Virtually Gone

Simon Carr

Chapter one

Hell is this?

Life is, well, it’s awful really, isn’t it? I mean, sure, it has its moments like a good wedding with a nice buffet, but my god doesn’t it make you work for them and there’s so many boring or unpleasant. Even painful days you need to get through to arrive at that one good day. It just doesn’t even out, does it? So why do we do it? If we had any sense, the second we discover we get old then die we should just down our tools and say, “Well, I’m not doing that then, what would be the point?”

But we don’t. We slop through the horrifying experience for reasons that none of us seem to understand. Sure, some of us pretend we know what is going on and act like we came here on purpose with a plan, but none of us did—we were just deposited here against our will with nought but the basic instincts, urges and impulses to maximise our chances of survival inside of a monkey harem. It’s those instincts, urges and impulses that get in the way of our common sense. Our common sense would have said, “Nope! I’m not doing this.”

The very first time we got explosive diarrhoea, any sane person would have instantly said, “Not for me, thanks, but good luck with it,” then jumped off a cliff. But we don’t. We suffer through it—we persevere. We learn how to make a lot of money for someone else who, in exchange, gives us a little bit of money to compensate us for the eight hours a day we spend making them lots of money.

The strongest impulse is not dying. To reinforce this instinct, evolution made dying really hurt so that we would rather not do it, despite the fact we will have to do it anyway so all avoiding it achieves is prolonging the inevitable and filling that extra time with things that hurt a lot more than dying does. If we successfully make it to adulthood, other urges take over. The strongest one being the desire to make another one. That’s a very basic breakdown of what erotica and romance writers study. But the ultimate aim of this strong impulse is to find a mate and mate with them, which in most cases makes another one. Once you have made another one, other maternal and paternal instincts and impulses stop you from asking, “What the hell did I just do that for?”

There are many times when the critical thinking part of the brain starts asking awkward questions, so we shut that up by answering the impossible questions ourselves by believing anything. It was at this point we started worshiping stuff. We started small with fish, birds, rivers, and rocks, but as time went on and new evidence presented itself, we could no longer deny that God is not a fish. We aimed bigger with the moon and the sun, celestial objects, worshiping them as gods, and that worked just fine until the telescope was invented.

 The most awkward question that kept coming up was, what are we doing all of this for? A fair point. Life is a lot of work, so what’s the end game here? What are we working towards? This is when God becomes more interactive. You pay your dues and follow the rules, then at the end of it you can go and sit on a cloud with him. Don’t follow the rules and you have to go and sit in a fire with goblins and such.

The world’s first craze was born. People loved the sound of this, and it served as the bedrock for civilisation for a very, very long time. Eventually though a few people said, “But you can’t sit on a cloud,” so they were killed horribly and the people who spoke for the various gods made a lot of extra rules, the first one being never ask awkward questions or we will kill you horribly.

 As time and civilisation progressed, it became illegal to kill people horribly, so a few people said, “You can’t actually sit on a cloud though, are you sure this is right?” The people who spoke for the various gods just wouldn’t talk to them because they asked awkward questions. Anyway, that took us right back to the start, so if there’s no cloud and no harp, then just what the devil are we doing all this for? Some pretended to be ok with it being for no reason and that the universe and everything in it exists for something to do, a bit of blow really, but in this time, we also discovered alcohol and drugs so it was not a total loss.

The thing is nothing in nature does things just for something to do. There’s a point to everything and even though the ant has no clue just why they’re digging a tunnel, the end product of thousands of ants all doing the same thing is a lovely big ant colony.

 Our problem is we have egos, so we don’t want to admit we have no clue why we are doing the things that we are doing or what the point of it is. We like to think we are individuals with free will and we express this by wearing the same clothes that billions of other people are wearing and indulging in the same activities as them under the set parameters that are laid down for everyone.

There is a point in me saying all of this. I’m not just writing a suicide note here, far from it! Something drives us. None of us can put our finger on it, but there’s something inside of all of us that is adamant that this is not it; there’s more. An instinct that we are not going to die then disappear from existence. None of us understands it or knows what it is, but we all to some extent believe it, despite there being no evidence of any kind that such a thing is possible.

What if some of us already know, but we keep it a secret for your own good? What if what’s next is no better than what’s now? We assume the caterpillar emerges from its cocoon and gasps, “Oh my days! Look at me. I am a beautiful butterfly. This is everything I have ever dreamed of!” But what if it actually spreads its wings and cries out, “The hell is this!? Where are the cloud and the harp? The hell happened to my legs? Look at the size of this damn tongue! I ate a full dandelion for this crap. I look like a right idiot!?”

