The Theory of (Not Quite) Everything by Kara Gnodde

Author:Kara Gnodde
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

33

The Halting Problem

“Good morning,” says Mimi, as she enters Art’s ward. She hopes a smile to the nurses will elicit good news about her brother, as if by sheer force of friendliness, she might alter the course of his condition. In fact, he is worse, paler, his face more shadowed and sunken.

She signs for the release of Art’s belongings—the backpack he had with him yesterday, and his clothes in a clear plastic bag.

Sitting next to his bed, Mimi opens the backpack. As she might expect, there’s a math book inside, an old one her father loved—Chaos Squared by Jack Freeman. It gives her a jolt because it was her father’s favourite book, but she supposes it’s unremarkable that Art’s carrying it around. It’s still got the strawberry sticker she stuck on the dust jacket as a young girl. Of more interest is a foil emergency blanket, a flask of tea, and Art’s mobile phone, zipped into the front pouch along with the key to his study.

Art had enjoyed making her work out his password when he’d got this phone. He’d given her a crossword clue—“Take pie back.” Pie, inevitably, was mathematical pi. Mimi loved the satisfying clarity of finding an answer Art wanted her to find.

3141 she’d typed, smiling. Incorrect password, said his phone. “Take pie back,” her brother had told her. “Standard crossword practice.”

“Don’t be irritating.”

“Backwards,” said Art. “1413.”

Mimi wants to know his movements yesterday—did he ignore her texts or not receive them? Before she does that, she flicks through his wallet, which reveals nothing. But then, there, behind the front pouch of his bag, in the discreet compartment where she knows Art keeps his passport when he’s travelling, is a letter. Addressed to her.

No. No. No. Oh dear god, please no.

It might be an ordinary letter, on an ordinary day. But the envelope is Art’s favourite stationery, Basildon Bond, 200 gsm.

Dr. Sipos is walking towards her, and gestures to Art’s bedside. Mimi stuffs the letter back into her pocket and walks over to him with her hands shaking. “The first forty-eight hours it is critical,” says Dr. Sipos. “I know his condition looks grave, his body is coming out of initial shock. And the next twenty-four hours, they are particularly important. Keep talking to him.”

Dr. Sipos’s voice and soft, irregular English are calming, but they are background now. She can’t concentrate. And anyway, before she can pull herself together, he’s gone, rounds calling.

She goes to the Quiet Room, a windowless space where families come to sit in silence and stare at the walls. It is furnished with plain chairs and a corner table. Alongside a framed watercolour of geraniums in a window-box are posters for a bereavement service and the Patient Advice and Liaison Office.

The envelope from Art is sealed, with NAOMI BROTHERTON on the front, in capitals.

She slits it open. Inside is a letter written in black rollerball—Art’s pen of choice—in his distinctive, spidery hand. His writing deteriorates; by the end his words mash up against one another and it’s hard to read.

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