“What do you do for a living, Lucas?” asks Dylan.
“I’m unemployed at the moment, but I’m a qualified architect,” he replies. The machine emits a dissonant chord, announcing that he’s been eliminated from proceedings. He spits a curse and steps away from the console.
“We’re just travelling at the moment,” says Bethany. “Lucas quit his job so we could travel together.”
Dylan hands me the new rolled up note. “You going anywhere in particular?” I ask, then bend down to do a line.
“Not really, we’ll just keep going until we run out of money,” says Bethany.
Lucas joins us by the tennis table and yawns. “Sorry to be boring guys, but we might have to retire,” he says.
“Are you going to bed, honey?” asks Bethany.
“Yeah, I’m exhausted,” says Lucas. “And pretty wasted too.”
“I’m not tired,” says Bethany. “I might stay here for a bit.”
Dylan says, “Yeah, stay and party with us.” Then to Lucas, he says, “Don’t worry, we’ll see that she gets back to your cabin in one piece.”
Lucas smiles at Dylan, clearly quite drunk. “Uh, I don’t know…”
“I’ll be okay,” says Bethany to her boyfriend. She kisses him. “I’ll be back to the cabin in an hour. I’m just really awake from the cane.”
“Okay,” nods Lucas, clearly a little reluctant, but too delirious to argue. “I’ll see you soon.” Then he shakes mine and Dylan’s hands. “It was nice to meet you guys.”
“Pleasure,” says Dylan.
Lucas heads for the door. He glances back, gives a small wave as he opens it and then disappears. Once his footsteps have disappeared, Bethany walks across to the door and closes it.
Dylan and I walk down the stairs from the games room, returning to the cold embrace of the desert night. If the time on my phone is anything to go by, there’s only two hours of darkness left before the suns creep over the horizon.
We walk around the pool and continue up one of the gravel roads that divide the large cabin area in a crosshatched pattern. Most of the lights in the cabins are switched off, as this is the hour when most people are adrift in slumber. Through the window of one cabin I notice the blinking glow of television.
It’s eerily quiet now. The sound of our feet crunching on the grey stones is magnified in the morning air. From somewhere to our right comes the low murmur of a car engine. Wheels rolling across gravel. It appears ahead of us, turning left and heading in our direction. It’s a large black sedan with tinted windows. A piece of old-world luxury. It stops in front of a cabin about fifty metres away. An old man, possibly sixty, exits the driver’s door. He’s wearing a brown suit. He runs a hand across his thin grey hair, glancing at us quickly before turning around and opening the rear passenger door. Two young girls exit. No more than fourteen years old. Ethnic in appearance. They’re wearing identical outfits, which sort of look like private school girl uniforms. Their hair is up in matching pigtails. Both of them are eating an ice cream. Neither looks at Dylan or I as we pass. They follow the old man to the door of his cabin, which he opens and the three of them disappear inside. Dylan doesn’t say anything. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. Then he offers me one along with another swig of rum.
Ahead of us is a tall security fence and pottering beneath it is a group of people. It’s the perimeter of the park. The shapes of onlookers sit or stand, loitering in front of a mesh wall that’s topped with coils of razor wire.
“Here we go,” says Dylan. “I knew someone would be up partying.”
There’s a white security light high on a post to our right, but the group are just beyond its reach. There are maybe a dozen people, a few of which are slumped in deck chairs, all wearing warm clothing. They’re gazing through the fence into the distance. I look through it as well, but there’s nothing there. Just an expanse of desert still draped in the vacuous shadow of night. One man, a broad shouldered fellow, has a pair of binoculars to his face.
“Good morning, folks,” says Dylan.
“Good morning,” a few people reply, unenthusiastically.
“Wild party,” smiles Dylan, and swigs from his rum bottle.
The broad shouldered man continues to scan the horizon with his binoculars. Dylan steps up to him. “How you going there?” he asks. “Is there any desert out there?”
