.

‘I’m only saying it because it proves my point. It is hot. Ice doesn’tlie, Phoebe.’

‘Come on, stop afng, I want to see the new stu.’

He gripped the briecase strap and went ater her, the new stu

banging on his hip.

The tree hadn’t changed. It stil l stood twenty metres up the bank

with the same stone water dispenser and the same peeling park

bench underneath. She sat down, lit a cigarette. ‘Honestly, Jack,

what’s got into you? You were tight as a drum orty minutes ago,

now you’re dawdling. I want to see LAT.’

He walked past, put the ice in the dispenser. ‘I wouldn’t say I was

dawdling, dawdling’s a bit harsh.’

She wasn’t listening, she was dispensing the Cavendish. He sat

down next to her, stretched out and closed his eyes. LAT’s ranks

tinkled and chimed, the whole ormation glinting on its corners

and gleaming on its sides. His army was squared and ready, eager to

show her its glorious ‘stu.’



24

‘Jack, helloo?’ Her sunglasses were up on her head. She was

holding out a plastic tumbler, ice clinking in the top.

‘Ta.’

‘That okay?’He held it up to the light, swirled and sipped. ‘Perect.’ This was

working out well. It was nice here, and there was no one about,

except or that paddler struggling through the chop, and those

geese prodding around on the bank, pecking the ground. There

was nothing to do except show her, drink his Cavendish, and sit

back and watch her ace change. Yes, this was better. Showing

her at Franco’s, in the middle o town, that would have beenpandemonium.

‘You’ve cut your hair.’

She touched it at the shoulder. ‘Five days ago, yes.’

Ah, the fve days issue. There was no denying it, it was Friday.

He had lost a day, but he knew where it was. He’d passed out in

the at or longer than he thought, that’s all. He’d come round

ater crashing into the bookcase, thinking it was moments ater,but it must have been a day ater— Crikey, would Phoebe pass out

when she saw LAT? Perhaps this wasn’t the best place to show her.

They were rather isolated out here. He didn’t ancy hauling an

unconscious Phoebe back to town.

‘Five days, Jack!’ She was still on about the fve days.

‘All right. Five.’

Her long-lashed eyes stayed fxed on the water, her arms were

olded and her expression victorious. ‘That was a disappearance.’

‘Do you want to see LAT or not?’

She didn’t by the looks o her, at least not right away. She wanted

her apology frst.

‘I had good reason or disappearing.’

‘Oh please!’

Hmm, the next time he balanced the most ambitious cosmological

theory o all time, proved the existence o a new dimension and

changed the ace o physics orever, he’d be sure to keep her posted

on a minute-by-minute basis.



25

She sipped her cigarette, waiting. Phoebe always turned her ace

away when she smoked, or skewed her mouth so that the smoke

went o to the side. It didn’t matter i there was a air breeze ripping

it sideways, she still did it. She was doing it now and she didn’t evenknow it.

‘I orgot to check my phone. The battery must have died.’

‘I know, I let at least ten messages!’

‘Oh come on, you knew where I was.’

She sipped her cigarette, and waited.

LAT would change everything. It was awless, restless, and it

wanted its moment. But it would have to deer to her moment frst.The bubble was going to rise up like some evil witch’s death spell,

explode the sea, cause unheard-o tidal waves, and cook damn near

every living thing on this planet … in our years. For now, Phoebe

didn’t care about LAT, the bubble, or the meltdown. Those pursed

lips meant only one thing: she wanted her apology.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Show me.’He slid the pages rom the briecase, squaring the edges on his

thighs. LAT snapped to attention.

Hoo-aah!

‘Oooh, this one’s tame. Look, it’s coming right up.’

He looked up to see what she meant.

It didn’t look tame, it looked poised. It prodded up and stopped

two metres away, fxing him with its round eye. Its eathers were

like bronzed metal in sunlight, the dark brown spot moving on its

muscled breast.

‘Do you have any bread?’

‘Why the devil would I have bread?’

‘Hang on, I still have the biscuit rom my tea.’ She dived into her

bag.

The goose lowered its head, craned its neck and— Crikey! It was

setting up or an attack.

‘Phoebe?’ A ush came up in his ace and moved down to his

bowels. He thought to run, but he was rooted to the spot. The



26

goose opened its beak, hissed, unolded its wings … and rushed

him. He scrunched the pages on the sides, holding them up in ront

o his ace. LAT closed into a tight phalanx, angling as one toward

the point o attack, like flings to a magnet.Hoo-aah! Thwack!

The beak slammed into the pages. A dent appeared, inches rom

his ace. Webs rasped on his pants, wings apped around his head.

Phoebe shrieked rom somewhere next to him.

Hoo-aah! Thwack!

The beak slammed in again, jamming him against the bench.

Hoo-aah! Thwack! The head tore through the pages. An eye speared him.

Kwark!

