by Nick Jones
Part One - Nowhere Man
© Nick Jones 2016
1.
‘Hey Buddy, fancy your chances?’
I turn and see a man behind a stall, grinning wildly, eyes sparkling with excitement. I look down at my sister, Amy. She is holding my hand very tightly and nods, her smile filling me, lighting me up like the sun through clouds.
The fair has come to town and it’s a big one. It’s all Amy’s talked about for weeks, and it’s finally here.
‘Gonna give it a go, Sir?’ The man inquires, arms wide, ‘Win the little lady something?’ He is dressed in a blue woollen three piece suit, beard trimmed neatly, the look of an era long gone. He’s smart, it works well, our own little Artful Dodger with a dash of Willy Wonka. He tips his hat at a slight angle and bends down. ‘Or perhaps you would like a go yourself?’ He whispers to Amy.
Amy giggles. She will remember this night. Seven years old and consumed by a sensory overload of colours, lights, sounds and smells. We all remember our first time at the fair, don’t we?
‘My brother, Joseph, is an amazing shot,’ she informs him with business-like candour, ‘he will probably hit them all.’
The Artful Dodger breaks into a kind laugh, which attracts interested glances from passersby. He is already enjoying Amy’s way. Everyone does. Everyone loves Amy. He leans down to her level again and whispers something in her ear. She laughs and replies, but I can’t hear it. The music from one of the new rides – some hellish looking death-trap – blocks it out.
‘Roll up, roll up!’ He suddenly screams, ‘The world famous, eagle-eyed legend that is burning Joseph bridges is taking the stand.’
Seems I am, and the stakes are high. Before I know it, I am two quid lighter and have a rifle in my hand. I pinch one eye, stare down the gun’s barrel and see the sight is fixed at a strange angle. I will need to compensate for that, I tell myself seriously, as if I am a sniper in high winds with a target acquired and confirmed.
Amy, on the other hand, has her sights set on a huge pink bear.
Boys and girls. Fourteen and seven. Chalk and cheese.
‘Two quid for three shots,’ the Dodger says, ‘but, seeing as I like you, I’m going to let you have an extra shot for free!’
Amy folds her arms, ‘My daddy says that nothing in life is free.’
‘Well,’ the man replies, ‘I’m sure your daddy is a very smart man, but sometimes,’ he cracks open the gun and loads it with pellets, ‘sometimes, the best things in life are free.’
‘The Beatles.’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ he nods his appreciation, a sort of brief reverence for The Fab Four passes between us as he hands me the rifle. ‘Hit three or more targets and she can pick whatever she wants.’
I nod, glance around at the small crowd that has gathered and then my heart nearly pops.
I see Sian Burrows, a vision of beauty, of absolute perfection, staring at me. My mouth hangs open and I just gawp at her. She’s wearing stone washed jeans and a white blouse. Her wrists are deep with bangles, her cheeks dark with blusher and her hair, oh my God, her hair. It’s big and permed and beautiful. She looks like Julia Roberts, Madonna and Sharon Stone all in one. In my imagination, this moment, this longing gaze between the candy floss and flashing lights, would have been later in the evening, but I’ll take whatever I can get.
As always, Sian is flanked by Vicky Sharp and Wendy Nelson, but her eyes are on me. Is she smiling? God, she is. She’s smiling at me. I feel a fluttering, swimming sensation in my belly. Only Sian can do this to me.
I wipe my brow and concentrate on not embarrassing myself. Amy is clapping her hands, ‘Get me the big bear, big bro,’ she squeals.
Sian Burrows smiles at me. I think I smile back. I can’t tell. I can’t feel my face. I raise the rifle and steady my heart-rate which is considerably higher than it should be. It’s just a pink bear, I tell myself, but Amy wants it and now I have an audience.
