Seeing Stars Read online

  the money.” “But you’re the pilot,” she said, then added,

  “Sir,” as if she’d walked into a Japanese house and

  forgotten to take off her shoes. The pilot whispered,

  “Listen, I need that money. I’m behind on my mortgage

  payments because my wife’s a gambler. I’ve got two

  sons at naval college—the hats alone cost a small fortune

  —and I’m being blackmailed by a pimp in Stockport. Let

  me take the two hundred, you’d be saving my life.”

  I’d been sitting within earshot, next to the stand-up

  ashtray. “Give him the money,” I said. “Who are you?”

  asked Dorothy (she was wearing a plastic name-badge

  with gold letters). “Dorothy, I’m George,” I said, “and

  clearly this man’s in pain. I don’t want him going all

  gooey midway over the English Channel. I once heard

  sobbing coming from the cabin of a Jumbo Jet at thirty-

  three thousand feet, and it sounded like the laughter of

  Beelzebub.” “But who’ll fly the plane?” she wanted to

  know. “Why me, of course.” I opened my mouth so she

  could see how good my teeth were—like pilot’s teeth.

  “Do you have a licence?” she asked. I said, “Details,

  always details. Dorothy, it’s time to let go a little, to trust

  in the unexplained. Time to open your mind to the

  infinite.” By now my hand was resting on hers, and

  a small crowd of passengers had gathered around,

  nodding and patting me on the back. “Good for you,

  George,” said a backpacker with a leather shoelace

  knotted around his wrist. It was biblical, or like the end

  of a family film during the time of innocence. I said,

  “Dorothy, give me the keys to the cockpit, and let’s get

  this baby in the air.”

  15:30 by the Elephant House

  “Let’s get married at the zoo!” exclaimed Scott. “Perfect,”

  said Charlene. They found the name of a humanist minister

  in the Yellow Pages and he arranged to meet them at 15:30

  by the elephant house. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer

  the glass wall of the penguin tank as a backdrop?” asked the

  minister. “They’re so vivacious and life-affirming.” “No,

  here’s fine,” said Scott. “Perfect,” agreed Charlene. “Then

  let’s begin. Do you, Scott, believe that friendship and

  decency underpin the essence of humanity?” “I do,” said

  Scott, removing a stray hair clinging to Charlene’s lip.

  “And do you, Charlene, agree to hand over the universe to

  future generations in an improved and morally enhanced

  condition?” “I do,” said Charlene, “I most truthfully do.”

  But before the minister could pronounce them husband and

  wife, a hulking brute of a man in dirty waders and a peaked

  cap came galumphing towards them, bellowing, “What the

  bloody hell fire is going on here?” The minister had sidled

  away very smartly and was pretending to admire the

  aardvark. “We’re getting married,” said Scott. “Not in my

  zoo you’re not,” said the man. “Have you no respect for

  these creatures, flaunting your humanness in front of them?

  Can’t you see how defeated and ashamed they are? Have

  you looked the orang-utan in the face?” Scott said, “But

  we’re nature lovers.” The zookeeper guffawed. “You’re a

  pair of hypocrites. Now fuck off.” Charlene’s heart sank to

  the sea bed of her stomach. She hadn’t wanted to hear a

  word like that on her wedding day. “Go on, leave this

  place. The capybara needs its toenails cutting, and when I

  come back I want to find you supremacists gone.”

  It rained and there were no taxis. The silk dress Charlene

  had ordered from a tailor in Wushi began to perish in front

  of her eyes, and the scar on his back where Scott had once

  been treated for shingles began to throb and burn. Back in

  the house they argued like flamethrowers. But later, after

  two bottles of chilled Veuve Clicquot and a tray of Dublin

  Bay oysters in bison grass vodka, they pushed the coffee

  table to one side and in front of a glowing fire dispensed

  with restraint for the first time in their lives. For the heart

  shall never relinquish its claim on the crown, and from

  love’s furnace shall the golden infant be born. And I

  should know, because my name is Sean Wain, Australian

  test cricketer, peerless spinner of a red leather ball and their

  beautiful bastard son.

  An Obituary

  Stealing from his mother’s house, Edward came

  across a handwritten note tucked away in a scallop-

  shell purse.

  “As a child, Edward liked to climb trees in the

  plantation and make dams in the stream at the foot

  of the garden, and once carved a toy rifle out of a

  table leg. But right from the very beginning there

  was a craving emptiness in Edward’s life. Board

  games and soft toys, space-hoppers and bikes—the

  more it was given the deeper and wider it grew. All

  sweetness was rancid on Edward’s tongue and all

  teachers and doctors were assassins and spies. All

  handshakes were tentacles, all compliments were

  veiled threats, all statements and assessments were

  worthless confessions obtained under torture, all

  care plans were Byzantine conspiracies of evil

  intent. Awake and asleep Edward stalked the

  battlements alone, meeting the emissaries of peace

  with the point of a bayonet, beading friendship in

  the crosshairs of suspicion, scanning the open plane

  from the watchtower so as to ride out and beat until

  dead the first flames of tenderness or the sparks of

  love. He is survived by his mother, Eleanor, from

  whom he took everything, but who would give it all

  again just to let him scream his agonies into her face

  or pound his fury into her breast one final time. He

  left no note.”

