The Half Life Of Stars Part 36

'The fridge, do you think he might be hungry?'

'Maybe...no, wait. He's not looking at the fridge.'

'The frying pan. That's what it is. Do you think he might want some pancakes or something?'

'No, Tess. I don't think he wants pancakes. I think he means we're both going to fry.'

'Agghghh, aghhghgh, aghgh aghgh!'

'f.u.c.k.'

'I know, man. That isn't...this isn't so good.'

'No, it's Claire Claire. I just remembered. I left her on the phone all this time...Claire?'

'Tess?'

'Uh...things are under control here. Everything's under control.'

'What's going on...what have you done done?'

'I didn't go for that b.o.o.b job...that's what. I took your advice...I mean, I think you were right...and Orla phoned me the day we got back from that reading; she thought she might have misread the cards. She said surgery wouldn't sort out my problems, not for good...so we decided to spend the money...on something else.'

'On what? What What did you spend it on?' did you spend it on?'

'Uh...duct tape, and, um, and...uh...paying for the suite next door to him. The Delano is pretty expensive.'

'Tess, the suite next to who who?'

She doesn't need to answer. Michael has turned on the TV set. A svelte anchorwoman is narrowing her eyes and reading aloud from the newsflash on her teleprompter.

'In other news today, renowned movie mogul Harvey Weinstein has gone missing from his hotel suite in Miami Beach. The news we have is sketchy right now, but police are not ruling out the possibility of kidnap. More on that story later, now news of the largest hot dog ever broiled in Dade county.'

'Tess...did anybody see you? Does anyone know where you are?'

'No...no. I don't think so. But...I think...well, maybe we went too far. I'm not sure how we're going to get out of this. Oh Christ...what'll we do? Will we have to kill him? He knows what we look like, who we are are. Claire...I'm worried. I'm starting to panic a little bit.'

'Where are you?'

'Should I say? Over the phone?'

'Tess...where the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l are you? I'm coming to get you.' are you? I'm coming to get you.'

'Claire?'

'What now?'

'Can you bring me my Valium?'

Cat On A Hot Tin Roof A secret location.

Outside a ruined boathouse the heat is building as the sun rises higher in the sky. Waves slap hard against the rotted wooden pilings, rust clings in heavy scabs to the metal roof. Two people lean against a cracked window frame, seeking shade; smoking a much needed cigarette. Their fingers have stopped shaking, their mouths are moist, not dry; they are weirdly contented. Elated.

'It made me feel better.'

'Did it?'

'You know what? I actually think it did.'

'Closure. That's all he needed, I knew it. He just needed to tell the guy face to face.'

Huey crouches down on the ground and turns his face upwards to the sun. He's warm, he's happy. His teeth are perfectly still.

'I feel good,' he says, contentedly. 'Reborn. I feel like a whole new person.'

Tess kneels beside her boyfriend and smiles. She reaches into her duffle bag, digs around in the bottom, and pulls out a large pack of Oreos. She piles the biscuits into her mouth. One after the other, a dozen or more; she doesn't stop until the packet is all gone.

'I'm starving,' she says, merrily, between crunches. 'You know what? I'm totally starving.'

'So, what happens now?'

'I'm not sure. I guess we'll do what you said.'

'You don't have to.'

'No...no. We do.'

'It makes sense.'

'It does,' says Huey. 'It makes a whole lot of sense.'

We go back inside. It smells musty indoors, salty and rotting, like the innards of an old gutted fish. A man is tied to a chair on the far side of the room, bound head to toe in silver tape. His hands are tied in front of him with a line of fis.h.i.+ng yarn and a cloud of curly black fibres spill from his mouth.

'He looks small, doesn't he?'

'Yeah. Sort of powerless, sort of sad.'

'You killed him, Huey. You did it. You actually, finally killed him.'

I know what they mean by this; they mean they've killed the demon, that they've broken the spell this man had over their lives. The man doesn't know this. He s.h.i.+fts from side to side, getting agitated; breathing hard and fast through his nose. His captors pick up their bags. The man's eyes dart fiercely back and forth.

