Chapter 1: What the World Needs Now

  Dr. T.A. Dale, Head of Department of Theoretical Physics, reads the discoloured bronze nameplate, the lopsided nature of which now complements beautifully the extremely lopsided nature of his life. Less than a week ago, it was a perfect example of ordered simplicity.

  Struggling to comprehend the reality of his situation, the voice of the security guard standing next to him reminds him instantly. The guard quietly asks if he has all his personal effects now, stating that he has been instructed to escort him off the premises. Nodding, he starts to make his way from the place he had come to know and love as his home from home. Quickly reaching the large corridor, passing the main hall, the large main doors come sharply into view. Carrying a box that contains his personal effects begins to feel heavy, more like he's wearing a badge of his failure. He passes through the heavy wooden doors for one last time.

  His recall of that morning is as clear in his mind as the day it happened, half a decade ago now. Tristan has always tried his best to mediate the sadness and anger that can often be found circling in his mind. He tuts loudly before crying out, "I need to get my shit together," which he says in the style of James Brown. There's no use in crying over spilt milk. The series of events since that unbelievable morning five years ago are still difficult for his mind to digest. Mathematically, he often finds himself asking, "I wonder what the odds are that so many tragically sad occurrences, one after another, have seemed to find their way to me?"

  With almost disbelief, he reflects on the disturbing nature of his dismissal from the university. The last thing he remembers is getting into his car; the next thing he knew, he was waking up naked in bed between two of his male students. Confused and terrified, he silently puts back on his clothes and nervously makes his way to the front door. After managing to slip away without incident, starting his journey across the city, he finds himself back in his car forty minutes later, feelings of total confusion unable to remember anything from the day before except being seated in the front of his car. The consequences are too awful to consider, a wave driven by the fear of not knowing, his mind wiped of the events from the day before is not helped by his growing unease and terror. Suddenly, all at once, the man now sitting in the seat next to him begins by saying, "Dr. Dale, keep your eyes forward unless you want to end up in the hospital. I suggest you listen carefully to what I'm about to say, as I'll only tell you once, so it's in your best interests to make sure you understand the gravity of the situation."

  The man begins by handing him pictures. He can hardly bear to look. What the man says next still haunts him to this day. "It's simple really, Dr. Dale. We want three things from you. Number one: the equations you have reached for achieving quantum communication disappear. Similarly, the white paper you plan to submit for review from your peers must be withdrawn from submission. Lastly, you will walk away from the academic world. We shall see to it that you're still able to take early retirement, and that you never discuss what has been said here today. We trust you love your daughter enough not to put her in danger." Nodding, he sits in a state of shock, slowly realising his career is now over.

  The high-pitched whirring subsides, and trails of memory flash by as his trance-like state recedes. Tristan picks up the joint from the ashtray, brushing off the effects of his episode. His eyes refocus as the doorbell rings, sounding distant.

  The sound grows clearer, its familiar tone both annoying and mildly amusing. He jokes to himself that most people would consider his doorbell a source of self-inflicted mental trauma. He hears the horribly repetitive old Nokia ringtone—one of little Cass's favorite noises, a recognized facet of autism, her doctor had explained—echoing from the speaker atop the filthy kitchen worktop. It anchors him as he struggles with the jarring return to reality. Glancing at the phone, he sees Jordon, his unmistakable green army-issue parka filling the camera lens. Jordon's nervousness adds to his oddness; he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his hatred of daylight amplified by his borderline obsession with wearing his thick fur-lined hood zipped tight, completely covering his face and precluding any possibility of eye contact. Tristan can't help but smile at his shiftiness.

  Then, as if on cue, the uncomfortable sensation signals the unwanted arrival of another voice hijacking his internal monologue. His train of thought is instantly replaced, making him feel like a passenger in his own mind. The familiar male voice says mockingly, "Fuck me, they don't make drug dealers like they used to." Tristan finds himself in reluctant agreement with the voice in his head. He quickly shrugs off the thought, watching Jordon maneuver closer to the glass door, somehow managing to look even shadier. Still feeling the lingering effects of his trance, the sound of Cassie's excitement at the Nokia ringtone helps him return to full consciousness. He glances around his kitchen, trying to escape his surroundings, momentarily shamed by its state. Cereal boxes litter the worktops, and the washing-up resembles concept art skyscrapers. Stretching as if he'd been asleep, he glances into the lounge. Directly in front of him, centered on the rug, sits Cassie. Little Cass, as if aware he blames his failures on everything—even her condition—turns and gives him a look that conveys more than words ever could. The voice in his head whispers, "You're lucky; most people will never experience the sentiment behind that look, never mind have the ability to speak it."

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  "What's on, my G? You gonna let me in?" Jordon hollers from the hallway. "Come in, mate," Tristan replies, briefly wondering how he could forget his vampiric friend, whose shadowy form now resembles something from a horror film, pressed so close to the glass door. The almost elven sound of Cass closing the living room door brings a smirk to his face. Jordon is extremely likeable, if not exactly quiet, and it's probably a good thing he's not a reader; a library would be his personal hell.

