Not the End of the World

by Christopher Brookmyre

  From what Steff could make out, their opening number was supposed to be a bitterly sarcastic protest song about the teaching of evolution theory in American high schools. It was only when Shaggies two through four joined in for the chorus that the lyrics became intelligible.

  ‘Me I ain’t no MONKEY MAN!

  ‘Cause God made me just AS I AM!

  Diiiiivine, deeeesign,

  Me I ain’t no MONKEY MAN!’

  Listening closely to the machine-gun vocals, he was able to interpret from the ensuing verses that Charles Darwin was currently being made to pay a heavy price for his heresy in a location a lot hotter than the Galapagos Islands; and that he would inevitably be joined by those foolish enough to ‘fail the dinosaur test’. This last, he guessed, must be in reference to the fundamentalists’ explanation for hundred-million-year-old bones being found on a planet they claimed to have existed for no more than twelve thousand years; viz, that God had placed them there as a test of faith.

  Then they launched into an attemptedly thrashy affair called ‘Exit Only’, an instruction to homosexual males as to the exclusive function of the anus. Steff felt he ought to defer to superior knowledge on this one: if anybody was an expert on arseholes, it had to be the singer up on that stage.

  Gordy and Sally clearly had the album. They were singing along to each track, saving special enthusiasm for air-punching bridges or favourite lyrics, such as ‘Forty jalapeños and an X-Lax bar/Soon teach ‘em what their ass is for: EXIT ONLY! EXIT ONLY! EXIT ONLY! Na-na-na-na-na, EXIT ONLY . . .’ and so on. Steff took the couple’s picture as they danced and sang, a delightful image of young, smiling, innocent faces, happily and energetically chanting words of ignorant bigotry and blind hatred.

  Next up was the inevitable power ballad, in which the Believers betrayed their formative listening years to have been coloured less by speed metal than by Speedwagon. It was, Steff gleaned from Sally, the title track of their new double-CD, ‘True Love Waits’, a plodding power-chord symphony about two dreamy teens resisting the temptations of pre-marital sex and reaping the rewards on wedding night with the shag of the century. This was definitely a new low: a rock band exhorting their fans not to get into each other’s pants.

  In a gleefully morbid way, Steff was now starting to enjoy it. There was an element of suspense about seeing just how bad it could get. He would have to get a tape of these guys to take home: stick this stuff on the stereo after a few spliffs and everyone in the room would be pissing themselves for hours.

  Unfortunately, his pleasure was cut short when he realised that a bleeping noise nearby was actually the mobile phone Jo had loaned him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Steff. Where the hell are you? What’s that noise? Are you in a bar?’

  ‘Eh, no. In fact I may be in the spot furthest from a bar on this planet, morally speaking.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’m across the road. I’m attending the Festival of Light. We’re all rockin’ out to the Believers.’

  ‘Are you serious? What the hell are you doing there?’

  ‘I’m having fun.’ Steff caught Sally’s smile as she overheard. He smiled back, holding her eye as he spoke to Jo. ‘No, honestly. You should check this place out.’ More smiles and a cross sign. ‘I’ve not seen so many stupid people in one place since I covered a Celtic-Rangers match last year.’

  No more smiles. Sally looked like Steff had shat on the table.

  ‘Still, you can have too much of a good thing,’ he decided,

  still smiling as Sally looked away and prodded Gordy’s shoulder to get his attention. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Waves Café. It’s in the atrium. First floor. That’s ground floor to you.’

  Sally was filling in Gordy on developments. He didn’t look pleased.

  ‘See you in five,’ Steff said, hanging up.

  ‘Can’t say we appreciate your attitude.’ Gordy scowled.

  ‘Then forgive me.’

  Gordy didn’t get it.

