The God Particle

by Daniel Danser

  Tom didn’t know whether to reply to the back of the man’s head or the dark brown hooded eyes peering at him through the mirror. He chose the latter.

  ‘CERN, please.’

  He hoped the taxi driver wasn’t the chatty type so he could brood on the outcome of what had just taken place. He wasn’t in luck.

  ‘Terrible news about the earthquake. Where you from?’ He had obviously picked up from Tom’s accent that he wasn’t a local, a skill all taxi drivers must acquire as part of their training. The man’s shoulders relaxed, his concerns about being attacked by some crazed psychopath who had just escaped from the police station abated.

  ‘America.’

  ‘Where ’bouts in America?’

  ‘Boston.’

  ‘You been San Francisco?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘At least you seen it. Nothing left now. Bridge gone, cable cars gone, skyscrapers gone, even Alcatraz gone, and that was one sturdy prison.’ The man’s eyes spent more time looking at Tom through the mirror than they did on the road, which made Tom nervous. ‘I have a cousin in China Town, in the city, but my mum’s sister hasn’t heard from her, since the earthquake.’

  ‘Were there many casualties?’ Tom’s ruse of supplying single word answers, to deter him from asking any more questions, obviously wasn’t working, so he decided to give up and join in the conversation.

  ‘Millions,’ the driver said enthusiastically.

  Tom knew the total population of the city was less than one million, but he wasn’t going to correct him.

  ‘First Turkey, then America,’ continued the driver. ‘Where next?’

  The same question had crossed Tom’s mind when he’d been told about the quake in the interview room. There had to be a connection somehow.

  ‘Did the news reports give any indication of what caused the quake?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeh, bloody big fault – Saint Andrews.’

  ‘San Andreas?’ He couldn’t let that one slip.

  ‘Yeh, that’s what I said, Saint Andrews. Apparently, it was long overdue. Why do they build cities if they know there’s going to be an earthquake? Don’t make sense.’

  He has a point, Tom thought. ‘Because it’s human nature to think that it will never happen to them,’ he replied.

  Driving conditions were visibly deteriorating. They passed several lorries spreading grit on the roads, but they were fighting a losing battle. The taxi’s windscreen wipers were having difficulty clearing the snow from the screen and visibility was down to less than a hundred metres. None of this seemed to bother the cabbie, who was in full flow, espousing the probable causes of the disaster.

  ‘I blame scientists, myself,’ he went on. ‘They always meddling with nature – genetically modified crops, global warming. We don’t know half of what they get up to.’

  Tom moved in his seat to escape the man’s eyes reflected in the mirror. He hoped it wouldn’t take too much longer before they arrived at the facility.

  ‘What you do at CERN?’ the driver asked cautiously, suspecting that he may have put his foot in it.

  ‘Er… I’m the Catering Manager,’ Tom lied to save the other man’s embarrassment.

  ‘Phew! I thought for a minute you were going to say a scientist.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Anyways, as I was saying…’

  The driver was quite content to listen to the sound of his own voice, so Tom switched off and watched, out of his window, as the residents of Geneva trying to cope with the blizzard. Most people had taken the sensible approach of staying indoors. There were hardly any pedestrians on the streets. The ones that had braved the elements, through necessity rather than choice, had their full winter garb on – woolly hats, gloves, scarves, overcoats and boots. Tom looked down at his own clothes – jumper, trousers and brogues. He wouldn’t be venturing out anywhere in this weather.

  They finally arrived at the main entrance of the facility and stopped at the barrier. The man in the security hut slid back the window and shone a torch into the back of the taxi. Tom had seen him around the complex but didn’t know him by name. He wound down his window and handed his ID card over.

  ‘Have a good evening, Professor Halligan,’ the guard said, handing it back and pressing the button to raise the barrier.

  The driver caught sight of Tom’s sheepish expression in the mirror. ‘What you Professor of then? Soup?’ he said chuckling to himself.

  Tom sunk lower in his seat.

  They pulled up outside the accommodation block where Tom got out. He fished in his wallet and handed several notes over; he felt obliged to give the cabbie an extraordinarily generous tip to ease his own conscience. The driver thanked him profusely and set off back the way he had come, with a big smile on his face, leaving Tom standing ankle-deep in the snow, a few Euros lighter. The price you pay for dishonesty, he thought to himself. He shrugged it off and made his way to Serena’s apartment.

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘Where’ve you been? I was getting worried about you,’ Serena said, standing back from the door to let Tom in.

  ‘It’s nice to know you care,’ he replied, kissing her on the cheek as he brushed past her. ‘I’ve been down at the police station helping Inspector Gervaux with his enquiries.’

  ‘Did they arrest you?’

  ‘No – well, not yet, at least. Did you see the news about the San Francisco earthquake?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just switched it off. It’s very disturbing. So, tell me what happened.’

  It took Tom over an hour to recount the details of his brush with the law, aided by an ample supply of malt whisky courtesy of his hostess.

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ she asked, filling his glass for the third time.

