#Zero

by Neil McCormick

  ‘I don’t know about that. Too much candy’ll rot your teeth.’

  ‘And worse.’ I ran my fingers across the stretch marks on her stomach. ‘Is this from when you had Devlin?’

  ‘I hate those marks, they’re unsightly.’

  ‘I think they’re beautiful,’ I said, full of genuine awe. ‘They show that you made a person in there. Don’t you think that’s amazing?’

  ‘You can’t tell my daughter about this, or she’ll never talk to me again,’ she said, her face suddenly stricken.

  ‘It will be our secret,’ I promised.

  ‘Come to Momma,’ she said, pulling me towards her.

  When Devlin returned that evening she climbed into bed and nestled into my still naked body. ‘What’s your mother’s name?’ I asked.

  ‘Bitch,’ she said. So I didn’t pursue the matter further.

  The next day a pick-up truck pulled into the yard. I had been studying a particularly interesting spider wrapping up a moth on the window sill, its tiny legs still flailing, but I broke off as a blonde in orange paint-spattered overalls climbed out of the truck then struggled to remove a wooden easel from the back. She dragged it over to the trailer, hauled it up the stairs and clattered into the living room, where I was standing, still naked.

  ‘You must be Velma,’ I said.

  ‘How d’you figure that?’ she asked, amused.

  ‘Wild guess. Your sister said she wasn’t gonna tell anyone.’

  ‘She has no secrets from me,’ she said, casting a cool, appraising eye over my body. ‘I’d like to paint your picture.’

  She set the easel up in the middle of the floor and laid her brushes and tubes of paint out on the small table. I watched with fascination. Every action was methodical – she was sure of herself in a way neither Devlin nor Momma were. She must have been the senior member of this family unit. Velma’s skin was pale, a washed-out quality shared by hair dyed the colour of straw and eyebrows that existed only as faint pencil lines. The effect served to emphasise the brilliant blue of her irises and lips painted letterbox red. Despite the work clothes, there was nothing remotely masculine about Velma.

  ‘How do you want me?’ I asked.

  ‘Naked is just fine.’

  She set to her task with zeal, mixing up colours that bore no relation to anything in the room, and applying them with vigour. ‘Can I see what you’re doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Wait till I’m done,’ she said. Such was her seriousness, it was easy to imagine some masterpiece taking shape, though my expectations lowered when she said, ‘You kind of remind me of Vanilla Ice.’

  ‘Fuck, no. Don’t say that. I’m not white.’

  ‘Well, you ain’t exactly black,’ she said, mixing red and yellow into a bright orange. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with the Iceman? I always kinda dug him.’

  I spat lines from her hero’s only hit, some nonsense about speakers that boom and poisonous mushrooms. I don’t know why all these couplets stick in my head. I could do a master in hip-hop history.

  ‘Yeah well, it was the eighties,’ she grinned. ‘Things were different in the eighties.’

  ‘How different?’

  ‘Everything hadn’t turned to shit yet.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like everything. There was none of this global warming to worry about. Damn, I mean if this place gets any hotter we might as well move to hell. No Isis terrorism. No war. Ain’t that what your song is about? I hear it on the radio and I feel sorry for your generation. At least I was young once and too dumb to know it wasn’t gonna last. I went to New York and rode all the way up to the top of the Twin Towers, how about that? I had a cocktail in the Skybar, that’s what they called it. Highest bar in the world and man, did I get high in it. The city all spread out, like it was mine for the taking. I’ll never forget that.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘To the world?’

  ‘To you.’

  ‘Some asshole. Nothing unusual about my story. There’s broken hearts in every street in every town on this damn planet, I expect. There’s certainly enough around here.’ She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and examined her work so far.

  ‘I don’t know if I can hold this position much longer,’ I complained.

  ‘That’s OK. You can move.’

  ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘It’s abstract. It don’t matter what exact position you hold. The thing is to capture the essence.’

  ‘How’s that going?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Your essence is kinda confused.’

  ‘That sounds right,’ I said, stretching. ‘When did you take up painting?’

  ‘A person should have an interest,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing else to do in this town.’