  Steff feared his retinas had been fried by the blaze of refracted sunlight that dazzled him as he approached the Pacific Vista’s main entrance. By the time he made it to the shade of the awnings over the front door, his pupils had contracted like an arsehole in a prison shower, and he was able to make out no more than an outline of the person examining his laminated press pass before gesturing him inside. Visibility improved in the spectacular lobby, but the wobbly shapes the light picked out around the place didn’t particularly assist his foot–eye co-ordination. Further impeding his progress was the compulsion to look upwards rather than at where he was going. He had never seen interior light like it, the massive prism crowned by a transparent pool of water. It wasn’t long before he started bumping into people, which in the fundamentalist Angelino code of personal-space etiquette seemed a mortal sin. The bumpees looked at him with the sort of disgust he’d previously thought reserved for those caught buggering small furry animals on the back lot of a children’s TV show. He said sorry, but suspected that didn’t cover it.

  The Waves Café was on the far right, its interior disappearing under the gallery level, with a terrace area at the front, roped off from the sprawling lobby and the terrace of the snack bar next door by arcing gold cords. Jo was sitting at a table by the wall, facing two young men in big trousers, both no doubt duped into this sartorial ruse by a recognised designer name somewhere on the inside waistband; or chestband might be nearer the mark. He could see a small tape recorder next to the bottles of this month’s de rigueur mineral-water brand, and a notepad in Jo’s lap. She sat nearest the wall with her elbow resting on stone and her hand behind her head, nodding occasionally as one of the trouser brothers spoke. Without taking her eyes off her subject, she rippled her fingers in the air behind her head, letting Steff know she had seen him.

  He had been stretching his imagination since last night to dream up some form of revenge upon her for the Armada, but resolved on reflection that simply not mentioning it whatsoever might be the cutest tactic. He climbed over the cord and took a seat at the next table, placing his camera down gently on the metal surface.

  Both of the trouser brothers turned to look at the new arrival, and were visibly outraged that the hotel’s security had been sufficiently lax to allow this affront into their vicinity. He might have had an accreditation, but he simply did not look the part. His jeans fitted him, for starters. A waitress breezed by, and Steff ordered a bottle of Dos Equis (the nearest thing he could get to McEwan’s Export; it was dark and rough) in a near-whisper, diligently earwigging the conversation on his right.

  ‘And was there British subsidy money for this?’ Jo was asking.

  One of the brothers laughed dismissively. ‘You must be joking,’ he said, in that polished but regionally rootless RP accent. ‘Compared to the rest of Europe there’s so little in the way of public cash for film-making in the UK, and despite my first film’s reception, the coffers remained tightly closed when I came calling.’

  ‘But you received funding from UK public sources for your first film.’

  ‘Yes, The Lace Parasol did receive financial assistance from the National Lottery,’ he replied.

  ‘And you say it was well received.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he insisted, pointing at Jo with his mineral-water bottle. ‘It was invited to seven festivals across Europe, including Deauville. And the critics were most impressed.’

  ‘Yes,’ cut in his companion in the sort of French accent that provoked invasions. ‘The Guardian, the Telegraph, the Observer – all these newspapers acclaimed it.’

  Christ, Steff thought. Trevor Trouser and Pierre Pantalon.

  ‘So how’d it do at the box office?’

  The trouser brothers looked a little sheepish.

  ‘Well, we did not tie up deals for theatrical distribution in many territories,’ admitted Pierre. ‘Although rights are still available.’

  ‘But it ran for three weeks at the Ecran in London,’ Trevor added.
‘That’s good going. The rest of the UK . . . well, it’s a dead loss. Total Philistines, but then what can you expect? The Lace Parasol’s champagne taste was hardly going to appeal to an audience reared on popcorn.’

  ‘So, the funding bodies were reluctant to back you again for Hampstead Reflections,’ Jo prompted. ‘That must have been very frustrating for you.’

  ‘Pfff!’ sighed Pierre.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Trevor muttered. ‘This funding . . . It’s supposed to subsidise art. The box-office return should be irrelevant. It is the artistic achievement that matters. If anything, public subsidy should be used to support films that crude market forces would not tolerate. Otherwise, how can British cinema contribute to British culture?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jo, ‘some might argue – and I’m just playing devil’s advocate here – that public money should be spent on subsidising films that the public actually wants to see.’

  ‘And I would counter,’ Trevor stated, ‘that only by subsidising films like The Lace Parasol is there any chance of educating the public about cinema, teaching them to appreciate it as an art-form, not a latterday music hall.’