“Lots of it,” replies the man, gruffly.
“Big fence,” says Dylan.
“Yes,” says the man.
A woman sits in a chair behind him, a blanket across her lap. Leaning against her knees is a cardboard sign that says, We Want The Truth. It’s painted in broad black brushstrokes.
“Do you mind me asking what you’re looking at?” asks Dylan.
The man finally takes the binoculars from his face and looks at Dylan.
“The military built a base over there only five years ago,” says the man, pointing. “They put up miles of razor wire and security fencing to keep people away. People and their questions. But we all know what they’re doing.” He then puts the binoculars back to his face.
Dylan looks back at me, grinning. Then he turns back to the man. “So you think they’re up to no good? What are they doing over there?”
“We think they have something inside. Something they don’t want us to know about.”
“Like what?” asks Dylan.
“Hundreds of people saw something crash in the middle of the ocean just under five years ago. Something the politicians said was space dust. Random debris. Then a month later they start building a mysterious military base in the middle of the desert? Don’t try and tell me that we’re being paranoid.”
Dylan looks back at me again. He seems impressed with the conspiracy theory. “It’s pretty wild, huh?” he asks me.
“Extremely,” I say. I walk to the fence and look out into the distance. There’s nothing there. “What are you hoping to see?” I ask the broad-shouldered man.
“Not sure exactly,” he says. “But people have seen flying lights above the military base.”
“You can see it through the binoculars?”
“Yes,” says the man.
“Do you mind if I look?” The man lowers them from his face. He sizes me up for a moment and then offers them. “Thanks,” I say. When I put them to my eyes I’m surprised to find that they’re actually night vision. I scan the horizon and can just make out a low series of buildings. They’re a long way away, but just visible. I hand the binoculars back to the man. “What sort of lights have you seen?” I ask.
“I haven’t seen them,” he replies. “But people in our society have.”
“Society?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “We compare notes. Pool resources.”
If he only knew what I could tell him. “Cool,” is all I can say.
“I’d like to join this club,” says Dylan. “It sounds wild.”
The man doesn’t reply. He just puts the binoculars to his face and looks back at the base.
I’ve never heard about this secret place. I suppose I don’t pay much attention to anything these days. I’m more than a little intrigued as to why they would build this in my honour.
Dylan chuckles as we head back along the rows of cabins to our own. We stop outside it. “Those poor bastards,” he grins. “Standing there on that fence. All night? Fuck me sideways. That’s dedication, man.”
Before I can respond I hear something to our right. It’s a voice. It said something but I didn’t quite catch it. It’s draped in shadow, just beyond the bright security lights above our head. Dylan and I both stop.
“Who’s there?” calls Dylan. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “Is that you Damon, you cheeky bastard?”
“You shouldn’t laugh about it,” says the voice, still in shadow. Croaky. Ancient. It’s as if the soil beneath our feet is speaking to us.
I raise a hand to block the downlight. I make out the shape of an old man, sitting on a bucket next to our cabi
n. He must be our neighbour. I see the glow of a lit cigarette.
“You here to perve on the military too?” asks Dylan.
“I’m passing through,” says the old man. “But I can tell you, a lot of people are nervous about that base.”
“You think they might have an alien in there?” asks Dylan, lighting his smoke. “You think an alien landed on this planet?”
“I do,” says the old man. “A lot of people do. But there ain’t no alien in there. They might have what it landed in, but they don’t have an alien.”
What it landed in? I virtually turned the pod into ash. It’s obliterated. Perhaps they found a few chunks here and there on the ocean floor, but I can’t imagine they’ve retrieved anything that will give them an insight into who I am. The only thing I left for anyone to find was the life raft.
“Seems like a lot of security to hide some space junk,” says Dylan, smugly.
The old man shakes his head. “They’ve got so much security because they don’t know what they’re dealing with. When they catch it and put it in there, they don’t want it escaping.”