  ‘Not since this morning.’ The effects of the alcohol on his empty stomach expedited his tipsiness. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk, Miss Mayer?’

  ‘No,’ she said putting the bottle on the table. ‘But I think you should eat something.’ His vulnerability was bringing out her maternal instincts.

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly dressed for going out,’ he replied. ‘And, with the state of the roads, you can forget about pizza deliveries.’

  ‘I’m sure I can rustle something up for you,’ she said, leaving him on the couch and going into the kitchen.

  The layout of the apartment was the mirror opposite of his, but it was what she’d done with the furniture that made it look more spacious. The large orange sofa, which she had covered with a rust-coloured faux fur throw, had been pushed up against the wall, leaving space in the middle of the room for a round shag-pile chocolate-brown rug. A large parlour palm sat on the small imitation wood table, which had also been concealed by a throw, but this one was covered with geometric patterns of African origin. The unit housing the TV was in the same position but, as well as the appliances, it housed photographs and ornaments. She had managed to find a painting, the hues of which complemented the colour scheme of the apartment perfectly. A large picture of a sunset over the Serengeti, featuring the silhouette of a solitary elephant, hung on the wall above the sofa.

  ‘I like what you’ve done to the place,’ Tom shouted into the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks. Is there anything you can’t or won’t eat?’ Tom could hear her rummaging through cupboards.

  ‘I’ll eat pretty much anything, as long as it’s not moving.’ He thought back to the dinner he’d had with Frederick and shuddered at the thought of the lobster.

  He got up, taking his whisky with him, and stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of pink cut-off jeans and a simple vest T-shirt. She would have looked good in a bin liner, he thought, as he watched her from afar. He’d learnt from bitter experience not to cross the threshold into a woman’s domain when she was preparing a meal. That occasion had ended in a huge row, with him taking the blame for the burnt offering that was presented on the table. Words like interfering and distracting came to mind. He had to admit to himself, that he had been partially responsible;
after all, it was he who made the first move that culminated in them making love on the kitchen work surface.

  ‘How does chicken foo yung grab you?’ she said taking a half-eaten roast chicken out of the fridge.

  ‘I can’t wait. What is it?’

  ‘Mashed-up chicken, mushroom and onion omelette.’

  ‘Since you put it so eloquently, it sounds very appetising. My taste buds are already tingling.’

  ‘Okay, you take the meat off the carcass and I’ll prepare the other ingredients.’

  ‘What, eggs, mushrooms and onions?’

  ‘There’s an art to chopping onions, I’ll have you know,’ she said scornfully.

  They worked side by side, him hacking the meat off the bones with a knife, and she wiping the tears away as she sliced the onion.

  ‘So the police didn’t believe there was a connection between the earthquakes and the Collider?’ she managed to say between sniffs.

  ‘No, they thought I was a crank – or, at the very least, a fool for taking the figures seriously.’

  ‘But I verified those figures and they did coincide.’

  ‘I know, but how do you explain the San Francisco earthquake?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a coincidence? Maybe it was going to happen anyway? It’s about sixty years overdue, according to seismologists.’ She blew her nose on some kitchen roll.

  ‘Hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘What if it was due to happen and the Istanbul quake somehow triggered it off?’ Serena put the eggs, mushrooms, onions and seasoning into a wok, which was heating on the cooker. ‘Looks like you’ve massacred it,’ she said, scooping the morsels of meat up with two hands and adding them to the pan.

  ‘That would make more sense. But how could we prove it?’ he continued, ignoring her last comment.

  ‘Isn’t there anybody we could ask as to whether it’s at least a feasible hypothesis?’

  ‘The only person I know that has any understanding of earthquakes is Ajay,’ said Tom, washing the smell of poultry off his hands. ‘And he’s gone AWOL. But even if he was here, I wouldn’t think he’s got the in-depth knowledge required to make a judgement.’

  ‘Frederick?’

  ‘I’ll ask him in the morning.’

  ‘What about the chemical they say they found in your apartment?’

  ‘I’m hoping it’s something innocuous, like cleaning fluid,’ Tom said trying to draw a close on the topic. He’d just about had enough of earthquakes and conspiracy theories for one day. ‘Now, if my services are no longer required, I will take my leave and await your delectable supper in the lounge area.’ He picked up his whisky and headed out of the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ she curtsied as he passed her by.

  It took her less than ten minutes to follow him into the lounge with two hot steaming plates. Tom hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he’d smelt the onions cooking. Now he was ravenous.

  ‘I’m afraid His Highness will have to make do with one’s lap on account we ain’t got a table.’ Serena put on her best British accent, which was reminiscent of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady.

  ‘Atrocious! I didn’t realise how sparsely the other half lived,’ he responded, lording it up.

  ‘Could you ever forgive a poor peasant girl?’ She sat next to him, fluttering her eyelashes.

  ‘That depends on the fayre, wench.’ He took a mouthful of the food. It was delicious. ‘Uh, mmmm.’

  ‘Is it to Sire’s satisfaction?’

  ‘If this is anything to go by, I’ll promote you to head scullery maid.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ she said sarcastically.

