Gravity's Chain by Alan Goodwin Page A

where every equation belonged and how they all worked together. The feeling brought unbelievable happiness, but it was also the saddest of times—not because Caroline was dead, but because I knew I’d never encounter such heights again.
    To be honest the funeral came as an interruption and it showed. Appearances were too mundane for me to consider and I wore old trousers, a blue shirt and faded tie. It was bound to pull some looks, but that wasn’t the reason for Mary’s ferocious stare. She had more to hold against me than bad taste in the clothing department. Guilt and grief are an awful mix, a high-octane emotional fuel. No wonder she behaved that way, no wonder she didn’t speak to me. What could she say? It was all or nothing and she chose nothing. I kind of understood—kind of.

FOUR
    E ven with an early evening drizzle the bars and cafes of the Viaduct were full. This was Auckland’s smart set at play, attempting to impress, talking loudly as though what they had to say was important enough to be heard by everyone. The men were hard at work with the women, cajoling and pushing as far as they would go without a call to the police. Even at a glance it was easy to see those who would succeed and those who would fail. It was all in the eyes. Either they welcomed or they glazed over in the way only the truly bored can achieve. What hard work. I might fleetingly miss the chase, but when I saw it in action I thanked my lucky stars I no longer engaged in the ritual. It was straight to the kill for me.
    The drizzle vanished quickly as the lower clouds cleared and a weak sun filtered through. This instant weather change occurred in the space of my walk from one end of the Viaduct to the other. I was back in Auckland all right. I even started sweating as I returned to the Hilton with its sharp white lines designed to conjure up the luxury of a cruise ship. Bebe was anxious to brief me on the press questions for the evening and I have to admit I kept him waiting longer than necessary while I changed. Petty,I know, but sometimes he’s such an easy target.
    A small gathering of press and news crew cameramen greeted us at the entrance to the Turkish restaurant in Mission Bay. I was on my best behaviour, politely answering with a smile all the banal questions. Yes, I was happy to be home, yes, I had missed Auckland and yes, I was looking forward to the shows. The inevitable question about Driesler I ignored with an even sweeter smile.
    Bebe beamed as we climbed the steps to the upstairs restaurant. ‘Lovely,’ he whispered, ‘that was a lovely job. Now you have a good time.’ He winked mischievously.
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜I’m going now. You have a great time.’
    â€˜But I like you with me, Bebe. I want you here, you’re always…here.’
    â€˜Come on, Jack, you’re a grown man. Relax, enjoy yourself, you need a good time. I’ll be close by.’
    This was an unusual occurrence, one that only added to my fears for the evening. Surely his getting me here was punishment enough for what I’d done in London. How far was he going to go before we were even? I was even sorry I’d kept him waiting earlier. However, there was no time for further argument as he was down the stairs before I could reply, leaving me stranded like a first-time actor blinking at the stage lights.
    â€˜Jack, Jack.’ I had no idea who was shouting, or where the voice came from, but instantly sixty heads turned his way. ‘Over here, mate.’ Now in the dim light of the restaurant I could see a long table in the distance. Two Taikon security men who waited by the entrance guided me in that direction, having already determined its safety for the evening. As the guards moved me forward I feltsomeone move close behind me. I turned, expecting to see Bebe, but there was no one there. It left me with the strangest feeling, as though someone wanted to talk to me, but had