#Zero

by Neil McCormick

  The tattoo boys from the red carpet were onstage now, roaring through some cacophony of splintered metal, speed riffs, pummelled drums and werewolf howling, not so much music as a swift boot in the solar plexus. It was the kind of crap my old amigos in The Zero Sums thought was cool before I came along and blew their fucking minds by teaching them to play in tune and in time, by showing them the secret power of sweet harmony. But this was fine, it suited my mood. Apparently they were up for Best Newcomer, some rock delinquents out of Akron, Ohio who called themselves Utopia Avalanche, which sounded like something they had selected from a random-band-name app. Judging by sheer repetition, the song was called ‘You Can’t Handle The Truth’ and the only other words I could make out were ‘Apathy will kill us all’, which sounded about right. They were signed to the same label as me, which might explain why Lamont Walker, The Money, had numbers drooling out the corner of his mouth. He was sitting with his wife, Mrs Money, who smiled back in diamonds and pearls.

  And Beasley, my partner in crime, what did I know about him, except he blew into my life and whispered in my dreams like my own bad angel? He had a wife and child stashed away in London, but even when he paraded them at big events they barely registered. Mrs B was an X-ray, transparent but for designer accessories. The boy was fat and wrapped in an invisible cloak of sadness, never took earbuds out of his ears or eyes off his phone, an eight-year-old with the demeanour of a depressed adolescent. I once asked what he was going to be when he grew up and he said, ‘Rich.’ And I was letting this parental role model guide my life? Before he managed me, Beasley had been all round the business, specialising in quick turnover boybands who started in stage school and ended in rehab, making money for everyone but themselves. Carlton Wick was his first protégé and look at Carlton, a middle-aged university-educated white man still wearing his receding hair in fake dreadlocks. Next to Beasley, and next to me, sat Eugenie, consulting a folder of A4 sheets and tapping into her phone. She was an adjunct of Beasley, clearly extremely competent, though she lacked his predatory intensity. I sometimes thought he only kept her around so he would have a pretty girl to administer sadistic shocks to as he sounded out his savage humour.

  These were my people.

  My fucking people.

  All eyes were on me, and it dawned on me that I might have said it aloud. ‘I just want to thank you all for everything you have done for me,’ I improvised, now that I had their attention. ‘All the years of human sacrifice, rape, pillage and bloodletting, without which I would not be here today … I’d probably be home in bed in Kilrock, getting a good night’s sleep, utterly oblivious to the honour of receiving one of these …’ I held up the silver gong ‘… things, whatever it is.’

  My people tittered, and clinked glasses, as you would expect, and I joined them and gulped down more champagne, though it was starting to burn, like drinking acid, and I couldn’t help but notice that Beasley wasn’t laughing, he wasn’t looking amused in the slightest. ‘Just practising my speech,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I would go easy on the rape and pillage,’ Beasley growled.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said, pulling the A4 folder from Eugenie’s hands. ‘My schedule?’

  I flicked through the pages, sheet after sheet of more of the same shit: a six o’clock start, breakfast television, interviews, lunchtime television, rehearsals (tightly ring-fenced with red marker), a sprint across Manhattan for a photocall at the opening of an exhibition by some wunderkind of the New York art scene who made mock-ups of famous atrocities using old album covers (I was apparently depicted in a triptych of the siege of Leningrad, being sodomised by Nazi stormtroopers led by Marilyn Manson while Madonna cradled me in her arms and wept), an evening chat show, a series of satellite television interviews, it kept going all the way up to midnight, when I would be graciously allowed a few hours half-sleep before the whole thing began again.

  ‘I need a piss,’ I announced.

  Several members of my entourage immediately stood up. ‘Which one of you wants to hold my cock,’ I said, and they sat down again.

  Beasley gave Tiny Tony the nod and he stuck close as I made my way backstage and into the VIP restrooms, with Tiny stationed at the front door, in case anyone not quite as important as me was caught short and dared to attempt to join me at the urinal. A wizened black man sat in the corner, waiting to spray my hands with unctuous fluids. I fumbled with my fly but I was having trouble with the buttons. My fingers felt thick and useless. I leaned my head against the tiled wall and tried to concentrate. Maybe I should have let one of the serfs come and help me out after all. I wondered how the toilet attendant would feel if I asked for his assistance. I always made it a point to tip hotel staff in honour of my father and his lousy life, so I fished about in my coat pockets and realised I still had Kilo’s hundred dollar bill (well, technically it was mine, since I footed all the bills in the end) and his bag of coke (ditto). I dived into a cubicle, shut the door, poured some powder on the seat, chopped it out with my Amex Black, and snorted deeply.

