“How the fuck should I know? I haven’t seen the guy in nearly thirty years. But, there’s . . . there’s some do on afterwards . . . he’s asked me and me bird to come along. Yer know, for old times I guess.” Jesus, John, who are yer trying to impress?
“Oh,” he says, “and where’s that taking place? I sometimes look in, you know. The security round here’s a joke. Last week, I was that close to Madonna.” He demonstrates the distance with his broom.
Cal’s got the invites in her handybag, but I can picture them clear enough. I’ve got a great memory for crap. They’re all scrolled like it’s a wedding and there’s a signed pass tacked on the back just to make it official. Admit two, The Excelsior, Meriden. Boogie on down, and I bet the Lord Mayor’s coming. And tomorrow it’s Reading. I mean, do these guys paarrty every night?
Choirboy grins. “It’s here at the Metropole, right?”
“Oh, yeah, the Metropole.” I saw the neon on the way in. “That’s the place just outside? Saves the bastards having to walk too far.” I scratch me head. “Well maybe I’ll see yer there. And just let me know if yer have any trouble at all getting in, right?”
“Right on.” He holds out his hand. I don’t bother to shake it—and it’s not simply because this guy cleans bogs. I don’t want him near me, and somehow I don’t want him near Paul or the others either. He’s a fruitcase, and I feel briefly and absurdly pleased with meself that I’ve sent him off to ye wrong hotel.
I give him a wave and head on out ye bog. In the aircraft hangar, music’s still playing. Let’s all get up and dance to a song de da de da de dum de dum. Snodgrass and Tracy are trying to be enthusiastic so they can tell everyone how great it was in the office tomorrow. I wander down the aisles, wondering if it might be easier not to meet up with Cal. On reflection, this seems as good a place as any to duck out of her life. Do the cunt a favour. After all, she deserves it. And to be honest, I really don’t fancy explaining to Kevin where all his money went. He’s a big lad, is our Kev. Useful, like.
The music stops. The crowd claps like they’re really not sure whether they want any more and Paul raises an unnecessary arm to still them.
“Hey, one more song then we’ll let yer go,” he says with probably unintentional irony. I doubt if they know what the fuck is going on up there in Mission Control.
He puts down his Gibson and a roadie hands him something silver. Stu’s grinning like a skull. He even wanders within spitting distance of the front of the stage. A match-stick figure, I can see he looks the way Keith Richards would have done if he really hadn’t taken care of himself. He nods to George. George picks up a twelve string.
“This one’s for an old friend,” Paul says.
The session musicians are looking at each other like What the fuck’s going on? Could this really be an unrehearsed moment? Seems unlikely, but then Paul muffs the count in on a swift four/four beat. There’s nervous laughter amongst the Fab Fearsome, silence in the auditorium. Then again. One. Two. Three. And.
Macca puts the harmonica to his lips. Plays me riff. “Love Me Do”. Oh, yeah. I really can’t believe it. The audience are looking a bit bemused, but probably reckon it’s just something from the new LP that’s stacked by the yard out in the foyer and no one’s bothered to buy. The song’s over quickly. Them kind of songs always were. Me, I’m crying.
The End. Finis, like they say in cartoon. Ye Beatles give a wave and duck off stage. I get swept back in the rush to get to ye doors. I hear snatches of, Doesn’t he look old, They never knew how to rock, Absolutely brilliant, and How much did you pay the babysitter? I wipe the snot off on me sleeve and look around. Cal catches hold of me by the largely unpatronised T-shirt stall before I have a chance to see her coming.
“What did you think?”
“A load of shit,” I say, hoping she won’t notice I’ve been crying.
She smiles. “Is that all you can manage, John? That must mean you liked it.”
Touché, Monsieur Pussycat. “Truth is, I could need a drink.”
“Well, let’s get down the Excelsior. You can meet your old mates and get as pissed as you like.”
She glides me out towards the door. Me feet feel like they’re on rollers. And there’s me chauffeur pal with the boy scout uniform. People stare at us as he opens the door like we’re George Michael. Pity he don’t salute, but still, I’d look a right pillock trying to squirm me way away from a pretty woman and the back seat of a Jag.