I’ve fancied Sian since the first year of Secondary school, consistently fantasised about her for nearly three years. Some people aren’t even married that long! I was plump at the start of school, but in the last year I have shot up and all that fat seems to have stretched evenly up my frame. My small amount of acne has cleared up and, for the first time in my life rather than waiting for my mum to tell me it needed doing, I got my hair cut.
I shower every morning, brush my teeth and care what I wear. And guess what? All of a sudden, girls are interested and by girls I mean the only one that matters in this context. I haven’t kissed her yet, but tonight if all goes well, I might get a Frenchie (kissing with tongues) from Sian Burrows, probably behind one of the rides, generator pumping away like the blood currently rushing to my temples.
Tiny red and black targets begin their jerky movement. I trace one but then remember what my dad taught me about shooting an air rifle. I relax and wait for the target to come to me.
I close one eye, rotate the barrel of the gun slightly, compensate for the rate of the descent that this crappy peashooter will carry, and fire. The ding of metal is loud as one of the targets goes down. Amy jumps in the air and grabs my arm, ‘Yes!’ she cries.
I smile at her and then glance up at Sian. She smiles too and then touches her hair. She looks away and then back at me. Her cheeks flush red.
Oh my God. This is happening.
I miss the next target and Sian gives me a stern nod, a supportive gesture I acknowledge with a flush of pride. Her friends are staring at me. If a look could say, leave our friend alone you dirty boy, then they have nailed it. They are the ugly sisters, but Cinderella isn’t listening. Cinders has other ideas and I’m hoping it involves saliva exchange.
I smile at Sian again, but this time it’s confident and accompanied by a wink. Yes, I actually wink at her as I raise my gun. I fire quickly and decisively as another ding rings out like a spoon hitting a pan. The small gathering seems to sense that all I need is one more shot and a mild cheer escapes them. People are clapping. I’m one shot away from a big pink bear and very close to my first proper snog.
I glance down at Amy but she’s moved, probably to get a better look. I almost raise my gun for the winning shot but I want to make sure she’s watching. Amy’s face at times like this is like fuel for life. It keeps you going, even when things get rough. A few of my mates have sisters that they wish would fall down a well or spontaneously combust. Mine, on the other hand, is the best thing that ever happened to our family. We all adore her.
I still can’t see her though and for the first time a wave of panic rushes through me. Sian Burrows is thrown from my mind and all of a sudden the fairground is closing in and expanding, somehow simultaneously.
‘Where’s Amy?’ I ask the Artful Dodger.
He looks around and drops his act for the first time, ‘Shit man, she was right there.’
I throw the gun down on the counter. My eyes are everywhere, my heart in my ears. I connect with a sea of faces, some worried, some confused, others seemingly disinterested or even amused.
She was right here.
2.
If you could be any superhero, which one would you be? It’s a simple question really, but the range of answers I hear baffles me. Growing up, from around the age of seven until recently, I would have answered with the confident ease of a true geek. Spiderman. It’s the obvious choice for anyone who truly understands how bloody cool that character is. I mean, Peter Parker is someone we can all relate to. Timid, uncertain and, at times, completely useless. But when he’s bitten by a radioactive spider he becomes t
his manly, agile and brilliant superhero. I know plenty of people who would scoff at the idea that Spiderman is the best candidate. Batman, they would say, he’s the coolest, the darkest, the blah de blah-est. Listen, I get it. Bruce Wayne is –
‘Joseph, are you listening to me?’
It’s Martin Watts, my accountant, and no, I’m not listening to him. ‘Huh?’ I do my best to sound as though I wasn’t a million miles away, engaged in my own Marvelous debate. Get it? Marvel-ous?
‘I asked if you were listening to me.’ Martin says again, patiently. He is staring at me over his glasses, his thinning hair and lean features give him a head-masterly advantage. Man I hated school.