  A shudder passed through me like a ghost. I sat on the toilet seat. This wasn’t making me feel any better. It occurred to me for the first time that day that it might actually be making me feel worse. I needed to take a dump. Yeah, even superstars need to take a dump sometimes, but I’ll spare you the details. It’s just that I was sitting there, trousers round my ankles, all this pressure building, and the door in front of me began to vibrate and shimmer and disintegrate into coloured dots, and the dots swirled and coalesced into an image of Penelope, in the swimsuit from Darker With The Day, obviously, and she said, ‘I’m not your mother.’ Why would she need to say something like that? She looked nothing like my mother, if I could just remember what my mother looked like. But the dots were dissolving and reconfiguring and for a moment there I swear I could almost see her face, my mother’s face, coagulating like a blood mask. I reached out to touch her one last time, there was a crucifix swinging, and Father Martin saying, ‘Are you all right in there?’ Only it wasn’t Father Martin, of course, it was Tiny Tony, knocking on the door of the cubicle.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ I said. Fuck’s sake, a man can’t even get some peace to take a shit. They never tell you about that when you’re queuing up to audition for Pop Idol.

  ‘I am but a bird in a gilded shithole,’ I announced to the attendant on my way out.

  ‘Ain’t we all, son,’ he replied, with weary stoicism, and proceeded to spray my hands with eau de cologne. I gave him my last hundred-dollar bill, which I hope he appreciated.

  10

  ‘I need some air,’ I told Tiny Tony. He conferred on his two-way, then said we had ten minutes.

  As we passed the recording room, Ezra Wise and Adam Monk were conversing with EgoPuss. ‘It’s a great line, Ego,’ said the producer, carefully, ‘but I don’t think “motherfucking motherless child” is gonna work in this context.’

  ‘Fuck contex’, man, keep it real, keep it street, y’all can bleep the motherfucker out later,’ snuffled EgoPuss.

  ‘Hey, Zero,’ said Adam, looking relieved to see me. ‘You want to take a run at this now?’

  ‘Later,’ I said. ‘Just … air, I’m …’ I couldn’t talk to him, I had to keep moving.

  We rode the elevator down one level, came out in the underground parking, where four Puerto Ricans in dirty white overalls were leaning against a wall, blowing cigarette smoke into deepening shadows, framed by reflections of the burning twilight sun. A goods van reversed in under the grill to unload, watched by two security men, both over six feet tall, pumped-up bodybuilders in black MTV logo T-shirts with matching shiny bald heads. ‘Could you take those guys, Tiny?’ I said. ‘I bet you could take them.’ Tiny just grunted and looked at his watch. ‘Do you mind that I call you Tiny?’ I wondered.

  ‘Everybody does,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘Size doesn’t matter,’ he said.

  ‘I knew it, you think you could take them
,’ I said.

  The security guards were laughing about something unseen and one lightly punched the other on an overblown bicep. Beyond them, at the top of the parking ramp, lay the street, New York City, America, freedom. A steady stream of traffic shunted past, random snatches of music floating in the air. I hung back in the shadows watching stray passers-by, some craning their necks to see past the broadcast trucks into our sanctum of fantasy and privilege. They didn’t linger, everyone exuding a sense of being about their own important business. All except for a small olive-skinned boy who couldn’t have been more than four or five, dressed like a miniature indie slacker only with those too crisp and over-bright clothes you get in kids’ shops: orange bandana, camouflage baggy shorts and a T-shirt with a familiar face on it. The same one I saw in the mirror every morning. The boy peered right into where I was standing and stopped, smiled happily and waved. I waved back. Then a plump white woman in an African print dress and frizzy hair hove into view, grabbing his wrist, laughingly admonishing him, ‘Whatchadoin? Y’gonna gimme a breakdown. I tol’ you – stick close to Mama.’ He protested, pointed, said, ‘Zero’, at which she laughed, picking him up in her big arms, and, not even glancing in my direction, kissed his forehead and swept him out of my sight forever. I wished that had been me, clinging to that bosom, safe in those fleshy arms, being carried away from all this. A slow ache was spreading outwards from my chest, tentacles unfolding through my stomach, reaching down into my groin and up into my brain, as I was gripped by a sense of loss so terrible I thought it might floor me. I rocked on my heels, and briefly considered dashing out after the kid and his mother.