Phoebe’s pale arms ailed on the edge o his vision. He clenched

his teeth and fsts, scrunching the pages tighter, then twisted them

or all he was worth. They were jerked rom his grip … but it

worked! The goose was o him, lumbering away on its take-o

run. It lited o, barrelled over the water, then came around in awide arc. One by one the pages ell rom its neck and were ripped

sideways by the wind. Some uttered and spun, one snagged on a

willow, two blew into the reeds. The others tumbled end over end,

cradling down to the water.

‘Jack?’

Phoebe’s hair was a tousled red halo; her reckles stood out in her

white-aced shock. Behind her shoulder, on the dark, white-tipped

chop, the paddler stroked past.

Plop … plop … plop … plop.

LAT was in disarray. Three pages oated near the geese – he

wouldn’t be etching those in a hurry – two were urther out, one

was snagged in the willow, and three were in the reeds. He couldn’t

see the others.

Phoebe picked her sunglasses out o the grass, then put a hand to

her orehead, scanning the sky or signs o his attacker. She gave

him the once-over, reached out and plucked some down o his



27

pants. ‘Amazing, not a scratch on you … Dear Lord, what a thing.’

She was bemused, not concerned.

‘It’s more than a thing. That thing tried to kill me.’ His voice

trembled and the tumbler shook in his hand.‘Are you saying that goose had intent?’

‘O course!’

‘Oh, riiight.’ She didn’t think so, evidently. Phoebe always

stretched her vowels when she didn’t believe something. It was a

measure o her doubt: the longer her vowel sound, the greater her

doubt. ‘So there’s a calculating, homicidal goose on the loose, is

there?’ She was smiling! She thought this was unny.‘You saw it.’

‘That was some kind o territorial thing, Jack. I don’t know. I

doubt it was conspiratorial.’

‘Easy or you to say. It wasn’t trying to peck out your eye.’

‘Hahahahaha.’

He gulped his Cavendish. ‘Go ahead, laugh. I’m telling you, that

goose had intent, malicious intent.’‘There’s a perectly rational explanation.’

‘There is? I’d love to hear it.’

‘We are headed or a meltdown, you know. Animals are early-

warning systems. They’re going haywire.’

‘Going haywire is not rational.’

‘Oh, you know what I mean. All I’m saying is, it’s not

mysterious.’

He was still shaking, but the Cavendish was having eect. She

stamped her cigarette into the grass … She’d had her toenails

done.

‘Nice toenails.’

‘I had them done.’

‘Going somewhere?’

‘There’s a Society do tomorrow night, you know that.’

‘With Paul?’

‘O course. Who else?’

He drained his Cavendish. ‘Still want to see LAT?’



28

‘Promise it won’t be like last time? I don’t have this weekend to

mysel.’ She was trying to sound o-hand, but she wanted to see it

all right.

‘I promise. Your Astronomical Society won’t seem like the mostscintillating Saturday night company ater you see—’

‘Don’t start with me, Jack. I’m going and that’s that. I don’t have

a choice.’

Ha! I Phoebe went to the Mount Barum Astronomical Society’s

do ater seeing LAT, he’d eat his socks. ‘The bus back to Darragh

then?’

‘Sure you’re okay?’‘I didn’t say I was okay. I’m alive, that’s about it.’

The page in the willow blew o. Phoebe watched it go. ‘Why

didn’t you staple it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Why didn’t you staple the pages together?’

‘Why didn’t I staple it? I don’t know, Phoebe. Maybe I didn’t have

staples. Maybe I didn’t think I get attacked by a goose.’ Good grie!Why didn’t he staple it? What kind o question was that?

She reached out, plucking more down o his shirt, then rubbed it

in her fngers and ew it away on the breeze. ‘Just asking.’

Ω

He pulled up his chair, put on his glasses, and brought the desk-

light down. Why didn’t he staple it? O all idiotic questions, that

was right up there. He bent to the page, copying LAT as he saw it:

bright, gleaming and standing at attention. He wrote neatly, like

last time. Hopeully, this time he wouldn’t be attacked by a damn

goose. A moth perhaps, that would be all right, but not another

goose. Crikey! Animals going haywire because o the meltdown.

What rubbish! That goose had marched straight up. That was

premeditated, not some random act o haywiredness. What did she

know anyway? She hadn’t been centimetres away, she hadn’t seen

the look in its eye—



29

Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck.

He jolted at the noise, and the pencil snapped. ‘Dammit!’

She called rom the kitchen: ‘This place is al ling down, Jack. You

really must speak to the aculty about those pipes.’Oh, he’d speak to the aculty all right, he’d speak to the aculty

about presenting Local Afnity Theory to the world, not about his

rusty pipes. These dreadul curtains, the pipes, the rattling latch,

they were things o the past, along with the students who squeaked

through his gate and yakked under his window till all hours.

‘I’ve cracked LAT.’ It still sounded strange to say, but he had

cracked it. This maths was simple in its way, yet staggering. Thiswould change the world, like the Blackoot Report had done. And

they’d all come – Rutherord Tomkins, Lyzenko, Venkat, Sheila

McKenna, Harkenberg, Gilbert, de Mondi – all those so-called

eminent scientists; they’d all come. They’d see he’d been right all

along. Idiots!