Well, all this dwelling on the meaning of life is not explaining anything at all, is it? So meet Doctor John Spanks. That’s him at the front of the university’s lecture hall giving a talk to the students on physics of which he is a doctor of “so Schrodinger’s cat is both alive and dead at the same time because it is not being observed, you see?”

A young man with skin problems and a large ginger afro puts his hand up. John nods at the student, giving him permission to speak.

 “Did they cut a hole in the side of the box so they could check?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “No, if they did that, they would be observing it, wouldn’t they?”

The student answers, “Well, how did they know it was both alive and dead at the same time if nobody checked?”

 John answers, “They don’t! So it is both alive and dead at the same time until confirmation is made with an observation.”

The ginger student snorts. “It’s dead.”

John asks the student, “And how do you know that?”

 The student tilts his head. “Because you poisoned it.”

John smirks, “But it was alive when you put it into the box. At some point the cat has to be both alive and dead at the same time.”

The student scrunches his nose. “That’s not quantum physics, that is just dying!”

The bell rings, so John glares daggers at the ginger- afro student. “I want you all to research what would happen if there was a Geiger counter inside of the box with the cat, in particular the rate of decay of atoms.”

 The ginger student shouts as he gathers his stuff into his bag, “Is there more to this class than learning how to kill cats?”

John has a moment and realises he needs to be clear on something. “Nobody poison a cat! No cats are to be harmed, is that clear?”

The class streams out of the doors, so John turns his phone back on and listens to his messages. He only has one. “Dr Spanks, it’s Dr Melbro. Please make an appointment to come and see me as soon as you get this message. It is of the utmost urgency.”

John makes the appointment and drives to Dr Melbro’s surgery. John has been having scans and tests done for severe migraines that have been progressively getting worse. John has been trying his best not to worry about it, but the tone of that message now has him fearing the worst.

John nods at Dr Melbro as he takes a seat in his office. “The message sounded urgent, doctor; I’m not expecting that you dragged me down here to give me good news?”

 Dr Melbro gives a heavy sigh, then looks over his thin rimmed silver glasses at John. “I wish I had some better news for you, John. The scans showed it is a tumour. I am afraid because of where it is we cannot operate on it. To do so would definitely kill you.”

John puts his fist onto his chin. “Is there no way to get at it with chemo or radiotherapy?”

 Dr Melbro shakes his head, so John asks, “How long do I have?”

 Dr Melbro looks sorrowfully at John. “We are talking weeks and months rather than years, John. I can give you something for the migraines, but at some point soon we really need to discuss end-of-life care. We need to monitor you to make you as comfortable as possible.”

John flicks his head back as his eyes glaze over. “Surely, you must know of some experimental treatments. It’s not like I have anything to lose now, is there? Sign me up for any of them.”

 Dr Melbro responds, “None that I am aware of, John, not for a tumour as advanced as this one.”

Dr Melbro takes some leaflets out of his desk. “You can get in touch with these people. They can help with any questions you have, or they can be with you as you tell your family. They are always at the end of a phone, day or night.”

John answers, “What family? I only have a goldfish and I don’t think Moby will be too bothered. Do me a favour?”

 Dr Melbro opens his palms upwards. “Anything, John.”

John stands up. “Just send out an email or post to a forum, anything. See if anyone is working on anything, licenced or unlicenced. I’m not ready for this. I am not scared of dying, Doctor. I am scared of dying now, while I am nothing to anyone. I don’t want my legacy to be a tweet or a Facebook post from a former student, telling their friends their old teacher just died. We both work in circles where things are being tested that nobody knows about. Just find out for me, please?”

 Dr Melbro nods. “Of course, John.”

John walks very slowly back to his car in the car park. he looks down and gives an ironic smile as he spots a coin on the floor. He bends down to pick it up and a guy riding a push bike rides in front of John. John headbutts the front wheel of the bike, knocking him back upright, then he falls back to the ground, flat on his back. The dog that is following the biker then cocks its leg over John’s head and pees on his face. The biker shouts at the dog, “Sabastian, no!” The biker and dog carry on, leaving the moist John lying on his back feeling very sorry for himself indeed.

John takes a hanky from his pocket and wipes his face, because John is part of a small group of die-hards who still carry a hanky. Most of the world stopped carrying hankies in the nineteenth century. Hanky manufacturers accepted their decision and moved on to making pillowcases, but a small band of rebels stuck fast to the old ways despite it being very unsanitary and a bit gross, however it does keep Malcom, who runs a hanky factory in west Sussex, in work.

