“This is fringe science. We are on the cusp of greatness; of course, it’s bloody scary. If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t mean anything. But that’s what we do as scientists; we replace fear and superstition with theories and proofs. Great science is done in spite of fear.”

  The Rector loved a good heroic speech. Kids these days loved their Rambos and their Rockys, but he knew the real heroes were the Copernicus’ and the Newtons of the world and it was just a matter of time before the other kids caught on too.

  “Consciousness, though,” said The Rector sounding perturbed.

  “We will prove,” said Graham, looking as sure as the words he used, “that near-death experiences are mere occurrences in the default mode network.”

  “But who cares about near-death experiences? They’re entirely anecdotal. What’s next? Looking for God? This is why nobody touches consciousness. I mean, will you even get reputable publishing? There is little to no peer review in consciousness studies and the university needs, more than published papers, cited professors. How the hell are we supposed to get more bums on seats if we all we’re doing is teaching? You need to publish. The university needs you to publish. I need you to bloody well publish.”

  The vein on his forehead was the size of a brown snake.

  “If this goes pear-shaped,” he said, “I’ll be the laughing stock.”

  And thus was the crux of his fear.

  Graham, though, would have no bar of it. He was a father of two; there was no stubbornness that he had ever come across that wasn’t, in some way, tickle proof.

  “Proving NDE as a physiological experience will, at the very least, give greater insight to the complex nature of the Bayesian brain and top-down neural communication. We may not be able to measure consciousness now, but one day we’ll have the right tools and the right mathematics to do so; and it’s research like this which will have paved the way for those, even bolder, discoveries. We are mapping the seafloor of consciousness and what it means to be human. We are the Jacques Cousteau of neuroscience.”

  The Rector loved oceanography. His notebooks were covered with stickers of dolphins, sea otters, and pufferfish. Space may have been the final frontier, where the greatest discoveries had still yet to be made, but the ocean was where dreams came true. Whereas other children dreamt of being astronauts and fighting aliens in space warping battleships; even to this day, The Rector dreamt of nothing more than swimming with mermaids and singing crabs.

  “Just promise me nobody’s going to die,” he said.

  “You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,” said Graham.

  “You don’t break an egg to make an omelette, Graham; you crack it. A broken egg is a disgusting smelly mess that’s a bugger for everyone to clean up. Cracking an egg requires finesse. Just tell me I’m not going to be wiping egg off the floor.”

  Graham smiled.

  “So we’re good to go?” he asked.

  “I’ll have to smooth things out with The Ethics Committee but yes, you’re good to go. Oh, and your funding came in twenty percent lower than you had asked but that’s not on me, it’s that way across the board. Gender fluid bathrooms don’t pay for themselves. You’ll just have to stretch out what you have.”

  The look of disappointment was a hard one to feign. Happiness could be feigned; so too could interest and surprise, but disappointment, whether it be on the face of a young boy getting half of what he had asked from Santa or a grown man getting the same raw deal from his alma mater, was as impossible to mistake as it was to hide.

  “That’s fine,” said Graham.

  And so the two scientists walked idly back down the halls without any fanfare whatsoever. Both looked somewhat shell shocked as if neither actually believed this thing would get off the ground. Both had expected, at least, a great deal of push and a hell of a lot of shove but neither had really thought than in a week or two they’d be killing people in the name of science.

  “So,” said Graham.

  This had been weighing on his mind all morning.

  “I was thinking of taking up karate,” he said.

  The two walked along for a bit, silent, and pondering that thought.

  “You ever done it?”

  Isaac had to think long and hard.

  “No,” he said. “But I watched a lot of Kung-Fu movies as a kid.”

  He made it sound as if that alone were enough, that, should he ever find himself surrounded, outmanned, and outgunned on a dark night in a quiet alley, he needn’t worry because he more or less kind of knew everything there was to know.

  “Yeah,” said Graham, clenching an iron fist. “Me too.”

  The thought resonated more with Graham than it did for his younger colleague. He felt like he could if he had to, fight his way out of any situation. And he would have done it yesterday were it not for his kids. He could have wiped the floor with all those young men with both hands tied behind his back. They had no idea how lucky they were; at least that’s what he tried to tell himself in the midst of all that willowing shame.

  “So,” said Isaac, jovially “Do we celebrate?”

  The answer should have been a resounding yes. There should have been no debate and even less debacle. Both men should have already been filling their first glasses to the brim. There should have been music blaring, and ranting and raving as they crowed their brilliance and toasted to their ensuing success.

  “I would if I could,” said Graham. “I’ve got some errands to run. You know…family stuff.”

  He made it sound like he had to spend the weekend cleaning grout with his fingernails. “But you go out, celebrate for the both of us,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Isaac, dragging the word out until it sounded like a no. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do back at the apartment so….”

  “This is a big thing,” said Graham.

  “I know.”

  “Well, then you should be out there enjoying it. Go get drunk and get laid. You're young, live like it. Trust me,” he said, his words wrought with lore. “If I could, I would.”

