“I wish I could stay too.”
“Then why don’t you? Why do you fly in and fly out again?”
“One day you’ll understand.”
Natalie leans down and kisses me. Then she’s gone. I return to the bedroom, drop my towel, pick up the copy of Distortion and lie on my back on the mattress, flicking through it a second time.
I imagine that if you were looking down on me as I lie here, from a position on the ceiling, the image of my face on the magazine’s cover would align with my body. If you stared long and hard enough, you’d eventually wonder where the magazine ends and where I really begin.
Chapter Eighteen
Our bus is hurtling across a desert. The suns have just set and I can’t see anything outside the window. It’s because of all these bright lights inside. There’s just blackness beyond my reflection. I drag on a cigarette and turn to gaze at the TV screen for a minute, watching the simulated warfare video game that Cohen and Dylan are playing. They both holler wildly when they gun someone down in battle. Emerson sits on the lounge suite reading a book.
“It’s science fiction,” he tells me. “But it’s not... really. It’s just set in space.”
Our tour bus is extravagant. Two storeys. Fully functional bathroom with hot water. Kitchen. Communal area. Digital channels on a wide flatscreen. On the roof is a deck, where we occasionally go to smoke and drink. You can’t do much else at the speeds we travel. But our vehicle’s simple sterility makes me feel like I’m in my apartment.
We’re launching our world tour, our first since my name was cleared, with a performance at the award ceremony of the Adult Screen Society. It’s as widely covered and watched as the Oscars are on Earth, but it primarily celebrates the porn industry. And it is a very big industry. Considerable girth. So impressively big, in fact, that they can afford to pay us two million dollars to perform three songs at the ceremony’s climax.
As you would expect, the band are looking forward to our performance and the general debauchery that one would expect in the company of porn stars. I have to admit that I’m also looking forward to it. Any event that describes itself as “tits and glamour” surely has to garner a memorable experience.
Behind us is a second tour bus that the Known Associates are travelling on. Further back are several semi-trailers and twelve-seat vans, transporting equipment and our extensive crew. A midnight convoy.
Bored, I wander through the bus toward the front cabin. In the kitchen our sound guy and Dylan’s guitar technician are smoking and playing a card game. The rest of the crew is lying down in the bunked sleeping quarters.
At the front of the bus, our driver, a middle-aged man named Gillan, sits in darkness. A myriad of blinking lights and coloured displays stretch across the wide dashboard in front of him and through the windscreen two giant headlights eat up the long, straight road as it disappears beneath us. A heavy metal song hums from hidden speakers at a low volume.
“Gill, what’s happening?” I ask, making conversation as I climb down into the soft leather passenger seat.
“Not much, Jack,” says Gillan. “Not a lot to see out here when it’s dark.”
“Not a whole lot to see in the daylight.”
Gillan emits half a chuckle and continues to look out through the windscreen, limply holding the giant steering wheel. My gaze is also drawn to the grey stretch of road in front of us, the dashed centre line just a blurred streak of white.
A short distance ahead of us, the headlights pick up two small yellow balls that float low to the ground. I recognise the reflective orbs as the eyes of a nocturnal animal standing on the shoulder of the road. A second later we’ve drawn closer to the creature and in a short burst it rushes in front of the bus, attempting to cross its path. As the animal appears above the dashboard, it takes on the shape of a long, sleek cat, black and orange with a bearded face and eyes that look human. It glances at me as the bus motors over the top of it. A thud beneath the right wheels makes everything bounce into the air around us.
“Shit!” exclaims Gillan, who strangles the wheel as we swerve across into the opposite lane. From within the belly of the bus I can hear our passengers shout out, and beneath the floor I hear the wild snarling of a terrified animal.
“What the fuck was that?” I yell, grabbing the dashboard to steady myself.
“I don’t know, I didn’t see it,” says Gillan, as he straightens the tour bus. The sound of an exploding tyre tilts the world sideways.
