The Edge

by Jamie Collinson

  A man entered the plane who caught Adam’s attention, some primal warning tingling in his spine. The first things that stood out about him were the long, greasy hair beneath a baseball cap, and a square, rapidly chewing jaw below mirrored aviators. He looked a bit like an eighties one-hit-wonder gone to seed, Adam thought, or a movie cliché of a trailer park top dog – a slightly sweaty, unwashed look about him. As he boarded the plane, he glanced about himself in quick, proprietary looks, an amused twitch around his mouth.

  Adam watched as he made his way down the aisle. The man’s jeans were stonewashed, riding low on his hips and high on his boots, over which they flared a little. The boots themselves had a squared-off toe. But the t-shirt was what really stood out. It was yellow, and too short for the man, exposing an inch or so of brown, shiny-looking flesh divided by a line of vertical fur. On it, the word ‘MINE’ was printed, with an arrow beneath it pointing to the man’s left.

  ‘Jesus,’ Adam muttered to himself. The guy wasn’t even travelling with someone, as far as he could tell. He shivered, glancing about and trying to gauge how many seats were still free. There were plenty.

  Anyway, the law of plane seat averages meant he shouldn’t be worried. It simply never happened. It could be a beautiful, slim, smiley girl, or a gigantic, waddling, snacking teenage boy, and neither dream nor nightmare was ever ultimately realized. Usually, it was one of the older, smartly dressed men, who would make a typically warm, interested, American form of small talk and perhaps leave him with a business card – and that was just fine.

  Adam watched as the man drew closer. He held a cheap-looking leather holdall in his right hand. The elbow above it was slightly bent, the forearm muscled and tattooed. The bag bumped the shoulder, fingers or elbow of every passenger in the aisle seats on the left side of the aircraft as the man passed. No one seemed to get annoyed. It baffled him. From above, Katy Perry’s voice had begun battling the tinniness of the speakers.

  The man paused beside the toilets. He ran his eyes along the seat numbers, and Adam’s heart began to sink. Please, he willed. No.

  The man swivelled his head towards Adam. His eyes were invisible behind the shades. He grinned, leaned up to the luggage bin – the ribbon of stomach expanding now to a full abdomen that was both a dirty brown shade of tan and, also, somehow very shiny – and jammed his bag on top of Adam’s.

  He sat down heavily, opened his legs wide, and flexed his shoulders. When his left forearm made contact with – and displaced – Adam’s right, he swivelled his head again and gave Adam a long look, the smile, this time, noticeably absent. There were tiny scratches on the frames and lenses of his sunglasses.

  Cunt, Adam thought. His blood beat in his ears. He pictured how he must look – indeed how he knew himself to look, from photographs – a tall, slim, self-conscious man in his smart shirt and his jeans and desert boots, sitting crammed into his seat by another man who appeared to be airing his balls and wearing a t-shirt that claimed Adam was ‘his’.

  How dare he? How dare this man swagger through life, a sardonic grin on his leathery fucking face and a catch-all mockery on his chest?

  Adam picked up his book, seething, opening the page. It took three or four minutes before he realized he wasn’t reading. All he was doing was hating, and scanning his eyes uselessly up and down the text.

  The man beside him moved his left leg inward, back within the obvious confines of his own personal seating area. For a beautiful, endorphin-flooding moment, Adam believed that the man had realized how boorish he’d been, was making a gesture. This small victory would have been enough. Adam would have forgiven him anything. Anything to be able to rid himself of this hatred, which he already knew was toxic, was dissolving his insides.

  The man slipped a hand into his left pocket and pulled out a pair of white Apple headphones. As soon as he’d done so, his leg sprang back to its forty-five degree angle, knocking heavily into Adam’s.

  Adam’s blood felt thick – atheroma-like anger was coagulating in his arteries. The base of his spine pulsed – an entirely new symptom of his rage.

  Music began to spritz from the man’s cheap plastic earphones. Actually, Adam thought, it was merely the calcified skeleton of whatever the actual music was. He tuned into it, trying to identify the song. ‘Sail’ by AWOLNATION, he realized with a venomous shudder.

