The House of Rumour (46 page)

COLLINS
: The Sea of Fertility doesn’t look very fertile to me. I don’t know who named it.

ARMSTRONG
: Well, it may have been the gentleman who this crater was named after, Langrenus. Langrenus was a cartographer to the King of Spain and made one of the early reasonably accurate maps of the moon.

CAPCOM
: Roger, that is very interesting.

ARMSTRONG
: At least it sounds better for our purposes than the Sea of Crises.

Enemy radar would have detected him by now, and the moon had become a celestial searchlight. He had to get below what cloud cover there was. He put the Messerschmitt into a dive and flew at full throttle, greeting England with the wild scream of his engines. The aeroplane burrowed through the light haze. At low altitude and high velocity he turned to starboard, then to port, heading almost due west to Dungavel House. He was enjoying himself, hedge-hopping mere metres above trees and rooftops. He reached the Cheviot Hills and climbed the slope with both throttles open, dropping down the other side, across the border. He was in Scotland.

He had the chart of his route strapped to his right thigh but he had memorised every landscape that marked his way to Dungavel House. He passed through the peaks of Broad Law and Pikestone, banking right and descending towards his destination. He flew over Hamilton’s country seat, trying to discern the runway. He could barely make out a blacked-out house below. Had he expected the landing strip to be marked somehow?

He flew further west to check his position on the coastline. He turned around over the Firth, its waters as flat and silvered as a looking-glass. Turning southwards he followed a spur of land curling out to the sea at Ardrossan, then inland he spotted the glint of the railway line that led north-easterly to Glasgow. The track made a bow at Dungavel; a small lake shimmered at the south of the estate. Illuminated by the moon, the Grail Castle now appeared to him and for an instant he felt triumphant. Then he saw that the duke’s airstrip was nothing more than a landing field for sports biplanes. There was no flare path or marking of any kind. It would be suicide to attempt a landing here in the heavy two-engined Messerschmitt.

All at once the whole enterprise seemed transformed into some awful trick. So close to triumph, he was now facing utter defeat. And an interceptor was closing in on him, a Hurricane perhaps, flying low. He climbed to two thousand metres and shut off the engine ignition. The propellers feathered as he set the pitch of the airscrews to zero. He would make a parachute jump, something he had never attempted before. He opened the cockpit canopy and tried to bail out. But as the plane was still at cruising speed, the pressure of the airstream pushed him back into his seat. Then he remembered something a fighter commander had once told him: that the best way to get out of a moving plane was to turn it over and simply fall out. He pulled up and went into a sharp loop. He blacked out.

Radio silence from the lunar module. Programme alarms and low-fuel warnings.

CAPCOM
: Eagle, Houston. If you read, you’re
GO
for powered descent. Over.

COLLINS
: Eagle, this is Columbia. They just gave you
GO
for powered descent.

CAPCOM
: Columbia, Houston. We’ve lost them on the high gain again. Would you please . . . We’re recommending yaw right 10 degrees and reacquire.

When he came to he was in a complete stall. The speed gauge was at zero, his aeroplane on its tail, hanging upright in space. He kicked with his legs and pushed himself out into the night air.

He pulled the ripcord and his parachute blossomed abruptly above him. He felt the sudden lift of its soaring drag. His machine crashed into the moorland beyond.

CAPCOM
: You are
GO
to continue powered descent.

ALDRIN
: Roger.

CAPCOM
: And Eagle, Houston. We’ve got data dropout. You’re still looking good.

ALDRIN
: Okay. We got good lock on. Altitude light is out. Delta H is minus 2900.

CAPCOM
: Roger, we copy.

ALDRIN
: Got the earth straight out our front window.

He floated down over the moonlit meadow. Suspended between heaven and earth. Exposed and triumphantly alone. You see, my son, time changes here to space.

As above, so below. He was ready once more. Ready as he listened in his cell. Ready as he waited in the summerhouse. He reached for the cable.

ALDRIN
: Drifting forward just a little bit; that’s good. Contact light. Okay. Engine stop. ACA out of detent.

ARMSTRONG
: Out of detent. Auto.

ALDRIN
: Mode control, both auto. Descent engine command override, off. Engine arm, off. 413 is in.

CAPCOM
: We copy you down, Eagle.

Space changes to time.

He hit the ground hard and blacked out once more.

19

the sun

She thought she spotted him standing in a corner, staring absently at a gently oscillating light projection. It was the after party for the première of the
Fugitive Alien
remake, a nightclub in West Hollywood transformed into a spaceship interior. Supporting pillars of the open space encased in airbrushed fibreglass, dressed with glowing tubes and pulsing hieroglyphs; waiting staff in lycra costumes, extraterrestrial hair and make-up; a bar at one end decked out as a huge control panel.

She weaved through the crowd, still not quite sure if it was him. Stiffened into a rented tuxedo, white hair ponytailed, he held a frosted green highball in one hand. Something about the angle of his head, the goofy half-grin, the curious-child eyes that stared out of the collapsed mask of his face. Recognition. Memory. Loss.

