Seeing Stars (6 page)

Even though Katy was desperate to end her affair with

Raymond she agreed to a rendezvous at a local gallery.

Standing in front of a canvas onto which the blood of a

dead rabbit had dripped and congealed, Raymond said,

“It’s kind of rabbit-shaped—do you think that’s the point?”

When she didn’t answer, Raymond raised his voice. “I

SAID IT’S KIND OF RABBIT-SHAPED—DO YOU

THINK THAT’S THE POINT?” When Katy finally replied,

here’s what she said:

“Raymond, imagine my surprise when, upon unloading

the dishwasher, I discovered the image of The World’s

Most Wanted Man imprinted on one of my best dinner

plates. I phoned the Customer Service Hotline. This bored-

sounding operative somewhere in the subcontinent said to

me, ‘So let me get this straight, madam, you’ve found The

World’s Most Wanted Man taking refuge in your

dishwasher?’ ‘No,’ I said, and explained again in plain

English. He said, ‘Are you sure it isn’t a gravy stain or the

residue from a pork chop? Meat products can be very

stubborn, and for heavy soiling we recommend a pre-soak.

Also, you might want to try a longer cycle at a higher

temperature, and can I ask which type of detergent you’re

using? Is it tablet or sachet?’ Then maybe he heard my

sobbing because he said, ‘OK, we’ll send somebody

round.’ Five minutes later there was a knock at the door

and in came a policeman and a priest. ‘That’s him all right,’

said the officer, holding the dinner plate up to the light and

confirming the identity of The World’s Most Wanted Man.

‘Is it a miracle?’ I asked. The priest had closed his eyes

and was sitting on the pedal bin with his arms folded

across his chest. The policeman laughed. ‘Are you kidding—

this is the ninth this week. And it isn’t just plates. It’s cups,

dishes, ice cubes, toast, pizzas. A woman in Hull found

him in a wholemeal loaf, all the way through.’ Then he

said, ‘We’ll have to take this appliance away, get the lab

boys to give it the once-over.’ Now I was crying again. I

said, ‘But it’s Christmas Eve. I’ve got a party of twelve to

cater for tomorrow, including Dr. Roscoe and that poor boy

who stands in the park all day flipping a coin. What shall I

do?’ He said, ‘At times like this some people find that

praying helps.’ With his extendable baton he pointed at a

place on the lino where I might kneel. I asked him if he’d

join me, but he replied, ‘I won’t, if you don’t mind. Like

my old man told me, there are only two reasons for putting

your hands together: one’s for ironic applause, the other’s

to scrub up before dinner, and even then the palms don’t

actually touch because they’re separated by an invisible and

infinitely thin film of detergent. What you call soap.’ ”

Every word that Katy had uttered was complete poppycock.

She knew it and Raymond knew it too. But the security

guard had gone outside for a cigarette, and they were the

only living souls left in the great, echoing hangar of the

gallery. And Katy knew with an absolute clarity of

perception that the moment she stopped talking the fresh

and bloody wound of Raymond’s mouth would move

quickly and incisively against her own.

They all looked daft but the horse-dog looked

daftest of all. The cute red bridle and swishing

tail, the saddle and stirrups, the groomed mane.

The hair round its feet had been shaved and

fluffed into hooves. Close up, on its hind, there

were vampire bites where the clippers had steered

too close to the skin. Skin that was blotchy and

rude. I leaned over the rail and whispered,

“You’re not a horse, you’re a dog.” It bared its

canines and growled: “Shut the fuck up, son. Forty-

five minutes and down come the dirty bombs—is

that what you want? Now offer me one of those

mints and hold it out in the flat of your hand.

Then hop on.” I was six, with a kitten’s face and

the heart of a lamb.

My cohabitee can be pretty demanding. Asked what she

wanted for our first anniversary she replied, “I want some

space, Paul, and plenty of it.” I said, “Are you absolutely

sure? You wouldn’t rather have a macramé seat cover

for the Mercedes Roadster I bought you for Christmas?

Or one of those metallic-coloured MP3 players I saw you

admiring over at Brett’s house the other day?” She put

aside her nail file and said, “Paul, space is what I want

and space is what I need. Do I have to SPELL IT OUT?”

I went down to the hardware shop in the high street. It

was very manly in there, lots of stern objects made from

uncompromising metals. Lots of “big ticket” items with

throttles and interchangeable blades. “Got any space?”

