One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night

by Christopher Brookmyre

  Their goal was right before them, fenced off in a pen that also encircled the door they’d just come through. Beyond that, there was only common sense to keep you back from the edges and the drop, which on the north side went all the way to the water. The pen accommodated two huge satellite dishes, but it was the hardware for sending signals out that they were interested in. A towering radio aerial reached highest, tapering from a base resembling a miniature pylon into a gently swaying single steel shaft. However, in this day and age an equal priority went to its shorter neighbour, a two-way transponder for amplifying and relaying mobile phone service signals.

  On Connor’s order, Jackson and Gaghen exposed and disconnected the power supplies to both; also, in the case of the radio aerial, ripping out all feedlines from the base. Connor, meanwhile, delicately connected the severed ends of the transponder’s power cable to a remote-controllable circuit-breaker, allowing him to switch it back on later, when required. Still squatting next to his handiwork, Connor pulled a mobile from his belt and tested for a signal, then clipped the phone back in place and stood up.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Stage one is complete. You can now run back down the stairs naked and singing if you feel like it. Nobody on this rig can tell anyone who’s further than earshot. Except, of course,’ he added, reaching for his radio, ‘ourselves.’

  Then he said the words Jackson had been dreading since that sub-level corridor.

  ‘Beta Leader, this is Alpha One. Alpha team has achieved primary objective. Commence incursion.’

  still sort of meanwhile fipr if onlys

  ‘You’re a brazen, bold, bad article.’

  That was what Simone’s mum always said when she’d done something naughty, usually accompanied by the time-honoured ritual of the circular spanking (mother takes child’s wrist in left hand, aims swipe at bottom with right, child evades in an anti-clockwise motion, mother pirouettes on left heel; repeat until dizzy).

  Bad she’d always understood. Little scope for moral relativism in the era of the pushchair. Bold she wrongly assumed to be a tautology, until she learned the distinction between doing something wrong and knowingly doing something wrong. Brazen she didn’t really get. It just became part of the phrase, brazenboldbadarticle. Similarly her father used to jokingly call her wee brother ‘Rank Bajin’, after a Glaswegian cartoon villain. She grasped the ‘bad yin’ part, but ‘rank’ in its adjective form had fallen from common usage at the time, so it became a meaningless prefix: all bad yins were rankbajins.

  Tonight, however, she knew exactly what brazen meant. And Jesus Christ, did it feel good. Not that she was exactly into scarlet-woman territory here; she was just ignoring her husband’s big moment to take the air with another man, who was, well, obviously, not her husband. But there was an enervating sense of liberation about it, a delicious taste of a better life she was ready now to live.

  She put her right arm through Matthew’s left as they exited the function suite, relishing the inquisitive look on the face of Jamie, the already discomfited receptionist. If being bold was knowingly doing something naughty, then being brazen was enjoying it.

  Simone had never felt quite so confident as when she walked into that party, alone, Gavin having had to be down there earlier, darling. It wasn’t just about how she looked (although she did not feel inclined to be modest about that tonight), but who she was and what she intended to do. She quickly spotted Gavin in his constant gravitational orbit around Catherine, working the floor as the guests circulated. Once, she feared, she might have cut the pathetic figure of the mousy missus, cowering in a corner, ignored, people politely pretending not to notice her to spare all parties the embarrassment of acknowledging what was so obviously going on. Not tonight. Simone worked the floor herself, appropriating co-host status and earning several satisfying glares of bemused exasperation from her husband.

  Despite the emotional eruptions taking place all around her, she felt largely detached from the occasion, immune from the nostalgia that seemed to be engulfing everyone else. She suspected this was because, to an extent, she was acting a part. Nonetheless, she was enjoying giving the performance, and contrary to what Gavin might assume, she was playing solely to herself. The others were not the audience: they were the extras. However, she decided to promote one of them to a cameo when she happened upon Matthew Black standing on his own.