So she thought she was going to a Society do tomorrow night, did

she? ‘Hahahaha.’ He’d passed out when he’d seen the ‘new stu.’The devil knew what she would do. She’d looked at his briecase

and seen nothing there. But LAT had been there all right. Had it

been thicker, less concise, perhaps it would have withstood that

goose’s beak … but it had served well enough.

Hoo-aah!

He put the last page with the others, then stepped to the

window.

Sharky crept rom the ower-bed and crouched down, kneading

the ground with his paws. He attened his ears, twitched his tail,

set himsel … and pounced. The bird apped away, untouched.

The gate swung open.

Ah, Sharky had sensed that people were coming; he’d been orced

to rush the issue. Two students stepped through, one wheeling a bike,

both with satchels on their shoulders and dust masks on their aces.

They let the gate open – typically – enough or him to read, or the

umpteenth time, the old College motto across the top: Ad Astra.



30

He’d miss aspects o Darragh: the garden when it rained, these

high ceilings, the chicken salads rom The Fig. He wouldn’t miss

these bloody students, though, always yakking away. It never

stopped, and it always got loudest right under his window.Sharky trotted o with his tail in the air. He could’ve had that

bird, and struck a blow or victims o avian oppression the world

over. It would’ve been a frst, however. He’d watched Sharky or

– what was it? – close on our years now. He was yet to see him

catch anything. Ah well, there was always tomorrow. Sharky still

had time. Not much time, admittedly (the old moggie was getting

on) but he still had some pu in him; perhaps even another our years o sleeping in ower beds and stalking birds. Ater that, it

was over. Hancock had been Sharky’s last hope. Sadly, humankind

had cut and run, abandoning the environmental policies that

might have sustained him or longer. Ater this Hancock decision,

nothing would stop the Reclamations. The drilling would become

indiscriminate and— ‘Crikey!’ Hancock had been everyone’s last

hope, unless they were secured, o course. The Corporation hadagrantly disregarded the law. Now, with that precedent set, they’d

do it again. Nobody cared anymore, or had the oresight to know

better … except the ew like Phoebe and Paul. Best he not orget

about Paul – Paul was so vital to the cause. The devil knew why she

was still with Paul. Ah, but she couldn’t miss her Society nights.

She’d have a quick squiz at LAT, then trot o to her Astronomical

Society in her high heels and her painted toes. Where was she,

anyway? She was taking orever with the tea.

Sharky sat on the lawn, licking his grey and white sel, oblivious

to his ate. It was a bright, early spring day, there were birds aplenty,

and there was Mrs Trollop, with a bowl o pellets and a saucer

o milk. This was paradise. But sooner or later the poor guy was

screwed. There wasn’t much chance o old Sharky being secured.

A cupboard closed in the kitchen.

Phoebe walked past the desk and came, stepping through the

pages, to the coee table. She put down the tray, joined him at the



31

window. ‘Why didn’t you say there was nothing in the at? We

could have picked something up at The Fig.’

There had been something evidently: crackers and pâté and the last

o the cheddar. He stepped over there, popped a cracker into his mouthand crunched it up. There didn’t seem to be any milk. ‘Milk?’

‘Milk’s o. I thought maybe The Fig? Ater you show me the

new stu.’

The new stu. She didn’t believe him, that’s what it was.

She thought this was something to be analysed, pored over,

cross-reerenced and checked. She thought she was going to fnd

mistakes and send him o to try again. Or perhaps she thoughtshe was going to see a part o LAT, a piece that ft in somewhere.

Phoebe didn’t have a clue what she was in or.

She scrounged around in her bag, ound a band, and pulled her

hair through it. ‘Is that it?’ She made eyes at the desk.

‘That’s it.’ He took his tea, walked over there, and handed her

the pages. ‘Have a squiz, tell me what you think.’ He opened the

bottom drawer.Clunk.

‘With or without a staple?’

She sat down, gave him a look. ‘Without.’

He picked the milk carton out o the bin and snied the top.

Dammit, it was o.

‘Hahahahaha.’

Phoebe had a gorgeous laugh. It was good to hear it again. He

hadn’t heard it much since the Blackoot Report. She’d still be

reading old stu, stu she knew. But LAT was a shorter theory

now. She’d soon be at the crux o it. The silence would soon start.

‘Hahahahaha.’

She certainly didn’t need LAT explained. That laugh was complete

understanding.

He went down the passage, back to the desk. Her eet were drawn

up, her toenails making a neat red line on the seat in ront o her.

She sipped her tea without looking, and ipped another page.



Her long-lashed eyes bored into the last page. Her cheeks and

nose curved towards it, but her expression resisted it. Everything

was changing or her, shame. That page was shaking in her fst;

the tendrils that had escaped her ponytail were slicked round her ear— She convulsed, pushed up out o the chair and ran down

the passage. The bathroom door banged closed. He went ater her,

knocked on the door, and opened it gently. Her pretty frst-o-

spring dress was stretched over that abulous backside. Her head was

in the toilet bowl, her ponytail swishing between her shoulders as

she retched and retched and retched.

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