I asked the man in the brown overalls. “Sure,” he said.

“What kind of thing were you looking for? Doesn’t come

cheap, mind.” He showed me some second-hand space

they were letting go for half price, but one lot appeared

somewhat dog-eared around the edges, and another batch

had been wallpapered with woodchip during the ’70s, and

yet another carried a vague whiff of embalming fluid. He

pulled down a huge pattern book and showed me the

entire range: hexagonal space, deep ocean space, space

that glowed in the dark, vacuum-packed space, space that

had been brought back from outer space, space that

giggled when you poked it, space made out of air bubbles

extracted from core samples of Antarctic ice dating back

billions of years. I just couldn’t decide. The shopkeeper

said, “It’s for a lady friend, right?” I couldn’t even bring

myself to nod—my head felt like a famous but forgotten

church bell sitting in a scrap yard on the wrong side of

the river. He said, “In which case, let me recommend

this. It’s pretty neutral, standard spec., no trimmings to

speak of, but in a situation like your own I always think

it’s better to play safe.” I went for a haircut while he gift-

wrapped the space, then in the newsagents I bought a gift

tag in the shape of a serenading starfish, and wrote on it,

“Here’s what you asked for, my sweetheart. I only hope

it’s enough.” I dropped the package on the doorstep and

pressed the buzzer. Then I zoomed off in the Roadster,

faster than I’d ever travelled in my whole existence,

straight along Quarry Road.

Unprecedented economic growth in my native country

has brought mochaccino and broadband to where there

was nothing but misery and disease, yet with loss of

habitat the inevitable consequence; even the glade I was

born in is now a thirty-storey apartment block with valet

parking and a nail salon. They scrape DNA from the

inside of my cheek and freeze it, “just in case.” To the

world I’m known by my stage name and am Richard to

family and friends, but never Dick. Well-meaning

tourists visiting the Cavern throw pastries and pieces of

fruit despite notices regarding my sensitive nature and

strict diet. I cried all night when John was shot, rubbed

the tired circles of my eyes till they turned black. Please

do not tap on the glass. The sixties did it for everyone, I

mean EVERYONE, and what people failed to grasp

about Chairman Mao was that despite the drab-looking

suits and systematic violations of basic human rights

he liked a good tune as much as the next man.

Liverpool’s a great shag but you wouldn’t want to marry

it. They named a potato snack in my honour and also a

small family car, how many people can say that? Fans

write to me from as far away as Papua New Guinea and I

insist on responding personally. In fact my “sixth digit”—

an enlarged wrist bone which functions as a thumb—

means that handwriting comes easier to me than it does to

many other creatures, for example the Rolling Stones. If

I didn’t believe there was one more hit record in me I

swear I’d end it now. In the dream, there’s still a Paul

and a George somewhere in the high valleys of Ganzu

Province, classic period white shirts and black ties, mop

tops down to their shoulders, strumming away. These

sunglasses have prescription lenses and are not just for

effect. Reviewing my Wikipedia entry I note that

“Yellow Submarine” and “Octopus’s Garden” anticipated

the absurdist trend in rock ‘n’ roll by at least a decade.

Every first Tuesday in the month the lady vet gives me a

hand job but due to the strength of the tranquilliser the

pleasure is all hers. Years ago they brought Yoko to the

doors of my cage but it wouldn’t have worked; I let the

slow snowball of my head roll sadly eastwards and

stared towards the Himalayas. In the whole cosmos

there’s only me. What hurts most isn’t the loneliness

but the withering disrespect: as if they’d dropped a couple

of bamboo sticks into my paws and I’d just played along.

My girlfriend won me in a sealed auction but wouldn’t

tell me how much she bid. “Leave it, Frank. It’s not

important. Now go to sleep,” she said. But I was restless.

An hour later I woke her and said, “Give me a ballpark

figure.” “I’m tired,” she replied. I put the light on. “But

are we talking like thousands here?” She rolled away,

pulled the cotton sheet over her head, mumbling, “You’re

being silly, Frank.” I said, “Oh, being silly am I? So not

thousands. Just a couple of hundred, was it?” “I’m not

telling you, so drop it,” she snarled. By now I was wide

awake. “Fifty, maybe? A tenner?” She didn’t say anything,

and when Elaine doesn’t say anything I know I’m getting

close to the truth. Like the other day with the weed killer.

