A Very Unordinary Matter

By D.M. Lloyd

When Charles Darwin finally completed his life’s greatest work, On the Origin of Species, he waited twenty-three years to publish it. That's roughly the life expectancy of a man in the fourteenth century, for scale. It took a mediaeval lifetime to contemplate whether or not the disruption to mankind’s way of life was truly worth it. When Leonidas Archibald Agglesfield found the missing 95 per cent of the universe, however, he neglected to apply the same degree of contemplation.


From Socrates to Descartes, perhaps the question that has pestered mankind the most is: What makes us human? Are we human because we think or because we feel? Are we humans made in the image of the one true God? Or have we fashioned God in our image to imbue ourselves with the power to determine our own fate and immortality? What Leonidas found... was not what he had bargained for. And as a Doctor of Dark Matter, his findings did not disappoint.


God would be joining the black rhino on the endangered species list. And while that was precisely what Leonidas Archibald Agglesfield had thought he wanted... he had no idea of the ramifications.


There are forces that we might have once thought to be outside of our control. But perhaps we're capable of more than we think. And sometimes what we need the most... has a way of finding us instead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823082686

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© 2023 D.M. Lloyd. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/24/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8269-3 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8270-9 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8268-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

Part 1: The Matter of Immaterial Things

Chapter 1An Unexpected Guest

Chapter 2From the Great Outdoors to No-Man’s-Land

Chapter 3Game Theory

Chapter 4Century-Old Floorboards

Chapter 5The Visiting Monk

Chapter 6Transcendence at Four Thousand Metres

Chapter 7Too Much Honey

Chapter 8The Truth according to Both Physics and Monks

Chapter 9The Toppling Domino

Chapter 10An Unexpected Detour through an Invisible Gateway

Part 2: Discovering the Universal Brain

Chapter 11The Schizophrenic

Chapter 12Insightful Living Arrangements

Chapter 13Evangelically Approved Tarot Cards

Chapter 14A Panic Attack and a Priestess

Chapter 15The Curfew at the End of Memory Lane

Chapter 16Neither Blank nor Empty

Part 3: Dangers of a Seen Universal Order

Chapter 17The Topography of Indra’s Net

Chapter 18Finding Enough

Chapter 19The Interview

Chapter 20Alone

Chapter 21Inception

Chapter 22Manipulation

Chapter 23The Call

Chapter 24The Letter

Chapter 25The Next Chapter

For the family who has unfettered and activated

my life. You know who you are. 

Preface

We do not grow in straight lines. 

The beauty of life is that it so often takes unexpected twists and turns that keep things interesting. The period during which I wrote this book traversed what has been perhaps the most liberating, nourishing and transformative phase of self discovery in my life to date. It’s the first work of fiction I have ever attempted and completed, and the process of publishing it and letting go has felt raw and vulnerable... and at times just plain scary. 

As children we’re not only curious and explorative— but we start out with a magnificent innocence that tells us we can try anything. There is no concept of being ‘bad’ at something because how can you be anything other than imperfect when you try something new? Yet as we grow up it seems as though these outrageous expectations— and therefore embarrassment— seep in, in increasing measure, into everything that we do. Whether we should even have the capacity to be conventionally ’good’ at something or not, it doesn’t matter. We tell ourselves that we either have to a) be pleasing to others, or b) not try at all. 

The prevalence of embarrassment in a human’s life seems to mimic a bell curve that starts out low in childhood, then peaks from puberty through adulthood (sadly the grand majority of life)… until it finally, graciously tapers off again somewhere towards the ‘senile’ end of the spectrum. I don’t want to wait until I’m old to get over that hump in order to allow myself to be curious, explorative— and yes: embarrassing in the process. So I’ve challenged myself to publish this book. To put it out into the wild as an effort to learn from my younger self. The child within me that believes the best in both myself and others.  