I’m slouched low in one of my favourite leather armchairs. It’s beaten up and missing some of the brass studs that adorn its edges, but I love it more because of that. I like old things, I collect them and reluctantly sell them. I used to be extremely good at it, but based on Martin’s current demeanour, I’m not doing so well lately. He’s still staring at me, head weaving side to side really slowly, like a snake about to strike. ‘Joe,’ he says, ‘I need you to understand. Your parents’ money is gone, and the on-line antiques business?’ He pauses, removes his horn-rimmed glasses and begins to polish the lenses expertly, without looking at them, ‘Well, the profit is pretty much equal to the amount of effort you’ve been putting in lately.’
‘None?’ I suggest, sarcastically.
‘Not quite none, but close.’ He lifts his spectacles to the light, inspecting his work.
There are four lever arch files stacked on the coffee table between us. Martin taps the top of the pile. ‘It’s all in here.’
‘You know I’m rubbish with numbers.’ I groan, ‘Can you just give me the highlights?’
Martin looks as though he’s in pain, ‘Well,’ he says slowly, ‘the highlights, as you put it, are as follows. You’ve lost a lot of money this year and now there’s almost nothing left.’ He looks around my living room and sighs, ‘Nothing.’ As Martin continues his assessment of my living conditions his expression becomes one of pity. I don’t meet his eyes. Instead I stare at the floor.
I live in a beautiful period terrace in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a wine cellar, large kitchen, dining room, lounge and study. Most of my time is spent in the study trying to forget the other rooms exist. I guess I’ve stopped looking at the house. It’s too big for me, to be fair. I once considered renting one of the rooms out. The only problem is that would involve people. I’m not really what you would describe as a people person. Not anymore.
‘The house is a mess, Joe,’ he says. ‘A hovel.’
I’m tempted to bite back at this. The house is a mess, I admit that, even a teenage boy would raise his eyebrows. It’s filled with clutter and antiques – some of which I admit are junk – and generally uncared for, but me? I’m not dirty. I may be dressed in jogging pants and a hooded sweatshirt (think Rocky Balboa, in the first film) but I’m very particular about my personal hygiene, bordering on obsessive. Martin is being deliberately provocative – something he’s very good at when he wants to be – but I decide not to play. Probably because he’s right. The business, the house, me; all of it down to a lack of focus, a quality that’s been unavailable to me lately, and by lately I mean the last few years. And when you aren’t focussed, you aren’t organised. And by you, I mean me.
‘You fired your cleaner didn’t you?’ Martin says, nodding to himself.
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I thought you would be pleased.’
‘A few years back, you could have afforded ten cleaners. So, no. I’m not pleased. I’m relieved I suppose, because you can’t afford it now,’ he pauses and I notice his shoulders drop a little, ‘I’m also worried about you.’
I get up and walk to one of three large bay windows, the floor cold on my bare feet. The windows are tall and have wooden shutters, which sometimes stay closed for days. Not today though; I’m guessing Martin opened them.
October rain is pelting away at the glass, tapping its surface like a thousand little typewriters. Below, the streets are busy, a colourful array of cars, lights and umbrellas. It’s mid-morning and I realise I haven’t eaten yet. I haven’t even had a bloody coffee. Bloody Martin. What’s the point of wasting my entire morning on this? I don’t need him to tell me I’m screwed.
‘It’s not your job to worry about me.’ I hear myself saying. I’m watching the rain, tracing the beads as they accelerate to their doom. ‘You’re my accountant.’
‘And have been for the last ten years.’ Martin adds.
I turn to him with a deep frown, ‘Has it really been that long?’
He nods, ‘I’m also someone who cares, quite possibly the only one you allow to care these days.’
I sigh and start to hum a tune. I’m aware this is the behaviour of an annoying teenage girl but can’t seem to help it. Martin knows me and manages to ignore it. He has three girls. He’s no doubt a master at ignoring their self important attempts to appear disinterested.
‘You look tired, Joe.’ He says. ‘You look more like fifty, you have bags under your eyes. You aren’t sleeping are you?’
‘At the moment, no I’m not.’ I fold my arms and lean back on the window sill. Sleep, I get hardly any, but fifty? Cheeky bastard. I’m thirty-six and look exactly my age. ‘This has happened before,’ I assure him - and also myself, ‘sleep will come back… eventually.’
