Damon casually gets to his feet, his inebriation betraying his charisma. He looks like he needs to sleep. “Girls, shouldn’t you still be in bed? It’s like… fucking early… what time is it?”
The girls stop and look at each other, keeping their distance. They study him for a moment, determining if he poses a threat. They don’t look much older than seventeen. One girl is quite tanned, with dark brown hair down to her shoulder. The other is fairer skinned, with a blonde ponytail.
Damon continues, taking a gentle step towards them. “Nice towels. Where are you guys going?”
“Swimming,” says the brunette. “What are you guys doing?”
“Just a few drinks. Our tour bus broke down, so we’re staying in this fine part of the world.”
Mentioning the tour bus. It’s bait so tempting that it distracts from the very large hook inside.
“Tour bus?” smiles the brunette. “Are you guys tourists?”
“No, we’re bus drivers,” chuckles Howie, before drawing on his cigarette.
Damon takes a further step toward them. The blonde girl stares at him, craning her neck forward. “Wait... are you?” she asks, disbelief forming on her face.
The brunette looks at her friend in puzzlement. “Do you know him?” she asks.
“Yes,” replies the blonde. Turning to Damon she remarks, “You look like Damon from the Known Associates.”
Damon laughs. His hook’s through the cheek. “Well, I try to be.”
An almost pained expression comes over both of the girl’s faces, as if they’re fighting a berserk impulse to squeal.
At this point Dylan stands from his chair and walks to Damon’s side, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me ladies, I’ll have to take my friend back. He’s newly single and is in no way ready to be released into the wild.”
The girls stare at Dylan, recognising him too. Then they look over at me. I’m instantly recognised. Then they look at Howie, who they may or may not recognise. Then they look back at me.
“You’re Jack,” says the brunette.
“Hi,” I say, from behind my wide, dark sunglasses.
“Holy shit, can we get a photo with you guys?” asks the blonde.
“If you want,” shrugs Damon.
The girls each produce their mobile phones and pose with us. I don’t feel like standing up, but I drag myself to my feet. The two girls put their arms around me, smiling as Howie snaps a picture of us on each of their mobiles.
“So what are your names?” I ask them.
“I’m Miranda and this is Zoe,” says the blonde.
“And you’re heading to the pool?” I ask.
“Yeah, you should come with us!” says Zoe.
“We’d love to,” says Dylan, “but your boyfriends might not be happy about that.”
“We don’t have boyfriends,” says Miranda.
Damon puts an arm around each of the girls’ shoulders. “I think you should lead the way,” he smiles.
The four of us follow Miranda and Zoe to the pool. Damon gives me an impressed look when the girls undress, stripping down to their small two-piece bikinis.
We swim with them for an hour or so. They ask us a lot of questions, which are broken up with repetitive statements about how random it is that they have met us at this caravan park in the middle of nowhere. Their friends won’t believe that they’ve met us. Then Damon asks them if they want to see the inside of Big Bang Theory’s tour bus, which, of course, they do. Grabbing their clothes, they follow us to our lavish vehicle, which is parked on the far side of the caravan park behind a large shower block. It looks as though the tyres haven’t been replaced yet. Despite myself, I can’t help but notice how young and firm Miranda and Zoe’s bodies are as they step up into the tour bus, barely concealed beneath their swimwear.
Neither girl requires much convincing to remove their bikinis. They seem flattered that we would desire them. They seem relatively sober too. They’re certainly more lucid than myself or any of my male counterparts. Miranda assures me that all the things they will do with us, they have done before. But never with someone as famous as me. Later, when Dylan and I walk them back to their cabin, I thank them both for being so generous. I promise them backstage passes to the first night of our tour. Dylan gives them his mobile phone number so that they can stay in touch. As he types the number into Zoe’s mobile, he says, “I’m going to enter my name as Norman… just in case someone ever steals your phone. Just to be safe.”
It’s late afternoon when our tour bus is finally ready to roll again. Amelia repeatedly offered to send a helicopter to take us to the next city, but I refused. I’m enjoying the vast, liberating expanse around us. Scoping it out. There’s not many people around. It’s as if everyone is afraid of the suns. The Known Associates drag themselves on to their own tour bus, their manager quizzing them on whether they’ve forgotten any luggage. They groan with vague acknowledgment. I watch them leave, sitting on a picnic table near the motel’s circular driveway, an opened beer going warm in front of me. Dark sunglasses still cover my puffy, bloodshot eyes. I feel a batch of painkillers kick in and I become deliciously lightheaded. I pull my mobile phone from my pocket and dial a number. I let it ring for a very long time, expecting no answer. Someone does.
“What do you want?” asks Jemima, softly.
It seems that every time I speak to her now there’s a pain in her voice that wasn’t there when we met. I wish silently that her voice would return to normal. But normal is an ever-changing beast.
“I’ve been celebrating with the Known Associates,” I say, trying not to sound smug.
“Great,” says Jemima. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“I’m just calling to see how you are,” I reply.
“I seriously doubt that.”
I don’t know what to say. Then I ask, “So Damon broke it off, huh?”
“Is that what he said?”
