Midnight Lamp

by Gwyneth Jones

  ‘Now!,’ said Puusi Meera, leading Ax to a heap of cushions under a spangled awning, and settling her curves beside him. ‘You must tell me everything, I can help. First things first, is she getting enough sex? You, yourself, did a wonderful test. I knew you would. So sexy and such charisma, so strong in your delivery, so responsive. You are truly one of us.’

  Fiorinda escaped from her friends, letting the party carry her. She’d never failed an audition before: it didn’t bother her, but she felt self conscious. The nice old bloke who talked to her at movie parties came up, with two frosty bottles of beer, so she went and sat with him near the bonfire. ‘It’s bullshit,’ he said. ‘You’ll go back another day, without the fucking sharks circling, and you’ll be good. I know you will. You’re a performer, aren’t you?’

  ‘I used to be a singer with a little punk band,’ said Fiorinda, gloomily. ‘That’s all.’ She smiled at him, ‘I’m sorry, but who are you? I can’t just go on calling you, that nice o- er, bloke with the blue eyes, who is kind to me.’

  ‘It’s Bob. Redford.’

  The young Englishwoman nodded hopefully, waiting for more help.

  ‘Robert Redford.’

  ‘Auggh! Oh wow! You’re the Sundance Kid!’

  ‘Hahaha. Yeah, I’m afraid that’s how old I am.’

  The Few had circled their wagons: graciously allowing a few movie world Bohemian folk to join them, particularly the ones who had real drugs. They spoke of the Celtic murders, though the subject was utterly forbidden. It’s the Invisible People, said someone, and refused to elaborate. The bastards have police protection, said someone else, and this opinion was general. The murders were reported, but nothing was made of them… What does that tell you?

  Billy had been a well-known figure, she was a notch up, the breath of the beast on their necks. ‘Poor kid,’ sighed Julia. ‘She’s gone like into water, the surface closes over. You hear her voice, you look around, it’s another girl just like her.’

  ‘Did she do Aoxomoxoa?’ asked the name-tag assistant, whose name the Few hadn’t caught. ‘It was her main ambition. It would’ve been nice, before she died.’

  Harry was at the bar, wearing his straw hat for sentimental reasons. He tipped it on the back of his head, and explained to Kathryn’s media friends that this was the hat that Sage had told him to eat, as a Zen koan: which he had yet to understand. ‘Give me enlightenment but not right now,’ said someone: which got a laugh. The mood was upbeat, the problem with Harry’s leading lady set aside.

  ‘I’m surprised Laz didn’t make it, Sage,’ remarked Harry.

  ‘Laz—?’

  ‘Lazarus Catskill? He loves you guys, he’s a big sad Reich fan (no offence-). He was rooting for me to do the movie all along.’ The A&R man peered around, divinely discontented, ‘Maybe his studio told him to stay away. Pixelity, you know, that’s not exactly Liberal Hollywood-’

  ‘I’m gonna rescue Ax. D’you want to come along?’

  The rescue was easy: Puusi had an aversion to Aoxomoxoa, she took herself off. Harry called to Marshall Morgan, the Digital Artists’ CEO, who was passing with Lou Branco. ‘Hey, Marsh! Lou! Come over here and talk to my stars!’

  ‘Where’s Fiorinda?’ asked Ax, quietly. ‘I thought she was with you.’

  ‘Fiorinda is getting cosy with Robert Redford. You want me to break it up? Is this code for: leave me in peace with my ripe and voluptuous movie queen?’

  ‘Lay off. That woman scares me.’

  Marshall and Lou were in a relaxed frame of mind. Lou had taken off his sandals: he wiggled his toes in the sand. Harry adjusted his hat, and glowed (It’s not so bad, losing just one, shame it was Fio though).

  ‘You know,’ said Marsh, ‘There’s something I’m dying to ask, but it’s rude.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Ax.

  ‘Okay, I know you weren’t in it for the money, and I applaud that. I know this was Crisis Europe, but you were selling like the Beatles: don’t tell me there wasn’t any mazoola. How the fuck did you guys end up so broke?’

  Harry frowned. Lou looked taken aback, his new religion cast into doubt.

