#Zero. Neil McCormick

drugs, I needed sleep, New York framed in the limo window, endless faces, cars, buildings, everything passing by in an unfocused blur, deli, record shop, news vendor … ‘Stop the car!’ I yelped. ‘Stop the fucking car! Just stop. Stop right fucking now!’

      The driver did as he was told, traffic behind beeping, everybody in the limo staring at me like I might be having a heart attack, Beasley demanding, ‘What’s the matter?’ as I threw open the door and made a beeline for a news stand.

      ‘The Post, gimme a Post,’ I demanded. A sad-eyed vendor handed over a newspaper then started yelling for his dollar fifty as I turned away, leafing through the pages. The orphans had bumped me off the front page again, a post-earthquake shot of carnage and desolation, but that’s not what I was looking for. There it was. Page five. A strip of grainy photos of my bride-to-be, naked from the waist up, kneeling in front of what looked a hell of a lot like Troy Anthony’s world-famous ass, and even with the wonders of pixilation there was no question where she was putting her beautiful mouth, dear God. Alongside it was a photo of Yours Truly stepping out of a helicopter giving a victory salute to the New York skyline. The headline was ‘LOVE MINUS ZERO As Popstar Boyfriend Takes Manhattan; Penelope Seeks Comfort With Troy’.

      ‘You’re him. You’re him, aintcha? You’re him.’ Some gangly, corn row black youth overwhelmed by outsize sports clothes was pointing at me. ‘Shit, dude, I know you’re him.’ Tiny Tony hit the sidewalk running and tried to get between us while the guy snarled, ‘Don’t put your hands on me, motherfucker, I know my rights.’ Smartphones were clicking, drivers were cheering. ‘Way to go, Zero!’ shouted a red-faced bruiser leaning out the passenger window of a battered delivery van. ‘You give Penny a shot for me!’ My own people poured onto the street. A scraggy homeless loon, all bug eyes and beard paced around, shouting, ‘Can I get some attention here? Can I get some attention?’ A birdlike oriental woman in a canary-yellow tracksuit demanded an autograph. ‘For my daughter,’ she kept saying, ‘For my daughter,’ and when I didn’t respond she started yelling, ‘What’s wrong with my daughter, you son of a bitch?’ Tiny Tony wrestled her away. In the people carrier access-all-fucking-areas Queen Bitch was licking her lipstick like the cat who got the cream. The news vendor was still yelling for his dough until Kilo slapped a ten-dollar bill in his hand. It felt like something was spitting in my face. Hot snow, maybe. I looked up but the sky was blue and clear, the blinding white orb of the sun peeking between skyscrapers, light bouncing off windows, my face was wet again, I was crying for the second time today. What the fuck was wrong with me? Tiny Tony led me back to the limo, the door shut behind us, and we started moving.

      Nobody said anything for a while. The newspaper lay on the floor, with my beloved in her adulterous nakedness for all to see. People would be poring over those very pictures right now, all over New York and the rest of the world too, downloading them, uploading them, turning them into funny little animated gifs to share with their friends on Spamchat and Snarkr. By Monday, they’d be selling them on T-shirts outside my gig. ‘Open the bottle of vodka,’ I instructed Kilo.

      ‘Is that wise?’ said Beasley, gravely.

      ‘No, it’s not fucking wise,’ I snapped back. ‘We’re way beyond wisdom here. I need a drink.’ Kilo was hesitating. ‘I would like a drink of vodka from my drinks cabinet, please,’ I announced, firmly. Beasley gave a subtle nod and Kilo unscrewed the lid of a bottle of Absolut Citron, took a glass from the cabinet and poured me a shot.

      I knocked it back swiftly, tasting the bitterness in my mouth, feeling the hot burn in my chest. ‘You can chop me a line of coke, now,’ I said. There were sharp intakes of breath. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ I groaned. ‘It’s rock and roll, not the fucking priesthood.’

      When Beasley gave another nod, Kilo took out his stash and started chopping white powder on the polished walnut of the limo sideboard. I accepted a rolled-up bill, bent down and inhaled deeply. Then I slumped back, heart crashing against my ribcage. ‘Go on,’ I waved expansively. ‘Help yourselves.’