The car pulls slowly through the crowds. I do me wave like I’m the Queen Mum although the old bint’s probably too hip to be seen at a Beatles concert. Turns out there’s a special exit for us VIPs. I mean, rock and roll. It’s just a few minutes’ drive, me mate up front tells us.
Cal settles back. “This is the life.”
“Call this life?”
“Might as well make the most of it, John.”
“Oh, yeah. I bet you get taken in this kind of limo all the time. Blowjobs in the back seat. It’s what pays, right?” I bite me lip and look out the window. Jesus, I’m starting to cry again.
“Why do you say things like that, John?”
“Because I’m a bastard. I mean, you of all people must know about bastards having to put up with Steve.”
Cal laughed. “You called him Steve!”
I really must be going ta bits. “Yeah, well I must have puked up me wits over that lay-by.”
“Anyway,” she touches me arm. “Call him whatever you like. I took your advice this evening. Told him where to stuff it.”
I look carefully at her face. She obviously ain’t kidding, but I can’t see any bruises. “And what about the money I nicked?”
“Well, that’s not a problem for me, is it? I simply told him the truth, that it was you.” She smiled. “Come on, John. I’d almost believe you were frightened of him. He’s just some bloke. He’s got another girl he’s after anyway, the other side of town and good luck to her.”
“So it’s just you and me is it, Cal. Cosy, like. Don’t expect me to sort out yer customers for yer.”
“I’m getting too old for that, John. It costs you more than they pay. Maybe I’ll do more work at the NEC. Of course, you’ll have to start paying your sodding rent.”
I hear meself say, “I think there’s a vacancy coming up in the NEC Gents. How about that for a funky job for Dr Winston? At least you get to sweep the shit up there rather than having to stuff it into envelopes.”
“What are you talking about, John?”
“Forget it. Maybe I’ll explain in the morning. You’ve got influence there, haven’t you?”
“I’ll help you get a job, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”
I lookouta ye window. The houses streaming past, yellow windows, where ye Snodgrasses who weren’t at the concert are chomping pipe and slippers while the wife makes spaniel eyes. The kids tucked upstairs in pink and blue rooms that smell of Persil and Playdough. Me, I’m just the guy who used to be in a halfway-famous band before they were anybody. I got me no book club subscription, I got me no life so clean yer could eat yer bloody dinner off it. Of course, I still got me rebellion, oh yeah, I got me that, and all it amounts to is cadging cigs off Cal and lifting packets of Cheesy Wotsits from the bargain bin in Kwiksave when Doris and Tracy ain’t looking. Oh, yeah, rebellion. The milkman shouts at me when I go near his float in case the Mad Old Git nicks another bottle.
I can remember when we used to stand up and face the crowd, do all them songs I’ve forgotten how to play. When Paul still knew how to rock. When Stu was half an artist, dreamy and scary at the same time. When George was just a neat kid behind a huge guitar, lying about his age. When Ringo was funny and the beat went on forever. Down the smoggily lit stairways and greasy tunnels, along burrows and byways where the cheesy reek of the bogs hit yer like a wall. Then the booze was free afterwards and the girls would gather round, press softly against yer arm as they smiled. Their boyfriends would mutter at the bar but you knew they were afraid of yer
. Knew they could sense the power of the music that carried off the stage. Jesus, the girls were as sweet as the rain in those grey cities, the shining streets, the forest wharves, the dark doorways where there was laughter in the dripping brick-paved night. And sleeping afterwards, yer head spinning from the booze and the wakeups and the downers, taking turns on that stained mattress with the cinema below booming in yer head and the music still pouring through. Diving down into carousel dreams.
Oh, the beat went on all right. Used to think it would carry up into daylight and the real air, touch the eyes and ears of the pretty dreamers, even make Snodgrass stir a little in his slumbers, take the shine off the Sierra, make him look up at the angels in the sky once in a while, or even just down at the shit on the pavement.
“Well, here we are,” Cal says.
Oh, yeah. Some hotel. Out in the pretty pretty. Trees and lights across a fucking lake. The boy scout opens the door for me and Cal. Unsteady on me pins, I take a breath, then have me a good retching cough. The air out here reeks of roses or something, like one of them expensive bog fresheners that Cal sprays around when our Kev’s had a dump.