  They finished their meals, managing to avoid all mention of the disasters that had taken place over the past couple of days, although it was never far from Tom’s mind. Serena dutifully cleared the plates into the kitchen, whilst Tom scoured her CD collection.

  ‘You certainly have an eclectic taste in music,’ he said when she rejoined him in the room. Her catalogue ranged from eighties pop to classical, with a selection of everything in between. ‘Aren’t you a bit young for Kajagoogoo?’ he asked, holding up their 1983 debut album.

  ‘That’s what happens when you have two older brothers!’ She made her way back to the couch and sat with her legs tucked underneath her.

  ‘Funny, I’d have put you down as an only child,’ he replied, putting on a smooth jazz compilation.

  ‘Why, because I’m spoilt?’ she pouted.

  ‘Definitely!’ He made himself comfortable beside her.

  ‘I’ll have you know, when I was growing up my mother used to tell people that she’d had three sons because I’d always prefer to play boys’ games.’

  ‘You, a Tomboy? Now that really is stretching the imagination.’

  ‘It’s true! I didn’t even own a dress until I got to America.’

  Tom noticed a flash of sadness cross her eyes. ‘Did you miss Israel much?’ he asked, his voice serious.

  ‘At first. I had to leave all my friends behind in Haifa. As a young teenager, I found that very difficult. We didn’t have access to the mobile phone technology the kids use today. I couldn’t just text them, and Skype wasn’t even invented, so it was hard to keep in touch. Eventually, I made new friends and lost contact altogether.’

  ‘Why did you move to America?’

  She told him how their father had returned home one evening, tears running down his face, his hands and clothes covered in blood. After he’d showered, changed and composed himself, he’d sat them all down at the kitchen table and explained how he’d been on his way home from work, when there’d been an explosion on a bus on the opposite side of the road. He’d parked up and made his way across the debris-strewn carriageway with several other motorists who had stopped. They were first on the scene and were confronted with the aftermath of a suicide bomb. As they fought their way through the twisted metal and shattered glass at the front of the bus, it was evident that the passengers towards the rear, where the terrorist had detonated the device, hadn’t survived.

  Selena described how her father had broken down as he described how he’d helped to get the injured off the bus and comfort those passengers still trapped in the wreckage, until the emergency services arrived. He hadn’t gone into too much detail, but it was evident from his face that he’d seen a lot more than he was telling them. It wasn’t until the next day that the final death toll of fifteen was reported by the papers.

  Serena’s own tears began to fall when she described how she’d gone to school expecting to see her best friend, Ellie, waiting for her at the entrance, as they did for each other every morning. She’d hung around for her as long as possible, hoping she was just running late, before having to go into assembly. It was there that the school was informed by the headmaster that Ellie, along with another three pupils, had died in the explosion.

  Serena’s father had then decided to safeguard his family by moving to America to join his brother.

  Tom put his arm around her to comfort her and she buried her face deep into his chest. He could feel the violent sobs rack her body as he held her tightly. Tom suspected that she wasn’t just grieving for a long lost friend; the tension that had built up over the past couple of days was being released. He stroked her hair, which seemed to soothe her, as the convulsions soon subsided.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said looking up at him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  ‘I didn’t realise my choice of music would have such a profound effect,’ he replied, smiling.

  She managed a laugh, but her eyes never left his. He bent his head to kiss her and she met him half way. Their lips touched, tenderly at first, and then with more eagerness. She reached up and gently caressed his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He moved his body around so he could kiss her shoulders, pulling the thin straps of her vest down over her arms. She let out a moan as his lips brushed the nape of her neck. She turned towards him, her hands finding the buttons on his shirt a
nd deftly undid them, one by one.

  He broke away from their embrace, pulling her down onto the rug. Tom had imagined this moment from the very first time he’d seen her and wondered whether she would be a passionate lover. He wasn’t disappointed. They made love all night, time and time again, until finally, exhausted, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER 23

  They were awoken the next morning by the sound of a mobile phone ringing. It took Tom a couple of seconds to realise it was his. He checked his watch; it was just after eight. He scrambled from under the throw they had used as a blanket and tried to identify where the sound was coming from. It was the loudest from his trousers, which had been thrown over the back of the sofa. He reached into the pocket and retrieved his phone.

  ‘Hello?’ Tom said sleepily.

  ‘Tom, good morning. It’s Frederick.’

  ‘Morning, Frederick. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Would you be able to come to my office this morning? There’s something rather urgent I would like to discuss with you.’

  ‘And Serena?’

  ‘No, just you, Tom. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to Miss Mayer that you were meeting me.’ Frederick put the phone down.

  He turned to Serena, who had stirred at the sound of her own name being mentioned. ‘What was that all about?’ she said, stretching her arms above her head.

  ‘Frederick wants to see me in his office… alone.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ She threw the cover off, unabashed at her own nakedness. Tom realised he, too, was naked. She sidled up to him, draped an arm around his neck and pressed her body up to his. Tom could feel himself stirring again as he felt the warmth of her against his skin.