Seeing Stars Page 5

  on a truly formidable sleeping policeman he pulled up

  at a barrier. A man in a serge blue uniform spoke to him

  from behind the metal grille of a fortified kiosk. “ID,”

  he said. Marlon scrambled for his driving licence in the

  glove compartment. “I’ve come to talk to Class 9.” “Sign

  this disclaimer,” said the guard, then pointed the way

  without removing his gauntlet. As instructed, Marlon

  parked up, passed through a metal detector then followed

  a line of dried blood splashes to a room at the end of a

  basement corridor. Halfway along he spotted his daughter,

  who took one look at him—especially at his shoes—and

  bolted. Inside the classroom about twenty young teenagers

  were sprawled across tables and chairs, scratching and

  yawning. Thinking that surprise was his best tactic,

  Marlon gulped down a big breath of air, fetched a small rust-

  coloured stone out of his pocket and said, “Has anyone here

  ever seen a shooting star? Has anyone ever held a piece of

  outer space in their hand? Does anyone know what this is?”

  A boy at the back in a stabproof body warmer put his hand

  up. “What’s your ride, man?” “Excuse me?” said Marlon.

  “What kind of car do you drive, granddad?” said the boy.

  “A Clio,” Marlon told him. “That’s a pussy’s car,” said the boy,

  and the whole class sniggered. Marlon was still holding the

  stone between his thumb and index finger, but awkwardly,

  like a robot picking up an egg. Another boy with a swastika

  tattoo on his earlobe strolled right up to Marlon and said,

  “Have you got any money, or no?” “Not on me,” lied Marlon.

  “Come on, we’re wasting our time with this muppet,” said the

  young Nazi. With their hands rammed in their pockets the

  rest of the class followed him out of the room. Only a petite,

  bespectacled girl remained in her seat. She was very tiny

  indeed—just a dot of a thing. In a voice like the squeaking

  wheel of a pram she said, “That’s no meteorite. It’s just a

  pebble you picked up on the road. Isn’t it, mister? Isn’t it?”

  Marlon said, “Do you know my daughter, Jennifer?” “You’re

  not Jenny’s dad. Jenny’s dad’s got no legs,” she piped.

  Marlon wasn’t crying exactly, but behind his eyes tears

  were streaming like rain down the windows of an all-night

  café. “Look, I’ll show you the way to the caretaker’s office

  then you’ll have to make a run for it,” said the girl. “But it’ll

  have to look like there’s been a struggle. A black eye at least,

  and maybe a broken nose, just to be safe.” Marlon thought

  about the brittle, porcelain cheekbones beneath the pale

  skin of her face. “I could never hit a child,” he said. “Stupid—

  it’s me whacking you,” she said, pulling a telescopic

  truncheon out of her book bag. Marlon turned away

  from the blow. Just then Jennifer’s face appeared in the

  panel of safety glass in the classroom door. Suddenly the

  meteorite started to glow.

  Upon Unloading the Dishwasher

  Even though Katy was desperate to end her affair with

  Raymond she agreed to a rendezvous at a local gallery.

  Standing in front of a canvas onto which the blood of a

  dead rabbit had dripped and congealed, Raymond said,

  “It’s kind of rabbit-shaped—do you think that’s the point?”

  When she didn’t answer, Raymond raised his voice. “I

  SAID IT’S KIND OF RABBIT-SHAPED—DO YOU

  THINK THAT’S THE POINT?” When Katy finally replied,

  here’s what she said:

  “Raymond, imagine my surprise when, upon unloading

  the dishwasher, I discovered the image of The World’s

  Most Wanted Man imprinted on one of my best dinner

  plates. I phoned the Customer Service Hotline. This bored-

  sounding operative somewhere in the subcontinent said to

  me, ‘So let me get this straight, madam, you’ve found The

  World’s Most Wanted Man taking refuge in your

  dishwasher?’ ‘No,’ I said, and explained again in plain

  English. He said, ‘Are you sure it isn’t a gravy stain or the

  residue from a pork chop? Meat products can be very

  stubborn, and for heavy soiling we recommend a pre-soak.

  Also, you might want to try a longer cycle at a higher

  temperature, and can I ask which type of detergent you’re

  using? Is it tablet or sachet?’ Then maybe he heard my

  sobbing because he said, ‘OK, we’ll send somebody

  round.’ Five minutes later there was a knock at the door

  and in came a policeman and a priest. ‘That’s him all right,’

  said the officer, holding the dinner plate up to the light and

  confirming the identity of The World’s Most Wanted Man.