      For a moment nobody moved, then Cornelius shuffled up, bent over and snorted a line. Kilo looked at Beasley warily, then followed suit. Eugenie too was watching her boss. He rolled his eyes and she got down on her knees and snorted. Then Beasley, with a shrug of his shoulders, heaved his fat behind off his seat and, with surprising grace, leaned over the table and hoovered. Flavia’s lips were pursed, her expression inscrutable. For all her gothic styling, there was a taut rigidity to Flavia, something vicarious about the way she operated in the entertainment industry. She was like designated driver at a rave, determined to keep her wits while all about her were losing theirs. But she shook her head, muttered, ‘Oh, fuck it!’ in that prim English voice, and dived in.

      Then somehow we were all laughing, hooting at our ridiculousness, Beasley’s body vibrating with compressed mirth, Eugenie giggling girlishly, Cornelius sniggering merrily, Kilo softly yukking, Flavia uttering involuntary high squeals that embarrassed her so much it made everyone laugh even more. I slid to the floor, close to hysteria. I knew I had to clamp it down as I sucked in deep breaths, slowly regaining control. Calm, calm, calm. I let out a long, steady sigh, and picked up the Post. There were tears in my eyes but I couldn’t tell if they were from crying or laughing, I didn’t know if I was happy or sad, and anyway I had my shades on, so it didn’t matter, no one could see me, not really, not the real me, if there even was such a thing, if I hadn’t stopped being myself years ago, and slowly metamorphosed into this other Zero, this creature of awards shows and gossip rags, absolute Zero, Nothing to the nth degree.

      ‘Are you all right?’ asked Flavia.

      ‘There might be some film stills of Penelope and Troy embracing, you said. Embracing is what you do when you meet your auntie, you don’t grab Auntie’s tits and take her up the arse. Shit. She looks like she’s embracing his cock.’

      ‘I didn’t think anyone would publish them,’ Flavia replied. ‘And if you value my opinion, Zero, I stick by what I said, I think they are fake, inasmuch as I suspect they are scenes from the film surreptitiously shot by one of the crew. It is pure mischief and the Post should know better.’

      Cornelius had picked up the paper and was examining the evidence. ‘I don’t know. They look like they’ve been shot with a long lens in low light, which wouldn’t suggest a film set.’ Beasley glowered at him. ‘Just trying to help,’ drawled Cornelius, scooping up some stray coke to rub on his lips before retreating to the front of the limo.

      ‘Get Irwin Locke on the line,’ Beasley commanded and Eugenie was immediately speed-dialling the Hollywood studio boss. ‘Who is Penelope’s agent? Marisa Powers. Let’s patch her in. And get hold of Norris Sheehan, I want to examine legal options.’ Within minutes he was locked into a conference call with producers, agents and lawyers, stroking egos, concocting strategies and issuing understated threats, oblivious to everyone around him. There was nothing like a crisis to get him going. Then again, this was nothing like a crisis for Beasley. He was already calculating column inches. He had never liked the idea of his golden boy being led down the aisle. For all the charm he could muster, he treated Penelope more like a rival than a new member of the entourage. Now my affair of the heart was crashing and burning in spectacular fashion, a whole new blaze to keep the publicity inferno roaring, and he would have me all to himself again. Fuck. When he reached over and patted my knee, murmuring, ‘It’s going to be fine, you’ll see,’ I realised he always thought it would end like this. For all I know, he fucking planted the pictures. He’d done worse before.

      We crossed Queensboro Bridge and pulled into the parking lot of Mightybeat warehouse rehearsal studio complex. ‘I’m not getting out,’ I announced, to general apoplexy.

      Inside one of these vast hangars, a revolving circular stage was set up like a giant target zero, with full lighting rig, an enormous LED screen curtain that raised and fell throughout the production displaying a dazzling array of 3-D digital imagery, various off-lying platforms where dancers would strut their stuff, and in the centre of it all a Perspex bubble, inside which I would descend from the ceiling at the speed of a bungee jump for the intro, and in which, at the climax of the show, I would float into the air and apparently disappear in a black hole supernova of lasers,