  Utter fucking cunt. He looked down at the man’s left arm, reappraising the tattoos. He’d decided the guy was some sort of country fan, but the generic, tribal-type ink that covered his wrist like a gauntlet suggested otherwise. This guy didn’t even have the decency to believe in something.

  A hot snake of anger writhed inside Adam. A terrible knowledge had come over him. He knew he would do, now, what he always did. He’d suffer in silence, and simply soak it all up. This hatred would turn into an ulcer in his stomach, pulsating and acid-filled, while the man beside him breezed through life in perfect bliss.

  The plane took off. Normally he’d be dozing already, a small part of his otherwise dormant mind listening out for the drinks trolley, the potential missing of which was the only remaining anxiety. Turbulence, deficient video screens, babies or naked feet: all of these were of no concern to Adam. Even the violent and comprehensive reclining of the seat in front of him by its occupant was no longer the problem it once had been. Airmiles. SeatGuru. Forward planning. These formed the trident with which to battle poor-quality travel. Those, and plenty of gin and tonics.

  But not today. Today Adam took to the air pickling in his own hate. The man beside him was thumping the hard-looking heel of his boot into the thin floor of the aircraft, shuddering Adam’s seat – in fact Adam’s entire, enclosed little world – each time he did so. The muffled scream of the engines at least obliterated the music for a while.

  A man like this was never questioned, Adam thought. Never confronted. Never taught anything. His expression as he’d sauntered down that aisle had been derisive, appraising the other passengers as if they were simply playthings. Adam remembered reading a newspaper article about a psychopath, who’d described himself as ‘like a cat among mice’. This man was a psychopath, he was sure. Who else would spit in the face of social-mindedness as he had? Who else quite simply did not give a fuck about the people around him?

  The only people who would teach a man like this something would be other men like him, when he occasionally fought them in shitty tourist bars. It saddened him to think of this person being from LA. It made him think of the Strip, of the strip clubs, the middle of Hollywood and the sixteen-ounce margaritas. All of these were usually cordoned off for Adam, his mental floodlights illuminating only the other, better side of the city.

  Potentially, this man was Denver’s fault. After all, that’s where he was going, this alpha male type who hadn’t even bothered to wash. He didn’t smell bad, exactly. He just smelled strong. Strong enough to actively remind Adam that humans were animals. Livestock, jammed into a humming metallic tube. Strapped in and trussed up, fed and watered in their restraints. The vision made Adam shiver.

  The man turned his head again, slowly, curious at this sudden movement. Now Adam caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were narrowed behind the shades. They were hidden once more as the man looked directly at him, confronting him with a distorted vision of his own face, reflected in the shades’ lenses.

  This image of himself made him feel even worse. He looked more male, more manly – or rather, mannish – than he’d expected, somehow. More so than in his mental self-image. Not for the first time, Adam wondered if he had some sort of reverse body dysmorphia, by means of which he always believed himself to look better than he actually did. In the shades’ scratched lenses, he looked redder and more careworn than he expected.

  Christ, he thought. You’re not so far from him, are you? You’re the same species after all. Just another ageing male bristling at the incursion of another. You’re one of him too! In fact, if he’s the alpha male, that makes you the beta.

  At th
is, he felt a glum wave of depression rise up in him like nausea. He frowned and fought it back. It must just be the shades, he thought.

  Before the man turned back into his seat, Adam saw once again the arrow, printed onto the shirt in bold, unblemished white. ‘MINE’ the shirt said above it, as it prodded at Adam. ‘MINE.’

  A flight attendant was pushing the trolley down the aisle towards them; a large, grey-haired lady who smiled warmly at the passengers. Adam saw himself through her eyes, and gritted his teeth until they ground.

  It took an age before she made it to them, an age in which Adam felt himself to be bathed in searing exposure. He felt as bad as he might if he’d been naked.

  ‘Drinks?’ she asked. Adam first, he was in the window.

  ‘Gin and tonic, please,’ he said.

  ‘You sure you don’t need this fella’s permission for that?’ the woman said. And she, and quite suddenly the man, burst into laughter.

