Midnight Lamp (26 page)

They went up to the cabin on a Monday. On the Thursday a helicopter came to take Ax back to LA. He had a live tv interview, and then the Friday Prayers in East Hollywood: he’d spend the night at Sunset Cape. Fiorinda and Sage would be coming down the next day: Fiorinda had a brunch interview date with Kathryn. ive tv; he’d be away overnight, at Sunset Cape. When Ax had gone Fiorinda and Sage stayed by the pool, listening to birdsong and silence, until the shadows of the conifered peaks closed over the water, and the mosquitoes arrived; hordes of them, with no respect for megastar divinity.

Fiorinda walked around looking at photographs, of which there were plenty. There seemed to be a contest going on between Kaya and Laz: anytime you have a flashy
auteur
portrait, I have a flashier. Anything you can do, in the way of framed, wall-hung video clips, I can do better. Skiing snaps, Carribean beach snaps. Kaya, Laz. Laz and Kaya, Kaya and baby. Laz and baby; Kaya, Laz, baby.

Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby…

She studied the images of Lazarus Catskill, whom she’d never met. All she could see was a beautiful man, with the whorish eyes of someone who has faced far too many cameras: but he still enjoys it… The Catskills’ humble retreat creeped her out. Back in the kitchen Sage was pondering food possibilities: they’d politely declined a loan of the domestic staff. She checked in with the perimeter guards, over the house computer. They had to do this night and morning, to prove they hadn’t been killed by celebrity-stalker commando attack.

‘I feel like a tethered goat.’

‘Stop worrying,’ said Sage. ‘I misread the signals, obviously.’ And then, in the same breath, ‘Fee, I think I should sleep with you tonight.’

Ax and Sage were sharing a room (twin beds). Fiorinda had chosen a study/bedroom on the ground floor, on the long stroke of the L.

‘You want to have sex?’

‘Thanks for the generous offer,’ he said, cut to the heart by her cheerful, matter-of-fact tone, ‘but not without Ax, babe.’

‘I want to,’ said Fiorinda, who knew the other, unspoken agenda for this relaxing cabin trip; how could she not? ‘Soon. But you’re right, not without Ax.’ She walked into his arms, ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I’m
spooked
. Ax didn’t feel it, but I know you do.’

‘Maybe.’ He rubbed his cheek against her hair, a rusty thicket, smelling of pool chemicals. ‘Let’s sleep in the same room, that’s all. How about a nice omlette?’

Neither of them cared about food, but he must get Fiorinda to eat. One could get tired of your regular meals mania, Mr Preston—

In the same bed, lying beside her, chastely clothed in boxers and a teeshirt, he missed the innocence of El Pabellón, when sex had been out of the question. She’s not in fugue, she knows we’re hungry and she’ll do her best to please us. I can’t take her on those terms, Ax. I just can’t. He felt the penumbra of something strange, more noticeable down here than it had been in the room he shared with Ax, and wondered if it was his imagination.

Or if Fergal was on guard.

In the night they turned to each other, easily and sweetly, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. ‘My baby,’ she mumbled, hugging his head against her breast, wrapping her legs around him, ‘Whassermatter, little Sage, had a bad dream?’

‘No, jus’ woke up, oh yes, more of that,’ he whispered, kissing through her nightdress, ‘tell me I’m your baby.’

There was someone talking, in the next room. No, several people: the words indistinguishable, a sibilant urgent muttering—

Ah, shit. They moved so they were face to face, lips almost touching.

‘Did you hear something?’ she breathed.

‘Why do you say,
did you hear something
, when you mean,
Sage, get out of bed and take a look—
? What happened to women’s lib?
’

‘Because I
don’t
mean that. I mean Sage don’t move an inch without me.’

‘I’m not going to argue. C’mon.’ He took an automatic pistol from under the pillow, which Fiorinda had not known was there.

‘That’s going to be a lot of use against werewolves, unless you have silver bullets.’

‘It makes me feel better.’

In the room next door cold, tasteful, expensive furnishings stared back at them, surprised by the sudden light. In the kitchen the computer reported no sign of intruders. They went through the cabin anyway, careful to do nothing that would trip the alarms and bring the platoon down on them. They found only the immanent silence that had been plaguing them all week. The room where the muttering had come from faced the outdoor pool. Sage checked the locks long a wall of sliding glass doors, and the view outside; behind heavy, woven curtains in a vaguely aztec pattern. Nothing moved.

