The HUM: The complete novel

by Michael Christopher Carter

  The three of them looked in stunned silence.

  “Ebe made this?” Marco asked in disbelief. “But he’s only nine! He can’t even tie his shoelaces! I can see why you say he’s a genius!” Marco said shaking his head slowly in delighted disbelief.

  “That’s not even it!” Miss Simpson announced. What more could there possibly be, wondered Carys.

  “We were stunned, obviously,” his teacher said. “When we asked him to explain how he had done it, I really thought he must have stumbled upon some sort of ‘make your own game’ website or something. I couldn’t believe it. He showed how he’d had problems. The software code required in-depth mathematical knowledge: advanced trigonometry and algebraic equations.”

  She gave an ironic look to her audience of two open mouthed parents and continued.

  “It won’t surprise either of you to learn, I’m sure, that we don’t teach trigonometry or algebra. Let alone the type of advanced equations Ebe demonstrated knowledge of. When we asked him where he’d learned it, he replied he’d worked it out!”

  The disbelief turned to hysterical elation as other teachers passing the class heard them talking and offered their own opinions, all citing Ebe as a prodigy, the like of which they’d never seen.

  Carys smiled to herself at the memory. She kept it to herself as Marco drove through the evening traffic. Rush hour wasn’t a reality in the same way she’d known it in Cambridge, but the little traffic there was, particularly at this time of year with the tourists flocking to the county, was a little busier at this time. It had been unavoidable. Marco had been unable to leave work earlier, and it really wasn’t worth planning to avoid.

  Going back to Cambridge was strange for Carys. Less so today than the first time a few years ago when they’d travelled to inspect halls of residence for Ebe.

  A proud Diane and Geraint came along then, and thought it might be nice to show Ebe where his mum had grown up. They’d parked in the driveway of Nutters, and were appalled unanimously at its new pink colour. The house in Royston had not provided similar revulsion due to its appearance, but to Carys, the memories were unpleasant to say the least.

  No detours through her home town were planned on this trip, but she anticipated the same odd feeling when they drove past it on the motorway.

  The traffic crawled round the one-way system of Narberth and the couple remained silent. She was sure Marco must be pleased with how she’d coped with the loss of her mother. He hadn’t demonstrated pride, but perhaps that was because he’d not wanted to pre-empt things: to put ideas in her head.

  Communication had been lacking for some time, truth be told, Carys mused. They went for romantic meals together; they demonstrated unity at church and work functions, but in reality, they’d grown apart.

  Ebe hadn’t been the most loving child. He’d insisted throughout his childhood upon calling Marco by name, despite plenty of encouragement from them both to call him Daddy.

  They tried for children of their own, but there seemed to be a problem with Marco’s reproductive capabilities. Help with IVF and even adoption hadn’t got very far because of Carys’s sectioning and ongoing mental health problems.

  It must have left Marco feeling unfulfilled and resentful, Carys supposed. Carys in return felt guilty, and had reacted badly to Marco making her feel that way. It was a chasm that had become difficult to bridge.

  It was too late now to expect Ebe would ever call Marco Daddy, but he had long since become resigned to the fact. He was immensely proud of his stepson, and couldn’t have treated him any better if he had been his own.

  It would be good if they could talk. As the journey progressed it might become easier, but for now, Carys resolved to reside within her own thoughts. She thought back to Ebe…

  After everyone agreed there was more to his developmental needs than a simple speech and language disorder, further appointments with specialists were made. It took an unfortunate while; eighteen months before they sat in front of a multi-disciplinary team, comprising a Consultant Paediatric Psychiatrist, Psychologist and Child Psychologist.

  After an hour or so of asking questions (which they must have seen the answers to in the various forms they’d completed over the years already), a preliminary diagnosis of Autistic spectrum disorder, possibly vying towards Asperger’s syndrome, was offered.