Martin is up, out of his chair. He walks to a long table and studies a freestanding, framed photograph. He picks it up, turns it to me and I know what’s coming.
‘Is this why you’re not sleeping?’ He asks, ‘Because of Amy?’
I stare at the floor again. I don’t want to go there – not today – but eventually I nod and then wait while his question loses its power.
When I look up, Martin is walking towards me. I turn my head as if a foul odour accompanies him. It doesn’t. He smells clean, to the point of being almost feminine. He places a hand on my shoulder and I see the lines on his face. He’s the one who is actually fifty and his skin is finally showing its age. He’s lean though, plays a lot of squash, which you can see in his frame. I imagine that inside, beneath the surface of his skin, he would look like one of those sinewy models you see on the walls of sports injury clinics.
‘Listen,’ he says, voice softer than I’ve heard for a while, ‘I’m not here to tell you what to do. How you live your life is up to you.’ He looks around the room and raises an eyebrow, ‘If you want to live like this, it’s your choice, but I can’t just sit by and watch you suffer, watch you throw away a perfectly good business.’
‘I’m not suffering,’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’ My voice is higher than I would like. I swallow and reset the octave. ‘I’m fine.’ I say again.
‘Sure.’ He walks back over to the coffee table, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small white card, which he places on top of the stacked folders.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Someone I want you to go and see.’
‘No way.’
‘She’s really good, and you –’
‘I said no, Martin. The last thing I need right now is some shrink telling me how shit I am at everything.’
‘She not a shrink she’s a –’
‘Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been studied, prodded, scanned and…’ I’m searching for another word, but it hovers in the air between my lips. ‘And fiddled with?!’ I manage eventually.
Martin raises both eyebrows this time and we pause for a few seconds, staring at each other.
‘For the record,’ I point at him, eyes wide, ‘no one has ever fiddled with me.’
Martin ignores me and starts packing his things, placing piles of legal paperwork into an expensive looking briefcase. On the table I see a matching pile with yellow sticky notes indicating where I should sign. He’s a good guy, for an accountant.
He smiles at me, ‘It won’t cost you anythin
g. Just go and see her. She might help you sleep. Will you just do that for me?’
I fold my arms and nod.
He sees himself out as always and I am returned to a wonderfully familiar and blissful silence. The rain continues its static-like hiss. My thoughts return to important things, the considerations and deliberations I was attending to before Martin Watts – the bean counter – rudely interrupted them.
To me it’s obvious. There is only one superhero that anyone should want to be.
Superman.
What about Batman?! I hear you cry in a pretty annoying voice. He’s the coolest superhero.
No. No. No.
He’s not a superhero, he’s a vigilante. He’s just a rich bloke with cool toys. If Bane (he’s the pork chop with all the pipes coming out of his dust mask) can break Batman’s back, then what chance would he have against Superman? I mean, Batman versus Superman! What the hell is that all about? Bruce Wayne in a bat suit is no different to you or I, we would break a hand in multiple places if we punched Superman. Spiderman is a superhero and – as I’ve already said – my favourite of them all, but facts are facts. Spidey wouldn’t even get to quip, ‘Hey, over here red pants!’ before he was melted into red and blue jelly.
No. If you are Superman, then you are invincible and completely awesome. You can fucking fly. You get to shoot lasers out of your eyes, and see through shit. And you know the best part? The bit that most people don’t even think about? Just because you’re Superman doesn’t mean you have to dress like him.
If I were Superman, I would wear the Spiderman outfit by day (pretending to spin webs and climb walls etc.) and then switch to Batman at night (fighting crime, being cool and laughing – high pitched to piss the bad guys off, not like Christian Bale – while bullets bounced off me). Plus, who the hell would ever think about using Kryptonite on those two? No one.
Am I right?
I nod.
I’m bloody right on this one.