John decides he needs to ring his mother. The pair have not spoken for four years since John’s mother married a twenty-year-old bar man from Egypt who took all of Johns inheritance money after his father was tragically killed by a speeding inflatable passenger banana while on an all-inclusive package holiday in Benidorm. John clicks on his mother’s number. “Hi, Mum. It’s me, John. No, not John from the swinger’s club. The hell are you doing joining swinger’s clubs at your age? It’s John, your son!”

John’s mum eventually recognises the voice. “Oh you, what do you want? I am fine, by the way; so is your dad.”

John snaps, “He is not my dad. He is twenty-four, and I am forty-five. If either of us are anyone’s dad, I could be his!”

 John’s mum sighs. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”

 John replies, “I don’t have a brother!”

 John’s mum mumbles, “Exactly”

 John rolls his eyes. “Well, you are getting your wish. I am calling to tell you I am dying. I have weeks, possibly months, left to live.”

John’s mum snaps, “You said that when you googled why you got dizzy when you stand up too quickly.”

 John drops his shoulders. “Aye, well, I’ve been diagnosed by a doctor this time.”

John’s mum lifts an eyebrow. “Diagnosed with what?”

 John remains motionless for almost a full minute. “Well, I can’t remember but I think that is part of my condition.”

John’s mother looks down at the ground. “Look, John, I can’t give you the money your father left us even if I wanted to or believed your story. Horus has it all tied up in a bitcoin investment. We will be receiving millions back when his business partner from Facebook gets back to us in three days. Maybe then I will transfer some money over to you, but no more of these tall tales about dying. Show a bit of class, will you?”

 John snaps back, “I don’t want your money! You haven’t got any now, anyway. Horus has spaffed it all. Oh, you know what? Forget it! I thought somebody might give a flying frog that I’m passing on, but clearly, I was wrong. When I do go, I am leaving everything to the university. Horus is not getting a back, sack, and crack with any of my money.”

John’s mum replies, “Oh, stop being so dramatic. I still haven’t forgotten you made me ring an ambulance when your poo was green from drinking a slush puppy that was not watered down enough.” John screams before hanging up, “IT WAS GLOWING GREEN!”

John drives home, dejected and depressed. He walks through his front door into his studio apartment and throws his car keys onto the coffee table. He flops onto his sofa, leaning his head back on the back of it while staring at the ceiling. His phone rings. John is of two minds whether to answer it as his interest in interacting with other humans has waned dramatically from this morning, but after a brief moment of indecision, he answers. “Yeah?”

 A familiar voice says, “Dr Spanks, I don’t know if you remember me. It’s Professor Malik. We met in Switzerland at the Hadron Collider relaunch?”

 John licks the inside of his top teeth. “Yeah, I remember, string theory and the Boston hicks?”

 Professor Malik responds, “That’s right. Look, John, I know you have had a beast of a day, so I will get right to the point. I can help you.”

John says, “You know I am unwell?”

 Malik says, “Yes.”

“You know of a treatment?” John asks.

 “Yes,” Malik says. “Not an experimental treatment, but a proven one. John, you can be cured.”

John gets excited. “How? Laser treatment? What is it, Malik!?”

 “It’s a revolutionary treatment, John, a programmable immune system. We can program your t-cells to attack anything. Why don’t you come out here and we can talk properly?”

John stands up and puts his hand on his hip. “Don’t be giving me false hope here, Malik. It is real, isn’t it, not a theory or a hypothesis?”

 Malik responds, “Oh, it’s real, John. We have used it to totally cure stage-four cancer in human test subjects, Ebola, COVID-19, bubonic plague…it’s been one hundred percent affective against everything in every trial. Get yourself out here. There’s more that I can’t talk about on the phone, but I am sure that we can help each other.”

“Ok, I’ll book a flight for the morning. Thank you, Malik. I really needed this. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John and Malik both hang up, neither of them saying goodbye; a bit rude. Anyway, John looks at his goldfish in its little bowl and smirks. “Of all the problems I have going around in my head, finding someone to feed you keeps shooting to the top of the list. I don’t even like you, I’m just worried about my vegan students finding out I abandoned you and sending me a pipe bomb in the post.”

What professor Malik has been working on is different ways of getting smaller, much smaller. The way illness or disability has always been treated is externally with medicine or surgery. What Malik and his partner, Doctor Roestone, wanted to do was treat them internally. Everything is made from something. That sounds obvious, but it’s a chain reaction. The universe is made up of galaxies; galaxies are made up of solar systems; solar systems are made up of planets; planets are made up of rocks and gas; rocks and gas are made up of atoms; atoms are made up of protons, neutrons and electrons, and things just keep getting smaller. How small? We don’t know.