  ‘Oui,’ said Pierre. ‘But at the same time, who can know what the British public will want to see? They may not have responded to The Lace Parasol, but ironically, Hampstead Reflections, made without British money, has attracted big offers for video rights in the UK.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ Trevor confirmed. ‘We’ve got two very large deals on the table, and not from small-time art-house labels either. Major distributors. And that is because the public can be made to appreciate art as well as car chases and explosions.’

  Steff could take no more. Jo was being, well, if not misled, not entirely informed.

  ‘These UK video offers,’ he interrupted, drawing looks of mixed incredulity and sheer horror from the TBs, ‘they wouldn’t have anything to do with Annabel Greer getting her kit off in the film at all, would they?’

  ‘What?’ squawked Trevor. ‘Who is this person?’ he demanded of Jo. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Steff Kennedy,’ Steff said, leaning over and offering a hand to shake. No-one took it. ‘I’m a photographer. Mind if I snap you guys for Cinema Scope?’

  ‘Yes we do,’ Trevor said, getting up. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Mooney, this interview is over.’

  And off they stormed.

  Jo had her elbows on the table, and her head, which was resting in her hands, shook convulsively. Looked like big sobs.

  ‘Whoops. Guess I hit a wee bit of a nerve,’ Steff said, by way of apology. Jo seemed both a likeable and formidable character; he wasn’t sure whether his remorse was motivated by regret at upsetting her or fear of consequences. She’d set him up with that gay hotel for nothing – what might she do to him if she was really fucked off?

  Jo looked up. There were tears in her eyes, but not of distress. She tried to speak then buried her head in her hands once more. This time peals of uncontrollable laughter escaped from her mouth. Steff breathed again.

  Eventually she recovered sufficiently to ask who Annabel Greer was.

  ‘She’s a nubile British soap starlet. Had half the country’s teens and adolescents crying themselves – and other things – to sleep at night. But she left the series to have a crack at becoming a “proper” actress. First gig was this wanky film.’

  ‘So how do you know she’s got a nude scene?’

  ‘Because those two arseholes leaked it to the tabloids to generate interest in their shitey movie. Only reason anybody’s going to want to see it. If they hadn’t shot the crow like that you could have asked whether it’s getting a theatrical release anywhere. Short answer, no. Or whether it’s got a video deal anywhere else in the world. Again, no. The only reason it’s got video offers is because the market for Hampstead Reflections consists entirely of Manor Park fans who want to see wee Annabel’s tits.’

  ‘Did you recognise the two of them?’ Jo asked.

  ‘No. I just realised who they were when they mentioned the titles. The Brit’s the director, right?’

  ‘Oliver Harris, with Jean-Jacques Mercaud, the producer.’

  Steff shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry I blew your interview. I just had to say something. I’ve got a low pretentiousness threshold.’

  ‘Well you’d better beef it up some if you’re gonna hang out here. I’ll cut you some slack on this one because that was funny, but I’d appreciate it if you kept to the camera from here on in.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘You better.’ Jo smiled. ‘Those won’t be the only assholes round here trying to sell tits’n’ass and pretending it’s something profound. Just wait till Maddy Witherson breezes in for her promotional appearances.’

  ‘Who she?’

  ‘Whoah, you ain’t from round here, are ya boy? Well, I guess the story didn’t really travel. In short, she’s sorta this year’s Divine Brown. Porno actress who’s moving into more respectable roles – although that’s debatable. It’s my theory the porn flicks had more honest integrity than the trash she’ll be doing now. You know, “erotic thrillers”. Like that.’ Jo pointed to a poster adorning a partition screen in the lobby, one similar to dozens on shameless display around the concourse. Preying Mantis II: Love Kills, it said, below a hazy silhouette of a naked female holding a knife above the man she was straddling. ‘Four or five soft-lit, soft-core sex scenes strewn around a low-rent serial-killer plot,’ Jo explained. ‘Sells mainly to cable channels. It’s jerk-off material for travelling businessmen in hotel rooms who want to watch a dirty movie but don’t want to admit they’re watching a dirty movie.’

  ‘So why’s this Maddy Whatsit in the limelight?’ Steff asked. ‘Who’d she screw?’