  ‘You know those stupid deals bands used to sign, back in the nineteen sixties?’ asked Ax.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Where the mansions and the champagne and the private jets would turn out to belong to the management, and the rockstars were left with pocket-money?’

  ‘Uhuh?’

  ‘We did that the other way round,’ explained Sage. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘The Reich belongs to us,’ said Ax. ‘We don’t know how it happened, exactly but we used to make ends meet, hustling scrounging, selling our products, as well as putting in a share of our personal income. The Second Chamber Government kindly took over the books, and the ends have never seen each other since. We’re trying to extricate ourselves, but they have a lifetime lien on our global earnings, and it doesn’t look good. We may rescue the Few and Fiorinda, but Sage and I are fucked. Ruined for life.’

  Fiorinda watched them from the other side of the bonfire. What’s so fall-about funny?, she wondered. The bigshots seemed equally puzzled.

  There is an inside life and an outside life, she thought. We’re all on reality tv. We spend our days putting on an act, for people we love and people we fear, and people we don’t even know. The years ahead daunted her heart. There’s no cure for what I am… I’ll unpick those little tweaks I made, I’ll keep off the juice: if necessary I will fight another boss fight with a monster, and all the time, I will be faking it. But no one will know. She smiled at her lovers across the firelight.

  Goodbye. Fiorinda’s going underground, but you shall never know.

  After the tests the Triumvirate decided to take Laz Catskill up on his offer. The cabin was two hours from Hollywood, and there was a helipad. They planned to commute, for the gigs they already had in the diary. This simple retreat was an L shaped architect vision, surrounded by mature pine forest. It had an indoor and outdoor pool, parking for a tank division: and a formidable perimeter fence, complete with watchtowers and a platoon of armed guards, who came as a fixture. At least you couldn’t see the fence from the house. Silverlode, a tiny touristville, was two miles of switchbacks away down a private road. They waited to see what would happen: nothing happened. If Laz had been saying he wanted to talk, but somewhere other than his playpen, he’d changed his mind.

  They went up to the cabin on a Monday. On the Thursday a helicopter came to take Ax back to LA. He had a live tv interview, and then the Friday Prayers in East Hollywood: he’d spend the night at Sunset Cape. Fiorinda and Sage would be coming down the next day: Fiorinda had a brunch interview date with Kathryn. ive tv; he’d be away overnight, at Sunset Cape. When Ax had gone Fiorinda and Sage stayed by the pool, listening to birdsong and silence, until the shadows of the conifered peaks closed over the water, and the mosquitoes arrived; hordes of them, with no respect for megastar divinity.

  Fiorinda walked around looking at photographs, of which there were plenty. There seemed to be a contest going on between Kaya and Laz: anytime you have a flashy auteur portrait, I have a flashier. Anything you can do, in the way of framed, wall-hung video clips, I can do better. Skiing snaps, Carribean beach snaps. Kaya, Laz. Laz and Kaya, Kaya and baby. Laz and baby; Kaya, Laz, baby.

  Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby…

  She studied the images of Lazarus Catskill, whom she’d never met. All she could see was a beautiful man, with the whorish eyes of someone who has faced far too many cameras: but he still enjoys it… The Catskills’ humble retreat creeped her out. Back in the kitchen Sage was pondering food possibilities: they’d politely declined a loan of the domestic staff. She checked in with the perimeter guards, over the house computer. They had to do this night and morning, to prove they hadn’t been killed by celebrity-stalker commando attack.

  ‘I feel like a tethered goat.’

  ‘Stop worrying,’ said Sage. ‘I misread the signals, obviously.’ And then, in the same b
reath, ‘Fee, I think I should sleep with you tonight.’

  Ax and Sage were sharing a room (twin beds). Fiorinda had chosen a study/bedroom on the ground floor, on the long stroke of the L.

  ‘You want to have sex?’

  ‘Thanks for the generous offer,’ he said, cut to the heart by her cheerful, matter-of-fact tone, ‘but not without Ax, babe.’

  ‘I want to,’ said Fiorinda, who knew the other, unspoken agenda for this relaxing cabin trip; how could she not? ‘Soon. But you’re right, not without Ax.’ She walked into his arms, ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I’m spooked. Ax didn’t feel it, but I know you do.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He rubbed his cheek against her hair, a rusty thicket, smelling of pool chemicals. ‘Let’s sleep in the same room, that’s all. How about a nice omlette?’