  That should have been enough for the young scientist to be rid of his miserable doldrums and just thrust himself into the swirling vortex of whichever tornado he needed for the sake of doing what young people did and bloody well enjoy life for once.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  He was fishing for a reason to not go.

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Well then go out and find one.”

  “Most girls I meet aren’t….you know….They’re not The One.”

  “The One?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want to meet just anyone. I’m looking for that perfect girl.”

  “You’ve been watching way too many romantic comedies. Here’s a little life tip. Everything you read in a book or see on a television is made, it’s not real. I don’t care if it’s a porno, Rambo, or How to Make Tortillas; anything you see on TV is an unrealistic dramatization of common and often quite dull life experiences. Life is not like the movies. Nobody fucks like in a porno, and nobody loves anybody like in those bloody movies you watch. Not everything has to be special to be fun. And trust me, there is no The One.”

  “What if she wants to move in, though? I don’t think I’m ready to live with anyone; not yet at least. I mean, yes, that’s what I’m looking for but what if she’s not the right one? She’ll probably want a baby – you think?”

  “Who?”

  “You know…”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “You know, theoretically. What if the girl I meet thinks I’m The One but I don’t think she’s The One, and we end up living together and having kids and neither of us is happy.”

  “Is that how you think about things?”

  “Why?”

  “You just need to get out there and meet some people. Talk to girls. You’re not going to be great at it at first, but you’ll get a little worse each time. Who knows, maybe you get lucky the first time. But you have to actually put yourself in harm’s way. Get on one of those dating apps or something. Have some fun.”

  “You think?”

  “Of course. Jesus, youth is wasted on the young. I tell ya if I could be in your shoes.”

  He made it sound so easy.

  Track 5 (Blue)

  It should have been the happiest day of his life, and it was, to be frank. But instead of dancing on tables and toasting to the merit of good luck and hard work, Isaac sat alone in his apartment staring blankly at a television that was rarely plugged in. On the other end of the sofa, Huxley, his fluffy Persian, stretched and then yawned and then went back to sleep.

  Isaac was a quiet man who felt more at home in the audience of his own thoughts than he did in the company of others. He wasn’t depressed like some might have said, it’s just that the things that brought him the most joy, such as writing, studying, and thinking to himself, were best done on his own.

  Whereas teaching might have been a burden and a strain on most researchers, for Isaac, it was a stage where he could suffice his needs for social engagement, but entirely on his terms. Like a stripper, he could parade in the spotlight, but nobody could get close enough – nobody could ever touch.

  That’s not to say that he didn’t want to be touched. Isaac longed for companionship just as much as he did the sense of belonging that came from a circle of friends. After all, his three favourite things in the world were love, romance, and wishing people well. And often, when people in movies toasted to unbreakable bonds and lifelong friendships, he would cry for hours, lamenting over the joy that he missed; that same joy that others took for granted.

  And that was just it. It seemed that nobody else in the world loved love as much as he did; in the movies, yes, but in reality, most people were hardly as concerned. Love was like a book they had read in tenth grade; something they knew of in context and summary, but alas, something they knew very little about.

  Isaac was an expert on love – theoretically at least. He had read every book, seen every movie, read every poem, and sung wholeheartedly to every bittersweet ballad. Were love an illness, he would be able to diagnose it from its onset to its catastrophic end. Were it a work of art, his critique would only lend to its value. Isaac loved love as much as people love other things.

  Isaac had, though, no family or friends. The former, it’s said, was no fault of his own but as for the latter; he made little to no effort in making a friend out of anyone that he met. He had, if anything, become somewhat of an artist at keeping people at a bay. Friendship just felt like an appliance that he didn’t need for his home at this moment, and so he turned down every offer to take one home and try them out for the weekend.

  And though he spent every second of his personal life alone, Isaac never felt sad, depressed, or lonely; he never felt lacking of anything in his life. He had his cat, his favourite records, and he was learning to paint; what more could he possibly need?

  And so, as the summer rains poured down, Isaac sat there staring blankly with a phone in his hand. His heart was beating, his eyes were glazed, and his veins were pumping with rapture and joy; how a child might feel after a mouthful of sugary treats.

  It was the happiest day of his life. He wanted to scream and shout and tell the whole world. He wanted to climb up onto the tallest tower, beat his chest, and declare his love for science. He wanted to buy the world a drink, hug a room full of strangers, and dance to terrible music until the sun came up.

  Instead, he sat there on his sofa with the phone in his hand with a blank look on his face because he couldn’t think of a single person to call. He had no friends, acquaintances, or mates of any kind. He sat there paralysed in the stupid realisation that he had pushed everyone out of his life.

  It wasn’t the sad days where he needed a friend. The solitary life was more often cosy and warm on days such as these. It was only now, on the happiest day of his life, that Isaac realized that there was no lonelier feeling in the world than having the most amazing news to share, but no-one to share it with.