  ‘Except smoke and fuck,’ I quoted.

  ‘That’s what I always say. You want a cigarette?’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Bully for you.’ She stubbed hers out. ‘They say each one of these things takes five minutes off your life. I’m counting on it.’

  The session lasted several hours. I lost interest after a while and went back to studying walls. There was always something new to find, a rosary made out of baby teeth or a sequinned crucifix. The snapshots showed only women, who I identified as Devlin, her momma and Aunt Velma in various stages of development, from nappies to nylons, and another who shared their features, often in faded black and white, presumably Grandma herself. Wherever men might have featured, heads had been carefully cut out.

  Finally, Velma announced she was finished. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Is that my essence?’ I felt there was cause for concern. The canvas was frenzied and violent, crawling with ugly shapes and strange hieroglyphics. What might have been a small naked boy with big eyes held a giant, erect penis as if it was his last defence against night terrors. It was hard to distinguish any particular resemblance, since his head was wrapped in a kind of gauze.

  ‘I paint it as I see it,’ said Velma.

  While it was drying, we went into the bedroom and fucked.

  Afterwards, she lay back and smoked a cigarette. ‘You ever been to Paris, France?’ she asked.

  ‘Many times.’

  ‘They know how to appreciate fine art there.’

  ‘Have you been?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I went to Las Vegas once.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘They got a replica of the Eiffel Tower and a whole Parisienne shopping mall.’ And she laughed bitterly, and blew smoke rings in the air.

  I went for a walk after she left, hiking high up into the woods, and watched the sun set over the mountains, a raging inferno of scarlet and purple, the very colours Velma used to capture my essence. By the time I got back it was dark. Devlin was sitting in the kitchen with the lights off. ‘Where you been?’ she asked with desperate sullenness.

  ‘Nowhere,’ I said, honestly. As far as I could figure, that’s where I lived now. Smack in the middle of it.

  ‘Velma’s been here, ain’t she?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘I knew it,’ she sobbed. ‘I seen the painting. It’s you.’

  ‘How could you tell?’ I asked, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘I know every inch of you. You’re mine. When are you gonna take me out of here? I’m sick of this place. I’m sick of that shitty diner. I’m sick of all the men here, looking at me all the time, wondering when I’m gonna give up dreaming of better and settle for what they got. Shit. I wanna go to Hollywood with you, like you promised.’ She raged and pleaded, wept and wheedled, cosied up and shoved me away, blew around me like a storm. I sat there uncomprehending. I liked it just fine in the trailer in the woods. It was way better than Hollywood.

  ‘Anyway, I’m pregnant,’ she said, after a while.

  ‘You’re in the middle of your period,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Well, I coulda been pregnant. What would you have done about it then?’

  I
was still thinking about that when a car pulled into the yard. Devlin opened the door of the trailer and screamed, ‘Go away!’ at the top of her voice. Then she sat down crying while her mother and Velma came inside.

  ‘It’s no use sitting there bawling, girl, we’ve got to decide what we’re gonna do about him,’ said Momma.

  ‘You ain’t gonna do anything about him,’ cried Devlin. ‘He’s mine.’

  Momma glared at me fiercely, while putting protective arms around her daughter’s shoulders, as if I was the one responsible for her unhappiness. I suspected Momma had a head start there. I looked to Velma for some support but she averted her eyes. She had changed into a cotton summer dress and looked like a movie star who had wandered onto the set of a terrible TV soap and wasn’t sure what her lines were or if she could bring herself to say them. She was carrying a folded newspaper, which she kept shifting about in her hands.

  ‘How long do you think you can keep this little love nest a secret? He’s just about the most famous person in the whole damn world,’ said Momma.

  ‘We were doing fine till you come along,’ whined Devlin.

  ‘Yeah, looks like it.’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know you been here. I could smell you on him,’ hissed Devlin.

  That stopped them in their tracks. Me too, for that matter.

  ‘There’s been reporters asking around in Scarsdale,’ said Momma, after a while. ‘They say your fella was at some negro party, ain’t that right, Velma? If we’re gonna work this situation, we gotta do something about it now.’ She moved, as if to take hold of my wrist, but her daughter threw herself in front of me.