  Neither of them cared about food, but he must get Fiorinda to eat. One could get tired of your regular meals mania, Mr Preston—

  In the same bed, lying beside her, chastely clothed in boxers and a teeshirt, he missed the innocence of El Pabellón, when sex had been out of the question. She’s not in fugue, she knows we’re hungry and she’ll do her best to please us. I can’t take her on those terms, Ax. I just can’t. He felt the penumbra of something strange, more noticeable down here than it had been in the room he shared with Ax, and wondered if it was his imagination.

  Or if Fergal was on guard.

  In the night they turned to each other, easily and sweetly, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. ‘My baby,’ she mumbled, hugging his head against her breast, wrapping her legs around him, ‘Whassermatter, little Sage, had a bad dream?’

  ‘No, jus’ woke up, oh yes, more of that,’ he whispered, kissing through her nightdress, ‘tell me I’m your baby.’

  There was someone talking, in the next room. No, several people: the words indistinguishable, a sibilant urgent muttering—

  Ah, shit. They moved so they were face to face, lips almost touching.

  ‘Did you hear something?’ she breathed.

  ‘Why do you say, did you hear something, when you mean, Sage, get out of bed and take a look—? What happened to women’s lib?’

  ‘Because I don’t mean that. I mean Sage don’t move an inch without me.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue. C’mon.’ He took an automatic pistol from under the pillow, which Fiorinda had not known was there.

  ‘That’s going to be a lot of use against werewolves, unless you have silver bullets.’

  ‘It makes me feel better.’

  In the room next door cold, tasteful, expensive furnishings stared back at them, surprised by the sudden light. In the kitchen the computer reported no sign of intruders. They went through the cabin anyway, careful to do nothing that would trip the alarms and bring the platoon down on them. They found only the immanent silence that had been plaguing them all week. The room where the muttering had come from faced the outdoor pool. Sage checked the locks long a wall of sliding glass doors, and the view outside; behind heavy, woven curtains in a vaguely aztec pattern. Nothing moved.

  Fiorinda sat in a wide leather armchair, looking around.

  ‘Shit. I thought you told Ax that coming to California would stop me going loopy. Now here I am staring at invisible people.’

  Sage crossed the room to get different view, making a detour to bend over her chair. ‘You were not meant to hear that.’

  ‘Tuh. I didn’t have to hear it. I always know what you two are saying.’

  ‘There’s nothing out there. I think it’s all our imagination.’

  ‘Sage, what if the reason why nobody except me believes in the Fat Boy candidate, is because there is a Fat Boy candidate, messing with your heads?’

  ‘I do believe you. I’m not at my best at this hour. Give me a break.’

  She sighed. ‘Okay, okay. False alarm. Let’s go back to bed.’

  The next day they drove into Los Angeles. Fiorinda dropped Sage in East Hollywood, so he could meet Ax after his gig at the Mosque. They’d called Ax on the way down: he wanted them all to meet up, and drive back together, but Fiorinda said she didn’t know how long she’d be with Kathryn—

  ‘You two can get a studio limo, and I’ll see you at the cabin.’

  ‘It makes far more sense if we join you and Kathyrn,’ reasoned Ax.

  ‘Please. I can do things by myself, occasionally.’

  ‘Let her alone, Ax. We’d turn up and be in the way just when she was saying terrible things about us.’

  This was code for, don’t be overprotective.

  The crowd at the Mosque (all ages, all dress codes, by no means all of them Reformed Islamics) was big enough to be alarming: Ax was glad he’d said no to the press conference. He escaped and met Sage. The limo, which had a driver because it was taking them out of the LA freeway grid, went a few blocks, and stopped at a rundown supermarket and fuel station.

  ‘Okay Mr Pender?’ said the driver.

  ‘Yeah. C’mon Ax, we get off here.’

  The limo departed. Sage went to a motorbike that stood on the forecourt, a classic black and silver beast; the make not immediately apparent to Ax, who was not a fan of this means of transport.

  ‘D’you like it?’

  ‘I tolerate your bikes,’ said Ax. ‘What does this one have to do with you?’