  Whilst they were curious about Ebe’s unusual appearance, they seem to have ruled out any condition that fit that and his developmental issues together, because they simply knew of none.

  Nothing happened as a result of the diagnosis, apart from a bit of financial help, and the occasional holiday camp holiday being taken at the tax-payer’s expense. Ebe’s education remained much the same.

  As he began GCSE studies, he was provided with a lap-top computer as his hand-writing became less and less legible and caused him more and more distress. The Asperger’s label at least gained him help, where without it he would have been admonished for his messiness.

  They became excited at the idea of him doing his exams early. He certainly had the skills. But he wasn’t able, or willing, to apply those skills to questions asked of him in exams, or even in the classroom. He seemed capable of almost any sort of mathematical conundrum if it related to something he wanted to know, yet unable of anything that didn’t directly concern his immediate requirements.

  It was all part of the Asperger’s condition, apparently. Instead of taking exams early, he ended up struggling to gain much in the way of qualifications, and had even been allotted extra time to complete what he did achieve.

  Whilst his speech was still poor, it seemed related mainly to a lack of desire to communicate, rather than a reduced vocabulary. He could read a very thick book in one five hour sitting, and was a zealous stickler for grammar. As such he passed English with ease. Along with passes in the sciences, he gained a fantastic grade in Maths, so much so that the prestigious Cambridge University had offered him his place.

  There had been tears when Ebe moved to Cambridge. His Asperger’s diagnosis granted him a direct payment scheme where carers based in the city came and cooked for him, and, it amused Carys to think, help him tie his shoelaces. A feat he was destined never to master.

  Leaving his mum behind was another matter however, and Carys had made the long journey to Cambridge on the train lots of times, just so Ebe could have a cuddle.

  She had liked being needed. But over time, as Ebe became busier with his studies, he fell more and more in love with maths and seemed not to need Carys at all anymore. She choked back her sadness at how distant he’d become. Holidays from term time, which Ebe had always yearned for, to be home in the loving bosom of his family, had been missed more and more.

  He’d stayed at University one Easter because of the work load, and then the summer holidays too. It had been a struggle to persuade him home at all for Christmas. It was what every parent wanted, and also dreaded, for their children. Her little boy had definitely grown up.

  Incredibly, he had obtained a Ph.D. in pure mathematics, and later, a masters in applied mathematics, for which the graduation ceremony was tomorrow, and for which they were travelling this evening. Carys felt pride and excitement for the coming events, but it covered an underlying anxiety about Ebe’s future plans.

  Her fear was not that he wouldn’t find work, but more that he’d find it all too easily, and it might be very far afield. He’d already received offers from scientific institutions in the United States, Russia, Germany, and even India and South Korea. Carys fought back tears as she thought of how little she might see her son. She spoke through a lump in her throat.

  “Where do you think he’ll go after tomorrow?” she managed to utter.

  As Marco edged towards the roundabout on the by-pass for Carmarthen, he considered his answer.

  “You can’t molly-coddle him, babe,” he said affectionately. But really, he wanted to side-step the topic threatening to breach the surface of calm that existed tenuously in the Paulo-Ellis hous
ehold. “He’ll do whatever he wants. We need to make sure we put his needs first, and offer him advice that reflects that. Whatever’s going to make him happy? Yes?”

  Carys could only nod, too choked to verbalise her agreement. Of course Marco was right. They had no choice but to support Ebe in whatever he wanted to do. She could hope that what he wanted to do was to work very close to his mother though, couldn’t she?

  They drove on in silence for a while, past Carmarthen and Cross Hands and on to the M4 motorway. Carys stared out of the window at the changing scenery. The foothills of Black Mountain and the mountains around Swansea and Port Talbot stood in defiance against the heavy industrial scape of the steel works with their multiple metal pipes and chimneys scratching the sky, spitting flames like shiny cylindrical dragons.