  Adam squirmed, his smile-grimace wobbling as he waited for his drink.

  ‘And you, honey?’ the stewardess said to the man.

  ‘Beer,’ the man said.

  ‘Well, I got Sam Adams Seasonal, Coors Light or Heineken.’

  ‘Take a Coors.’

  The woman moved off. The sound of her cart, of her colleague, of the orders she received, receded from Adam’s ears.

  All that remained was the thumping of his blood, the red mist filling his vision, which tunnelled onto the sweating drink before him.

  It was just like being at work. He was going to sit there and stew in his own anger and get heart disease and a stomach ulcer because he was too weak to say anything. It was just like being on the Tube in his old life, some macho idiot standing in front of the doors, braced against the handrail, giving Adam a hard look to signal it was him that must squeeze around.

  It was like the three woke-looking hipsters in Echo Park who had laughed after their unleashed dog chased a mother goose and her goslings across the grass and into the water. As in all of these instances, he would do nothing, nothing except brood on his failure for the rest of the day, beating himself up and fantasizing about what he should have said or could have done.

  The little mental floodgate burst open again, and tore off its hinges.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, turning to the man. His voice came out as little more than a whisper.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said again. ‘Excuse me.’ His voice was much louder now, but noticeably trembling.

  The man turned, pulled his headphones out with one hand.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said.

  Adam swallowed. ‘Please move your leg,’ he said.

  The man glanced down. ‘Sure,’ he said, and did so.

  Adam stared at him.

  ‘Anything else?’ the guy asked.

  ‘Your arm. You should share the armrest.’

  ‘Fine,’ the guy said.

  ‘Good,’ Adam said. ‘And your music is very loud.’

  The man frowned, as though mildly hurt. He turned away and raised his earbuds.

  ‘I’ll turn it down,’ he murmured. ‘All you got to do is ask.’

  Adam slumped back into his chair. He took several deep breaths, and after a moment he closed his eyes and smiled, sinking into the seat as if floating in a cloud of light. His relief was like a pressure valve, draining his overworked arteries. He felt like a man who’d just delivered a keynote speech to a standing ovation.

  He drank half of his gin and tonic in one gulp, and reopened his book.

  24

  ‘Welcome to Denver, Mr Fairhead. Cookie?’

  At the Whalley Hotel in downtown Denver, he was being checked in by a tall, pale young woman with glasses and a long black dress.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Oh,’ the receptionist said, giggling. ‘Sorry. We offer all of our guests a cookie. They’re fresh. Want one?’

  ‘Why not,’ Adam said.

  The girl slid the plastic key cards for the room across the desk, along with a little paper bag.

  ‘Enjoy,’ she said.

  Adam thanked her, crossed the lobby and called the elevator. When it arrived, he stepped into its small, bright red interior and pressed the button for his floor. An elegantly dressed older lady stepped in after him, smiled and selected the floor below his.

  In place of the usual ping, the elevator apparently had a different electronic voice for each stop, making chirpy references to what were evidently American films or TV shows that Adam was only vaguely familiar with.

  In his room, he had an hour to kill. He stood before the mirror in the bathroom and regarded himself. In this kind, dim light, he didn’t look as careworn and red as he had in the lenses of his neighbour’s glasses on the flight. Cheered, he took off his clothes and lay on the bed.

  His thoughts drifted, and settled on Erica once more. Automatically, his hand moved to his penis. The urge was lacking, though; he didn’t actually want to masturbate. Strange, he thought. It was the first time he could remember feeling this lack in a similar situation, on any other of the many occasions he’d found himself lying naked on a new hotel bed.

  His phone chimed, and vibrated on the glass of the bedside unit. He picked it up quickly, thinking the text might be from Erica, and was disappointed to see Roger the manager’s name on his screen.

  30 mins. Suite 3, penthouse level.

  Why was everything with Roger so ominous? Adam wondered.

  He showered, and ordered a Martini from room service. When it arrived, he had to drink it quite quickly before heading back to the chirruping elevator.

