Connected (15 page)

In the kitchen, still in his pyjamas, he made
himself a cup of tea and entered the study. Powering on the laptop, he dialled
Doug’s number.
“Y’hello?” came a low pitched grunt from the other end.
“Hi Doug, it’s Peter. Sorry I missed your call… How are you doing? Out of
hospital yet?
“Doing good thanks. Yes, got out yesterday, just waiting for the results of an
EEG.”
“Oh, I didn’t realise it was that serious. Are you okay?”
“Guess I’ll find out soon enough. Feel all right so far though.”
“Good! So what’s up, have you worked out how to put the audio and video
together yet?”
“Not exactly, but I did get another idea.”
“I’m listening.”
“Did you say Martin just deleted the files rather than formatting the disk?”
“Yes, but I checked the recycle bin - it was empty.”
“I know, but assuming it was one of the last things he did, then there’s a good
chance we could still recover the files from his disk using some data-forensics
tools. I just sent you the details in an email together with a link to where
you can download some software that should do it. Do you still have access to
the PC?”
“It’s up at my sister-in-law’s in the Lake District. I suppose I could make
another trip up there later this week.”
“Where do you live?”
“Bracknell.”
“Would you pass anywhere near Wolverhampton on your way up?
“I could do. I’ll probably take the M6 through Birmingham, why?
“It’s just that I’m going there for Kal’s funeral on Friday. Thought it might
be useful to meet up, if it’s not too far out of your way.”
Peter looked at his diary. “Let’s see, Friday…yes, I could do that. It can’t
be more than a half hour detour, what time’s the funeral?”
“One o’clock. I’ll send you the address by email.”
“Okay. Well, see you Friday then.”
“See you Friday.”

Two funerals in two weeks, he reflected. He
scanned the email and clicked on the link. The data forensics software vendor
was offering a free thirty-day trial on their disk recovery suite. Perfect, he
thought. Providing they didn’t limit the functionality, he could install the
software on Martin’s PC, recover the files, and then uninstall it without
having to part with any money. Starting the download, he leant back, wondering
why he hadn’t thought of this before. Talking to Doug reminded Peter of his own
student days. Looking back, life then had been so simple - no commitments, no
ties, just endless possibility and that sense of freedom and invincibility
which is the privilege of youth. While the extent of his knowledge had undoubtedly
increased since then, he wondered whether his mind was still as sharp. What did
they call it – neuroplasticity – the degree to which the brain is able to
create the new pathways necessary for learning? How hard would his university
course-work seem now? he wondered. Other than skimming the scientific journals
once in a while, he had not done any serious maths or physics for years. These
days most of the calculations involved in his work were taken care of by the
CAD software. Feeling a sudden urge to test himself, Peter decided to go and
dig out his old university notes.

Access to the attic was via a hatch in the ceiling
of the upstairs landing. As he released the hatch door and pulled down the
retractable ladder, a shower of fine reddish-brown dust floated down around
him. Climbing the steps, he flicked on the light and looked around. A lifetime
of accumulated junk lay scattered in the dim and dusty loft space. Cardboard
boxes, odd items of furniture, suitcases, rolls of carpet – all too good to
throw away, but evidently not quite good enough to actually use - were heaped
across the rafters. Why on earth had they kept all this stuff? As he gazed
around at the forgotten fragments of a past life, he was filled with a stifling
sense of frustration and regret. Each item triggered memories which seemed to
widen the chasm between what could have been and what was. Forty-five years on
the planet and what had he really achieved besides a couple of kids and an
attic full of junk?

In the far corner, he spotted a box labelled in
black marker pen with the word UNI. Inside was a stack of manila folders and
four ring binders filled with lecture notes from his undergraduate physics
courses. He leafed through a few, but it was all fairly basic – no challenge
there. He spotted another box further into the eaves. Stretching awkwardly
across the first box and placing one foot on the next rafter, he grabbed the
edge and pulled it towards him. Brushing away the dust and cobwebs with the
palm of his hand, he peered inside. At once he recognised the contents from his
post-graduate research into string theory. This was more like it - finally
something to stretch the old grey matter to its limits. He opened one of the
notepads detailing his investigations into the possible geometric shapes for
the additional spacial dimensions of the universe, as posited by string theory.

In the absence of experiential evidence of such
extra dimensions, it was generally assumed they must be curled up into the same
tiny sub-atomic scales as the proposed strings of which they were composed. The
precise shape of these curled up dimensions was thought to determine the way in
which the strings vibrated - similar to the way the size and shape of a violin
determines its resonant frequencies and ultimately, the sounds produced.

In string theory, it was hoped that the right
shape and hence the right set of resonant frequencies would give rise to the
fundamental laws of physics we observe in the universe today. The problem was
that there appeared to be an almost infinite number of these shapes and as yet
nobody knew how to determine which ones corresponded to reality. There were
certain symmetries, which could be used to narrow down the possibilities, and
some rather nifty geometrical transformations, which could reduce the
complexity of the mathematics, but the task remained one of Herculean
proportions.