“Hey.” Cal holds out the crook of her arm. “Aren’t you going to escort me in?”
“Let’s wait here.”
There are other cars pulling up, some old git dressed like he’s the Duke of Wellington standing at the doors. Straight ahead to the Clarendon Suite, sir, he smooths greyly to the passing suits. I suppose these must be record industry types. And then there’s this bigger car than the rest starts to pull up. It just goes on and on, like one of them gags in Tom and Jerry. Everyone steps back like it’s the Pope. Instead, turns out it’s just the Beatles. They blink around in the darkness like mad owls, dressed in them ridiculous loose cotton suits that Clapton always looks such a prat in. Lawyers tremble around them like little fish. Paul pauses to give a motorcycle policeman his autograph, flashes the famous Macca grin. Some guy in a suit who looks like the hotel manager shakes hands with Stu. Rock and roll. I mean, this is what we were always fighting for. The Beatles don’t register the good Doctor before they head inside, but maybe that’s because he’s taken three steps back into the toilet freshener darkness.
“What are we waiting for?” Cal asks as the rest of the rubbernecks drift in.
“This isn’t easy, Cal.”
“Who said anything about easy?”
I give the Duke of Wellington a salute as he holds ye door open.
“Straight ahead to the Clarendon Suite, sir.”
“Hey,” I tell him, “I used to be Beatle John.”
“Stop mucking about, John.” Cal does her Kenneth Williams impression, then gets all serious. “This is important. Just forget about the past and let’s concentrate on the rest of your life. All you have to say to Paul is Hello. He’s a decent guy. And I’m sure that the rest of them haven’t changed as much as you imagine.”
Cal wheels me in. The hotel lobby looks like a hotel lobby. The Tracy at reception gives me a cutglass smile. Catch a glimpse of meself in the mirror and unbelievably I really don’t look too bad. Must be slipping.
“Jesus, Cal. I need a smoke.”
“Here.” She rumbles in me pocket, produces Kevin’s Rothmans. “I suppose you want a bloody light.”
All the expensive fish are drifting by. Some bint in an evening dress so low at the back that you can see the crack of her arse puts her arm on this Snodgrass and gives him a peck on the cheek. That was delightful, darrling, she purrs. She really does.
“I mean a real smoke, Cal. Haven’t you got some blow?” I make a lunge for her handbag.
“Bloody hell, John,” she whispers, looking close to losing her cool. She pushes something into my hand. “Have it outside, if you must. Share it with the bloody doorman.”
“Thanks Cal.” I give her a peck on the cheek and she looks at me oddly. “I’ll never forget.”
“Forget what?” she asks as I back towards the door. Then she begins to understand. But the Duke holds the door open for me and already I’m out in the forest night air.
The door swings back, then open again. The hotel lights fan out across the grass. I look back. There’s some figure.
“Hey, John!”
It’s a guy’s voice, not Cal’s after all. Sounds almost Liverpool.
“Hey, wait a minute! Can’t we just talk?”
The voice rings in silence.
“John! It’s me!”
Paul’s walking into the darkness towards me. He’s holding out his hand. I stumble against chrome. The big cars are all around. Then I’m kicking white stripes down the road. Turns to gravel underfoot and I can see blue sea, a white beach steaming after the warm rain, a place where a woman is waiting and the bells jingle between her breasts. Just close your eyes and you’re there.
Me throat me legs me head hurts. But there’s a gated side road here that leads off through trees and scuffing the dirt at the end of a field to some big houses that nod and sway with the sleepy night.
I risk a look behind. Everything is peaceful. There’s no one around. Snodgrass is dreaming. Stars upon the rooftops, and the Sierra’s in the drive. Trees and privet, lawns neat as velvet. Just some suburban road at the back of the hotel. People living their lives.
I catch me breath, and start to run again.
KATE WILHELM
The Day of the Sharks
KATE WILHELM was born in Louisville, Kentucky, and lives in Eugene, Oregon with her husband, noted writer and critic Damon Knight. Locus has described her novels as being “among the most immediate, trenchant commentaries on our world and our lives available today.”
