Flamingoes in Orbit

by Philip Ridley

  By the time I arrived at The Oasis, there were a couple of coaches parked outside. Pupils from other schools (supporters as well as competitors) were spilling out and rushing up the stone steps to the entrance.

  I registered at the front desk and was given a name tag with my photo on it. The photo had been supplied by the school and had been taken a few years earlier, so it looked nothing like me now. I gazed in horror at my longer hair and the unsightly pimple on my chin. I will have to make it a precondition of me participating in any future events that a new photograph of me has to be done. This had nothing to do with vanity, you understand. It was just to get something more accurate – No! That’s bollocks. It’s all about vanity! So what?

  The changing rooms were divided into various sections (one for each school) and I followed the arrows saying ‘ST JUDE’S’.

  Mr Barkham – the two-timed husband – was looking through the day’s schedule.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Well, hello!’ he said, smiling. ‘So you are taking part!’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here too, sir. We’ve all missed you.’

  ‘Oh . . . it’s good of you to say that. I’m . . . I’m sorry I haven’t as supportive as I should have been this week but . . . well, I’ve had some personal trouble. You know?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And . . . are you feeling okay?

  ‘I . . . well, yes, I’m . . . I’m doing better than I thought. Thank you for asking. That means a lot— Aha! Here’re some of the others!’

  Trey and his ‘bike shed’ cohorts were coming this way.

  They did a double take when they saw me. Trey whispered something. They all sniggered and – jostling with each other – settled on a bench nearby, sneering in my direction.

  Trey said, ‘We didn’t think you were going to be here.’

  ‘Well, you were wrong,’ I said, taking off my tie. ‘Here I am!’

  ALIEN HEART

  I was looking in a mirror, combing my hair and thinking of aliens, when the bedroom door opened and Mum walked in. ‘Turn the music down,’ she said, indicating the record player. Then added in the same breath, ‘You’re not wearing that tonight, are you?’

  ‘Don’t bother to knock,’ I said. ‘And what’s wrong with what I’m wearing? Or the music?’

  ‘They’re both morbid.’ She picked fluff from my jacket. ‘When I was eighteen I played dance records and wore party clothes on a Saturday night.’

  ‘I’m not going to a party.’ I sat on the edge of the bed and put my shoes on. ‘I’m going to see a film. A film with this morbid music.’

  ‘Sounds like a bundle of laughs.’ She ran her hand down the back of my head. ‘Who you going with?’

  I flinched away. ‘Don’t mess my hair up! Why do people have to keep touching all the time?’ I stood up. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Like you’re going to a funeral. Why wear black?’

  ‘I like it. Next question.’

  ‘Why’s the music so bloody loud?’

  ‘Because it’s brilliant!’ I turned the volume up even more as the chorus came in. ‘Listen to that!’

  Mum looked unconvinced. ‘What’s the film about? Nuns?’

  ‘You know what it’s about! Aliens come down to Earth and they kidnap a child and . . . oh, it’s just brilliant!’

  ‘You haven’t seen the film yet.’

  ‘Well, I’ve loved everything about it so far. Just the title alone is magic. Close Encounters of the Third Kind. And the poster! The light at the end of the dark road!’ I turned the record off, pushed past Mum and out of the bedroom.

  My younger brother was in his room with his girlfriend. His door was wide open. They were knotted together, kissing. They heard me and their knot loosened.

  ‘Your music made the walls shake!’ my brother said. ‘Why does the whole house have to hear your crap?’

  ‘I’m trying to educate you!’ I said. ‘And close your door, for Chrissakes! Snogging in front of everyone. It’s disgusting.’

  My brother got to his feet, fists clenched.

  ‘No fighting!’ Mum shut his door. ‘Don’t provoke him!’

  ‘He started it!’

  ‘He’s allowed to kiss his fiancée.’

  ‘She’s not his fiancée!’

  ‘His girlfriend, then. What’s the difference?’