My stomach jolts slightly. I’m too pretty for jail.
“Ah, so it’s an alien prison now,” says Dylan, in his condescending tone. He turns to me, “Let’s get inside.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to stay out for a bit longer. I need the fresh air.”
Dylan shrugs and opens our cabin. He closes the wooden door behind him. The security screen swings shut.
I step into the shadow, standing opposite the old man. As my eyes adjust I can see him more clearly. A grey beard and thinning white hair on his head. His eyes seem clouded, as if he is blind. He wears workman’s boots, a long jacket and dark trousers.
“You sound very confident about all of this, old man. Sure it’s not just a military warehouse or something?”
“I hear things. I know things,” he replies. “When you listen, you can hear everything.”
“Right,” I say. “But people can mishear things too.”
The old man doesn’t reply. A heavy silence hangs between us. Then he says, “How do you pay your way, young man?”
“I’m a musician,” I say.
“Really? Not many people pay their way from that.”
“I’m just lucky.”
“You famous yet?”
“I suppose.”
The man doesn’t say anything. He puts his cigarette to his dry, weathered lips and takes a final drag before dropping it next to him in the dirt.
“What instrument do you play?”
“Guitar mostly. Some keys.”
The man nods, approvingly. He then stares up at the sky. “Clear night,” he says. “Unusual for this time of the year.”
“How should the sky look?”
The man doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring upward. “There’s a lot of lost souls up there.”
I don’t say anything, but I do glance up.
“You weren’t born,” says the man, “but when I was very young, a rocket carrying three astronauts was lost in space.”
“Really?”
“Never heard from again. Never found.”
Suddenly I’m hanging on the old man’s every word. “What happened?”
“Nothing more than I’ve said already,” he shrugs.
“Right,” I say, lighting a cigarette.
“Three lost souls. I remember the papers said they had enough supplies to survive for two years. Everyone hoped they’d find their way back.”
“They didn’t?”
The old man shakes his head. There’s a pause in conversation before he says, “Have you got a guitar here, lad?”
“Yes,” I say. “Many guitars.”
“I used to play. Had to sell it though. Had to pay my way.”
“I’ll go get one of mine,” I offer and the man nods.
Inside our cabin Dylan is lying on his bed, talking on his mobile phone. I open the acoustic guitar case that sits at the foot of my bed, take the instrument and return to the old man. He sits it on his lap, studying its surface with his gnarled fingers.
“Very smooth,” he says. “You’re only new then.”
“I was only given that guitar a few weeks ago.”
The man huffs. “Your guitar should age with you. Break when you break.”
I don’t reply.
“You play me a song,” he says, handing it back.
“Okay,” I reply, humouring him. I sing him ‘The Times They are A-Changin’’.
The man sits motionless, then looks at me incredulously. “Did you write that?”
“Yes,” I say, confidently.
“Wise song for a young man... I’ll show you something.”
He takes the guitar, tinkers with the strings for a moment, then begins to play. “This is a song my father taught me a very long time ago.”
“Cool,” I say.
The old man plays an earthy folk song, his voice dragging through the melody like gravel.
“Drugs,” says Dylan, from his single bed, which is opposite mine. We’re in the humble setting of our cabin. I calculate that it’s about an hour till the suns rise. A wind has picked up outside and teases the cabin’s windows, rattling their frames. “Do you think they’re doing drugs?”
“I’m not sure I care,” I say, swigging on a cold beer. “From what I’ve heard about the Known Associates, they walk the walk.”
“Should we go and see what they’re up to?” asks Dylan.
“I can’t be bothered. I really want to sleep tonight. The cane is wearing off and the suns will be up soon,” I reply. My close proximity to the military base outside makes me want to keep a low profile during my stay at the Mirage.
Dylan looks forlorn. “We’re basically in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yes,” I say.
“What are the chances of there being some girls partying in one of the cabins?”