'We don't know how to thank you. For being there...'

'When we needed you. We'll never...'

'We'll never never forget it.' forget it.'

'Go now. Go Go. You haven't got very much time.'

'What about you?'

'Don't worry about me. I'll be all right.'

'What about Daniel...G.o.d...I'm so so sorry...are you're going to...will you make it in time?' sorry...are you're going to...will you make it in time?'

I haven't looked at my watch. I can't bare to look at my watch.

'Don't worry...just, the two of you, please. Go! please. Go!'

Huey and Tess turn and wave. Huey runs back and hugs me one more time.

'It looks good on you, by the way. Where'd you find it?'

I'm wearing Huey's blue, alpaca hat.

'It was in the mouse cage. You'd buried it underneath a mound of mice straw.'

'Right, s.h.i.+t. I was trying to keep them warm. I remember that the mice looked kind of s.h.i.+very. It makes a good balaclava, though, don't you think? Tess, don't you think it makes a good balaclava?'

'Huey...please...we have to get out of here now now.'

'Claire...thank you. Thank you so so much, man. We won't forget this, not ever.' much, man. We won't forget this, not ever.'

'And be careful,' I say. 'It's not going to be easy.'

'Don't worry,' they say, in unison. 'We will.'

I walk towards the man slowly, with the blue hat pulled low over my face. There are two holes for my eyes, one for my mouth; I must look ridiculous. Insane.

'Mr Weinstein, please don't be scared. I'm going to cut one of your hands free then I'm going to lay the knife on this table. When I leave the room you'll be able to s.h.i.+ft the chair over here and cut yourself free. Do you understand?'

He understands.

'I'm sorry this ever happened. And I'd stay around and help you, but...there's somewhere else that I have to be.'

The string is cut. He's not sure what to do. He's wondering if it's some kind of trick. I lay the knife on the other side of the room with it's handle pointing outwards, towards his chair. It should take him a couple of minutes to shuffle over and reach it.

'I know you won't believe it,' I say, opening the door. 'But just for the record...they're actually very sweet people.'

I turn around and make for the car and I hear something as I begin to turn the key. It sounds a lot like a cat: hacking, hacking, hacking; clearing hair b.a.l.l.s out of its throat.

Highway 61 Revisited.

This drive, how is it so long? Three hours it's been now, nearly four, and no way on earth I can make it. I'd need my own jet propulsion. I'd need to take off across these cars, across this highway; I'd need to spin, spin, spin, as fast as the earth. I'm driving at eighty miles an hour; racing like an Exocet missile, trying to make it in time. I speed up. I speed up. I slow down again. I'm alternately tired and wired. I should stop. I should rest. I should concentrate. Another of us can't die on this road.

'Lot of cars on the road today.'

'Excuse me?'

'I said, that's a lot of cars out there today. How many vehicles do you think?'

They stream past us in an endless ribbon: red, blue, big, green; fast, determined, insistent. Eyes straight ahead, bonnets in line, each one committed to the road.

'Everybody in a hurry to get somewhere, these days. Everybody always in a hurry.'

I'm sat on a concrete seat outside a gas station, sipping coffee with my shoulders hunched, watching the traffic. Day trippers file in and out while I rest: couples; families; fractious, scolded children; truck drivers with skulls as tight as fists. They stop for ice cream and cigarettes and bright day-glo Slus.h.i.+es. They stop to pee and fight and stretch their legs. I should get going. Toss this sweet cup of coffee to the back of my throat and climb back into the driving seat. If only I could keep my eyes open. If only I could fight the urge to shut my eyes.

My new friend taps me hard on the shoulder, his fingers feel narrow and bony.

'You look like you could use some shut-eye,' he says. 'You want to be careful. It's easy to fall asleep at the wheel.'

'I know,' I say. 'I know it is.'