This book unravelled as I wrote it. I came to love these characters and found that they revealed so much to me along the way. Who I was when I started writing-- is definitely still a part of me today-- but she is now joined by so much more, and has found herself to feel so much more free, loved, connected and invigorated by the world and those around her. I am fortunate to have found a community-- a chosen family-- that has provided me with support and encouragement along the way. I’ve been finding myself and finding that my values and belief system is wholly malleable through community. Nothing is static. And that process of finding what you believe (even if it may only be what you believe for a short blip of time) is equally individual and collegiate. You’ll find some of that ethos in this story. I’ve decided that I want to forever position myself to learn and therefore evolve my frame of mind.  

So may this book be tangible encouragement in the hands of readers. May you find that you’re not alone should you desire to ‘put yourself out there’ in scary ways. And that who you are and what you believe doesn’t exist in isolation. It also doesn’t need to remain the same as what it was yesterday. This book is something special to me, I hope it might make some magic for others, too. 

Part I

The Matter of

Immaterial Things

Chapter 1

An Unexpected Guest

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

—2 Corinthians 4:18 (NIV)

Leonidas’s discovery shocked the world. Unlike the many that had come before, it was a discovery that could not be confined to mere preference or matter of opinion. It was one that quite dramatically altered the course of humanity and what it meant to be human, whether you believed in his discovery or not. With the rapid pace of modern day innovation fuelled by such findings, burying one’s head in the sand was no longer a valid option for conscious existence.

Blissful ignorance was permanently off of life’s menu.

Leonidas was in laudable company, however. When Charles Darwin finally completed his life’s greatest work, On the Origin of Species, he waited twenty-three years to publish it. Twenty-three years, or what was roughly the life expectancy of a man in the fourteenth century, for scale. It took a mediaeval lifetime to contemplate whether or not the disruption to mankind’s way of life was truly worth it.

Of course we cannot precisely know what was going through Darwin’s mind prior to publishing his perturbations, but we can assume that he was probably stuck in a mire of fear and moral dilemma.

How might the pious population react? Does anyone have the right to challenge the safety and comfort that religion provides to the masses? What might publishing such findings mean for one’s social calendar in a country built on biblical principles?

Perhaps the last item was of less importance when compared to other, wide-reaching ramifications, but let’s agree that it was highly likely to have scuttled across Darwin’s mind at least once. We are social beings after all, no matter our creed, scientists included.

Can you imagine? Leonidas wondered. Darwin dithering about whether or not overtly challenging creationism was worth the loss of his Tuesday coffee date with the church-going chaps at the club. A grin crept across his face at the thought of one of the world’s foremost influencers baulking while perusing his diary for the week.

Once a creature of the faithful majority, Darwin would go on to become part of the minority—a minority of one at first. But perhaps that truly was the least of his concerns.

If his book happened to transform minds, he must have questioned just how capable it was of revising the social norms and constructs that humankind had fashioned. The foundation faith had fortified up until that point in time not only underpinned governmental influence, but also determined one’s weekend agenda.

Sparse as it was, Leonidas was nonetheless abundantly aware of the potential discord his discovery might introduce to his own diary. Its sparseness he enjoyed. Its sparseness was a kind of respite.

Leonidas’ gaze travelled outside. It was dusk on a summer’s day. The air quality was crisp, and the sunlight had a sepia-tone glow with just a hint of Mother Nature’s warm breath in the air. In other words, it was a perfect English summer evening.

Passersby chuckled as if staged on the film set of a romantic comedy, hand in hand, as they exited a nearby pub and began to walk down the street. The aged pub door clattered shut behind them. Leonidas’ eyes couldn’t help but follow the pair. He gulped. The cues were triggering, and he wondered if perhaps he had made a mistake.

A betting man would have been unlikely to guess that this quaint English vicarage off of Bermondsey Street would contain such a turbulent discovery, a vicarage that in 1823 was inhabited by a vehemently puritanical vicar.

Leonidas was quite ironically the opposite.

He was, in many ways, what you would expect from an aspiring physicist and doctor of dark matter. Standing at 6'3", his arms and legs were thin yet had a certain grace about them as if they belonged to a danseur in a parallel universe. And perhaps Leonidas would have assumed such a career had he not been bullied so horrendously during the tender ages spanning primary school. But that was a separate matter. Leonidas shuddered upon recalling a very specific memory, as if to free his mental sleeves of disgust and a speck of shame.