“Not sure. There are probably a hundred cabins here. There might be a few. But you know what they say about desert girls.”
“They’re really dry?”
“No, they’re really tanned.”
“Oh, right,” says Dylan.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the cabin door. Short. Deliberate. Only just loud enough to hear.
“Who’s that?” calls out Dylan. “If you’re not a desert girl, go away.”
There’s no response. I stand up and approach the door, listening. Just the sound of a dry wind whipping through the cabins around us. When I open the door slightly, there’s no one outside.
“There’s no one there,” I say, closing the door.
Dylan furrows his brow. “Well, what knocked then?”
“Nobody. Nobody knocked,” I say.
“Well, someone is fucking with us,” says Dylan. He grabs his cigarettes and heads for the door. He opens it and steps out into the darkness. I can’t see him.
I hear the sound of the wind swirl into a frenzy, blowing dust and vibrating the flimsy walls of our accommodation. Then Dylan screams. I leap to the door.
“Dylan?” I yell. I can see his shape standing out in the pathway, just on the edge of the security lights. Dark shapes surround him.
“You fuckers!” he yells. Then there’s an eruption of laughter.
I head back to my bed and lie down, stretching out.
Dylan comes back through the door followed by Damon and Howie, the drummer, from the Known Associates. Damon is holding a small sealed bag of white powder in his fingers, while Howie triumphantly thrusts a spirit bottle into the air as he enters.
“These fuckers,” says Dylan, smiling at me, as he motions at our guests with a thumb. “I thought I was going to be raped.”
“Give them time,” I say.
“What are you doing lying down?” Damon asks me.
“I’m burnt out, man. I’m out of fuel.”
Damon jiggles the bag of powder near my face. “We brought fuel, my friend. Shit loads of it.”
I
grimace, feeling the temptation to get loose.
“You’ve gotta get up, Jack,” says Howie. “We’re celebrating.”
“Oh, really?” smiles Dylan. “Are we toasting to our isolation?”
Damon gives a wry grin. “You could say that.”
“Damon’s getting divorced,” says Howie, opening cupboards in the small kitchenette in the corner of the room. “Where the fuck are all your glasses?”
This revelation catches me off guard. “Divorced?” I ask Damon.
“Indeed,” he says. “Best decision of my life. I feel like I can breathe properly again. And what better time then right at the start of this tour?”
“Look under the sink,” says Dylan to Howie.
I sit up, swinging my feet on to the floor. “So you’re a free man, then?”
Damon nods. “Never been more free.”
“Well,” I say, standing up. “Celebration.”
Howie, Dylan, Damon and I are sitting at the small metallic table outside the door of our cabin. The suns rise above the holiday park, sliding in their long, shallow arc. The empty spirit bottle stands in the table’s centre, our empty glasses surrounding it in an attacking formation. We discuss random subjects. Damon laments his failed marriage and regrets entering wedlock in the first place. I tell him that “marriage isn’t a word, it’s a sentence” and he finds this hysterically funny, having never heard it before. The four of us then talk about the music industry, bitching about record labels, managers, and publicists. Then we all vent our frustration about a magazine editor who seems to go out of his way to dislike everything we release. Then we share stories from the road. Backstage mischief. Each band member tries to outdo the previous story with an even more sordid tale. Dylan’s stories are hard to top. Howie and Damon hang on his every word. They can scarcely believe that he once did a phone interview whilst sodomising his supermodel ex-girlfriend. “I had to keep thrusting to a minimum,” he explains. “I told the interviewer I was on an exercise bike.”
As we continue to share stories, spread rumours and exchange gossip, we hear the sound of a cabin door being opened somewhere in the distance. Up the path, in the early morning sun, we see two girls. They’re both carrying something. Each in slip-on shoes, they walk up the path in our direction. As they get closer, I see they each have a towel and are wearing simple singlet tops with tiny denim shorts. They’re chatting to one another, but as they see us they cease conversation and eye us warily.
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