She received her first Nebula Award in 1968 for her story “The Planners”, and her latest Nebula in 1988 for “Forever Yours, Anna”. She has also been honoured with a Hugo Award (for her novel Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang), a Prix Apollo Award and a Jupiter Award.
Her recent books include a fantasy novel, Cambio Bay, and a mystery entitled Justice for Some. “The Day of the Sharks” originally appeared in her landmark collection And the Angels Sing. Set during a seemingly idyllic Florida vacation, a faltering marriage takes a disturbingly nightmarish turn in the powerful narrative which follows . . .
HER TRANQUILIZER IS WEARING OFF, Gary thinks, when Veronica begins to tell him about it again. He stops listening almost immediately, and watches the road.
“. . . that thin voice coming in my ears, hour after hour. You know, he doesn’t dictate it like that. He pauses and goes out, has coffee, sees other patients, but day after day, having that box talk to me . . .”
The road is a glare, the sun straight ahead, centered in the dazzling whiteness of the concrete; the bay they are skirting is without a ripple, an endless mirror of eye-hurting brilliance. It will be beautiful when the sun is actually setting, he thinks, but now his eyes burn, and the damn air-conditioning in the rented car is malfunctioning, alternately shocking them with random cold blasts, or leaving them sweltering in the airless machine that smells of deodorizers and cleaning fluids.
“. . . and they weren’t people. Not after a while. They were gall bladders and thyroids and kidney stones. I began to wonder if there were any people even connected to them. You know? Free-floating kidney stones.”
A flight of birds catches his attention; they just clear the water, almost touching the surface with their broad wings that look tattered, old, as if they have been at war, are flak-torn.
“. . . system’s supposed to help with the filing, for the computers, or something. Everything by number, not even parts of the anatomy any longer. Just numbers and prices. Case histories of numbers.”
Her voice is getting high, tight, the way it does these days. Her posture has become rigid, her gaze fixed on a point straight ahead; she can stay this way for hours, unmoving, seeing what? He can’t imagine what she sees. He grasps the steering wheel harder, wishes she would take another damn tranquilizer and be done with it. She will eventually. But she is afraid of them throughout t
he day until after dinner when it doesn’t matter if she falls asleep. She took two at breakfast and dozed on the flight from Chicago to Tampa; it was a peaceful flight.
Ahead, a squat, ugly complex comes into view, black against the glaring sky, his next landmark. He slows to make the turn off the highway over a bridge onto a narrower road. Now, with the sun to his right, he can drive faster. The islands have nothing on them, a few palm trees, some dunes, scrub that looks like felled palm trees, more birds. Sea gulls, he thinks, with near triumph. At least he knows sea gulls. Six miles farther.
His thoughts turn to Bill Hendrix and his wife Shar. And then he is thinking only of Shar. For the first time after she and Bill moved down here she pleaded with him to come visit. He could fake a business trip. He could meet her in Tallahassee, or Miami, or somewhere. Then no more begging, no more anything, until the call from Bill. “If you’re going to the Bahamas, hell, man, you’ve got to come for the weekend, at least. You can fly on from Tampa on Monday.”
“We should have gone straight on to Grand Bahama,” Veronica mumbles, facing the arrowlike road that seems to plunge into the blue water in the distance. A low dense clump of green rises on the left. The greenery expands, becomes pine trees, motionless in the still, late afternoon. “Turn again just after the pines,” Bill’s instructions went on. There is only one way to turn, left. They enter the subdivision under construction.
Unfinished houses are ugly, Gary thinks, obscenely ugly, naked, no illusions about them, the land around the buildings cluttered with junk that will be hidden away by the bulldozers, but there, always there. The landfill is dazzling white: sand, shells, the detritus dredged from the bay to create land, brought up long enough ago to have bleached to snow white.
“We should have gone straight on to Grand Bahama,” Veronica says again, louder, still not looking at him.
“I told you, I have this business with Bill. We’ll leave first thing Monday morning.”
They wind through the subdivision, following instructions. A short causeway, to the end of the street, on to the point. There is Bill’s house, with a yard fully landscaped, green and flowering. Gary’s eyes narrow as he looks at it. The house is almost hidden from the street, but what shows is expensive, and the landscaping cost a fortune.
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