While tall and perhaps sparing on bodily musculature, Leonidas’s face was pleasant. With a strong jaw and kind eyes framed by thin-rimmed golden glasses, his face was in many ways a gift—at least he thought so. It was one thing for which he was eternally grateful, and it required very little upkeep apart from a block of plain white soap, usually purchased from his local corner shop, fragrance-free.

Social endeavours were incredibly effortful for Leonidas but considered a necessary evil as part of a collection of weekly goals he set for himself. That word—evil. He preferred to use such language only ironically as he considered it to stink of a scrupulous childhood rife with traditions of the Anglican Church. He had been an altar boy from the ages of six through sixteen, had done his time, and now suffered from a nearly incapacitating constriction in his throat when engaging in any sort of methodical activity defined as being faith based. But wit, on the other hand, was an institution. So for the sake of wit, he would let such phrases fly.

As a boy, he found the general practice of religion puzzling. How could something that was supposedly inexplicable effectively rely on calculated, systemic rituals? If our intent in life was to trust blindly in an all-knowing God, with a relationship with this God being the banner answer to any of life’s challenges, how could any solution to one’s problems within this realm of thinking be formulaic? Clean the toilets on a Sunday evening to clean your soul. Logic seemingly did not apply.

Furthermore, if the heart of the Christian God was indeed one of grace, then why, Leonidas wondered, did the churchgoers around him seem to encumber themselves with these ceremonial dos and don’ts? It all seemed to be in order to earn points that they supposedly didn’t need. Points that if accrued in sufficient number would allow them to pass through the pearly gates post-mortem. Points collected upon sacrifice or doing the very thing one did not want to do, like cleaning toilets on a Sunday evening.

According to the apostle Paul, one couldn’t trust oneself. But if there was one thing Leonidas knew on this subject, it was that nobody actually seemed to truly enjoy Sundays—the unspoken first workday of the week for most in his childhood church. Hence, the perfect opportunity to collect those aforementioned penance points.

Leaning over, he slid open a drawer of his side table and exhumed a caramel coloured leather journal in which he began to write with a surprisingly neat script. His mind hadn’t stopped racing night or day and Jenna– his therapist– had encouraged him to flush himself of all consuming thoughts by writing them down instead of stifling them or resurrecting them countless times. He had a lot on his mind.

Writing these thoughts down will lend a certain finality to them. She had said. Anything will do. Start with something low-stakes, like the weather. It’ll help you get into a rhythm and then you might find yourself writing about the things that matter most. And perhaps once you get them out of your brain and onto paper it’ll help you feel like you don’t need to rerun them endless times in your mind. Make them tangible.

And so he wrote. And he found that he quite liked journalling. It was different from academic prose. Journalling allowed for a certain meandering of the mind. And beyond that, he didn’t have to worry about using correct academic syntax or grammar. You don’t have to ‘end up’ anywhere. Jenna had said. You just need to get it out.

Why do I care? That was the question he had been wrestling with for weeks. It could have perhaps been even longer than that. But regardless, Leonidas had become transfixed against his better judgement on finding an answer that would satisfy him. He removed the cap from his pen and set it in a crevice where the wood met the leather binding of the arm rest on his armchair.

Social evolution has been with us for as long as cognizance has existed. It never needed the mind of humans to brew it. A sort of survival instinct on steroids—it is a set of systems that have shaped the modern world we now inhabit over thousands of years and wield ourselves from moment to moment. The words were flowing nicely.

Call them entrenched stereotypes, gut reactions or neural pathways, if you will. We all have them, and they are unfailingly difficult to boot. With sociological microclimates dotted across the globe where certain things can get you either heralded or beheaded, one must tread carefully. Read the signs: the interpersonal parameters for Paris and Pakistan differ. He felt a pit open up in his stomach, paused, and then continued.

For all of its faults, religion is regarded by some to have steadied our world in many ways throughout many eras, causing disparate peoples to band together during times of strife. But could it also be guilty of lobotomy? Had we stopped to ask ourselves who or what we were actually banding against? Religion, it so happens, has often been on both sides of the battle field, lending a whole new meaning to being at war with oneself. Leonidas tapped his pen on the ivory coloured pages of his journal as he reread that line. He felt a flame begin to simmer inside, then flipped the page.