  She’d admit to pleasant surprise that he’d turned up, but back when she added his name to the invitation list, she hadn’t done so in the hope of actually speaking to him, as she thought he’d probably have no recollection of her. She just thought it would piss Gavin off to see him there, inevitably the centre of far more attention than himself.

  Simone had noticed Matthew arrive, edging almost reluctantly into the room with an unexpected air of sheepishness that bordered upon the apologetic. However, her frequent glances in his direction confirmed that there was indeed a steady stream of guests approaching him in turn; but far from holding court, his manner appeared to be deferential.

  When her own circulations eventually took her close by, fortuitously he had just been robbed of his previous companion. It was a night when anyone was allowed to go up and talk to anyone else, pretext not required, but she still felt rather nervous about approaching him. That whole ‘ken’t his faither’ thing, the traditional Scottish dismissal of the local boy made good, wasn’t working for her. Matthew Black might once have been in her class at school, but he’d also once had an affair with Juliette Armstrong. Phrases like ‘best actress nominee’ and ‘seven million dollars per picture’ flitted unhelpfully into her head.

  They flitted straight back out again when he demonstrated how vividly he remembered her. She put up her guard when he started the fancied-you-something-rotten patter, thinking how affable he’d already been with everyone else and suspecting he was switched to auto-charm; working on TV in LA, he’d have to be a black-belt schmoozer. But there was a perceptible nervousness about him that was miles from his practised stage persona, and that suggested a lot more genuineness than her own cool-as-ice act. Besides, she remembered vividly that fifth-year Chemistry class, saw the layout in her head, those big science-lab tables, high wooden stools instead of the usual plastic bucket-seats, gas taps punctuating the worktops on three sides. She sat nearest the aisle on the front right-hand table, Annette Strachan on her right, Lisa McKenzie next to Annette. Matthew Black and two other boys sat at the front-left table, staggered a couple of feet back. Her left cheek would indeed have been in burning range. This might only have been because it was in the way of Annette’s, but either way, he’d noticed her enough to remember.

  Also confirming she had his full attention was the fact that she’d twice noticed him trying to see down her dress. She didn’t let on; truth was, sexual-political implications aside, she felt flattered. Some might say it was letting down the sisterhood, but having so long been neutered by Gavin’s inattentions, it was reassuring to know someone still considered her dress worth looking down in the first place.

  Despite her affected aloofness, she knew exactly what Matthew meant about being able to talk to one another now, unfettered by the teen-years self-consciousness that jammed all transmissions to the opposite sex. As soon as he said it, she felt that if they talked all night, it still wouldn’t be long enough. Then a reality check intervened, enquiring what she thought her contribution to this momentous meeting of the minds might amount to: Hi, I’m a housewife with two kids and a sham of a marriage. That’s my life up until now.

  But no, she decided, watching Gavin prepare to take centre-stage. That was her life up until yesterday. From today onwards it was going to be different.

  ‘Before you all trample me in your understandable desperation to get to this splendid buffet, laid on by our wonderful chef, I’d just like to say a few words …’

  This was it, she’d thought, a knot forming in her stomach as she did so: Gavin’s big moment, her revenge, her new beginning. This was it.

  Sh
e took a determined step forward, then stopped in her tracks.

  Did she freeze? Did she bottle it? She didn’t think so. So many things were going through her head in that moment, it would have been impossible to pin it all on stage-fright. All around her, everyone seemed so happy to be there, happy to see each other. People who’d barely got along fifteen years ago were blethering away like the closest friends. Maybe it was that they’d gone through that whole rites-of-passage thing together, some kind of war-vet bond of having come through the same ordeal (which secondary school undoubtedly was). Maybe, like she and Matthew, they felt they had a lot to say to each other, backed up from a time when they found it a great deal harder to communicate. Maybe they were just wellied. Whatever, when it came to the moment, she didn’t feel right about souring the whole affair just to put Gavin’s nose out of joint. There’d be plenty of time to do that. And besides, this wasn’t about him, it was about her.