Fiorinda sat in a wide leather armchair, looking around.

‘Shit. I thought you told Ax that coming to California would stop me going loopy. Now here I am staring at invisible people.’

Sage crossed the room to get different view, making a detour to bend over her chair. ‘You were
not
meant to hear that.’

‘Tuh. I didn’t have to hear it. I always know what you two are saying.’

‘There’s nothing out there. I think it’s all our imagination.’

‘Sage, what if the reason why nobody except me believes in the Fat Boy candidate, is because
there is
a Fat Boy candidate, messing with your heads?’

‘I
do
believe you. I’m not at my best at this hour. Give me a break.’

She sighed. ‘Okay, okay. False alarm. Let’s go back to bed.’

The next day they drove into Los Angeles. Fiorinda dropped Sage in East Hollywood, so he could meet Ax after his gig at the Mosque. They’d called Ax on the way down: he wanted them all to meet up, and drive back together, but Fiorinda said she didn’t know how long she’d be with Kathryn—

‘You two can get a studio limo, and I’ll see you at the cabin.’

‘It makes far more sense if we join you and Kathyrn,’ reasoned Ax.

‘Please. I can do things by myself,
occasionally
.’

‘Let her alone, Ax. We’d turn up and be in the way just when she was saying terrible things about us.’

This was code for, don’t be overprotective.

The crowd at the Mosque (all ages, all dress codes, by no means all of them Reformed Islamics) was big enough to be alarming: Ax was glad he’d said no to the press conference. He escaped and met Sage. The limo, which had a driver because it was taking them out of the LA freeway grid, went a few blocks, and stopped at a rundown supermarket and fuel station.

‘Okay Mr Pender?’ said the driver.

‘Yeah. C’mon Ax, we get off here.’

The limo departed. Sage went to a motorbike that stood on the forecourt, a classic black and silver beast; the make not immediately apparent to Ax, who was not a fan of this means of transport.

‘D’you like it?’

‘I tolerate your bikes,’ said Ax. ‘What does this one have to do with you?’

‘I just bought it. I mean, Digital Artists bought it. I went for reassuringly expensive, I find that’s usually best. I thought it’d be preferable to the limo.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘I’m an idle freeloading post-career rockstar. Why shouldn’t I buy a motorbike?’

‘No reason, no reason at all.’

They looked each other over: Sage, slender and whipcord without the freight of muscular flesh, in black jeans and a breathable neoprene biker jacket. Ax in his new best suit, which was dark red with a nehru collar like his last best suit (he’s such a fogey); but cut for fashion, in a modern silk twill that gleamed with gold and violet highlights.

‘Here, catch—’

Ax caught the helmet. ‘Did you discuss this purchase with Fiorinda?’

‘No, because her phone’s switched off.’

‘You’re sure she’s all right?’

‘I didn’t leave ’til I saw her safe with Kathryn.’

‘Sage… Did anything happen at the cabin last night?’

‘Lemme get something to eat, and I’ll tell you.’

They ate hotdogs, and Ben and Jerry’s fat free, sugar free, Madagascar Vanilla, (an ice cream Sage had decided he liked); leaning against the bike, among the weeds grew along the margin of the stained pad of concrete. Sage described the maybe, possibly, ethereal night visitors.

‘D’you think there’s anything in it?’

‘Not sure. D’you want to change that pretty suit?’

‘Can’t be fucked. Let’s just ride.’

Sage was better on a bike than behind the wheel of a car. He negotiated the superheated maze of the freeways without giving Ax cause for alarm, and pulled off above San Fernando, at a shack cafeteria that advertised
Antojitos y comida corrida
. They bought soft drinks and sat watching the Friday afternoon traffic as it swooped and looped through the Sepuldeva pass: quite a show, to the refugees from Crisis Europe. The dry heat was intense, the light a searing haze.

Sage told Ax about the ghost of Fergal Kearney, or rather Rufus O’Niall. ‘I didn’t tell you on the Baja, because I didn’t want to upset you. She knew what she was doing. She’d elected Rufus as her guardian angel, to comfort herself.’

‘Sage, that is very sick.’

‘See, I knew you’d hate it. I think it’s smart of her. She doesn’t deserve to have a total bastard for a father, why shouldn’t she imagine him repentant? But I’m wondering what it means that I’ve seen “him” too.’

‘So have I,’ said Ax.

‘
What
—?’