  Like a hurricane, Jordon is inside with startling speed, having already removed his trainers and placed his heavy parka over the back of a chair. He's somehow retrieved a glass and is pouring an energy drink. "You good, my mate?" he asks, simultaneously retrieving several other items and arranging them perfectly on the table. Tristan focuses on him, trying to figure him out, and notices he's making a call with one hand while effortlessly rolling a joint with the other. He briefly wonders how Jordon manages it before dismissing his dexterity as one of life's mysteries.

  When Tristan moved to the Southwest, he was totally unfamiliar with the area; his head was a mess. Everyday essentials were forgotten; simply staying alive and out of the mental hospital was all he could manage. It wasn't a good year, to put it mildly, as his brother Eliot pointed out during his rare visits. It was the twelve months he'd always remember as his year of "incarceration," following his divorce, his schizophrenia diagnosis, and his unemployment. He remembers sitting on the beach, thinking how finding a decent weed source was like finding a needle in a haystack—a massive, British Saturday wrestler sized giant haystack . He'd felt a desperate urge to talk to the guy smoking nearby. He went over and immediately connected with Jordon on a subconscious level. It was a funny way to start a friendship, but he was grateful; he needed a dealer. An unspoken mutual trust quickly formed.

  His memory scans like a laser, retrieving a memory he hadn't realized he was searching for. Without prompting, he opens the fragment, ignoring his conscious mind. The sensation, which should feel unnatural, feels perfectly normal. He vividly remembers his amazement at Jordon's knowledge of fringe topics. He recalls asking Jordon how he'd acquired such deep knowledge as he flipped through his books, and Jordon declaring, in a mockingly light voice, "YouTube, innit mate?" Tristan had never met anyone so genuinely unshocked by his ufology paraphernalia. Jordon's knowledge rivaled his own; in all his years of studying the phenomena, he'd never met anyone whose reasons mirrored his.

  The recollection is interrupted by another voice—a female one—taking control, rasping, "Yeah, and just like you, he's another good-for-nothing loser. You got something else in common, aye?" With an almost violent jolt, he's pulled back to reality. Jordon is shouting his name. "Wake up, man! Come back!" Finally able to make eye contact, he sees Jordon's genuine concern. "You were out totally, dude," Jordon says, pausing. "You still hearing voices?"

  Reluctantly, Tristan replies, "Yeah, dude, I am, but it's different somehow." "Different?" Jordon asks. "Different how?"

  He considers how to explain it to Jordon. He decides it's best to keep his mental state to himself for now. Although Jordon is one of the few people he confides in about his schizophrenia and his childhood UFO encounter—which he believes is the source of his problems—he'll keep this to himself, at least for now.

  Just as he starts to feel sorry for himself, a surge of energy pulses through them both, and the building resonates with a deep hum. He vaguely remembers Jordon saying, "What on earth?" when a massive electrical surge blows the lightbulbs. Confused, they stare at each other, then simultaneously look toward the lounge door. "Cassie!" he calls, panicked. He's out of his chair and at the lounge door in a millisecond, his head filled with fear and confusion. He opens the door into darkness. Cass always insists on closed curtains and lights off. The living room is more like a home office—no television, sparse seating. In the corner, against the wall, is a large, CEO-style desk.

  Recently, it's become Cass's domain. The large wooden top is almost hidden by screens and keyboards. He thinks she's using eight devices: tablets, laptops, and his old, incredibly powerful desktop. His heavy leather swivel chair, cushioned for her height, faces away from the doorway. It's funny how they ignore things that might be difficult to explain. Instead of rushing in, they stand frozen just inside the threshold. The only light comes from the devices, their screens ablaze, multiple sounds emanating from the speakers. Suddenly, the sounds stop. Then, eerily, the speakers on every device play the same tune, faintly at first. Jordon's unease is palpable. As the volume increases from muffled to uncomfortably loud, the lyrics become clear: "What the world needs now," before the room falls silent again.

  Slowly, the heavy chair swivels to reveal Cassie, her waif-like figure looking comically small against the desk and chair. Her face is fixed in a look of surprise and annoyance at their intrusion. "You okay, darling?" he asks. She nods and gestures for them to close the door. "Hello, Cass," Jordon offers, waving as she raises a hand, index finger extended. They back into the kitchen, Jordon closing the door. They stand, propped up by the kitchen table. They exchange a glance, and just as Tristan tries to formulate a response, Jordon speaks. "Well, no prizes for guessing who she takes after, hey?" He smiles, still speechless. Jordon's voice is shaky. "I was going to fix us a brew, but I think I'd prefer something stronger with a well-packed number." Before Tristan can reply, the bottle of JD, ice, and glasses are on the table. He again wonders how Jordon does it. He knows he can't ignore what's happening much longer.