I said, “Maybe you weren’t bidding for me at all. Maybe

you were after a flat-screen telly or a home sun-tanning

unit, and you got me instead. Tell me, Elaine. Tell me

what I’m worth, because right now I don’t know if I’m

an original Fabergé egg or just something the cat dragged

in.” Elaine surfaced from under the covers and took a sip

of water from the glass on the bedside table. “Frank, listen.

What does it matter if it was a million pounds or a second-

class stamp? You’re priceless, OK? You’re everything to

me. Don’t spoil it by talking about money.” Then she took

my hand and held it against her breast and said, “Do you

want to make love?” I answered with my body, tipping

every last quicksilver coin into her purse.

But that night I dreamed of the boy-slave winning his

freedom by plucking a leaf from Diana’s golden bough,

and long before dawn, with bread in my knapsack and

the wind at my back, I strode forth.

Mancunian Norman had just turned on to the M621 when

he saw a pewter-haired old man in a brown suit sitting on a

signpost, with his hands covering his face. He appeared to

be sobbing. Being a thoughtful sort with a church

upbringing and a diploma in sociology, Norman eased up

then reversed slowly along the hard shoulder. He stepped

out of the car and said, “Couldn’t help noticing how sad

you looked. Can I give you a lift into the city?” The old

man’s face was soggy with tears, some of which had

dripped onto his lapels, leaving black spots like air-pellet

holes on the chocolate-coloured jacket. “I’m sad all right,”

he said. “Did you read about the boy in the sewers?”

Norman shook his head. “Five days he was down there, his

screams coming up through every drain and sink. I heard

him myself one night when I was cleaning my teeth, and a

more sorrowful noise I never knew. They sent in potholers.

They sent in the Moorland Rescue. They even sent in

Rentokil.” “Did they find him?” asked Norman. “Dragged

him out through a manhole cover in Clay Pit Lane last

night. The rats had got him. I don’t think this city will

ever be the same again.” Another tear dithered on the point

of his chin then dripped onto his shoe. “You seem to have

taken it very hard,” observed Norman. “Hit by a train,”

said the man, “and I’ll show you why.” He stood up and

pointed at the sign he’d been perching on. It read,

Welcome to Leeds. Population 715,403.
“It’s my job to

keep this sign up to date. As soon as I heard about sewer

boy’s sorry demise I walked here over the meadows,

swishing through the morning dew, with my pocket

screwdriver and my bag of numbers.” He produced a

scrunched-up Tesco’s carrier from his jacket pocket. “But

when I looked there was no number two. I’ve got a five,

I’ve got three sixes and an eight, but no two. And what am

I if I can’t dignify that boy’s agonising demise with the

right number? I’m a useless old gimmer and I’m going to

hear his inconsolable wailing for ever.” “Let me see,” said

Norman, peering into the plastic bag. The old man was

right. There was no number two. There was a half-eaten

carrot and a wooden fish, but no number two. “A couple of

years ago a woman in Beeston had triplets. I walked here

over the meadows, swishing through the morning dew with

my pocket screwdriver and my bag of numbers, and the

population that day stood at 715,406. I had no number

nine. And, well … I’ve never told anyone this before, I just

swivelled that number six upside down. I’m not proud of

what I did that day, but this is worse. This is shameful. It’s

going to haunt me to my grave.” “Can’t you buy new

numbers?” said Norman, ever the pragmatist, always

looking for a positive outcome. “Not like these. These

were made by the founding fathers, cast from the anchor of

the first boat to pull up on the banks of our plentiful river. I

should have guarded them with my life. But people borrow

them and don’t bring them back. The number one is on

loan to a folk museum in Ottawa, and my grandson … he

stole a few numbers and sold them to buy ketamine.

Listen, do you hear crying? Do you hear that pitiful wail?”

“It’s just the breeze in the overhead cables,” said Norman,

and he helped the broken old man into the passenger seat of

his car. They sat there not speaking for a few minutes, and

the vehicle shook as articulated lorries rumbled past in the

inside lane. The clouds started to clear and the streetlights

went out. Then Norman said, “I’ve got it. What if I come

and live in Leeds, then the sign can stay as it is?” “Would

you do that for me? Really and truly?” asked the old man.

“Of course, no question,” said Norman.