‘The night you came to fetch me from Lou Branco’s. Fergal was there, or his ghost, under a tree, while I was waiting for you. I mean to say, I saw a figure, it looked like Fergal, it disappeared… I didn’t tell you because, well, I didn’t. What are we talking about here? Could that actually be
Rufus
, back from the dead?’

Sage chewed the lower joint of his right thumb. ‘Don’t think so. Lemme see. Fiorinda’s guardian angel has appeared to both of us. Makes sense: she wants to protect us. The
worrying
thing is that this seems like more of her magic, seeping out of containment, and that is a scary thought.’

Ax had been told about the cursing. ‘You rule out the idea of a genuine ghost?’

‘Rather than a visible projection that has its origin in a pattern of firing and partly firing neurons, stored in the virtual space contained in Fiorinda’s skull? At fusion, of course, there’d be no difference.’

‘Sorry, bodhisattva. You’ve lost me.’

They were silent, thinking of the great gamble they were taking.

‘Let’s get out of that cabin anyway,’ said Ax. ‘It isn’t even nice, and there are mosquitoes. If your friend Laz really has something to tell us he’ll find another way. On the whole I’m back with plan A, figuratively speaking. Fred Eiffrich has a problem with his bloodthirsty weapon-mongers, but it’s not really our business, and anyway it won’t work. There’s no megastar Fat Boy candidate, and Fiorinda will soon stop thinking there is, because she’s getting better.’

‘Setting aside the mindbending fear that there really is a monster.’

‘I’m full of mindbending fears. It’s my natural state.’

All the earth is a mosque
, thought Ax. He remembered certain times of night and evening when the motorway landscape of England had taken on beauty. Flying down the sweeping curves of the M4 into the vistas of the west, riding the rivers of light, the red brakelights one way, silver the other—

‘I wonder how long a city like Los Angeles can keep going, with no functional public services, no cheap fuel, and the domestic water system fucked.’

‘They’re not doing badly,’ said Sage. ‘I think the lack of a centre helps.’

‘If they had a Tour they’d be in trouble.’

How could they not be haunted by a sense of imminent disaster? They had seen the Green Revolution break out in England, in a blitzkreig of fearsome righteous destruction: bad news in a natural desert, inhabited by some of the spoiltest brats in the known universe, and several millions of their disaffected poor, all with free access to lethal weapons… But the Deconstruction Tour had not come from a blue sky. If the hot chaos of Los Angeles had eco-warriors they were muted, still well under control; invisible on the news programmes.

‘Mm… D’you remember the crash, Ax? We were in a VIP lounge at Gatwick, on our way to, was it Africa Live or Hard Fun? Can’t recall just now. The markets were in freefall, realtime on NASDAQ tv. We were cheering. We thought it was hilarious.’

Yeah, thought Ax, without rancour. My mega-commercial friend, you never thought it could touch
you
. ‘I don’t remember where I was, but I’m sure I was cheering too. We had no idea, did we?’

They watched the rivers of light, with the nostalgia that hurts like mourning.

‘Sage? What d’you want out of life?’

‘Since we can never get back there?’

‘Since we can’t get back there.’

The haze had thickened, folding the city in a cloud of ochre shadow. ‘I want to live,’ said Sage, ‘Just to
live
, with you and Fiorinda, chop wood and draw water. I’d like children, if possible. And a garden, oh, and a pool with fish. I like fish.’

‘The only thing that worries me is the fish,’ said Ax, after a pause for thought. ‘I think I can provide the rest, though I can’t promise you her children. But I’ve a feeling I’m not going to have a settled life. I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but I can’t leave this struggle: I’m in too deep.’

‘Hahaha. I figured that out, babe, a long while ago… Shit, are you pissed off with me because of the bike? Private transport hypocrisy?’

Ax laughed. ‘No!’

They disposed of their soda cans thoughtfully, and rode on.

Fiorinda’s brunch with Kathryn was at the Bullocks Wilshire Department store, a splendid 1920s landmark, in the nearest you get to a historical centre of LA. Harry Lopez arrived to join them, as they were winding up… He wanted to talk to Fiorinda about additional dialogue. Things people had said off the record, authentic native English, if she could help him, he’d be immensely—

That bad, huh?, thought Fiorinda. She knew there wasn’t going to be another test. The lasers had spoken and she was out, no matter what Robert Redford thought. Not that she cared, but it was annoying having Harry be kind to her.

‘I’m a member of a collective, you know. I’ll be censored.’