The Universe versus Alex Woods

by Extence, Gavin

  ‘I thought you’d try to stop me,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have tried to stop you,’ she replied. ‘You’re essentially grown up. I can’t make decisions like that for you any more.’

  ‘You didn’t say that in the police station,’ I pointed out. ‘You said that I was only seventeen.’

  ‘I’m your mother,’ my mother said. ‘I just wanted you out of there. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Better,’ I said. ‘I mean, I still feel sad, obviously. But now it’s a good kind of sad, if that makes sense.’ I thought for a bit. ‘What I mean is, I wouldn’t change anything. I don’t mind what happens with the police. They could lock me away for a thousand years and it wouldn’t make any difference. I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ my mother said.

  There’s not much left to tell. I could go into more detail about the months that followed – the various shifts in my case, the many letters of support I received from both strangers and people I knew (Dr Enderby, Dr Weir, Herr Schäfer), and the equally numerous letters of condemnation that prayed with fervour for the salvation or damnation of my immortal soul. I could talk more about these details, but, by now, you probably know most of the things that are worth knowing. My case started with a bang but it ended with a whimper. After close to four months of meetings and ‘further enquiries’, long after the media glare had diminished, my case was effectively dropped. It was not deemed in the public interest to prosecute me for abetting a suicide. For the production and possession of illegal narcotics with the possible intent to supply, I got a caution. Dr Weir told me that this would not prevent me from getting into a good university and pursuing a career as a theoretical physicist.

  But, really, none of this should have dragged on for as long as it did. It might have all been settled in a matter of weeks – had it not been for the existence of the will. This was the complicating factor that I hadn’t foreseen. And it’s the last thing I have to tell you about.

  It had never occurred to me that Mr Peterson would have a will. I didn’t even know that he had a lawyer, not until I met her in her small, tidy office in Wells, on the day of my eighteenth birthday. Prior to that, I hadn’t been allowed to see the contents of the will. I only knew about it because the police had brought it to my attention. They’d got some sort of special legal permit to obtain a copy because it was deemed ‘potentially’ (and later ‘extremely’) relevant to their investigation.

  In short, it turned out that I was a major beneficiary of the will – one of only two beneficiaries – and this gave me a ‘plausible motive’ for wanting Mr Peterson dead (beyond all the very clear motives I’d already laid out in my various statements). I tried to point out to the police that this motive was only plausible if I’d known about the will beforehand – otherwise it was not only implausible, but also violated causality in quite a major way – but I got the impression that they saw this as a weak defence. Luckily, my lawyer told me I didn’t have to prove that I didn’t know about the will; the police had to prove that I did.

  ‘How could they possibly prove that?’ I asked.

  My lawyer shrugged. ‘If you confess.’

  ‘I could confess to anything,’ I pointed out. ‘I could confess that my father’s the Pope. It wouldn’t make it true.’

  My lawyer conceded this point but counselled that until this matter was laid to rest, I should remain patient and humourless, which was usually the best approach when dealing with the law.

  So the day I finally got to see the will was, as I’ve said, the day of my eighteenth birthday. It was only then I got to discover what it was that the police had wanted me to confess to. My mother and Ellie came with me for moral support. It was a sunny Friday morning, the autumnal equinox, and the third time in living memory that my mother had decided to close her shop on a work day.

  The will was set out in complicated legal jargon, of course, but the thrust of it was very simple. All the information I needed to know was laid out in a letter that Mr Peterson had left with his lawyer. I enclose a copy:

  Dear Alex,

  Well, if you’re reading this then I guess everything went to plan and I can no longer number myself among the living. It’s pretty funny to think about. Writing this now, I still feel very much alive. It’s a beautiful spring day and, apart from the fact it’s a little tough to follow what I’m writing, I’ve not really noticed any symptoms since I woke up. I think maybe my brain’s decided to cut me a break for just long enough so I can get this down on paper. What do you think? Does that idea fly in the face of medical science or what?

  But back to the point:

  I know now I’m dead. What I don’t know, obviously, is how much longer I had. I hope it was many more months. On a day like today, it feels very possible. And the fact that I’m in a position to hope for more time, the fact that I can think like that, is mostly down to you. I want you to know that. I don’t know how much time I have left, but I do know that things are going to end well. I don’t doubt that for a second. As you know, I’ve never been one for faith, but I do have faith in you.

  In the grand scheme of the universe, I doubt there are very many animals who’ve had the privilege of a peaceful, painless death. Unfortunately, the universe doesn’t work like that, as we both know. There’s nothing natural about a painless death, and the fact that I’m going to get one – the fact that I did get one – that’s something that makes me feel very blessed.

  Don’t worry: I don’t plan to go on in this morbid vein much longer. I just want you to know that I die contented, and a few years ago (a few months ago, even), that idea would have seemed unthinkable. As lives go, I think mine was mostly a good one. I enjoyed the uneventful parts especially.