  ‘Leave him alone, he’s mine!’ screamed Devlin, her face red with fear and rage.

  ‘Yeah, well, Daddy was mine, and that didn’t stop you,’ her mother spat out. ‘Nor Velma’s Jackie.’

  ‘That’s enough, Marcy,’ warned Velma.

  ‘So your name’s Marcy,’ I blurted out. She glared at me like I was an idiot.

  ‘I didn’t have too much say about that, did I,’ wept Devlin. ‘I was twelve years old.’ And she collapsed back on her chair, crying so much her body was shaking.

  ‘I know that, darling. I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean that,’ said her mother, gently.

  ‘Zero and me, we’re gonna go to Hollywood and make records,’ sobbed Devlin. ‘He’s gonna get me on American Voice.’

  ‘There’s a reward,’ said Velma, throwing the newspaper on the table. She still wouldn’t catch my eye.

  Marcy unfolded the paper. ‘See, baby. We can collect the reward. One million dollars for information leading to Zero’s safe return. See that.’

  ‘A million dollars?’ said Devlin. And she actually laughed through her tears, her voice practically tinkling with childlike wonder, as if the entire sum was raining down like fairy jewels before her very eyes.

  ‘That’s what it says, right there. One million dollars.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Devlin. Now that was more like her.

  ‘All we gotta do is take him down to Sheriff Baxter, hand him over and we’re gonna be rich, baby.’

  ‘One million dollars,’ repeated Devlin.

  ‘You going to split it three ways?’ I said.

  Velma flashed her blue eyes at me, defiance a thin screen for guilt. Of all people, she should have known you can’t hide your essence.

  ‘Well, I found him first,’ said Devlin.

  ‘D’you mind?’ I said, picking up the paper and retreating to the washroom. I locked the door and sat on the toilet. My hands were trembling. Did I really think I could just turn my back on all of this? I was all over the newspaper. It was worse than ever. ‘STILL MISSING: IS ZERO ALIVE OR DEAD?’ Pride of place went to a paparazzi picture outside the Illium Tower in New York, looking haunted and hunted, the rabbit in the headlights shot. ‘NEW SIGHTINGS FROM ALASKA TO MEXICO CITY’. There was an artist’s impression of what I might look like with a handsome beard. I rubbed my chin. It had been nearly a week already and I barely had any stubble. There was a picture of me posing with the state trooper and another of SinnerMan and Karnivor in handcuffs. ‘GANG MEMBERS ARRESTED IN PHILADELPHIA DRIVING ZERO’S STOLEN LIMO’. Served the fuckers right. There was a photo of Beasley, holding up a cheque for a million dollars. ‘SIX-ZERO REWARD’. What the fuck was he up to? That was my money. And it turned out pre-orders for the album were breaking the Internet. That should have been enough to keep him happy. I turned the page. There was a picture of Penelope, in widow black with sunglasses, built for mourning. Just behind her, a familiar figure had his big, dirty hand on her shoulder. ‘All We Can Do Is Wait And Pray,’ Says Penelope. ‘ZERO’S FIANCÉE COMFORTED IN BRAZIL BY TROY’. My hands were shaking so much I could barely hold the paper. I needed my OxyContin. I pulled the pill bottle from my jeans pocket – I never let it stray too far from me now. Outside I could hear the Siren Creek bounty hunters arguing about how to divide the spoils. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, pupils dilated, dark shadows under hollow eyes. I was a pale shadow. How did I get here? As I popped the lid of the OxyContin, I dropped the bottle. Pills spilled all over the floor. The mirror shimmered, my reflection divided. What happened to me, I wondered? I felt like I was waking from a dream.

  ‘Let’s just get this over with,’ I heard Velma say.

  There was a small window in the washroom, which I could reach by standing on the toilet. It was tight but I could just about get my head and shoulders through. I got stuck for a moment, looking out into the darkness. I heard the door handle turn behind me.

  ‘It’s locked,’ said Devlin.

  ‘You might as well come out, kid, there ain’t no other way this is gonna end,’ said Marcy.