  They strolled slowly around the Lido under the darkening sky, the warmth of late summer and the music from inside the Laguna making it possible to believe they were in some far-off destination, if admittedly an extremely tacky one. Simone had lifted a chilled bottle of champagne from the table by the door as they left. She gripped it by the neck, swinging it gently as she walked, but so far there’d been too much talk for either of them to have a swig from it.

  ‘I know everyone’s probably saying this, but I’m really surprised that you’re here. I know I was the one who invited you, but I wasn’t exactly optimistic about you actually turning up.’

  Matthew laughed, she wasn’t sure at what. Maybe that everyone else had said the same thing, maybe at something else, something personal.

  ‘I’d have to admit I’m surprised myself,’ he said. ‘When the invite arrived, well,’ he laughed again, looking away from her, his expression difficult to read. ‘I remember thinkin’ I’d rather kill myself, but … I guess I was wrong.’

  ‘So what made you change your mind?’

  ‘Eh, I had a pretty weird couple of weeks, safe to say. I dunno. Bad attack of soul-searchin’, somethin’ like that.’

  ‘Sounds serious. Five thousand miles is a long search. Hope you found something.’

  He laughed again. ‘More than I expected, tonight. And I don’t mean you, before you slap me for tryin’ to chat you up. I mean, meetin’ everybody again – it’s been easier than I was afraid of, and it’s sure put a few things in perspective.’

  ‘What, like seeing how far you’ve come compared to everyone else?’

  Simone surprised herself with her sudden acidity. She was about to apologise but Matthew wasn’t showing any signs of taking it personally. Either he was too egotistically thick-skinned or he was perceptive enough to know who she was really angry at. His conduct so far had suggested the latter.

  ‘No, that was the part I was afraid of, in fact: people thinkin’ I was turnin’ up here as the famous Matt Black, celebrity and TV star. I’m not a big fan of his these days.’ Matthew’s smile turned bitter. ‘I preferred his earlier stuff, you know?’

  Simone did know. She could see a tiredness in his face that was deeper wrought than jet lag, and deduced also that anyone finding spiritual solace in an event such as tonight’s had to be in a pretty bad way before they got here. That he had travelled so far in search of it was not a good sign either. Such reflections put the brakes on her intended scorn over how hard it was being famous.

  ‘Career crisis?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, somethin’ like that. At least, I thought so, anyway. Pathetic, isn’t it?’ He stopped walking. They were on a wooden bridge, arcing over an illuminated blue water-channel. Matt rested his back against the handrail and faced her. ‘That’s what I meant about gettin’ a sense of perspective tonight,’ he said. ‘All the stuff that had been botherin’ me, all the stuff that seemed life-and-death important out in Hollywood … a wee blether to a few normal folk fae Auchenlea an’ you realise: nobody gives a fuck!’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Sorry, hard to explain. But the thing about perspective is that what looks from the inside like a career crisis, looks from the outside like a guy with his head up his arse. I needed to see that. I’ll put it in a nutshell: I hate what I’m doin’. I want to go back to bein’ a comedian again.’

  ‘So what’s the crisis? Afraid you’ll miss the money? Have they got you on a long-term contract?’

  Matthew shook his head, seeming to mock himself. ‘No, I’m just scared,’ he said. ‘Worried nobody’s gaunny take me seriously now that I’ve been Mad fuckin’ Matty for two years.’

  ‘I didn’t think comedians were supposed to be taken seriously,’ Simone offered, unable to resist.

  Matthew bowed. ‘Thank you,’ he said theatrically. ‘That’s exactly what I mean about perspective. I’ve been beatin’ myself up about what the critics will say, what the media reaction will be if I get back behind the mike. “Can Matt Black go back from being an anodyne sitcom star to a hard-hitting stand-up?” Then I come here tonight and folk are sayin’ to me: “Heh, Matt, that American show you’re on is fuckin’ awful, nae offence. By the way, when you goin’ back on tour?”’

  ‘So are you resolved to do it?’