  ‘I just bought it. I mean, Digital Artists bought it. I went for reassuringly expensive, I find that’s usually best. I thought it’d be preferable to the limo.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘I’m an idle freeloading post-career rockstar. Why shouldn’t I buy a motorbike?’

  ‘No reason, no reason at all.’

  They looked each other over: Sage, slender and whipcord without the freight of muscular flesh, in black jeans and a breathable neoprene biker jacket. Ax in his new best suit, which was dark red with a nehru collar like his last best suit (he’s such a fogey); but cut for fashion, in a modern silk twill that gleamed with gold and violet highlights.

  ‘Here, catch—’

  Ax caught the helmet. ‘Did you discuss this purchase with Fiorinda?’

  ‘No, because her phone’s switched off.’

  ‘You’re sure she’s all right?’

  ‘I didn’t leave ’til I saw her safe with Kathryn.’

  ‘Sage… Did anything happen at the cabin last night?’

  ‘Lemme get something to eat, and I’ll tell you.’

  They ate hotdogs, and Ben and Jerry’s fat free, sugar free, Madagascar Vanilla, (an ice cream Sage had decided he liked); leaning against the bike, among the weeds grew along the margin of the stained pad of concrete. Sage described the maybe, possibly, ethereal night visitors.

  ‘D’you think there’s anything in it?’

  ‘Not sure. D’you want to change that pretty suit?’

  ‘Can’t be fucked. Let’s just ride.’

  Sage was better on a bike than behind the wheel of a car. He negotiated the superheated maze of the freeways without giving Ax cause for alarm, and pulled off above San Fernando, at a shack cafeteria that advertised Antojitos y comida corrida. They bought soft drinks and sat watching the Friday afternoon traffic as it swooped and looped through the Sepuldeva pass: quite a show, to the refugees from Crisis Europe. The dry heat was intense, the light a searing haze.

  Sage told Ax about the ghost of Fergal Kearney, or rather Rufus O’Niall. ‘I didn’t tell you on the Baja, because I didn’t want to upset you. She knew what she was doing. She’d elected Rufus as her guardian angel, to comfort herself.’

  ‘Sage, that is very sick.’

  ‘See, I knew you’d hate it. I think it’s smart of her. She doesn’t deserve to have a total bastard for a father, why shouldn’t she imagine him repentant? But I’m wondering what it means that I’ve seen “him” too.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Ax.

  ‘What—?’

  ‘The night you came to fetch me from Lou Branco’s. Fergal was there, or his ghost, under a tree, while I was waiting f
or you. I mean to say, I saw a figure, it looked like Fergal, it disappeared… I didn’t tell you because, well, I didn’t. What are we talking about here? Could that actually be Rufus, back from the dead?’

  Sage chewed the lower joint of his right thumb. ‘Don’t think so. Lemme see. Fiorinda’s guardian angel has appeared to both of us. Makes sense: she wants to protect us. The worrying thing is that this seems like more of her magic, seeping out of containment, and that is a scary thought.’

  Ax had been told about the cursing. ‘You rule out the idea of a genuine ghost?’

  ‘Rather than a visible projection that has its origin in a pattern of firing and partly firing neurons, stored in the virtual space contained in Fiorinda’s skull? At fusion, of course, there’d be no difference.’

  ‘Sorry, bodhisattva. You’ve lost me.’

  They were silent, thinking of the great gamble they were taking.

  ‘Let’s get out of that cabin anyway,’ said Ax. ‘It isn’t even nice, and there are mosquitoes. If your friend Laz really has something to tell us he’ll find another way. On the whole I’m back with plan A, figuratively speaking. Fred Eiffrich has a problem with his bloodthirsty weapon-mongers, but it’s not really our business, and anyway it won’t work. There’s no megastar Fat Boy candidate, and Fiorinda will soon stop thinking there is, because she’s getting better.’

  ‘Setting aside the mindbending fear that there really is a monster.’

  ‘I’m full of mindbending fears. It’s my natural state.’

  All the earth is a mosque, thought Ax. He remembered certain times of night and evening when the motorway landscape of England had taken on beauty. Flying down the sweeping curves of the M4 into the vistas of the west, riding the rivers of light, the red brakelights one way, silver the other—

  ‘I wonder how long a city like Los Angeles can keep going, with no functional public services, no cheap fuel, and the domestic water system fucked.’