  ‘Is it a miracle?’ I asked. The priest had closed his eyes

  and was sitting on the pedal bin with his arms folded

  across his chest. The policeman laughed. ‘Are you kidding—

  this is the ninth this week. And it isn’t just plates. It’s cups,

  dishes, ice cubes, toast, pizzas. A woman in Hull found

  him in a wholemeal loaf, all the way through.’ Then he

  said, ‘We’ll have to take this appliance away, get the lab

  boys to give it the once-over.’ Now I was crying again. I

  said, ‘But it’s Christmas Eve. I’ve got a party of twelve to

  cater for tomorrow, including Dr. Roscoe and that poor boy

  who stands in the park all day flipping a coin. What shall I

  do?’ He said, ‘At times like this some people find that

  praying helps.’ With his extendable baton he pointed at a

  place on the lino where I might kneel. I asked him if he’d

  join me, but he replied, ‘I won’t, if you don’t mind. Like

  my old man told me, there are only two reasons for putting

  your hands together: one’s for ironic applause, the other’s

  to scrub up before dinner, and even then the palms don’t

  actually touch because they’re separated by an invisible and

  infinitely thin film of detergent. What you call soap.’ ”

  Every word that Katy had uttered was complete poppycock.

  She knew it and Raymond knew it too. But the security

  guard had gone outside for a cigarette, and they were the

  only living souls left in the great, echoing hangar of the

  gallery. And Katy knew with an absolute clarity of

  perception that the moment she stopped talking the fresh

  and bloody wound of Raymond’s mouth would move

  quickly and incisively against her own.

  Poodles

  They all looked daft but the horse-dog looked

  daftest of all. The cute red bridle and swishing

  tail, the saddle and stirrups, the groomed mane.

  The hair round its feet had been shaved and

  fluffed into hooves. Close up, on its hind, there

  were vampire bites where the clippers had steered

  too close to the skin. Skin that was blotchy and

  rude. I leaned over the rail and whispered,

  “You’re not a horse, you’re a dog.” It bared its

  canines and growled: “Shut the fuck up, son. Forty-

  five minutes and down come the dirty bombs—is

&nbs
p; that what you want? Now offer me one of those

  mints and hold it out in the flat of your hand.

  Then hop on.” I was six, with a kitten’s face and

  the heart of a lamb.

  The Personal Touch

  My cohabitee can be pretty demanding. Asked what she

  wanted for our first anniversary she replied, “I want some

  space, Paul, and plenty of it.” I said, “Are you absolutely

  sure? You wouldn’t rather have a macramé seat cover

  for the Mercedes Roadster I bought you for Christmas?

  Or one of those metallic-coloured MP3 players I saw you

  admiring over at Brett’s house the other day?” She put

  aside her nail file and said, “Paul, space is what I want

  and space is what I need. Do I have to SPELL IT OUT?”

  I went down to the hardware shop in the high street. It

  was very manly in there, lots of stern objects made from

  uncompromising metals. Lots of “big ticket” items with

  throttles and interchangeable blades. “Got any space?”

  I asked the man in the brown overalls. “Sure,” he said.

  “What kind of thing were you looking for? Doesn’t come

  cheap, mind.” He showed me some second-hand space

  they were letting go for half price, but one lot appeared

  somewhat dog-eared around the edges, and another batch

  had been wallpapered with woodchip during the ’70s, and

  yet another carried a vague whiff of embalming fluid. He

  pulled down a huge pattern book and showed me the

  entire range: hexagonal space, deep ocean space, space

  that glowed in the dark, vacuum-packed space, space that

  had been brought back from outer space, space that

  giggled when you poked it, space made out of air bubbles

  extracted from core samples of Antarctic ice dating back

  billions of years. I just couldn’t decide. The shopkeeper

  said, “It’s for a lady friend, right?” I couldn’t even bring

  myself to nod—my head felt like a famous but forgotten

  church bell sitting in a scrap yard on the wrong side of

  the river. He said, “In which case, let me recommend

  this. It’s pretty neutral, standard spec., no trimmings to

  speak of, but in a situation like your own I always think

  it’s better to play safe.” I went for a haircut while he gift-

  wrapped the space, then in the newsagents I bought a gift

  tag in the shape of a serenading starfish, and wrote on it,

  “Here’s what you asked for, my sweetheart. I only hope

  it’s enough.” I dropped the package on the doorstep and

  pressed the buzzer. Then I zoomed off in the Roadster,

  faster than I’d ever travelled in my whole existence,

  straight along Quarry Road.

  The Last Panda

  Unprecedented economic growth in my native country

  has brought mochaccino and broadband to where there

  was nothing but misery and disease, yet with loss of

  habitat the inevitable consequence; even the glade I was

  born in is now a thirty-storey apartment block with valet

  parking and a nail salon. They scrape DNA from the

  inside of my cheek and freeze it, “just in case.” To the

  world I’m known by my stage name and am Richard to

  family and friends, but never Dick. Well-meaning

  tourists visiting the Cavern throw pastries and pieces of

  fruit despite notices regarding my sensitive nature and

  strict diet. I cried all night when John was shot, rubbed

  the tired circles of my eyes till they turned black. Please

  do not tap on the glass. The sixties did it for everyone, I

  mean EVERYONE, and what people failed to grasp

  about Chairman Mao was that despite the drab-looking

  suits and systematic violations of basic human rights

  he liked a good tune as much as the next man.