  ‘Not quite, no. There’s still that theory-and-practice leap of faith in front of me, you know? It’s one thing shootin’ the shit with Ally McQuade, but standin’ up in front of a crowd’s a different story. And, of course, the perspective thing swings both ways. Talkin’ to people who actually fuckin’ work for a living, I started thinkin’ I should thank my lucky stars, stick with the sitcom and count the money. But I know that’s just a cop-out. I can’t go on with the sitcom, I’ll end up …’ He sighed. ‘It’s not an option. I need to get back onstage, but the truth is I am scared.

  ‘Anyway, listen to me, Mr Self-Absorption. I’m out here under the stars with you and a bottle of champagne and all I can talk about is me. Egotistical wanker. I’m bored of me. Can we talk about you?’

  Simone would have been happier sticking to the previous subject. Here was Matthew apologising for laying his problems on her, but from where she was standing, this was a half-decent conversation. Gavin would never open up to her like that, because what could she possibly know, what could she possibly say that would make any difference? The closest she got was being the audience as Gavin soliloquised. Maybe Matthew was right, though: maybe he was an egotistical wanker, and would lay all this stuff on anybody because he believed everybody must be interested. However, in her experience of egotistical wankers (or, to be accurate, her vast experience of one egotistical wanker), they never got bored of ‘me’. Nonetheless, it was worth putting it to the test.

  ‘What do I think of you, d’you mean?’ she asked, straight faced.

  ‘Boom boom. Walked into that one.’

  That scored a pass, for now. He stood away from the railing and they commenced walking again.

  ‘Nah, come on, fifteen years,’ he said. ‘Anybody who reads the papers knows mine – what’s the story of your life?’

  Simone shrugged. ‘Not my favourite subject, right now.’

  ‘No, sorry, I’m not thinkin’,’ Matthew said. ‘I guess the garden cannae be rosy, otherwise you wouldnae be out here doggin’ it from your husband’s big self-vindication fest.’

  ‘You got that right.’

  ‘He’s screwin’ Catherine O’Rourke, isn’t he? Or at least he wants everyone to think he is. Oh Christ, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I just came out with that.’

  Simone brushed off his apologies with a shake of her head, trying to act like it meant nothing, but she could feel herself welling up. This, she realised, was the first time Gavin’s infidelity had been acknowledged out in the open, and in that moment it went from a private hurt to a public humiliation.

  She stopped and took a drink from the bottle, buying herself a moment, hoping her eyes weren’t reddening.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he reiterated.

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, so am I,
’ she said. ‘He is screwing her. I was over the betrayal, but I’m just hitting the embarrassment phase now, you know? Mind you, look who I’m talking to. I can’t begin to compare notes on embarrassment and humiliation with a man who appears on There Goes the Neighborhood every week.’

  Matthew laughed quietly. ‘That was low,’ he said, offering a smile.

  Simone sniffed and wiped a tear from her right eye. ‘Well, I’m wounded and cornered. Self-defence. Don’t mess with me when I’m hurting.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  He reached into his pocket and offered her a handful of tissues. She refused, for some reason grudging him the gentleman role.

  ‘Come on, you’re gaunny snotter all over the champers,’ he added.

  Simone giggled, which did indeed provoke further nasal precipitation. She accepted the tissues and blew her nose.

  ‘You want these back?’ she joked.

  ‘Christ, don’t. Fifteen years ago, I’d have fuckin’ framed them.’

  ‘Eeeewww. Gross.’

  ‘You started it.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough. But look, it’s all right, you can knock off the teenage-crush motif now. We’re outside the reunion. You’re officially out of context.’

  Matthew looked genuinely bashful. ‘Sorry. It’s just that I’m still gettin’ this weird buzz out of bein’ here now, talkin’ to you.’ He put up his hands. ‘I’m not tryin’ to chat you up, honest. Just … please allow for the fact that I’m suddenly dealin’ with a bit of an emotional backlog here.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Am I not supposed to be the one who’s freaked out about being in your company? Mr Superstar?’