“Fuck,” says Gillan, slamming on the brakes. The cumbersome vehicle screeches as we come to a heavy stop on the side of the road. The Known Associates’ tour bus overtakes and pulls over in front of us, and the rest of the convoy begins to pull over further up the road.
“There was an animal or something,” I say. “Like a cat. A tiger.”
“A what?” asks Gillan.
“A tiger...” I say, then realising that they don’t use that word on this planet, “I mean, a giant cat. A predator.”
“I think I saw something, but I didn’t get a good look at it,” replies Gillan, whose hands are shaking. Then he calls down the bus, “Is everyone okay?”
Emerson appears at the cabin’s entrance. “Dylan was on a high score. He’s not happy.”
“Send Dylan my apologies,” says Gillan, sincerely.
“No!” I say, “Tell Dylan to go fuck himself. We nearly rolled the bus.”
“What happened?” asks Emerson.
“Something ran under the wheels. An animal.”
“Shit,” says Emerson. “Well, let’s have a look.”
Gillan flicks a switch and the door creaks open just behind us. In the headlights I can see our crew and a few of the Known Associates walking towards our bus with concerned expressions. Outside on the dusty side of the road, we all inspect the front of the bus. There’s absolutely no visible damage.
“It must have gone straight under,” says Gillan.
“It looked pretty big,” I say.
“What was it?” asks Damon, the Known Associates’ vocalist.
“Looked like a giant cat,” I say. “Black and orange stripes.”
Everyone looks a little confused.
“Sounds like a weird cat,” says Cohen, as he draws on a cigarette.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” adds Dylan, crouching to look under the front of the bus. “There’s not many animals out here.”
“There must be nocturnal animals out here. Desert animals,” I say.
“Perhaps,” says Gillan, pulling a small torch from his pocket and waving it underneath the bus next to Dylan.
“Looks like three tyres have blown,” says Emerson, as he appears on the edge of the headlights.
“Shit,” says Gillan, standing up. “I’ve only got one spare tyre left. How did three tyres go?”
“Fuck knows,” says Emerson. “And there ain’t no sign of a cat. Or anything.”
Everybody searches up and down the side of the road behind us and no one finds the body of an animal. Nothing. When Gillan and the driver of the Known Associates’ tour bus climb under the vehicle to inspect the damage, there’s no blood. No fur. No hallmarks of carnage. Just three consecutive blown tyres on the right side of the bus.
“Fucking mystery, man,” says Damon, dragging on a cigarette as we stand in the headlights. His eyes look bloodshot.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
Gillan calls Amelia to explain what has happened. Amelia only flies, so she’s not with us on the road. None of the other vehicles in the convoy have tyres that will match those of our tour bus. The Known Associates’ bus is a smaller model. Amelia quickly organises for us to stay at a caravan park on the side of the highway until morning, when a repair vehicle can bring us some spare tyres. The park is only a five-minute drive up the road. The band and I grab our belongings and pile into the Known Associates’ bus. With no passengers, Gillan takes the risk and limps our tour bus to our new accommodation.
The caravan park appears
, a diorama of shapes and shadows, back lit by piercing white security lights. It’s vast in size, spreading off into the distance and low to the ground, like a military barracks. The bus slows as we arrive at its front gates. The headlights find a sign surrounded by tall, anorexic palm trees. Mirage Holiday Park. The sound of gravel crunches beneath our wheels as the hulking vehicle lazily rolls into the park’s grounds, tracing the circular driveway.
The outside temperature has dropped. I find a jacket in my hand luggage and put it on. Everyone alights to the cool night air. Vince, the driver of the Known Associates’ bus, wanders over to a small reception office, sliding open a screen door and stepping into the yellow glow. Somewhere an insect buzzes and clicks. Another chirps in reply. Damon pulls a packet of cigarettes from his top pocket and offers them around. I take one. He smiles and pats me on the shoulder.
Off in the depths of the caravans I can hear voices come and go. A laugh. An engine turns over and hums. A few car doors are opened and closed. Clean, precise sounds. No clutter. The darkness of the desert muting echoes and reverberation. Even the low rumble of the tour bus next to me seems softer, like it’s purring.