  ‘Maddy Witherson. It’s not who she screwed, it’s who she’s related to. Her father’s Senator Witherson, Republican, ultra-conservative, fundamentalist Christian, usual profile.’

  ‘Golly gosh.’

  ‘Like I said, big story. Little else on the news here that month, let me tell you. Of course the biggest irony is that the son-of-a-bitch’s poll ratings have gone up. Seems a lot of parents out there understand how it feels to have a kid go off the rails despite your best efforts – at least, that’s the spin. What can I say? We’re a very screwed-up nation.’

  ‘And young Maddy’s in town for the AFFM?’

  ‘Photocall right here at the Pacific Vista, Mr Kennedy. That accreditation badge’ll get you close as you like. Course, that’s if you’re not too busy with your religious friends across the street. What were you doing there, boy?’

  ‘Seeking to be tutored in the ways of righteousness,’ he said with a grin. ‘But I think I’m beyond redemption.’

  ‘So what are they up to?’

  ‘Well, allowing for cultural misinterpretation on my part, it looks like they’re all revving up for some kind of moral crusade. Those are quite popular back home in Blighty, usually when a government is in the advanced stages of ideological bankruptcy and needs to blame somebody else. So do you know what this American Legion of Decency is?’

  Jo shrugged. ‘Not really. Far as I’ve heard it’s just another vehicle for Luther St John to preach about the errors of our ways. I know he’s the one bankrolling the little party out front there.’

  Steff took a slug of his beer. ‘Once again, forgive my foreigner’s ignorance. Who is this Luther St John bloke anyway?’

  ‘TV evangelist. One of the biggest. Owns the Christian Family Channel, among other things. Used to be more of a mainstream public figure once upon a time, but he’s pretty much been preaching to his own converted on CFC since running for President in ‘ninety-two.’

  ‘That’s him?’ Steff said, surprised. ‘The Texan guy?’

  ‘No, you’re thinking of Ross Perot. St John ran too. The foreign media didn’t pick up on him much, except maybe for kicker stories. His campaign was a never-ending source of screw-ups and embarrassments. If Perot was a distraction, St John was the c
omic relief. The worst thing that happened to him was the early summer polls indicating he might be making ground. I think he stopped listening to his image-makers and started calling it like he saw it, convinced America was ready to hear it straight.’

  ‘And America wasn’t?’

  ‘America freaked. Let’s just say the word “miscegenation” had not previously entered the political lexicon of a presidential campaign. Before that, the Republicans had been trying to sweet-talk him into giving in and backing Bush, bringing his supporters with him, but when the real Luther St John stood up, they couldn’t get away fast enough. The analysts figure it swung the election.’

  ‘He divided the conservative vote?’

  ‘No, I don’t think many people were ever actually gonna stand in a booth and vote for him. But he didn’t reflect well on the Right in general, and they really couldn’t get away fast enough. They were tarred. Theory is that a lot of folks who’d been planning to stay home on election day thought, “Shit, what if,” then went out and voted Clinton.’

  Steff laughed. ‘I suppose the Democrats might say God moves in mysterious ways.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Looks like Luther’s spent time enough licking his wounds. He seems to have regained his appetite for publicity – although given his last stunt, I’m surprised he’s gathering his flock here at the beach. Guess the big wave ain’t due yet.’

  Steff put down his bottle and sat forward. ‘Yeah, I was going to ask you. What is this about a wave? One of the Holy Credulous mentioned it, but I thought he was speaking metaphorically.’

  Jo sneered. ‘No. CFC viewers ain’t intellectually equipped to deal with metaphors. He meant what he said. St John was on TV a few weeks back predicting that a tidal wave is gonna hit LA, presumably to wash away its various iniquities. I didn’t follow the story real close, you can probably appreciate. Prophets of doom are getting as regular as commercial breaks these days, so even if they’re billionaire evangelists, that’s my cue to channel-surf. Still, it was hard not to hear about that one. These guys ain’t usually quite so specific about the shape our destruction’s gonna take – and they don’t normally give a time-frame, either, ‘cause that sets a sell-by date for their credibility.’