  I just wanted to see her face again.

  If only I could remember what she looked like.

  ‘We ought to get back,’ announced Tiny.

  ‘Do you have kids, Tiny?’ I asked.

  He grunted, non-committally.

  ‘Fuck, man, you never say much, do you?’ I complained. I was stalling for time – I didn’t want to go back in there, didn’t want to pick up any more awards, didn’t want to sing for my supper, didn’t want to drink any more champagne, snort any more coke, fuck any more groupies, sleep in any more hotel beds and wake up in a cold sweat to do it all over again.

  ‘I have four boys at home in Dublin with my missus,’ said Tiny. ‘I don’t see them enough. I’ve spent half their lives on the road. The eldest is just a few years younger than you. Wants to be a pop star. I tell him it’s overrated. No offence, but this is no life. We ought to head back in.’

  It was the most I had ever heard him say in one go. ‘I don’t want to go back,’ I said, because it was the truth. Tiny returned to grunting, like this wasn’t even worthy of a response. ‘I only wanted to make a record and fuck the local beauty queen. How the fuck did I get here?’

  Tiny laughed, like I was making a joke. ‘Let’s go back. You can pick up your awards, take a bow and go and get a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘I never sleep,’ I whined. ‘I’m so fucking tired, just give me a minute here.’

  A flicker of concern crossed Tiny’s features. I knew it wasn’t for me, though. It was a work thing, the stirring of a notion that I might be serious, and he was going to have to find a way to deliver me to the podium on time with the minimum drama. ‘We’ve got to go back,’ he said, tersely.

  ‘Who do you work for, Tiny?’ I asked.

  ‘Beasley pays the wages.’ So it was like that.

  His two-way crackled. ‘No, no problem,’ he spoke into it. ‘We’re on our way.’ The exit was right in front of me, five metres away, I could just walk out, join the civilians on the sidewalk, let New York swallow me. ‘Shall we?’ said Tiny, as if inviting me to dance. But I was sick of dancing.

  ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t smoke,’ he replied, warily.

  ‘I wanna start,’ I said. ‘I’ve tried everything else.’ He shook his head and smiled, humouring me. ‘I’m serious, can you get me a cigarette? Ask those guys. I’ll smoke it on the way back,’ I offered.

  Tiny hesitated for a moment, then, choosing the path of least resistance, strolled over to where the Puerto Ricans were smoking. They turned to him warily, perhaps worried he was management dragging them back to their shift. But they visibly relaxed as he made his request, welcoming him into the international fraternity of smokers. Tiny glanced back, then turned to his new friends as they fished a cigarette out of a crumpled pack.

  And I walked.

  I stepped behind the reversing truck, smiled at the astonished security guards, and I was on the sidewalk. I don’t think I had ever been in the open air in New York without my entourage and the very idea was making me giddy. My momentary sense of liberation was infringed by the startled yelps of a group of passing teenagers. I dodged between two broadcast trucks and dashed across the road to the screech of brakes and a horn blast, then broke into a trot, not looking at anyone to my left or right, eyes focused dead ahead. I knew Tony was coming now, coming fast, but if I could just make it to the next junction, if I could just round the corner and get into the Broadway crowd, I had the insane belief that I would be free.