  And so he stared at his phone, feeling, for the first time, completely alone.

  Track 6 (Yellow)

  Graham sat with a phone in his hand too. As the rain beat down on the car, he struggled to hear is mother and father, talking over each other on the other end of the phone.

  “Great news, mum,” he said.

  “What?” replied his mother. “I can’t hear you over the noise. What is that? Is it rain? Is it coming down, is it? You’ll have to shout, I can’t hear you.”

  “I have great news,” shouted Graham.

  He could barely hear his own voice.

  “That’s great,” shouted his mother back. “How are the kids?”

  “We got the grant, mum?”

  “The what now?”

  “We got the grant.”

  He shouted the words as if he were buried beneath a tonne of rubble.

  “Who’s Grant?”

  “What?”

  “Is he the one you work with? Or is he a different one?”

  “What? Mum, you’re not making sense.”

  “I’m not making sense? You’re the one going on about a Grant.”

  “The grant, yes.”

  “Who?”

  “What?”

  “I’m confused.”

  “The funding, mum. I got the money from the university to do my research. I got the grant.”

  “Oh Jaysus,” she said. “I thought grant was a person.”

  Then she broke out in a fit of laughter.

  “Didn’t you use to go to school with someone called Grant?” she said.

  “I don’t remember, mum; maybe.”

  “I think I was mixing myself up with Grant from school. Do you see him at all, do you?”

  “Mum, I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “How are the kids?”

  “They’re fine. Listen, I’m just calling to tell you the news. It’s a big thing. Me and Isaac have been working on this for a while now and we’re both pretty wrapped. It’s really exciting. We’re going to create an NDE map; show where these experiences happen in the…”

  “That’s great. I always knew you were a smart cookie. How are the kids? Are they grand?”

  “They’re fine, mum.”

  “Ah, that’s wonderful. And are they back at school already?”

  “They are. So this experiment….”

  “Oh you know me and all that sciencey stuff; goes right over my head. I always said you were a smart one. Didn’t I?” she said, outside of the receiver.

  “So, anyway mum…”

  “Oh, your father is here. I’ll put him on. You’ll have to speak up, though, the noise there is awful loud.”

  “Yeah, I’m in the car. Just waiting for the rain to pass before I head into the pharmacy.”

  “Are the kids sick?”

  “No, they’re fine, it’s just…”

  “Here’s your father.”

  “Ok, I’ll speak to you…”

  “How are you, son?”

  The old man spoke in a soft and quiet voice as if they were sitting across from each other on the sofa. He was breathing heavy, as he always did, sounding as if he wasn’t at all prepared to be handed the phone and was just doing his best to say whatever came into his head.

  “I’m, uh, I’m good, dad. So, I was just telling, mum, we just got the grant.”

  “How’s the weather then?”

  “The what? The weather?”

  There was no way the old man couldn’t hear the rain. It sounded like a thousand toilets all flushing at the same time.

  “It’s hot here,” he said. “Of course your mother won’t open a bloody window.”

  “What about the mosquitos?” said The Old Lady in the background. “They’ll eat me alive. Not to mention all the AIDS. You don’t know who that mosquito bit before you.”

  “Well then put on repellent.”

  “You know I don’t like that. It smells like a chemical factory and for all you know, it could be what’s giving people all that cancer. Honestly, if you look at the facts it makes sense.”

  “What facts?”

  “All the people using repellent for one. There’s more of them, and there’s more people getting cancer every day.”

  “Correlation does not mean causation,” said Graham.

  “Your son says correlation doesn’t mean causation.”

  “You see,” said The Old Lady. “Graham agrees with me.”

  The two argued for some time while Graham stared at the neon lights of the pharmacy. The way the rain splotched, it made the windscreen look like a canvass.

  “Well then you’ll just have to decide,” said The Old Man.

  “Decide what?”

  “AIDS or cancer.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. I’ll leave the windows closed is what I’ll do.”

  “Well then, can you put on a blasted fan?”

  “Not with that tone of voice, I won’t.”

  “You know how the heat makes me.”

  “Ah, the heat is a poor excuse. You carry around a temper like ratchet set.”

  “Dad,” said Graham, finally having enough.

  If he didn’t, they would have gone on like this for days.

  “One second, son,” said The Old Man. “Listen, love, I’m on the phone and I don’t have time for any of these goings-on. Now, Graham, are you there, son?”

  “I am. How are you, dad? Are you ok?”

  “I’m grand, yeah.”

  “That’s good.”

  “So how’s the weather, son; is it raining there?”

  “It is, dad.”

  “It’s raining, is it? Well, that’s always good for the garden, it is. I can hear it coming down; sounds fierce it does. Could do with a bit here. So, you’re grand then, are ya? That’s marvellous. And the kids; how are they?”

  “Dad, I have to go.”

  “OK, son.”

  He sounded more relieved than anything.

  “Well, it was good of you to call. You give the little ones a kiss and…hold on, son, your mum. What is it, love?”