Just as Peter was trying to recall some of the
underlying mathematical processes, he heard the front door slam downstairs. He
waited a moment for the shouting to begin, but the house remained eerily quiet.
He lifted the box onto a roll of carpet, and crouched down beside it. There was
barely sufficient light by which to read, but descending to the study and
confronting Abigail was something for which he wasn’t yet ready. His mind
returned again to the complex six-dimensional forms known as Calabi-Yau shapes,
after the two mathematicians to first discover them.

The human brain, having evolved in a world endowed
with only three apparent spacial dimensions, was probably incapable of ever
visualising these higher-dimensional forms, even though mathematically, such
things were quite well understood. This gave such research an abstract feel,
causing one to question whether it could have any bearing on the real world or
not. The only possible way to get a sense of what a higher-dimensional universe
even meant, was by trying to imagine a world with fewer than three, such as in
Edwin Abbott’s 1883 satirical novella, “Flatland”. Although intended as a
comment on the social hierarchy of Victorian culture, the essential idea had
been seized upon by both science fiction writers and mathematicians grappling
with the notion of higher-dimensional space-time.

Although still requiring leaps of imagination, one
could just about force oneself to contemplate beings – Flatlanders - living in
a purely two-dimensional world, such as the surface of a piece of paper or the
image on a television screen. These rather dull individuals, having neither
height nor indeed any notion of up or down, can just swivel around within 360
degrees of lateral movement and interact with other Flatlanders, all appearing
as mere horizontal lines to each other. The next step in the thought experiment
is to imagine a three-dimensional sphere passing through Flatland from top to
bottom. As three-dimensional beings, we humans can easily imagine such a thing,
an orange perhaps breaking neatly through the paper. But to the Flatlanders
such an event would appear very other-worldly. At first, an orange dot would manifest
out of nowhere, grow into a wide orange line before shrinking back to a dot and
finally disappearing altogether. Similarly, a four-dimensional sphere, or
hypersphere, passing through our own three-dimensional space, would emerge
first as a ghostly dot hovering magically in mid-air, gradually expand into a
familiar three-dimensional shape before once again shrinking down to nothing.

As Peter mulled over the implications of these
apparently science-fictional concepts, he realised once more that the absence
of such phenomena in the observable universe, meant that if higher dimensions
did exist, they were surely too small to notice. He pulled another notebook
from the box, this one containing studies into various aspects of quantum
mechanics and field theory. He squinted at the tiny scribblings covering the
now slightly yellowing leaves of the pad. The faded blue ink and style of his
penmanship across the pages rendered it almost illegible in the current light.
He shifted awkwardly trying to capture more of the naked bulb’s sparse
illumination, but his back was starting to stiffen from crouching in the
confined space. He had no choice but to seek out a more comfortable reading
environment. Reluctantly, he placed the pads back into the box and began to carry
it carefully across to the hatch. A number of loose wooden planks of varying
length formed the makeshift walkway across the rafters, but as more and more
junk had been dumped in the loft, the walkway had turned into something of an
obstacle course. Out of nowhere, a high-pitched scream of “Peter!” rang through
the house. For a split second, the muscles of his body tightened in reflex. His
right foot jerked sideways slipping from the plank, onto which he had just
placed his full weight. He felt the soft glass-fibre insulation compress
beneath his slipper, as his arms flailed out in vain for support. Amid this
ungainly ballet, the cardboard box launched into the air, and Peter began to
topple sideways, sending his right leg through the ceiling below.
“Bugger!” he shouted, as a large section of plaster broke away beneath him,
eliciting yet another ear-splitting shriek from below. Peter’s pyjama-clad body
came to rest across the planks and rafters, one leg dangling through the new
and irregular shaped loft opening, the other crumpled painfully beneath him. He
then watched in helpless dismay as the box of files and notepads completed its
arced trajectory and vanished through the floor of the attic with another
plaster-ripping crash a few feet away. This was followed by another loud scream,
and a series of dull thuds, as the box tumbled down the staircase beneath.

“What the hell are you doing up there! Jesus
Christ, Peter!”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking!”
“Just look at the mess!”
Peter withdrew his leg, and poked his head through the hole to survey the
damage. Abigail was standing at the top of the stairs, looking both confused
and irate. She was covered in dust and plaster from head to toe, and from
Peter’s upside down vantage point, looked strangely like an angry clown.
“Well, it was about time that ceiling was repainted,” he offered finally.
“Bloody hell Peter! You do know we have Craig and Vanessa coming to stay this
weekend?”
“Oh, not empty suit and the poison dwarf? Do we really?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call them that, and yes, don’t tell me you’d forgotten.”
“I don’t remember ever knowing, let alone forgetting. When do they get here?
They’re not coming Friday are they?”
“Oh, you’re impossible. They’ll be here for lunch on Saturday.” She paused,
looking at him quizzically, her upside-down head tilting sideways. “Why, what
are you planning on Friday?”
“I need to make another short trip up to Littlewick to recover some files I was
working on from Martin’s PC.”
“You’ve got to be joking!”
“It’s all right, I’ll drive up on Friday and be back in time for lunch on
Saturday.”
“Leaving me to clear up all this mess, prepare the meals, and get the house
tidy for our guests?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, give me a break will you? I didn’t do this on purpose, and
despite the pain in my knee - which I seem to have twisted quite badly by the
way – not that you’d care – I can Hoover this up in a jiffy.”
She continued looking at him for a moment, shaking her head from side to side,
opened her mouth as if to speak, then tutted and stormed into the bathroom,
slamming the door as she went.