Let us not forget the many moments of turmoil, dissension, and madness. The moments of history that we’ve conveniently elected to omit—or at best edit—in order to craft a truth that we could turn to for both comfort from the great unknown and dignity in the pursuit of it. He momentarily felt justified.

How different from one another might we be in the end? For we are all made of star stuff. The ant that struggles to pull a leaf cutting through the muck and the mire shares a third of its DNA with Nobel laureates. He smiled at the thought, and returned his pen to paper.

So one might ask, how interconnected might we be after all is said and done? Are we humans made in the image of the one true God? Or have we fashioned God in our image to inadvertently imbue ourselves with the power to determine our own fate and immortality under the guise of religion?

Is this what distinguishes us and gives us credence to rule the earth? Are we humans because we think or because we feel? The qualities that drive us to frequent fallibility are simultaneously the ones we believe make us the most apperceptive and powerful amongst all creatures. From Socrates through to Descartes, this has been the foremost speculation of our species.

Rhetorical questions aside, it is highly doubtful that ants get their priorities wrong. While fast-food fuelled humans obsess over identifying a reason for the chaos of living, the ant makes palpable progress. Our progress is subtle if not wholly invisible. He looked outside once more, a part of him stuck in the dichotomy of wishing for both anonymity and accolades. The street was now empty, the sun had fully disappeared beneath the horizon, and he realised with overwhelming discomfort that he still felt alone.

Perhaps feeling this loneliness matters more than the justification of my PhD’s pursuits… just this once. He thought. He had been spending a lot of time thinking, which while typical for Leonidas, was very atypical when it came to the particular thoughts that had been swimming around in his mind lately. Writing soothes me. He realised. "Fuck. Jenna was right." He said to himself with a smirk as he elected to continue.

We have inherited an unshakeable conviction that suffering, motivation, and self-discipline pull us with a gravity-like force towards a cosmic destiny. Perhaps such convictions reside in the two-thirds of DNA that the ant managed to dodge. Dare I say that I envy the sodding ant? He shook his head. "Convictions be damned." He whispered. He was on a roll with words today, something he was grateful for, knowing that it wasn’t always the case. "This is almost good enough to share with Jenna on Thursday. I wish someone would see it. It’s practically poetry." He said with a touch of embarrassment over his own ego.

Does it even matter whether or not our destiny is defined by a sentient or omnipotent God? A god who has the power to will both good and evil—if there is such a binary thing as good and evil—a divinity that chooses to answer a prayer for a vacant parking spot yet neglects the cries of those plunged into the depths of a living hell. His hand lingered on that line.

This is why I did this. He mentally reinforced himself. This was the lesser of two evils. He laughed aloud. I’m not sure anyone even cares. Here I am– sitting alone in my vicarage comparing myself to the Great Darwin… alone. He repeated the word. The process of writing felt somewhat emotional as it allowed certain feelings to float to the surface. But this time his ADHD wasn’t interrupting, and for that he was grateful. This journal had several pages smattered with sentences that were half finished, where his mind had wandered off halfway through like a dog betraying his ball for a squirrel. He would never really know when a string of thought worth pursuing would dart across his mental path. Writing in long form used to be torture for him as a result. Completing his publication was an intense labour of not only love, but rather an obligation. I owed this to society. He affirmed himself. He was well acquainted with the reasons that kept him going. The reasons that kept him focused. Society deserves to know.

Perhaps we are governed by a god– albeit a wholly impartial god, one that set rules into motion at the beginning of time and has since watched the clock tick, unbiased. Who’s to say what god actually is? It’s all semantics in the end. Although Leonidas knew that wasn’t entirely true. He had his motivations, and they were strong.

Faith told us that we are not capable of understanding why some suffer and some grow fat. It’s not our place to know. Yet some of us are unsatisfied with that answer, unquenchably curious from age to age.

Curiosity cannot be killed. Unlike God and the black rhino, it is not on the endangered species list. He placed his pen in the binding of his journal and closed it shut. That will do for today. He resolved.