  Still silent, Carys was grateful for the “Look at that,” direction from Marco as they sped past Kenfig sand dunes that had buried a village a long time ago. The spire of the village church could still be seen poking through the sand like the mast of a tall ship sailing through the dessert.

  Having gained the most animated response of the journey, Marco decided enough time had passed to broach a subject dear to his heart. “Once Ebe has decided where he wants to go, we can decide on our plans, can’t we?”

  “I won’t want to leave Wales, Marco,” she exclaimed. “I’ve just lost my mum. My dad needs me, and Ebe will need a base, wherever he ends up working.”

  Carys fidgeted in her seat. “You don’t know how he’ll cope being away from home. University halls is still institutional. It’s not the same as proper grown up living on his own. You can be so insensitive sometimes!”

  “He seemed to settle perfectly well in Cambridge! And institutional as it may be, he’s done better than you said he would. You just can’t stand that he doesn’t need you anymore!” He was tired of putting first the wishes of his wife whose son had never called him Daddy, and who herself had never ordained to even share his name.

  Still incredibly beautiful, he’d often receive envious looks from other male diners when they went out to restaurants and other social gatherings. They had fantastic fun together a lot of the time, sharing a sense of humour and plenty more besides.

  What bothered him at the moment was the Welsh weather. The entire British Isles had suffered horrendous winter and spring flooding for the past few years. Climate change seemed to be fulfilling the negative predictions, but the long hot summers were failing to materialise. Marco’s Italian motherland was a considerable improvement, and his yearning for home had grown strong.

  There had been a time when Carys had tentatively gone along with the idea, but recent events had made her more homely. Silence prevailed on the journey. Neither wanted to rattle the other’s cage. They passed the capital and then Newport. They were rapidly approaching the first major milestone of the mammoth drive to Cambridge.

  The impressive Second Severn Crossing loomed into view. It was Carys’s cue to exercise her vocal chords. She was determined to sing, as she always did when she crossed into England. She always would have with her mum and dad, and now it was a point of principal. She didn’t expect Marco to join her after his going on about Italy, and she was correct.

  He allowed her to finish singing of her Hiriaeth - home sickness, and how a welcome would be kept in the valleys before snorting his retort.

  “I always sing that song as I leave Wales, and so does my Dad,” Carys cried.

  “You say we can’t move to Italy because your dad might need you?”

  “That was one of the reasons. Ebe might need to touch base occasionally.”

  “He might, but he hasn’t really needed to while he’s been in Cambridge, has he?” Marco said, a little snottily Carys thought.

  “As for your dad. He’s planning a trip, back-packing around South East Asia! He’s been bending my dad’s ear about it for weeks. He doesn’t want to be in the house without your mum. Says he finds it impossible. So, there’s no actual good reason we can’t go.” He drummed the steering wheel anticipating an objection.

  He looked away from the road to glance at his wife. Her eyes were moist and glassy. The tears she held back, painfully apparent. Marco softened his tone.

  “Sorry if I spoke out of turn. I just thought you should know. When you’ve been saying how you wanted to be here for your dad and Ebe, and I knew that neither of them wanted or needed you to be, it annoyed me. That was unfair though. I know you meant well.”

  A tear found its way from Carys’s eye and trickled down her nose dripping noisily onto her handbag in her lap. Marco reached out and squeezed her leg. She grasped his hand for comfort and they were good. For a while.

  Dusk fell as they drove further into England. It coincided with the scenery become blander. Carys pressed the buttons on the car stereo until she found music she liked. A few songs into her listening, as though a higher power wished to pique her distress, ABBA played. Memories of Diane flooded intolerably into her mind and she crumpled into unendurably awful sobbing.

  Marco tried his best to comfort her. He debated stopping the car, but the motorway proved impossible and he opted for further squeezing of Carys’s leg. Unresponsive, she appeared to have moved into one of her catatonic states. Marco tried to remain calm and concentrate on the road ahead. He was becoming tired and couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by the stress of worrying for his wife’s mental state.