Vince appears in the door of the reception office. He turns and waves goodbye to someone out of sight.
“Okay, gentleman,” he says, before handing out keys to members of the group. “This ain’t exactly the Pluie Tordue, but Big Bang Theory’s lovely manager Amelia has managed to book all of their remaining cabins. They’re marginally less shit than the caravans.”
“Quality,” smiles Damon, taking a key. “Thanks Vince.”
“Two to a room,” says Vince.
“Looks like it’s you and me, Jack,” says Dylan, as he sidles up next to me. “I’ve still got spirits, so we’ll be set.”
“Let’s find our cabin and go exploring,” I suggest.
We lock our cabin door and stand for a moment in chilled air. Steam shoots from my nostrils as I exhale. Dylan opens his bottle of rum, takes a swig then hands it to me. I fill my mouth and swallow, feeling the comforting burn slide down the interior of my chest. Ahead of us, between the gaps of the surrounding accommodation, I can make out a pool and barbecue area. Above it appears to be a large games room that extends over the pool, held up with piers.
“Let’s check out the facilities,” I say.
We cross the gravel drive in front of us and weave our way through the cabins. The various footpaths are lit with white security lights at the top of high poles. It keeps the darkness at bay. As we cut between two cabins, I notice a noise from beyond a low window. I stop.
“Can you hear something?” I whisper.
We’re both quiet for a moment and we hear the sound of a woman moaning. A quick release of pleasure, followed by a guttural male growl. Although I can’t see Dylan’s face, I know he’s smirking. He nudges me in the back and we continue towards the pool.
“We need to find some girls in this place,” says Dylan.
“It’s almost three in the morning,” I say. “We’d have to go door knocking.”
From the pool gate the kidney-shaped swimming hole glows aquamarine, submerged lighting affording the water a vivid brilliance. Steam rises and swirls above the surface like sparse cotton wool. I glance up at the structure above us.
“Games room?” I suggest, nodding upward.
We follow the gate till we find the set of stairs. At the top Dylan opens the door and we step into the darkness. In front of me are the orange neon flickers of pinball and arcade machines. Dylan finds a light switch and the room appears. Ping pong table. Shuffle puck. Lounges. A derelict television sits on a small sideboard. Faux wood panelling from ceiling to floor.
“Wow, I think we hit the jackpot,” says Dylan, with more than a hint of sarcasm. He swigs on the rum.
I inspect the games. “If you don’t find any girls tonight you can take out your frustration on Alien Landing,” I say, slapping the side of the machine.
“Always good to have options in life,” says Dylan, picking up a ping pong bat and swinging through an imaginary forehand.
The sound of a footstep creaking on the stairs outside makes us stop and turn to the doorway. There’s a pause. Some sort of hesitance. Then the steps restart, drumming towards us, increasing in volume. Just outside the door we hear a giggle and a young couple steps into the games room. Maybe early thirties. They’re dressed in jeans and jackets. Woolen boots and scarves. Braving the pre-dawn cold for some light recreation.
“Hi,” says the guy, his chiseled facial features unveiling a perfect white smile. “We saw the light on and thought we’d come and investigate.”
The woman is painfully pretty. Porcelain skin and brown, naturally wavy hair. Drunkenness, combined with the cold, has painted patches of crimson on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “We’re not interrupting anything are we?”
Dylan studies the woman for a moment, before smiling back his answer. “No, you’re not interrupting. My friend and I were just checking out the facilities.”
“Facilitating,” I add.
“Nice,” says the guy.
Dylan approaches them, offering his bottle. “You guys look cold. Rum?”
Suddenly a perplexed look crosses the girl’s face. “Hang on... you look familiar.”
“Really?” asks Dylan.
“Yeah,” says the girl. “You’re in a band, aren’t you?”
“You’re in a band? That’s cool,” says her boyfriend.
The girl turns her eyes on me, then looks back at Dylan. Then back at me.
“Holy shit,” she says, “you guys are in Big Bang Theory.”