For a few seconds Peter remained with his head
through the hole examining the way in which the plaster had broken. It seemed
vaguely reminiscent of his earlier thoughts on the Flatland scenario. Although
he had never before crashed through the ceiling, he felt a peculiar sense of
déjà-vu.

The bright red Mini Cooper sped along the dual carriage
way of the A14 carrying the three young friends across Essex and into
Cambridgeshire.
“These things are actually surprisingly spacious, aren’t they Brian?” said
Doug, sliding his seat back into Brian’s legs until he yelped in pain, and then
inching it forward just a fraction.
“Oh yeah – it’s a regular TARDIS!” groaned Brian, shifting over to the seat
behind Susan. “Unless you happen to be sat behind some fat bastard in the front,
that is! “
“That’s no way to talk about Susan,” said Doug with a smirk.
“Now-now children!” said Susan, putting on an upper-class matronly voice. “Stop
the squabbling or mummy will get cross and spank you!”
“Is that a promise?” asked Doug.
Susan chuckled and then blushed. She likes me, thought Doug.
“Are we nearly there yet?” whined Brian from the back.
“So tell me about your EEG. What was Singh’s interpretation?” asked Susan,
glancing across at Doug and holding his gaze for a moment, before returning her
wide hazel eyes to the road.
“Well most of the results were perfectly normal…” started Doug.
“Which you have to admit is pretty surprising!” Brian jumped in.
Doug ignored him and continued. “But a couple of times, while I was sleeping,
it showed what he called a spike focus in the temporal lobe. He said it could
mean I have a type of epilepsy. He then asked me a whole bunch of questions
about my family, and whether I’d had any previous history of dizziness,
confusion, smelling funny odours etc.”
“And have you?” asked Susan now looking very concerned.
“Dizziness, confusion and funny smells pretty much sum up our Doug,” said
Brian, prompting a simultaneous glare from both of them.
“Sorry mate!” he added apologetically. “I know it’s not really a laughing
matter. It was kind of funny though, you have to admit!”
Doug went on. “I told him I’d always been as fit as butcher’s dog…”
“Though not as handsome,” Brian gibed in again.
“For Christ’s sake, Brian, this is serious,” pleaded Susan.
“Sorry, I just can’t help it,” he replied.
“Anyway,” continued Doug feeling frustrated, but not impervious to the humour,
“as I was saying before I was so insensitively interrupted - I told him I’d never
had any of the things he described as symptomatic of an epileptic seizure, and
as far as I know, none of my family have either.”
“What did the video show at the time of this abnormal brain activity though?”
asked Susan, sounding both concerned and surprisingly knowledgeable.
“Absolutely nothing,” replied Doug. “He showed a four-minute clip of me
just lying there in the dark, while all this weird shit was going on deep in my
brain. It just looked like I was asleep the whole time.”
“Sounds like a real must-see; when’s it coming out on DVD?” asked Brian.
This time even Susan couldn’t suppress a slight chuckle, although she stifled
it quickly and returned to looking concerned.
“Seriously though,” continued Brian. “Don’t epileptic fits cause people to
writhe around on the floor kicking, screaming, and biting off their tongues?”
“That’s only in a grand mal or generalised seizure,” replied Susan, with an air
of authority. “If it’s only a partial seizure, which I think is more common in
TLE, there…”
“TLE?” asked Doug.
“Sorry – Temporal Lobe Epilepsy - where the electrical storm originates in the
Temporal Lobe. Anyway, depending on whether it’s a simple or complex partial
seizure, there may be no involuntary movements at all – the patient may just
look confused or thoughtful. Sometimes they experience what are known as auras
- strange odours or feelings like déjà-vu, or even in some cases,
hyper-religiosity.”
“Hyper-what?” asked Brian.
“Hyper-Religiosity - Intense religious or spiritual feelings. It’s actually a fascinating
thing. This guy, Ramachandran, came to my university last year to give a
lecture about it. He did some studies, which showed a definite correlation
between obsessive religious convictions and TLE.”
“Cool - so believing in God is a disease?” exclaimed Brian excitedly, clearly
enjoying this development of the conversation. “I’ve always thought those
Bible-bashers must have something wrong with them.”
“Well, he didn’t quite go that far,” laughed Susan, “but yes, some of those
extreme cases who claim to hear voices and see angels and the like, could
theoretically be suffering from undiagnosed TLE.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Doug, with a sigh.
“I rest my case! “ said Brian triumphantly.