“Yes. He was quite adamant. He came to our cabin to celebrate.”
Jemima is quiet. “Well, you can believe what you want. But I broke it off with him. Just like I said I would.”
After another brief silence, I say. “I’m sorry, Jemima. I got impatient.”
“Well given my situation,” says Jemima in a shaky voice, “given that I was not only married to him, but also your publicist, you needed to be more patient with me. It wasn’t a situation I could easily remove myself from.”
“When can I see you?”
“Not any time soon... I don’t think I need you in my life right now.”
“Am I that bad?”
There’s a pause before Jemima says, softly, “Bad enough.” I then hear a disconnection tone as she hangs up. I put my phone back in my pocket. Then I find a pill in my wallet, which I swallow with a gulp of beer and then head toward our newly fixed tour bus.
I’m the last one on. As I’m ascending the stairs, I hear someone call my name. When I turn, I see Zoe and Miranda, back in their singlets and shorts. Large backpacks strapped over their shoulders.
“You’re leaving?” asks Miranda.
“Yep,” I say. “The show must go on.”
“Don’t suppose you have room for two more?” asks Zoe.
“More than two,” I reply, stepping back down. “Don’t suppose you have any sisters?”
“It’s just us,” says Zoe. “We’re hitchhiking our way across the desert.”
“Is that safe?” I ask.
“We’ve got each other,” says Miranda.
“Climb aboard,” I smile, motioning towards the door.
The two girls smile back and board the tour bus. I follow them up the stairs. At the top I introduce them to Gillan, who smiles and shakes their hands. He gives me a sly grin, which I return with a look of mock innocence.
“The more the merrier, my friend,” I say, tapping Gillan on the shoulder.
He nods and kicks the bus into gear. With a deep whooshing sound and a few metallic groans, the vehicle
rolls forward and leaves Mirage Holiday Park.
I take a seat next to the window in the kitchenette and watch the desert roll past. Outside, only ten feet from the edge of the road, is the tall security fence that protects this supposed top-secret army base. It can’t be seen with the naked eye. There’s just an endless orange desert. Rocks. A few small cactus-like plants. But nothing else. A sign on the fence says Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.
I spare a thought for the pod I landed in and whether they managed to find any of it. I left the raft on the beach. I should have destroyed it, but everything happened so fast that night. I thought I might need it again. But, alas, the government would have found it and searched for me. Followed my tracks into the city. Probably used porcines to sniff me out.
I keep wondering how Brannagh’s little DNA test fell into the hands of Stephanie and possibly all of the other girls that went missing. It must be out there. Somewhere. Possibly floating in cyberspace. Available for someone to discover and use to manipulate innocent people. If not, I have to entertain the idea that Brannagh has a big mouth. That he has told someone.
The security fence continues to blur outside the window. It goes on and on. The perimeter must be gargantuan. I think about what the old man said. He believes the fence is for keeping something in, rather than keeping people out. Just like me, in a way. I used my defenses for both.
The suns begin to set again and we’re still about three hours from the city. Our next stop. I’m lying in my bunk, which is the size of a double bed. I’m dozing, still very scattered. Unable to find proper slumber. I hear a quiet voice.
“Are you asleep?”
I glance over and see Miranda looking through the curtain.
“Not really,” I say. “Are you?”
“No,” she smiles. Then she asks, “Can I join you?”
“Sure,” I say.
Miranda ducks her head and climbs into the bunk.
“How old are you?” I ask, softly.
“Twenty-two,” she replies.
“Really?”
“How old do you want me to be?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t really discriminate.”
“Do you like younger women?”
“Not necessarily, but they have a certain appeal. I think their youth rubs off on me. They remind me of something I haven’t felt in a very long time.”
I can tell Miranda is trying to be quiet as I move on top of her. She presses her face into the pillow. Sometimes, when she turns her head to the side she puts the back of her hand across her mouth to stifle the sound of her deep breaths. I bite lightly on her right ear. When I brush her hair away from her face and off her shoulders, I notice something on the back of her neck. It’s a tattoo. It’s only small, but it’s familiar. A striped cat-like creature with human eyes.
“What’s that?” I say, lightly touching the ink drawing.
Miranda looks back at me, answering between breaths. “It’s a tattoo.”
“Of what?”
“It’s a guardian. Haven’t you… ever… seen one?”
“No,” I reply. “Where would I go to see one?”
Miranda smiles, looking at me as if I’m joking with her. “They’re not real,” she replies. “They’re from mythology. They’re supposed to protect us.”
Chapter Nineteen
Amelia meets us in the foyer of the hotel. She’s flown into this leg of the tour to oversee our media commitments. Interviews, press conferences and a little television. Then she’ll fly out again, continuing to hop around the world to negotiate and lay the foundations for our continual bid for complete global domination.
It intrigues me to see just how easily people fall in love with us and our music. Every week we’re being played on more radio stations and interview requests from almost every publication in existence continue to pour in. Amelia, with the help of the publicists at Endurance, plays the big magazines against one another. She’ll get the media girls to tell one publication that we’ve been offered the cover and an eight-page spread, so they will counter that offer with a wraparound cover and a twelve-page spread. Then the dance continues. Apparently a magazine has offered to do an entire special issue dedicated just to us. It seems extreme, but given our popularity it would probably sell out in pre-orders before it even hit the stands.