  * * *

  ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,’ Roger said. He was standing before a vast panel of glass that ran the length of the luxury suite. Behind him, the few skyscrapers of Denver’s token downtown were dwarfed by the snow-topped Rocky Mountains beyond.

  The speakers of a specially rented sound system rose almost to the ceiling either side of him, their black, silhouetted forms somehow menacing – as though a pair of robot bodyguards were flanking the manager.

  ‘Tonight,’ Roger continued, ‘you are all gonna drink the Kool-Aid.’

  Adam swallowed. My God, he thought. He’s finally fucking lost it.

  And it was true that Roger’s eyes – free, now, from his sunglasses – looked frightening. Red-rimmed, unblinking, the pupils shrunk to little black dots and the orbs themselves appearing to protrude. On the first album, Adam recalled, it had taken a lot longer for Roger to reach this stage of intensity. The new record wasn’t even out yet.

  He scanned the room, looking for something to drink. An actual drink would have been nice. All that had been laid out on a coffee table was a few bottles of mineral water.

  Roger, meanwhile, looked at each of his captive audience, eyeing them like the leader of a small, armed band of musical resistance. He had insisted that the key players fly in for the gig. As well as Adam, there were four other attendees: a smart blonde radio promoter in her mid-forties – visibly annoyed at her summoning; a slim, earnest PR guy; a very young woman who dressed like a goth and specialized in digital streaming; and Falconz’ booking agent, a stocky, aggressive man in a sports jacket whose enthusiasm for the band was second only to Roger’s.

  ‘Let me tell you a story,’ Roger said, softening his voice momentarily. ‘The other day I found myself in a techno rave. A kid that I’m mentoring in the office wanted to take me to see one of his DJs at a warehouse party downtown. Now, I’m not much of an underground dance guy, but I thought – hey, why not? So I went. And it was just… amazing.’

  He paused, scanning his seated audience. ‘It was dark in there. Disorienting. Strobe lights, smoke. Dancing figures. People seemed to emerge from nowhere… The music… It was so heavy, so intense. So… big. Every element, every layer of it was so clear and so loud. The bass. I could feel it… pounding… deep in my gut.’

  Roger closed his eyes, and thumped a fist into his stomach. The radio promoter flinched.

 
‘So when I got back to my hotel, I was in a daze. I poured myself a glass of bourbon. The sun was already coming up, but a question was tearing at my mind, and I put on the first Falconz album. I had to know, you see. I needed to compare it to this experience of a different world, to make sure the music we work on has the same level of power. To make sure I hadn’t been trapped in… some sort of a bubble. And guess what?’ He paused, drew in a deep breath, trembling a little.

  Maybe he’s realized? Adam wondered. Maybe it’s suddenly struck him that it’s just emotional incontinence in musical form?

  Roger raised his eyes once more. ‘I was even more blown away,’ he said, voice cracking with passion. ‘And that’s when I realized: Falconz are geniuses on a whole different level… Beyond electronic music. Beyond rock. Beyond music, even. What we are witnessing is just the beginning. Falconz are one of the key creative forces of their generation, working in any medium.’

  Adam coughed. The radio promoter glanced at him. Run! he felt like shouting.

  Roger had paused, eyeing each of them again in turn. The radio promoter – a highly regarded industry veteran – was wearing a pair of pristine, patent-blue heels. Her legs crossed before her, she’d allowed one of these to dangle from a toe. Now, she began waggling the heel rapidly, a frown deepening on her face.

  Adam risked a glance rightward, along the row of seats. The agent and the PR guy were nodding, reflecting on Roger’s words. Only the goth remained impassive.

  ‘Falconz,’ Roger continued, ‘are bigger than all of us. Tonight, you are gonna see one of the greatest shows of your lives. I personally guarantee it. But before you do…’ The manager’s latest pause was long enough for the radio promoter to frown more deeply, and glance at Adam again. ‘… You are gonna hear some brand-new Falconz music.’

  With a flourish, Roger stepped aside and clicked a small black remote in his hand. Adam tried not to wince as the air in the room was abruptly filled with a very loud sound.