  Edward opened the wardrobe, which was empty

  except for the greatcoat, which slumped towards

  him then engulfed him as he hauled it from the rail.

  The huge, overburdening coat with its stiff, turf-like

  cloth, and its triceratops collar, and its mineshaft

  pockets, and the drunken punches of its flailing

  sleeves. Through the neat bullet hole in the back,

  daylight looked distant and pinched, like the world

  through a dusty telescope held back-to-front to the

  eye. And there Edward wept, crouched in the

  foxhole, huddled in a ball under the greatcoat,

  draped in the flag.

  Knowing What We Know Now

  The elf said to Kevin, “You’re probably wondering why

  I’m sitting here at your breakfast table this morning,

  helping myself to your condiments. Kevin, I’m here to

  make you a very special offer—let’s call it a once-in-a-

  lifetime opportunity. Today you’re forty-four years and

  thirty-six days old, and that’s exactly how long you’ve got

  left! Let me save you the mental arithmetic: you’re going

  to live till you’re eighty-eight years and seventy-two days,

  and you�
�ve just crossed the halfway line. It’s what we

  elves like to call ‘the tipping point.’ So, Kevin, as of now,

  you can either carry on regardless and pretend we never

  met. Or say the word, and I can flip the hourglass on its

  head. Do you see what I’m saying? So instead of getting

  older you’ll be heading back in the other direction. I’ve got

  all the forms—you just sign here, here and here and it’s

  goodbye incontinence, hello Ibiza! What do you say,

  Kevin?”

  The arthritis in Kevin’s shoulder had been bothering him

  of late, and the prospect of revitalising his tired and aching

  joints was tantalising to say the least. Imagine crusading

  once again through the unconquered landscapes of early

  manhood, knowing what he knew now. But what about

  Annie, the woman he loved, the only woman he’d loved in

  his whole life? Could he really go swanning around with a

  young man’s intentions and a fashionable T-shirt while she

  slipped away towards undignified infirmity and toothless

  old age? How cowardly, to let her walk death’s shadowy

  footpath alone, thus betraying his every promise to her,

  thus breaking every vow. And an image formed in his

  mind—Annie with ghostly hair and faraway eyes, cradling

  him in her limp, skinny arms, roses in a vase on the bedside

  table next to the tissues and ventilator, his flawless cheek

  against her grey cotton gown, his tiny mouth moving

  hungrily towards her sunken breast. “I won’t do it.

  Because of my Annie,” said Kevin, emphatically. The elf

  said, “Kevin, you’re a gentleman, and God knows there

  aren’t many of them around. And your Annie, she’s one in

  a million.” He wiped a few crumbs of crispbread from the

  corner of his mouth and added, “No two ways about it, had

  the pleasure of breakfasting with her just a few months ago.

  A stunning, captivating woman. And looking younger

  every day.” Then with a shuffle of his silver slippers on the

  hardwood floor, he was gone.

  The Experience

  I hadn’t meant to go grave robbing with Richard Dawkins

  but he can be very persuasive. “Do you believe in God?”

  he asked. “I don’t know,” I said. He said, “Right, so get

  in the car.” We cruised around the cemetery with the

  headlights off. “Here we go,” he said, pointing to a plot

  edged with clean, almost luminous white stone. I said,

  “Doesn’t it look sort of …” “Sort of what?” “Sort of

  fresh?” I said. “Pass me the shovel,” he said. Then he

  threw a square of canvas over the headstone, saying,

  “Don’t read it. It makes it personal.” He did all the

  digging, holding the torch in his mouth as he chopped and

  sliced at the dirt around his feet. “What the hell are you

  doing?” he shouted from somewhere down in the soil.

  “Eating a sandwich,” I said. “Bacon and avocado. Want

  one?” “For Christ sake, Terry, this is a serious business,

  not the bloody church picnic,” he said, as a shower of dirt

  came arcing over his shoulder.

  After about half an hour of toil I heard the sound of metal

  on wood. “Bingo,” he said. Then a moment or two later,

  “Oh, you’re not going to like this, Terry.” “What?” I said,

  peering over the edge. Richard Dawkins’s eyes were about

  level with my toes. “It’s quite small,” he said. He

  uncovered the outline of the coffin lid with his boot. It was

  barely more than a yard long and a couple of feet wide. I

  felt the bacon and avocado disagreeing with one another.