  Liverpool’s a great shag but you wouldn’t want to marry

  it. They named a potato snack in my honour and also a

  small family car, how many people can say that? Fans

  write to me from as far away as Papua New Guinea and I

  insist on responding personally. In fact my “sixth digit”—

  an enlarged wrist bone which functions as a thumb—

  means that handwriting comes easier to me than it does to

  many other creatures, for example the Rolling Stones. If

  I didn’t believe there was one more hit record in me I

  swear I’d end it now. In the dream, there’s still a Paul

  and a George somewhere in the high valleys of Ganzu

  Province, classic period white shirts and black ties, mop

  tops down to their shoulders, strumming away. These

  sunglasses have prescription lenses and are not just for

  effect. Reviewing my Wikipedia entry I note that

  “Yellow Submarine” and “Octopus’s Garden” anticipated

  the absurdist trend in rock ‘n’ roll by at least a decade.

  Every first Tuesday in the month the lady vet gives me a

  hand job but due to the strength of the tranquilliser the

  pleasure is all hers. Years ago they brought Yoko to the

  doors of my cage but it wouldn’t have worked; I let the

  slow snowball of my head roll sadly eastwards and

  stared towards the Himalayas. In the whole cosmos

  there’s only me. What hurts most isn’t the loneliness

  but the withering disrespect: as if they’d dropped a couple

  of bamboo sticks into my paws and I’d just played along.

  Sold to the Lady in the Sunglasses and Green Shoes

  My girlfriend won me in a sealed auction but wouldn’t

  tell me how much she bid. “Leave it, Frank. It’s not

  important. Now go to sleep,” she said. But I was restless.

  An hour later I woke her and said, “Give me a ballpark

  figure.” “I’m tired,” she replied. I put the light on. “But

  are we talking like thousands here?” She rolled away,

  pulled the cotton sheet over her head, mumbling, “You’re

  being silly, Frank.” I said, “Oh, being silly am I? So not

  thousands. Just a couple of hundred, was it?” “I’m not

  telling you, so drop it,” she snarled. By now I was wide

  awake. “Fifty, maybe? A tenner?” She didn’t say anything,

  and when Elaine doesn’t say anything I know I’m getting

  close to the truth. Like the other day with the weed killer.

  I said, “Maybe you weren’t bidding for me at all. Maybe

  you were after a flat-screen telly or a home sun-tanning

  unit, and you got me instead. Tell me, Elaine. Tell me

  what I’m worth, because right now I don’t know if I’m

  an original Fabergé egg or just something the cat dragged

  in.” Elaine surfaced from under the covers and took a sip

  of water from the glass on the bedside table. “Frank, listen.

  What does it matter if it was a million pounds or a second-

  class stamp? You’re priceless, OK? You’re everything to

  me. Don’t spoil it by talking about money.” Then she took

  my hand and held it against her breast and said, “Do you

  want to make love?” I answered with my body, tipping

  every last quicksilver coin into her purse.

  But that night I dreamed of the boy-slave winning his

  freedom by plucking a leaf from Diana’s golden bough,

  and long before dawn, w
ith bread in my knapsack and

  the wind at my back, I strode forth.

  The War of the Roses

  Mancunian Norman had just turned on to the M621 when

  he saw a pewter-haired old man in a brown suit sitting on a

  signpost, with his hands covering his face. He appeared to

  be sobbing. Being a thoughtful sort with a church

  upbringing and a diploma in sociology, Norman eased up

  then reversed slowly along the hard shoulder. He stepped

  out of the car and said, “Couldn’t help noticing how sad

  you looked. Can I give you a lift into the city?” The old

  man’s face was soggy with tears, some of which had

  dripped onto his lapels, leaving black spots like air-pellet

  holes on the chocolate-coloured jacket. “I’m sad all right,”

  he said. “Did you read about the boy in the sewers?”

  Norman shook his head. “Five days he was down there, his

  screams coming up through every drain and sink. I heard

  him myself one night when I was cleaning my teeth, and a

  more sorrowful noise I never knew. They sent in potholers.

  They sent in the Moorland Rescue. They even sent in

  Rentokil.” “Did they find him?” asked Norman. “Dragged

  him out through a manhole cover in Clay Pit Lane last

  night. The rats had got him. I don’t think this city will

  ever be the same again.” Another tear dithered on the point

  of his chin then dripped onto his shoe. “You seem to have

  taken it very hard,” observed Norman. “Hit by a train,”

  said the man, “and I’ll show you why.” He stood up and

  pointed at the sign he’d been perching on. It read,

  Welcome to Leeds. Population 715,403. “It’s my job to

  keep this sign up to date. As soon as I heard about sewer

  boy’s sorry demise I walked here over the meadows,

  swishing through the morning dew, with my pocket

  screwdriver and my bag of numbers.” He produced a

  scrunched-up Tesco’s carrier from his jacket pocket. “But

  when I looked there was no number two. I’ve got a five,

  I’ve got three sixes and an eight, but no two. And what am

  I if I can’t dignify that boy’s agonising demise with the

  right number? I’m a useless old gimmer and I’m going to