  ‘It’s a big difference! Jesus!’ I went down the stairs.

  Mum followed. ‘Have you got your inhaler?’

  ‘It makes my pockets bulge.’

  ‘What if you have an asthma attack?’

  ‘Then I’ll die,’ I gave myself one last look in the hallway mirror. ‘At least I’ll be dressed for it.’

  ‘Don’t joke about things like that,’ Mum said. Then added, ‘You still haven’t told me who you’re going with.’

  ‘I know I haven’t.’

  ‘Is it this Beth who’s been calling?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘Why’re you so bloody secretive about everything?’

  ‘Why do you want to know everything?’

  ‘I’m your mum. It’s my job.’

  ‘Okay, okay, it’s Beth.’

  ‘Oh, I had such a lovely chat with her.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When she phoned the other day.’

  ‘She phoned to talk to you?!’

  ‘No. She phoned to talk to you, but you were out.’

  ‘So you decided to interrogate her?’

  ‘I made conversation. It’s called being polite.’

  ‘It’s called being bloody nosey!’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that!’

  ‘And what did you “make conversation” about?’

  ‘You. I told her what a loving little boy you were.’

  ‘I don’t want her to know things about me, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’ve only known her a few weeks.’

  ‘She said you met in the library.’

  ‘Jesus! It’s like the Watergate investigation!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You should work for the bloody Washington Post.’

  ‘I wish I did! I might find out what you’re up to, then.’

  ‘I’m not “up to” anything. Beth’s got a part time job at the library. We work the same evenings. We talked. We’re going to see a film. That’s it. No big deal.’

  ‘She sounds very fond of you.’

  ‘She sounds like that about everyone.’

  ‘She said you’ve met her parents.’

  ‘I didn’t “meet” her parents.’

  ‘But she said – ’

  ‘They happened to be in her house when I went round to see her. That’s all!’

  ‘It’s still called “meeting” people.’

  A car hooter sounded outside.

  ‘That’ll be her!’ I said. ‘Bye.’ I kissed Mum on the cheek, then poked my head round the living room door.

  Dad was sitting in front of the television, asleep.

  ‘Tell Dad I said goodbye.’ I opened the street door.

  Beth was in her car. She wound down her window and called out, ‘Hello there!’ Not to me, but to my mum.

  ‘You should have knocked,’ Mum said, rushing over to the car. ‘Come in for a chat.’

  ‘I had instructions to stay outside,’ Beth said, indicating me.

  Mum shot me a look. ‘What’s wrong with you?!’

  I got in the car as quickly as possible. ‘We’ll be late, Beth!’ I got the tickets from my pocket. ‘The doors open at half past eight.’

  ‘Then the film won’t start till nine,’ Beth said.

  ‘But I want to see the trailers!’

  Beth looked at Mum. ‘Everything has to be done his way.’

  ‘He’s always been the same,’ Mum told her.

  ‘Of all the boys to have as a boyfriend – ’

  ‘Hurry up!’ I said.

  ‘Bye!’ Beth said t
o Mum. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Mum said.

  The car pulled away.

  ‘I wanted to talk to her,’ Beth said.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You’re friends with me, not my bloody mum. And don’t call me “boyfriend”. I hate all those labels and things. And if you phone me and I’m not at home, please – please! – don’t talk to my mum.’

  ‘What’re you so afraid of?’

  ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’ I took a few deep breaths. ‘Look . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . well, if we let Mum know anything – anything at all! – she’ll just get carried away. She’ll . . . assume things.’

  ‘Assume what “things”?’

  ‘Oh . . . you know.’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘Well, she’ll be asking us when we’re getting married for one thing.’

  ‘Oh, she won’t!’

  ‘She will! She’s already doing it with my brother and he’s two years younger. She’ll have us married and buying a house before you can say, “But we’ve only known each other a month!”’

  ‘Two months.’