  I gave an almighty shove and wriggled through, falling awkwardly on the hard dirt below. I lay there winded.

  ‘Open this door or I’m gonna kick the fucking thing down!’ commanded Marcy.

  I picked myself up. Behind me, I heard a thump and a crash. I started to run.

  ‘He’s gone, Momma, he’s gone,’ cried Devlin.

  I made it past the junk and into the dark road. I paused for a moment to look back. Devlin was standing at the door of the trailer. ‘I love you,’ she wailed. ‘Don’t leave me like this.’

  I turned and ran.

  ‘Take me with you,’ she cried, voice desolate with abandonment. ‘Take me away from here.’

  15

  Afraid the coven would come roaring after me in Velma’s truck, corral me, lasso me, and drag me kicking and screaming back to Beasley, I dived off the road, crashing through dark Virginia woods in a state of night blindness.

  Big mistake.

  Long, thin arms whipped my face and snatched my hair, roots grabbed my ankles, the darkness grew dense and heavy, its pitch impenetrability panicking me so that I stumbled, crashing through spikes and colliding full force with something solid and unyielding. On balance of probabilities, let’s assume it was a tree.

  I don’t know how long I lay there, struck out on my back, dazed and winded, tasting the metal of blood in my mouth. Slowly, very slowly, as the adrenalin shot faded and my racing heartbeat subsided, something else began to demand my attention, something worse than concussion, something more worrying than the possibility of recapture, something low and grim crawling through the marrow of my bones and fibre of my muscles, inching up my intestines, dragging around my groin. Dread seized me. Why had I tossed those fucking pills? One little dose of hillbilly smack would keep the pain dogs at bay. I lurched to my feet, trying to find my balance in the darkness. Surely Penelope could wait? What was a day or two more between star-crossed lovers? I could go back to the cabin, make up with Devlin (so I fucked her mother and aunt, but look on the bright side, at least her family liked me) and kick my little pill habit tomorrow. But which way was the road? I spun helplessly in a void, stepped forward and crashed into an invisible force field that left me sprawling.

  You know that expression you can’t see the wood for the trees? Wha
t about when you can’t even see the trees? People go on about the beauty of fucking nature but it doesn’t look like shit in the dark without night-vision goggles. While I lay groaning, trying to catch my breath, the immediacy of fresh pain blotted out the aches of withdrawal, and I began to think I could do this, Keith Richards style: one night, knuckle down, cold turkey, be a man, shake this monkey off my back, stand tall, beat my demons, hit the road and reclaim the woman I love.

  That lasted until an icy hand closed spectral fingers around my interior organs and tried to drag them out through my sphincter. Everything I touched was supersized: a leaf brushing my face like the raspy tongue of a hound, tree bark like mountain crags beneath my fingertips. And what the fuck was that rustling behind me? Did they have mountain lions in Virginia? I suddenly saw how this was going to end. The disappearance of Zero would be a mystery forever unsolved. I’d be a twilight zone legend, dinner for wolves and vultures.

  But what right did I have to feel pity for myself? The question sounded out loud and clear, ringing in the echo chamber of my skull. Eileen, lovely Eileen, flitted across my vision, a startled deer lit by hunter’s headlights, but then she was gone, and other faces peered from the dark undergrowth. I knew who they all were even if I couldn’t make them out, the boys in the band I ditched, the girls I fucked and forgot, Paddy, Daddy, everyone who ever loved me, receptacles of all the shit and hurt I spewed in my wake, rampaging through life like some monstrous ego unleashed, like the only three things I ever cared about were me, myself and I …

  … am sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry and I want to go home …

  It was a night that stretched in every direction, a night that would not end. One moment I was on my knees, dry-retching, prostrating myself for forgiveness from a God I had never forgiven, then I was on my feet hurling abuse at a merciless universe, determined to see this through the hard way and pay for my sins like a man … but I wasn’t a man, I was an open wound, a throbbing nerve, a bawling baby, lost in the woods. I raged and gurgled and roared and wept and banged my head on the ground, trying to knock myself unconscious, rolling over and over, wrestling myself to exhausted defeat.