There are paparazzi outside the hotel and they’re trying to see into the foyer, to find that crucial photo, but there are security guards keeping them away. We’re over in a corner away from the bustle of the check-in counter and thoroughfare of the wealthy folk rushing in and out, to and from their various pampered interludes at the spas and degustation restaurants throughout our current locale.
Dylan and I are sitting on a couch, while Amelia stands above us dressed completely in white. Her high heels, pristine blouse, jacket and business skirt are immaculate. Her hair is up too. She’s shiny and impressive, like someone has buffed her with car wax. I can almost see my reflection.
“Your first interview will be with Malcolm,” says Amelia, her eyes scanning over a clipboard.
“Malcolm is up first?” asks Dylan. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I need to warm up.”
“That’s not a good idea,” says Amelia. “Last time you spoke with him, you were… far too warmed up.”
“I don’t think so,” says Dylan, shaking his head.
“You told him that parents were doing their daughters a disservice by not encouraging them to have sex with you,” says Amelia, her eyes still scanning the clipboard.
“At least he got the pull quote,” I shrug.
“That’s right. I did get the pull quote. That thing was massive,” says Dylan.
The pull quote is when a magazine layout features a quote from the interview in giant text, in order to entice a casual skimmer to stop and read the article. There’s often one on each page of the feature and Dylan and I like to compete to see who can say the most outrageous things, thus securing a pull quote.
The more sensational the statement, the more likely it is to be used. Some of my examples include “I don’t write my songs, I’m simply channeling a higher power”, “if I’m destined to be a human banquet, then I hope my fans are always satisfied”, “genius is a heavy burden”, “if talent’s a crime, then lock me away”, “sometimes in life you’re going to meet people who don’t like you… all you can do is pray for them” and “worshiping our music is no less valid than going to church”.
Dylan tends to be asked more sexual questions, so his responses are usually pitched on a similar level. Some of my choice favorites are, “It sometimes feels like we’re drowning in a sea of flesh with only our cocks to keep us afloat”, “what kind of world would it be if talent didn’t breed?”, “it sometimes feels like we’re on a battlefield with our cocks as our only weapon”, “we’re very open with our female fans and we’re happy they are open with us”, “when I play my guitar on stage, I imagine I’m fucking people in their ears” and “it sometimes feels like we’re taxation specialists with our cocks as our only calculator”.
“It’s too late to reschedule Malcolm,” says Amelia. “So you’ll talk to him first. You won’t be pretentious either. We need him to give the symphonic album a good review.”
“He’s not an idiot,” I say. “It’s mostly the same songs… but with strings.”
Amelia grimaces. “Convince him of its artistic merit.”
Malcolm is a music journalist who works for the world’s most read entertainment magazine, Verse Chorus. I’m not exactly sure how he gained his reputation, but his reviews can make or break a band and their releases. People listen to him. His pen is mightier than any sword and his opinion is gospel. We’re fortunate that he is a very big fan of Big Bang Theory, but he can spin his opinion on a dime. He could turn on us. So Dylan and I, who do most of the media interviews, usually go out of our way to schmooze him. One might picture a powerful person like Malcolm as a towering pro wrestler, who can pick up a band’s re
putation and bend it in half. But in actual fact Malcolm is just over five foot, would blow over in a strong wind, never shaves, has relatively bad skin, shaggy hair and glasses. Visually, he’s as intimidating as a seal pup.
Dylan and I go to the hotel’s bar and sit in a shadowed corner. It’s the middle of the day, but no natural light finds this area of the hotel. Chandeliers hang from the roof, their fading gold in tune with the equally gold and burgundy paisley wallpaper and trimmings. A barman in a crisp white shirt and black bowtie wipes down the bar, the wall behind him a rainbow of multi-coloured liqueurs. Vivid like a stained-glass window.
About half the bar is full, with most tables occupied by well-dressed couples and families. The women are decorated with jewellery and expensive scarves and sweaters. The kids have mobile phones and hand-held video game consoles, but still seem a little bored.
Dylan and I remain unrecognised. Nobody even looks in our direction. On the wall directly across from our corner is a flatscreen television. The sound is turned down. The images are of children in a third world country and most of them are carrying large automatic weapons. Others have large machete-like blades. They’re marching through unsealed streets, between makeshift housing.
I nudge Dylan, who is flipping through a copy of our itinerary, and point at the television. “Check that out.”
Dylan looks up and sees a shot of three kids, who couldn’t be older than twelve, firing rounds of semi-automatic spray into the burnt-out wreck of a car. “That’s wild,” he says, shaking his head. “See, that’s why I don’t like to play in any of those countries where guns are legal. Even the kids are armed.”
“It’s sad,” I say, taking a sip from my glass of beer.
“Totally. When I was their age, I was discovering pornography. I only wanted to shoot my load, not bullets. I’m a lover, not a fighter,” says Dylan. “I never even had a water shooter.”
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