#Zero. Neil McCormick

I said, letting go her hand. The woman confused me. I was usually good at this. But I couldn’t tell where her questions where leading, or how to bamboozle her with my bullshit.

      ‘Are you happy, Zero?’ she asked, with a quiet intensity that left me reeling behind my shades. I felt her warp in my vision again. This time she didn’t look like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, she looked like the holiest little sheep you ever saw, as meek and mild as the lamb of God itself, soft bright eyes dewy with concern for my well-being. Maybe I had taken too many drugs.

      ‘What kind of question is that?’ I retorted, my mouth dry.

      ‘One that people ask themselves all the time,’ she said.

      ‘I’ve got everything I ever dreamed of,’ I said, getting up to refill my vodka glass. ‘I’m only twenty-four, for fuck’s sake.’

      ‘Twenty-five,’ she corrected me. Jesus fucking Christ, where does the time go? I was getting old. Pop stars are like dogs. Every year counts for seven.

      ‘I’m ludicrously rich,’ I continued, making a joke of the whole thing. ‘I’m ridiculously famous, engaged to the most beautiful woman on the planet. And you’re asking me where it all went wrong?’

      ‘That’s not what I asked,’ she smiled. ‘But let me put it another way. When was the last time you clearly remember being happy?’

      I stood gawping like a beached fish, my mouth dry despite the swill of vodka. I could see stretched reflections on the surface of the jellyfish tank, where luminous, transparent blobs drifted blindly in their liquid element. Outside, through slanted blinds, my billboard loomed in the sunlight, giant eyes following my every move. All the while, Kitty sat calmly absorbing my discomfort, quietly scribbling in her damned notebook. I was supposed to be charming her, seducing her, recruiting her to the cause, but I couldn’t even talk to her. I knew I needed to give her something. So I just told her the first story that came to mind.

      ‘When my brother and I were small, I don’t know what age, we mitched off school,’ I said. ‘It was a beautiful day, just like this one, the sun was out, and we just couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up indoors.’ Where was this story coming from, suddenly so vivid in my mind? ‘I don’t know whose idea it was – probably Paddy’s, he was older – or what we were doing, really, roaming about the hills, we were going to get into so much trouble. But then the strangest thing happened. I don’t think I’ve ever told this story to anyone. You’ll have an exclusive. There was this truck, rattling along in the middle of nowhere, on the road down below us, we weren’t paying it much attention, but suddenly it jack-knifed. I don’t know what happened, maybe the driver fell asleep, maybe its wheels went into the ditch along the side, maybe it hit something, but it just tipped right over, crash, came skidding to a halt below us.’

      Kitty looked up at me curiously. But I didn’t feel like I was talking to her any more. I was just remembering, with a sense of wonder. ‘It was a pretty remote place, Kilrock. There was nobody around, just us and some sheep and this fucking truck lying on its side. I didn’t know what to do. I was only little. But Paddy ran down, he didn’t hesitate, he clambered right up on the side of the thing, and he got the door open, and he was calling me to help him, but I don’t know what help I would have been, I was just a lad. Paddy wasn’t much bigger himself. Next thing, he’s pulling this guy out. He’s all bloody and dazed, the driver, but Paddy gets him out. He gets him down. I just stood there watching. I was terrified. The truck is on fire now. Paddy’s dragging the guy as far from the truck as he can, like it’s going to blow up, like in the movies. It didn’t blow up but that cab was burning, the flames were licking everything, he’d have been gone for sure if we hadn’t been there, mitching off school. So he has a phone, and we call the police, and soon the place is crawling, there’s an ambulance and fire truck, everybody’s there, even the headmaster, and we’re like these great heroes. You saved his life, boys! You saved his life. We got a medal, I think. Or anyway, there was some kind of presentation in the school hall later, like a while later, a couple of weeks, with the mayor and all. And that’s what I really remember. Cause it was the first time I’d ever been on stage. That’s the truth. The first time I’d ever been up there with people applauding and flash lights going off from photos being taken. It was in the papers. The guy’s whole family had come. Jeez, even my dad was happy, and he should have been tanning our backsides for skipping school. And I was happy on that stage, really happy, I remember that. I felt like I belonged up there. It was electrifying, standing above the audience, looking down at them, while they’re clapping and cheering. Electrifying. Still is. But you know what else I was thinking, the whole time?’

      I waited. I had her now. And if she asked, I’d tell her the truth. ‘What were you thinking?’ she finally said, breaking my stage-managed silence.

      ‘I don’t deserve this,’ I said.

      She smiled sympathetically. That’s when I knew I had her. Still, she had to push it. That was her nature. ‘Was your mother there?’ she asked.

      ‘I don’t remember,’ I insisted. But she must have been, mustn’t she? You’d expect your mother to be there, on the greatest day of your life. But maybe she had vanished already by then, faded out of my life, as if she’d never been there at all. Just a black hole, where love should have been.

      8

      ‘How did that go with Katherine?’ enquired Flavia.

      ‘I think it went well,’ I said.

      ‘She seemed happy,’ said Flavia.

      Oh, I hope she was happy. I hope, at least, someone was happy.

      I was starting to come down from whatever plateau the drugs had put me on, but I wasn’t ready to crash, I preferred it up here, gliding high above my emotions. So I summoned Kilo into my bathroom and we did a couple more lines, then Linzi and Kelly got me suited and booted: dark Black Irish jeans, classic Converse, impossibly thin fake calfskin leather YSL three-quarters hooded frock coat and a retro Suicide Blonde T-shirt to send out the message that Penelope was still mine, the latter being Flavia’s idea. We headed for the limo to drive a hundred yards to the hotel next door and make a red-carpet entrance for the Generator awards, working the crowd in the early evening sunlight. Flavia guided me by the elbow, pausing to offer sound bites to big-toothed boys and girls carrying oversized broadcast mics: ‘Penelope’s fine, thank you for asking, I’m more worried about Troy, he seems to have nothing below the waist but pixels.’ Blah de fucking blah.

      I exchanged a knuckle-banging salute with gold-plated trap sensation EgoPuss, while he flashed a mouthful of jewel-encrusted teeth and croaked, ‘S’all good, know what I’m sayin’, s’all good.’ I had no idea what was supposed to be so fucking good about it but I smiled right back. A lean, tattooed, spiky-haired quartet of lookalikes gave me the two-finger devil-horn salute from the top of the stairs. I hadn’t the faintest idea who they were supposed to be but I flashed those devil horns right back at ’em. My path intersected with Elton John at the doors, the legendary songwriter done up like an overstuffed peacock in a crushed velvet coat, and we briefly admired our own reflections in each other’s sunglasses. Elton grabbed my shoulders, whispering, ‘Dear boy, dear boy,’ with a warm, gap-toothed smile, ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’

      Then it was into the lobby and somehow I had a glass of champagne in my hand, and on into a vast antechamber where long-limbed models in low-cut gowns and plastic porn babes in lacy mini-frocks and dirty record-biz girls in butt-hugging skirts all swished about. There were hot girls everywhere, eye candy for the candy factory, hovering at the edge of my entourage, laughing too loudly at the attention of men in black designer suits (the stars came in character, everyone else was dressed for a ball), catching my eye with blatant come-hither stares, a circus parade of gorgeous women breathing electric perfume in the air. But Beasley wanted me working the room and only bigwigs and famous names made it through my tight ring of people.

      The pecking order was subtly graded: stars surrounded by celebutantes, scenesters, liggers, posers, has-beens, wannabes and