Leonidas was the silent type—pensive, rich in typically unwritten thought life, and yet surprisingly empathetic for an individual made of logical stuff. Coupled with a pair of devout Anglican parents, his indulgence in the STEM subjects tended to resign itself to the witching hours of the night. He was a boy enchanted.

It was in these wee hours of rebellion that Leonidas found his true calling. The memory was a poignant one. With his starchy white sheets up over his head, he had visceral memories of another kind—clutching a retro battery-powered flashlight and inhaling the slightly sour scent of an old library book instead of last week’s edition of Penthouse, like his contemporaries.

This particular book title had been lost in the annals of his memory, but the exact layout of the words and images on the page was as clear as the image he would have gotten had he been peering down on his past self in a crystal ball.

All ordinary matter makes up less than 5 per cent of the universe.

That was it. That single sentence had set his life on a trajectory that no power in heaven, on earth, or under the earth could intercept.

So ensued the adventure of finding the missing 95 per cent, the 95 per cent that, Leonidas dutifully believed, could unlock the mysteries of the universe and the human condition and, by virtue, perhaps answer the pestering questions he had been mentally filing away over the years. Because as one might suspect, Leonidas had been rigorously taught that doubt was his greatest enemy. And far be it from him to provoke parental fear over the doubt that he had been secretly stashing. They need not know, and he preferred to find the answers undisturbed on his own anyway. Jenna had hit the jackpot when Leonidas had finally managed to open up about these particular memories.

Right around the time of that especially memorable experience, a girl called Gretchen Loria had asked a pointed and thereby overlooked question during Sunday school. Leonidas couldn’t even recall what the specific question was. Because that wasn’t the point. The point was that she was curious. And then mysteriously gone. Sunday school, despite the scholastic connotations, was remarkably not a place where one would go to ask questions and have them answered. It was where one would go to be indoctrinated before the prefrontal cortex had the opportunity to fully develop. It spared one the trouble of practising unbiased complex problem solving. Leonidas told Jenna in a heated moment of recollection.

"Don’t be fooled by the term school."

Not only would he discover the answers to his questions on his own terms, but he also vowed never to deflect questions and to always give direct answers himself. Not knowing an answer was also perfectly acceptable. At least for a time. Because Leonidas, quite obsessively, was not one to be satisfied with committing questions to the unknown. Science would have an explanation sooner or later, he thought. Questions were to Leonidas as hash is to the Beagle Brigade at Heathrow Airport: relentlessly pursued.

And so he embarked on his quest without ramifications from one of the most powerful institutions on earth determining his fate or the wrath of his parents, which considering the circumstances, just might be worse for any adolescent. Secrecy was a security blanket of sorts.

While reticent and reserved, Leonidas prided himself on living life knowing the power his own agency provided, avoiding the scorn of those who felt obliged to measure the sanctimony of others’ actions. According to Leonidas, his childhood church was well-stocked with people who aptly fit that description.

He exhaled and allowed himself a satisfying stretch, fully extending his arms upwards. A stomach-tightening angst still lay buried under the rubble of several years of self-exploration. Jenna was helpful, but he was under no illusions as to where he precisely was on the road to psychological recovery. And besides, he was long past the disintegration of his biological family unit, a disintegration that was at least partially facilitated by his devious explorations in dark matter and dark energy. His secret unbelief could be kept undercover for only so long, and he knew it. When the time finally came to choose a subject to pursue at university, every fibre of his being ached for further study in neurology and quantum physics. He could not deny his brain its muse, even though he knew his love for logic would be seen as an affront to his feeble faith.

Leonidas had, of course, entertained the thought of persuading his mother that his intentions were to scientifically support the existence of an omnipotent God in order to prove that the 95 per cent we couldn’t see might perhaps support the unseen world of the scriptures. In the end, he decided that lying wasn’t worth the mental bandwidth required to do it sustainably well.

He remembered the fallout. How could he forget it? It was a rat’s nest of a memory to untangle with Jenna, and after a decade, it was still providing enough fodder for his weekly sessions and journal entries. Besides, London was the sort of place where one could choose one’s own family. Leonidas’ heart ached at the thought, feeling bittersweet about the prospect of truly building a life of his own with the people he longed to have in it, and deeply hoped that he hadn’t missed his chance. It always comes back to this. He thought. Unfailingly.