  But as I’ve said, time is pressing. Let me cut to the chase:

  I’ve left instructions with my attorney concerning what she should do with my ‘estate’ on the event of my death. (That’s what they call it in legalese, an ‘estate’. I’m not getting delusions of grandeur.) The short of it is as follows:

  I've got a real estate guy in town who should’ve been contacted now that I’m dead. He’s to oversee the sale of my house, and from the resultant capital, along with whatever savings I have left, you’re to receive £50,000. The rest (the lion’s share, I’m afraid) is going to Amnesty. But I’m sure you won’t begrudge them that.

  I figure that £50,000 will just about cover an education these days, even a London education, I hope. And this is the only condition I place on your receipt of the money. You’re to spend it on your continued education. I’m sorry, but I’m adamant about this. If you’re going to work on that Theory of Everything, you’ll need time and space and no distractions. That’s what I’m buying for you.

  From a personal standpoint, I’m not too disappointed to be leaving the universe before you’ve had a chance to figure it out. I suspect that the Final Answer is just going to be a lot of disappointing math. But this is probably one of those areas where we’ll have to agree to disagree.

  All that’s left for me to say is: thank you again, Alex. I hope that your mother understands the decision we made, and that she’ll forgive me for allowing, and needing, you to be a part of it. I hope also that none of this caused you any difficulty with the law. I know we’ve discussed this enough already, and I’m sure you’re right: there’s no reason there should be any trouble. If there’s no victim, there’s no crime. It’s common sense. But you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I still worry a little. In the long history of human affairs, common sense doesn’t have the greatest track record.

  And on that thought, I’ll leave you.

  Your friend,

  Isaac

  I imagined that Mr Peterson had had quite a lot of fun writing that letter. I passed it to my mother, who read it and started crying. She passed it on to Ellie. Ellie did not cry. She cast a quick, critical eye over it before handing it back to me with a brisk shake of her head.

  ‘That’s s
ome kick in the balls,’ she said. I think she was referring to the clause regarding how I was to spend the money.

  After that, we left the office and walked back to the car, which was parked not far from the cathedral. My mum had hold of one hand and Ellie had the other, and I can’t remember any of us saying anything more. I only remember looking up at the cathedral and the sky above and thinking about a whole lot of different things. I thought about architecture and all the beautiful things human beings had managed to build. I thought about London and the Natural History Museum, Charles Darwin and Theories of Everything. I thought about the future.

  All these thoughts drifted like clouds through the virtual space of my mind’s eye – tiny electrical and chemical signals that combined to create an entire world – but then, after a while, everything just kind of melted away. All that was left was a calm blue void. I felt very happy.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly, huge thanks to Donald Farber, Trustee of the Kurt Vonnegut Copyright Trust, and to all the good people at Jonathan Cape for their generosity in allowing me to use the various quotations from Mr Vonnegut’s work that appear throughout this novel. Needless to say, Kurt Vonnegut has been a massive inspiration to me, and my debt to him is considerable. Thanks also to the Joseph Heller Estate for granting permission for the Catch-22 quotes; your generosity is likewise very much appreciated.

  In chapter five, Alex reads and quotes from ‘Martin Beech’s meteorite book’. This is a genuine book by a genuine man. The full title is Meteors and Meteorites: Origins and Observations, and it was my primary source for a wealth of information concerning meteoroids, meteors and meteorites. My sincere thanks to Dr Beech, and apologies, again, for demoting your fictional counterpart (whom Alex refers to as ‘Mr Beech’). I was also guilty, in one or two places, of altering the science to suit my own purposes – any inaccuracies are entirely my own work. Additional thanks to Ken Hathaway at The Crowood Press, who gave me permission to use the direct quotation.

  Now some more general thanks.

  To Stan, my agent at JBA, who took me to the pub and made all sorts of crazy promises about my book – all of which he has so far managed to keep.

  To all the people at Hodder who have devoted so much time, energy and enthusiasm to Alex. I’m a bit fearful of singling people out, in case I miss anyone, but I feel there are a few names I have to mention in particular: Alice and Jason, who have done wonders with the foreign rights; Naomi and Rosie, who, at the time of writing, are shepherding me through marketing and publicity; Clive, who sent me a nice, reassuring e-mail after the birth of my daughter, just when I needed it; Amber, a very thorough and perceptive copyeditor; and Harriet, who has chased up permissions, made travel arrangements, and taken care of at least a dozen other practicalities. As someone whose organizational skills are occasionally lacking, I’m very appreciative of this.

  Special and separate thanks to Kate Howard, my very wonderful editor, who loved Alex from day one, and whose unwavering enthusiasm has been driving things forward ever since.

  My mum proof-read the third draft, found lots of errors, and then said many encouraging things, for which I’m very grateful. Thanks also to the rest of my family – to my dad, for never telling me to get a ‘real’ job, and to my siblings, Siân, Kara and Ciaran, who have been generally supportive in innumerable ways.

  Finally, the biggest thanks have to go to Alix, my only reader for three years, whose unconditional love and support made this book possible. Without her, there would be no acknowledgements to write.