  ‘Okay, okay, two months. I just don’t want other people telling us what we are and how . . . how we should behave. That’s all. You know?’

  ‘Okay.’ She smiled. ‘I understand.’

  I said, ‘Okay. Thank you . . . I’m really looking forward to the film. Are you?’

  ‘I am, I am!’ she said. ‘And – stop press news! – my mum and dad have gone to see some friends, which means they won’t be back until very – very! – late. So, after the film, we can go back and have the house to ourselves for a few hours. You can spend all that time not being my boyfriend. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Good, yeah.’

  It took about half an hour to get to the West End of London. We managed to find a parking space in Chinatown and walked to Leicester Square.

  The film was showing at the Odeon. The poster image was huge above the cinema entrance. I tingled all over when I saw it. I had to stand there for a while, just staring. The crowd bustled round me.

  Beth tugged at my sleeve. ‘We going in or what?’

  ‘Wait, Beth, wait! I want to . . . soak it all up.’

  Beth stood in silence.

  After a minute or so, I said. ‘Okay. Ready.’

  We went into the foyer.

  ‘Let’s get some popcorn!’ Beth said.

  ‘You want to eat!?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘It’s noisy. It’s irritating. It’s an insult to the filmmakers. Shall I carry on?’

  ‘But everyone’s buying popcorn!’

  ‘Then everyone’s ignorant.’

  ‘You’re annoying me now,’ she said, eyes flaring. ‘Most of the time, I can let what you say slide by, because it’s sort of amusing. But calling me “ignorant” – that is not amusing!’

  ‘I didn’t call you – ’

  ‘I want popcorn!’

  There were tears in her eyes now. I would have comforted her, but I could hear the trailers starting.

  I bought some popcorn.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  We went into the auditorium. Beth clutched my arm. The closer we got to the screen the tighter the grip became. ‘We’re not sitting near the front are we?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘We’re sitting at the front. Right in the middle. It’s the only way to see a big film like this. It’s got to overwhelm you.’

  We found our places and sat.

  ‘It’s too close,’ Beth said. ‘All I can see are fuzzy dots.’

  The trailers and adverts were coming to an end and my stomach started to flutter in anticipation. As the lights dimmed for the start of the film, I glanced at Beth to share the moment. She was squinting into the popcorn.

  The curtains parted in front of us.

  A dark screen.

  Silence.

  The titles began. White on black. Fading up, then down with majestic leisure. My heart was beating so hard my shirt was twitching.

  Beth nudged my arm. ‘It’s not working,’ she whispered.

  ‘What’s not working?’

  ‘The sound. No music.’

  ‘It hasn’t started yet.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  At that moment the music began. That ethereal, shimmering sound, as if the air itself was vibrating into life. It grew louder and louder. Cocooning us in delicious ambush. And then –

  A thunder blow of sound!

  An explosion of light!

  It was the best beginning to any film I had ever seen. This was pure cinema. A light and sound show. Light as bright as sand in your eyes. Music so loud you felt it in your rib-cage. I heard the audience gasp behind me. A few laughed. Not in amusement, but in the spontaneous delight of experiencing perfection.

  Beside me, Beth had dropped her popcorn.

  ‘Made me jump,’ she said.

  ‘Shhh!’ I said.

  As the film unfolded I knew I was in the presence of a masterpiece. This must’ve been what Pope Julius II felt when he saw the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for the first time.

  And then the moment at Devil’s Tower when, after all the smaller spacecraft have disappeared, everything goes completely quiet.

  I could feel the audience behind me holding its breath.

  We were all there, at Devil’s Tower.

  And something was about to happen . . .

  I reached for Beth’s hand. Yes, I did love her. The past month – two months! – had been, if not a joy, then at least not an agony. I could make this work between us. I will do what my mum so obviously wants. I will ask Beth to marry me. We will have a big white wedding. In the church where Mum and Dad had been married. Everyone will be so happy. Yes, Beth, yes. Call me ‘boyfriend’. Make me belong. Untangle my heart and lasso us together­.