There was a knock at the door, thrusting Leonidas back into the present day. How long had he been lost in a daze? He glanced at the minimalist face of his watch, clocked the time, cleared his throat, and arose from his seat. Leonidas loved the chair he had been seated in, entranced. It was a tasteful midcentury Hans Wegner creation in walnut and dark toasted green leather that he had found at the Brick Lane Vintage Market. The imprint of his bum on the seat cushion made that obvious. The knocking persisted.

Coming. Just a moment, he called.

Leonidas lifted the antiquated brass latch on his oak door with a screech, opening it just wide enough to allow a single eye to peer out at this unexpected guest. Yes? he enquired, bewildered.

It was a face he hadn’t seen before. A short, stocky, white-haired, and clean-shaven older gentleman stood on the vicarage doorstep, equally bewildered. His outfit was reminiscent of a postman from the 1940s, conjuring up an amusing image in Leonidas’s head alongside the need to stifle his laughter. He cleared his throat to mask his amusement. Maybe he shops at the Brick Lane Vintage Market as well, he thought in jest.

May I help you? Leonidas asked, cautiously opening the door a bit more widely. The older man, now able to see Leonidas in full form, was satisfied with the sight of the scientist standing before him.

Ah, Leonidas Agglesfield, I take it?

Yes, Leonidas responded hesitantly, not entirely sure of the intent behind this unexpected visit.

Brilliant. Why, Leonidas, I am indeed delighted to make your acquaintance. May I? He indicated in a manner with a stubby sausage-like finger that suggested he’d like to be welcomed inside.

Of course. Forgive me, Leonidas replied. Stepping back in order to open the door fully, he invited the gentleman to step in. Before his unexpected guest even managed to cross the threshold, Leonidas began deducing a myriad of potential reasons for this surprise visit in order to scrounge together every possible moment to mentally prepare himself for the imminent exchange. He didn’t like unexpected visits, to put it lightly, and would usually require at least three days’ notice in order to energetically prepare for such interactions. Leonidas was incredibly intentional with his choice of words and the opinions he’d volunteer to share, both of which had the tendency of requiring a sufficient degree of forethought. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.

While empathetic, Leonidas tended to his own EQ via analytical observations and careful calculations, rather than an innate ability to understand or relate to another human being. While some might call this a form of neurodivergence, Leonidas had put it down to his ability to happily go several days without human interaction. He had learned that a little tête-à-tête went a long way when it came to charging his social reserves, and that more often than not such interactions were more of a drain than a regeneration.

He guessed this man had good intentions. He also quite frankly seemed to be more nervous than Leonidas was about this encounter. Curious, he thought.

Let me introduce myself, the older gentleman said, interrupting a growing chain of thoughts. He took a seat on the sofa opposite Leonidas’s favourite chair, aware of its clear usage and surmised that it was not the seat for guests. His posture was perfect, like the wild parrots that would occasionally wander over from Westminster Gardens and sit perched on the branches of the magnolia tree in Leonidas’ back garden. Beyond that, he appreciated the unspoken regard for seat choice and assumed that the gentleman must have come from a well-educated background. Upper-crust material, Leonidas thought as he nestled himself once again into his favourite chair, primed for the reveal of this visitor’s intentions.

My name is Barnaby Felt. He started. I work with the Royal Swedish Academy of the Sciences and am the representative here in London. Are you familiar with who we are?

Leonidas gave a nod of acknowledgement to suggest that he did. Anyone who considered themselves even moderately serious within the world of academia would undoubtedly know that the Academy was the governing body for the Nobel Peace Prize.

"Excellent. Well, I came across a paper that you published in the Nature Reviews journal. I understand that you’ve written a couple of papers published by this journal?" Barnaby queried.

Leonidas nodded again, curious, yet growing increasingly impatient with the unnecessary prologue Barnaby was delivering. He had published no fewer than four papers in this journal, most of which were disregarded wholesale by the general public. He was lucky to get the odd email from a university student enquiring about this or that sentence while writing his or her own thesis. Dark matter was a scientific space with so much speculation that most theories remained within the circle of thoroughly committed theoretical physicists. And the occasional podcaster. It was a hot topic these days, but a genuine interest that would produce actual dialogue was confined to the few.