  “Do you believe in God?” he said. I shrugged my

  shoulders. “Pass me the jemmy,” he said. The lid

  splintered around the nail heads; beneath the varnish the

  coffin was nothing but cheap chipboard. The day I found

  little Harry in the bath, one eye was closed and the other

  definitely wasn’t. Flying fish can’t really fly. With both

  feet on the crowbar Richard Dawkins bounced up and

  down until the coffin popped open. But lying still and snug

  in the blue satin of the upholstered interior was a goose. A

  Canada Goose, I think, the ones with the white chinstrap,

  though it was hard to be certain because its throat had been

  cut and its rubber-looking feet were tied together with

  gardening twine. Richard Dawkins leaned back against the

  wall of the grave and shook his head. With a philosophical

  note in my voice I said, “What did you come here for,

  Richard Dawkins?” He said, “Watches, jewellery, cash. A

  christening cup, maybe. What about you?” “I thought it

  might give me something to write about,” I replied. “Well,

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, we’ve got a murdered goose

  in a child’s coffin in the middle of the night, and mud on

  our boots. How would you finish this one?” he said. I

  looked around, trying to think of a way out of this big ugly

  mess. Then I said, “I’ve got it. What if we see the vicar

  over there, under the yew tree, looking at us? He stares at

  us and we stare back, but after a while we realise it isn’t

  the vicar at all. It’s a fox. You know, with the white bib

  of fur around its neck, which we thought was a collar. A

  silent, man-size fox in a dark frockcoat and long black

  gloves, standing up on his hind legs, watching.”

  Collaborators

  A small, heavy man stuck his perfectly bald head

  through the open door of Bastian’s barber’s shop and

  said, “Do I need an appointment or can you squeeze

  me in?” Trade had been brisk that morning and

  Bastian had only just put his feet up to read the paper.

  “Er, take a seat,” said Bastian. The man threw his

  jacket onto the hat stand and jumped in the chair.

  “What can I do you for?” asked Bastian. His bald

  head was as pink as a pig. It was also a mirrorball set

  with a hundred glistening beads of sweat. “You can

  get this fringe out of my eyes for a start,” said the

  man. “It’s like trekking through Borneo!” Bastian

  giggled nervously. “Something funny?” the man said.

  “No, nothing, just a tickly cough,” said Bastian. He

  produced his scissors from the pouch pocket of his

  apron and made a few tentative snips at the fresh air

  in front of the man’s eyes. “Better already,” said the

  man. “And take some off the top and around the ears,

  will you?” Bastian embarked on a slow orbit of the

  man’s naked cranium, darting in and out with the

  scissors, even dusting a few imaginary hairs off his

  shoulders with the brush. “So good, so good,” the

  man muttered, then, “Didn’t realise how out of hand it

  had got till I caught sight of myself in the butcher’s

  window this morning. Said to myself—now there’s

  a head in need of a haircut.” Bastian was getting the

  hang of it now, warming to the task. “What about

  the ponytail?” he asked. “Yeah, fuck it, why not,”

  said the man after hesitating a moment. With his

  biggest, shiniest
scissors Bastian ceremonially lopped

  off the nonexistent twist of hair from behind the

  man’s head then held it up for inspection between his

  finger and thumb. “Excuse me for being bold, sir, but

  might I suggest a complete shave? Extreme, I know,

  but very cleansing in this sultry autumn heat, and

  increasingly popular with some of my younger

  clientele.” The man, who was fifty if he was a day,

  said, “Even with men as young as me?” “It seems to

  be the fashionable choice, sir,” said Bastian. “Do it,”

  said the man. He gripped the metal arms of the chair

  as Bastian buzzed around him with the electric

  clippers then finished the job with the cutthroat razor,

  the stropped blade passing deliriously close to the

  scalp. “It’s a revelation,” the customer proclaimed

  upon opening his eyes, and for a minute or so he sat

  there like a chimp with a mirror, dabbing his nude

  skull with astonished fingers, genuine in his disbelief.

  Then he paid Bastian with pretend money and set off

  down the street whistling a happy song.

  By the time he came to lock the door and put the

  CLOSED sign in the window later that evening,

  Bastian had forgotten the hairless customer. But after

  sweeping the linoleum and shaking the curls and

  locks of a day’s work into the dustbin in the

  alleyway, he was dumbfounded to notice a long,

  golden ponytail tied neatly with twine, then to find

  nails and thorns, and also what looked like teeth,

  and the suggestion of a small black moustache.

  Ricky Wilson Couldn’t Sleep

  He got up and went for a walk. It was 4 o’clock in the

  morning. There was no one around except for a drunk

  sleeping it off in the doorway of Vidal Sassoon. Then an

  orange came rolling towards Ricky down Albion Street.

  It trundled in his direction before clipping a kerbstone and

  jumping straight into his hands. The orange was dusty and

  slightly misshapen from its journey, but after a quick polish

  with his cravat and a bit of moulding in his hands, the fruit

  was restored. He stared at it under the glow of the