  After a while driving without looking at her, he risked a quick glance. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be sleeping. He relaxed into the drive more as he made the turn for the M25 London Orbital motorway. The music carried on blaring distractingly through the speakers, but Marco left it playing. He thought Carys might value the rest. Grief was a terrible thing.

  He had timed the journey just right to miss the motorway rush hour, and before long he was turning off again onto the M11 motorway that would take them to Cambridge and their hotel for the night. Darkness was falling fast and Marco was feeling all the more fatigued for it.

  On and on they travelled, north from London towards Cambridge. The M11 had still not benefited from street lamps along most of its length. Marco, took the turn towards the city which were the directions indicated by the hotels website. They wouldn’t reach the city centre and its charming aged architecture until the next day, but the hotel looked lovely in the photos. He hoped Carys would still be in a mood to enjoy it after their spats along the way.

  “Are we nearly there?” she asked with her eyes still closed.

  “Nearly!” Marco declared enthusiastically.

  Carys, noting Marco’s placatory tone, allowed herself to open her eyes, ready to enjoy the night and coming day, proud in her boy’s success.

  “What’s the name of the hotel again?” she asked.

  “The Felix, or something,” Marco answered hesitantly. It’s an attractive country house just outside the city.”

  The roads twisted a little more as they drove out of suburbia.

  “It’s not long now,” Marco updated his passenger. Carys nodded.

  Fully open eyes appeared to be playing tricks on her. She had become accustomed to a lack of light pollution, she knew. South West Wales population was tiny compared to here, but surely that couldn’t account for the light sky she was seeing now.

  Peering hard through the window, perhaps expecting some vast industrial estate or retail park to have been built since her last visit here. All she could see were country houses and a few street lamps. The city wasn’t like Swansea or Cardiff or many other of the British cities with bright lights and tall buildings. The countless listed buildings ensured that wasn’t the case.

  And then she heard the unmistakable sound of the hum. Panic flooded her body with a fight or flight injection of adrenaline. She suddenly felt trapped in the car.

  “Do you hear that?” she asked in a terse tone. She wasn’t aware if Marco answered. It was probably just a helicopter. Maybe flying an emergency into Addenbrookes, she forced herse
lf to believe. But not for long.

  Through the windscreen it was clearly visible; the size of a football pitch and oval in shape. Lines of red lights glowed, not a regular pattern, more randomly functional, like a flying city. As it moved closer she was certain she was staring at the underside of a huge spaceship.

  Did the shape change? Or was it just so large, and so close to them now that the form had become indiscernible. Glancing at Marco, his calm countenance made her start almost as much as seeing the craft.

  “You can see that, right?” she asked, seriously concerned for her sanity if he couldn’t. If she’d been calmer, she’d have seen his expression betray his dilemma of whether to toy with her or not. He opted not to.

  “Yes. Of course I can see it. It’s bloody massive!” he said, but he didn’t seem at all afraid. Mocking laughter filled the cockpit of the car. “It’s not real, you silly girl!” she looked at him bewildered. “It’ll be one of the student balls. Just a laser show, or a holographic display. You remember? Like they did at Oakwood theme park that time? Over the lake?”

  Her failure to answer was not because she couldn’t remember, but because she could. The display of laser projected holograms onto dry ice pumping over the water was impressive, spellbinding even, but it lacked realism. Whilst she had been impressed, she had not been fooled.

  As if answering her unspoken disbelief Marco added,

  “Of course, this is a little better done. There’s a lot of money available to these big universities from businesses courting the best students for job commitments.”

  Whether that had any basis in truth, Carys didn’t know. It seemed unlikely businesses would spend more money than a theme park on a simple student ball. What would be the point?

  Who was Marco trying to kid? Could he be just so unwilling to believe anything she told him, he’d excuse the very obvious right in front of him? He wouldn’t be the first to deny the truth because it didn’t suit him, and he wouldn’t be the last. What could she do?