Every time we think we have found the smallest thing there is, we find something smaller. Professor Malik and Doctor Roestone theorised that the smallest thing there is, is something called a string, and all things are made from these strings. But, they theorised that the strings are so small that they are not made from matter at all but are made from information—information that clumps together to form a string, then these strings entwine with each other until they form something with mass. Then the things with mass join together, forming things with more mass and on and on it goes with the strings at the very bottom of the scale and the universe, or multiverse, or maybe something even bigger at the top of the scale.

If you could find the strings, then you would have access to the building blocks of everything. Genetics works by manipulating DNA, but if you could manipulate what builds DNA, you could program it to be anything you want. You could also make a person’s genetics do anything. You can make blind people see again. You could make an amputee grow back their limbs. You could train an immune system to give you immunity from every possible virus or train it to attack mutated cancer cells. It was these advances in medicine Malik and Roestone were chasing by smashing particles apart in giant particle accelerators, looking for these strings, and from what Malik said on the phone, it sounds like they may have found them.

John had his bag packed and tickets booked. He was giving instructions to the young man who lives in the studio apartment across from him on how to feed a goldfish. “You just put a small pinch in every morning, Josh, just a bit. Here’s a tenner if you need to get any more. I’m not sure how long I am going to be away yet; hopefully not long.”

Josh looks a bit like a goldfish. His eyes are wide and droopy and his mouth in a permanent half-open bubble. “What is it again?”

 John looks at Josh for an uncomfortable moment. “It’s a fish, Josh”.

Josh peers into the bowl. “Does it bite?”

 John nods. “Yes! Don’t try to stroke it.”

Josh nods and slowly raises his confused face so that he is looking at John again. “How often do I give it a bath?”

 John sucks on his teeth before replying, “You don’t need to, Josh, its already wet. Just change the water after a week.”

Josh peers back into the bowl. “For what?”

 John looks straight up, rolling his eyes into the back of his head. “More water, Josh!”

 Josh widens his eyes. “How does it even know what water looks like?”

 John looks down at the ground. “Are you sure smoking that stuff has no ill effects, Josh? I heard you arguing with a pot noodle two days ago?”

 Josh looks up and smiles. “No, I was not arguing with the pot noodle, John. I was arguing with the instructions on the side of the pot noodle.”

 John is not sure he wants to hear the answer to this, but he asks, “Why were you arguing with the instructions on the side of a pot noodle, Josh?”

 Josh tilts his head. “I tipped the pot noodle all over the floor trying to read them. I had to start all over again by opening another one; then I tipped that one all over the floor trying to read the instructions on that one.”

John looks sympathetically at Josh. “You know, the instructions are the same for all of them, Josh. You don’t need to read them every time.”

 Josh purses his lips. “I did not know that. I am not very good at cooking, John. Don’t worry though, mate, I will feed your cat.”

 “Fish, Josh.”

 “If that’s what it wants, mate, yeah.”

John walks out to his car safe in the knowledge that when his fish dies, it will be Josh’s fault, not his. John’s phone rings as he is getting into his car. “Malik, yeah, I am setting off now. I’ll be there in a few hours. I’ve not even told the university to be honest, mate. I have bigger problems than trying to get them to agree to last minute time off. I will tell them what happened when I get back and just ring in sick until then.”

 “No need, pal. I’ve sorted it all out. You have been transferred to my department until further notice.”

 “Why, how long will all of this take, Malik? I have left my fish with an inappropriate adult?”

 “Well,” Malik says, “There’re things we need to do first. I will explain later. The science is sound, everything is set…we just need some more data before we can begin, and I need your help getting that data. Don’t worry, I know exactly where it is and how to get it. Your fish is in a lot more mortal peril than you are in.”

 John responds, “Ok, but I did not know we were moving in together, Professor. I only agreed to one date.”

 “You can stay with me and my wife and our screaming six-month-old if you like, John, or there’s an alpine lodge with its own pool and snooker room?”

“Well, it’s a kind offer, mate, but kids are like farts. I love my own but other people’s disgust me. I’ll take the lodge. Will you meet me at the airport? I don’t speak Swiss.”

 “Nobody does, there’s no such language, it’s Romansh.”

 “I don’t care what it’s like, mate. I don’t speak it, so will you be there?”

 “Yeah, I will be there. Don’t take your car, John. We will pay for a lot but not months of airport car parking fees.”

John slams his car door shut again. “Fine! Get off my airwaves, then. I need to ring a taxi. I’ll see you soon.” With that, they both hung up. I just can’t get my head around this not saying bye thing, can you?