Right, Barnaby responded, struggling with the scant conversational material he was receiving from Leonidas. He paused before continuing, maintaining imploring eye contact. Well, let me start by confirming that my colleagues and I were beyond impressed by the findings in your publication. He mustered a smile. I understand that this piece itself took you more than five years of research to compile?

Yes, Leonidas answered, now entirely restless in a losing battle with ADHD and devoid of any concern over appearing inhospitable. His curiosity had just about faded. While on the contrary Barnaby’s already ample animation markedly increased. "Naturally. A piece such as this could take a lifetime to compile." He bumbled.

Leonidas shuffled in his seat, uncrossing and recrossing his legs in order to communicate his growing impatience. This degree of aloofness in reading social cues is impressive for a Brit, he thought, waning.

So he pressed. If you don’t mind me asking, Mr Felt, why have you chosen to drop by today? While your visit has been delightful, I’m afraid that I might begin to find greater interest in a ham and cheese sandwich. Surprised by his own brevity, Leonidas’ ADHD had officially managed to get the best of him and his manners.

Yes, of course, forgive me. Let me get to the point. Barnaby, now rushed and reddened in the cheeks, continued, I’m not sure how present you are on social media, but your piece has incensed quite the reaction. Instantly, Leonidas’s interest piqued.

Barnaby’s stubby fingers fished inside his navy-blue woollen trousers and reappeared with his mobile phone. Unlocking it, he handed it to Leonidas, with a facial expression of intense interest in the scientist’s imminent reaction.

Leonidas removed his glasses, folded them, and tucked them into his shirt pocket while giving one stern look at Barnaby Felt. Noting the somewhat scornful undertone, Barnaby gratuitously recoiled to give Leonidas a bit more breathing room, averting his gaze. Leonidas turned his attention to the content on the screen.

There were news articles from the BBC to CNN; there were tweets from figureheads of various different religious institutions across the globe; and there were reposts—several millions of reposts. As Leonidas scrolled, one grabbed his attention: Doctor of dark matter renders God extinct.

He paused to discern what feelings deep down inside him had begun to stir and felt an odd bit of satisfaction maybe, Perhaps even recompense, he thought. Scrolling further, he realised that this article was only one of a whole slew of media circulating, many of which were penned with less-than-tasteful prose and appeared to be trending amongst certain fundamentalist groups on Facebook. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined gaining popularity in the Bible Belt—although notoriety might have been a more apt description.

According to these less discerning but certainly eye-catching accounts, Leonidas, it was revealed, was both a sodomite and the Antichrist. Apparently. He momentarily wondered about the scriptural legitimacy of such a statement, then resigned himself to the idea that it was worth neither the time nor the energy. Everyone was entitled to their own opinions, no matter what they were, and it was Leonidas’s choice as to how he would react. He had worked on that with Jenna too. You can’t control the actions of others, but you can control your actions and reactions. She had reminded him more than once. This was his life, and it was ostensibly now open to commentary by the wider public.

There was a part of him that was also not entirely taken by surprise. Perhaps he had wanted this. Perhaps he wanted to be the iconoclastic fox in the chicken coop of Christianity. But either way, he would not rise to the incendiary comments, electing instead to be grateful for residing in the haven of diversity and liberalism that London was. His personal life choices aside, his life was his and his alone—and as far as he was concerned, he need not fear retribution as a sinner in the hands of an angry God. His publication had made that very clear.

Leonidas handed the phone back to Barnaby, resurrected his glasses from his shirt pocket, and stood up from his chair. This, he wanted to continue processing in solitude. He needed space, and he needed it quickly.

Thank you, Mr Felt. I appreciate the time and the effort you invested in sharing this with me. But I’m afraid that ham and cheese sandwich is long overdue. He stood and started towards the front door.

Mr Agglesfield, Barnaby interjected in haste as he rushed to get up from the sofa without nearly the same measure of grace and ease Leonidas had demonstrated moments prior, "this cannot be