  I threaded my fingers between hers and squeezed.

  She did not respond.

  I looked at her.

  She was asleep.

  I felt a betrayal so intense I wanted to carry on squeezing until I felt her bones snap and knuckles pop.

  But I merely let go and continued watching the screen.

  A gentle rumbling was coming from the back of the cinema.

  Someone in the film was saying, ‘Oh my God!’

  People in the audience were saying it too.

  And then it happened!

  Surely the greatest moment in all of cinema: the appearance of the Mother Ship.

  Two men behind me started talking.

  I spun round. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Free country,’ whined one.

  Beth tugged at my sleeve. The altercation must have woken her. ‘Don’t let them bother you,’ she said.

  She’s right, I thought. For the sake of the film. Relax.

  On-screen, aliens were appearing. The sight of them made me want to weep. Richard Dreyfuss, held in a crucifix pose, was taken into the Mother Ship.

  Oh, take me, I thought. Take me to your world. A world where you can play music as loud as you want and parents don’t ask questions. A world where you hear in Dolby Stereo and see in Technicolor. Take me to your paradise. Take me, take me.

  The Mother Ship began to rise. A cathedral ascending to starlight, becoming a star.

  When Steven Spielberg’s name appeared I clapped until my palms were sore.

  Beth stood. ‘Come on,’ she said.

  ‘The film’s not over yet,’ I insisted.

  ‘It’s only the credits.’

  I didn’t budge.

  Beth sat down again.

  I waited until the last credit had gone and the curtains had closed. Only then did I – slowly! – get to my feet and – slowly! – leave the cinema.

  I felt different, as though I was suffering from some grief. A grief so glorious it had actually changed the shape of my heart.

  Outside, the birds in Leicester Square were squawking. The sound hurt, not on
ly my ears, but my skin. I wanted to be somewhere quiet and dark so I could think about what I’d just experienced.

  Because of the heavy traffic it took us over twenty minutes to get out of the West End. As Beth lived in Whitechapel we took the City route home, driving down the Strand towards St. Paul’s.

  ‘Did you like the film?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, the beginning made me jump.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘And I liked the child. I thought he was so cute. Didn’t you think he was cute?’

  ‘He was a great little actor, yes,’ I said.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Anything else?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, did you like the film or not?’ I asked. ‘It’s a simple question.’

  ‘Well . . . no . . . not really.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just didn’t. I can’t explain.’ She glanced at me. ‘I can tell you liked it.’

  ‘There’s nothing not to like.’

  ‘Oh, I knew this was going to happen,’ she said. ‘Don’t let’s argue about it. You liked it and I didn’t. What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters a lot! We’ve just sat through the greatest cinematic experience of all time. If you didn’t like it I want you to explain why.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Try!’

  ‘Can you explain why you did?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘For a start the script was well-written and beautifully structured. Second, the photography by Vilmos Zsigmond was crystal clear, and full of luminous colours. Third, Douglas Trumbull’s special effects were a revelation. Fourth, the acting by Richard Dreyfuss, Teri Garr and Melinda Dillon was totally believ­able, and I cared for all of them. And, apart from everything else, it contained some of the best set-pieces I have ever seen.’

  We had passed St Paul’s and were heading for Liverpool Street.

  ‘Set-pieces?’ Beth asked.

  ‘The child’s toys coming to life,’ I said. ‘The lights rising behind Richard Dreyfuss’s truck. The spacecraft coming round the mountain. Richard Dreyfuss kissing Teri Garr and looking up at the stars. The loss of gravity when – ’

  ‘All right, all right. Enough.’

  Turning into Whitechapel Road.

  ‘And,’ I continued, ‘don’t forget the best bit of all.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The appearance of the Mother Ship! The bit you fucking slept through!’