Dylan offers the bottle again to the woman, only smiling.
The guy looks at us both. “Are you sure, sweetheart? You’re pretty drunk.”
She slaps him on the arm. “I’m drunk, but I know who these guys are. Remember me and the girls went to see them last time they toured?” The woman turns to me. “Tell him I’m right.”
I give a wry smile. “How would I know who you went with?”
“Yeah, we’re talented and handsome, but not psychic,” adds Dylan.
The woman looks frustrated and grabs the bottle from Dylan’s hand, taking a long swig. She tenses her face as she swallows the fiery liquid.
“You’re all jerks,” she says, handing the bottle back to Dylan. She then asks him, “What are you guys doing here anyway?”
“Mostly table tennis,” replies Dylan, before offering the rum to the guy. He raises his hand in a polite negative gesture. When Dylan gives him a bemused look and offers the bottle a second time, the man relents and takes a mouthful.
“Do you answer any questions properly?” asks the woman.
“Only if I’m sufficiently entertained,” says Dylan.
“Our tour bus broke down,” I say. “So we’re staying the night.”
“Wow,” says the woman, walking around the ping pong table and stepping towards me. “It’s so completely random to bump into you guys here. Of all places.”
The man steps further into the room and spots the arcade machines. “Wow, they’ve got Alien Landing. That’s all-time,” he says. I watch him walk across the room and he staggers slightly. When I turn back the woman is much closer, only a foot away. I can smell her. A mixture of alcohol and the musky echo of stale perfume. It stirs something in me. She sits on the edge of the ping pong table next to us and unzips her jacket.
“It’s so nice to be out of the cold,” she says, placing the jacket next to her. I fight the urge to blatantly stare at the two grapefruit sized breasts straining against her tight, white cotton t-shirt, but I realise that in her smile is, in fact, a concealed invitation to notice them.
“Actually,” says Dylan, giving me a sideward glance, “are you the two people we heard fucking on our way over here?”
The woman gives a look of surprise and turns to face Dylan, who now leans by the door. The man, who has swiped a cash card through the slot of Alien Landing, looks puzzled by the question.<
br />
“What are you talking about?” says the woman.
“We passed a cabin on the way here that sounded like a whorehouse,” says Dylan.
“Sorry, wasn’t us,” says the guy, tapping away at the arcade machine.
“What’s your name?” I ask the girl, who maintains her coquettish expression.
“Bethany,” she smiles.
“Pretty name,” I say.
“Is it? Or are you just saying that?”
I shrug. “A bit of column A, a bit of column B.”
“My friends would die if they knew I was meeting you in person,” she says.
“Really? What would be the cause of death, exactly?” I ask.
“They’d have heart attacks,” says Bethany.
“Hey,” says Dylan, reaching into his jeans pocket. “Do you guys like cane?”
Bethany looks at him as he produces a small bag of white powder.
“Sure,” says Bethany’s boyfriend. “I’m okay, but Beth would probably like some.”
“Yeah, why not,” says Bethany.
“Wild,” says Dylan and closes the door of the games room. He walks over and tips a portion of the white powder on to the corner of the ping pong table and uses one of his credit cards to divide it into lines. He then pulls a note from his pocket and starts rolling it up. Dylan gives me a smile. From anyone else it would be an innocent expression, one of simple happiness. But it’s loaded with mischief. His mind works in wicked ways.
“Hey, what’s your name, friend,” he asks Bethany’s boyfriend.
“Lucas,” he says, only looking up briefly before returning his attention to the arcade screen.
“It’s nice to meet you, Lucas,” says Dylan.
“You too,” replies Lucas.
Dylan hands the note, now a thin tube, to Bethany. “Ladies first,” he smiles.
Bethany takes the note and stoops to daintily inhale one of the lines. She then hands the note back to Dylan. I reach out, indicating that it’s my turn. Dylan smiles, unrolls the note and then puts it back in his wallet. He then removes a different bill and starts rolling it. I watch him change the notes over. Bethany doesn’t notice. She simply wipes lightly at her nostril, sniffling.
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