They say my father looked like he was sleeping, that no one suspected he was dead. I wonder if he looked peaceful or in pain, with his head slumped down heavy on his chest; with the cold black leather of the steering wheel pressing an imprint into his cheek. It's no good. I'll have to have another pick-me-up. Another sweet cup of coffee or a sandwich. I have have to take my time. I to take my time. I have have to hurry up. I'll leave now. I'll go and buy my food first. I'll leave in another ten minutes. I'll leave in another half an hour. I sit on the bench immobile, unable. I crush the damp paper cup. to hurry up. I'll leave now. I'll go and buy my food first. I'll leave in another ten minutes. I'll leave in another half an hour. I sit on the bench immobile, unable. I crush the damp paper cup.

My lips are greasy and warm, and I'm buzzing and shaking from caffeine. I've eaten a hamburger and mainlined two cans of syrupy energy drink but I still feel like I'm driving on autopilot. The launch counts down in less than half an hour and I'm still more than a hundred miles from the Cape. It's a Boeing Delta 4 heavy rocket on a demonstration mission for the US government. This is what I hear. This is what I'm told. I have no notion, nor any interest, in what it means. I just want it see it take off. I just want to be there before it goes.

The traffic is thickening and slowing down now; the Magic Kingdom filter system clogging up the road, drawing in the crowds with its mouse-shaped magnet. Is this where they stopped and got caught? Is this the spot that it happened? Did Daniel crouch down on that shallow embankment, his raw toes bleeding into the gra.s.s? Did he run down the middle of this same highway, veering in and out of the traffic? It's hard to imagine, this child, this boy, tearing in and out of the stranded cars: desperate to get there, hoping to do it, killing himself to make time. I was swimming. I see myself swimming with Julio. I feel the bath-warm water on my skin. I feel lips pressing hard onto my lips. I feel soft skin on my skin. The explosions, the fear, the falling, the bliss; all of us reaching out for one another. All of us so far out of reach.

I'm coming up to a crossroads. The sign says next exit Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center, the exit after that is Jetty Park. I haven't time to think. Four seconds. Three seconds. Two seconds. One. And I'm past it. I'm already gone. I'm an hour or more late but I know how things are. There are always delays, every time. It's too much to expect that they could launch on schedule. Not this time. Please Please. Not today.

I just have time to park the car, to switch off the ignition and climb out. The air is fresher and cooler out here by the sea, and look look, there it is, there she goes. A dash in the sky, a punctuation mark, so high up and far away, already. A Boeing Delta 4 heavy rocket; vanis.h.i.+ng, almost out of sight. I want to rewind it, to make it come down again; I want to reverse the shouts and cheers. I can't be too late, I can't can't be. I must find a la.s.so or an arrow; something to bring the vehicle down with. But it's steaming so high now and so fast; detached from the gravity of earth, breaking free from this planet and its atmosphere. There are faces tilted upwards, still watching it, still staring, but not enough people, not be. I must find a la.s.so or an arrow; something to bring the vehicle down with. But it's steaming so high now and so fast; detached from the gravity of earth, breaking free from this planet and its atmosphere. There are faces tilted upwards, still watching it, still staring, but not enough people, not enough enough. Some have made their getaway already and fled away from the park to beat the crowds. I know in my bones he was one of them. I know in my heart that he's gone.

The last of the observers are making their way towards the exit and I want to push them all back inside: the tourists and the nerds and the kids and the tour parties, all filing past me, eager and chattering. What a sight it was. How wonderful it was. They are satisfied, cheery, full up. I rub my forehead with my fists and try to squeeze some concentration out of my eyes. I'm facing the wrong way, towards the launch pad not the exit. I can't take my eyes off the distant launch pad. They push past me, swerving or cras.h.i.+ng into my shoulder. They glare at me, shout at me and swear. They all look the same, they all look so different. I don't know, I can't tell, I can't focus. He could walk past me now and I wouldn't know it.

'Is that you?'

'Yes. It's me.'