  Heads were turning, people calling my name but I kept running, trying to stay ahead of a ripple of recognition. The crowd was heavier on the next street but if I thought I was going to blend in I was mistaken, it was getting harder to dodge down the sidewalk and the slower I got the more people reacted, some turning to follow, laughing like it was some kind of game, hands trying to grab hold of me, halt my movement. There was a barrage of cries, hey, hey, hey, voices firing in my face, someone took hold of my shoulder, I spun to see Tiny Tony running into the street, registering the crowd, knowing with the eye of a pro exactly what he would find at the epicentre of this human swarm. I tried to push on, shove through the wall of people, and I could hear outrage escalating, ‘What’s your problem?’, ‘Zero’, ‘Hey!’ ‘Hey!’ ‘Hey!’ I had a sense things could turn ugly very quickly but I couldn’t stop now, I had made it to Times Square. There were lights exploding around my head, neon and LED, traffic accelerating, a cop blowing his whistle as the crowd spilled off the sidewalk. I stumbled forward, looked up to see a mass of oncoming cars and threw myself into their path, arms in front of my face in an absurd, involuntary attempt to cushion the blow. In that moment I really don’t think I cared if I lived or died, I didn’t care what happened next, I was ready …

  … but the traffic screeched to a halt in front of me and around me. It was as if the whole of Times Square had paused to watch me, while I looked up to see myself, a hundred metres high, an idealised billboard icon towering over the whole ridiculous scene. I started running again, through the traffic, dodging between cars, running even though there was nowhere to run, nowhere I could hide from overwhelming, all-consuming, irresistible fame. I could see a space on the sidewalk, glass doors sliding open, and I hurtled through, into a cinema atrium, colliding with a yelping girl and sending her flying in a shower of popcorn, stumbling on, throwing myself up the escalator two steps at a time, while shouts of outrage turned to exclamations of amusement. An usher blocked my path then stepped back incredulously as I skittered past a lifesize cut-out of myself, pistols drawn in a sexed-up combat pose advertising my own forthcoming attraction. There was no escape. ‘What are you doing here?’ said the bewildered usher.

  I glanced back and Tiny Tony was in the foyer heading for the escalator, but he wasn’t having the free run I had as ushers attempted to intervene. I took off down a corridor, turned a corner and opened the first door I came to, stepping into darkness, the only light emanating from a big screen. Temporarily blind, I walked towards it, stumbling down the central aisle, lungs burning from the sudden exertion, a pain drilling through my chest, tongue swollen in my mouth. As my eyes adjusted, I turned into a seating row, stood on somebody’s toes to sudden curses and flopped down in the first empty seat.

  I wondered how long I could hide here in the darkness of the cinema, while on scre
en trailers played, flashes of racing imagery, dazzling colours, jump cuts, explosions of sound, everything too fast for me to register. What was going on back at the Generator awards? Were they calling me to the stage to accept ‘Single of the Year’? Spotlights and cameras seeking me out in the crowd? Was Willard Meeks stalling for time, yukking it up, making jokes about pop stars being caught short? Was Beasley smiling his most frozen smile, issuing icy commands to Eugenie while she worked the walkie-talkie, sending a security crew to Tiny’s aid? Was Carlton shifting in his seat, wondering how long he should leave it before volunteering to accept on my behalf, secretly dreaming of glory? What the fuck had I done? How was I going to get out of this one?

  And then, because it had to happen, because there really was no escape from the world of me, me, me, because, like Beasley had crowed this morning, I had achieved ubiquity, because you can run but you can’t hide, because the universe can’t resist a cosmic joke at the expense of a fool, because instant karma’s going to get you, because … because … because, I don’t fucking know, maybe just because, my own beats kicked out of the speakers and a deep, ominous voice announced, ‘A HIT MAN LOOKING FOR REDEMPTION …’

  And there I was on the big screen, larger than life and twice as ugly, a brown-skinned redhead dressed in black, swinging two ridiculous guns like I actually knew what to do with them. I shrank in my seat.

  ‘… A WASHED-UP SUPERSTAR LOOKING FOR A HIT …’

  My heart gave a little lurch. There she was, my love, Penelope Nazareth, sexy as hell in thigh-high black boots, looking right at me, the way she always did, like she could see deep into my coal-black heart and loved me anyway.

  ‘… IN HIS MOTION PICTURE DEBUT …’

  I was cringing so much I almost convulsed in my chair.

  ‘… ZERO!’

  My onscreen doppelganger came crashing and karate-kicking in gravity-defying CGI-animated flight through a crowd of disposable extras, winding up in a close-up clinch with Penelope, gun pressed under her chin.