‘Larry,’ she said, trying to catch his gaze.

He frowned and dropped his line of sight. Could he see her properly? she wondered. He seemed to be gaping into the middle distance. Maybe his vision was shot, though he wasn’t wearing glasses. Maybe his hearing was shot.

‘Zagorski!’ she called out.

His face opened up into a smile and slowly she saw the Larry she had known all those years ago. Her perception shifting, making that illusory adjustment whereby all the traces of age fade in one who is familiar and an expression long remembered pulls into focus. He reached out and grabbed her elbow, as if steadying them both from a sudden earth tremor. His hand was gnarled and spattered with liver spots. Blue veins stood out like wiring.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Mary-Lou. Look at you.’

Her hair was up in a loose chignon and she was wearing the fuchsia Issey Miyake Pleats Please dress she had bought back in 1993. She had thought it would be just right for this event, a clever choice. Maybe it was just too bold for a seventy-nine-year-old.

‘Well, look at yourself, Zagorski.’ She bristled in his grip. ‘All got up in a monkey suit.’

‘No, I mean . . .’ He let go of her and made a vague gesture with his hand. ‘I mean, you look fantastic.’

A sparkle in his rheumy eyes. She smiled then looked away. A waitress sidled by in pale-blue face-paint offering a tray of tiny dishes. Larry looked over at an arrangement of delicately tentacled canapés.

‘So,’ he asked the waitress. ‘What do we have here?’

‘Seared baby squid with truffle oil on a mango–lime pipette skewer,’ she replied.

‘Mmm, yeah.’ Larry picked one out and popped it into his mouth whole.

‘Well,’ said Mary-Lou. ‘We’ve sure come a long way from Clifton’s Cafeteria.’

‘Uh-uh.’ Larry swallowed and wiped his lips with a napkin. ‘Some of us are still here for the free limeade.’

He held up his glass to her then took a sip.

‘What is that?’

‘Mojito. Thought I’d have a drink for Nemo. You know, it was his idea in the first place.’

‘What was?’

‘The story that became
Fugitive Alien
. He just had the sense to take his name off the credits of the original.’

‘Sure,’ said Mary-Lou drily.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’ Larry gestured vaguely at something. ‘I meant the script. Your film, you know, it was a cult classic.’

‘Oh, come on, Larry, let’s not be precious.’

‘It’s true. This remake, I suppose it’s meant to be clever, post-modern or whatever. But it’s not. It’s just dumb.’

‘So why did you come?’

‘Well, I sort of know Danny Osiris, but the real reason I’m here,’ he shrugged, ‘is I thought I might just bump into you.’

‘That’s sweet.’

An alien waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes. Mary-Lou took one and clinked it against Larry’s glass.

‘It’s really good to see you, Mary-Lou,’ he said.

‘You too, Larry. Here’s to Nemo. Have you heard from him lately?’

‘Aw, Jesus, you don’t know, do you?’

‘What?’

‘He died last year.’

As she let out a groan of exasperated resignation, an eerie wail pierced the air. On a stage at the far end of the club a girl in a silver dress was playing the theremin, furiously sculpting the air with her hands.

‘Let’s find somewhere to sit down,’ Mary-Lou suggested.

Larry got another drink and they grabbed a booth in a quiet lounge area.

‘I guess you’re used to these things,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Film premières, smart parties, you know. You were a studio executive.’

‘Yeah, in television. And nearly twenty years ago. What happened to Nemo?’

‘Massive stroke.’

‘Oh, Christ.’

‘You know we fell out in the sixties. Then five years ago I got this manuscript from him through a Cuban guy living in Florida. We started working together again, on this post-utopian thing. We kept talking about meeting up. In Mexico. Well, we left it too late.’

Larry took a long swig from his glass.

‘Hey,’ said Mary-Lou. ‘Go easy on the limeade.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s not a problem for me any more. I hardly drink at all these days.’

‘All the more reason to go steady.’

‘Sure.’ He rattled the ice in his mojito and settled it on the table. ‘All those people we knew from the film. Gone. Sharleen, Nemo.’

‘Come on, Larry, let’s not get maudlin.’

‘Jack.’

‘What?’ Mary-Lou frowned.

‘Jack Parsons. Well, he did the special effects, remember?’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ She stared off into the distance.

‘You never got over him, did you?’

She looked back at Larry.

‘Let’s not talk about Jack.’

‘Okay, okay.’

Larry drained his glass and handed it to a passing waiter.

‘Can I have another of these?’ he asked. ‘Mary-Lou?’

‘Sure. A glass of champagne, please. How’s Martin?’

‘He’s good. He’s living up in Seattle. Working as a sound technician. I don’t see so much of him these days.’

‘And you? Still writing?’

‘Yeah. Another novel. Not sure where it’s going. I’m calling it
The House of God
.’

‘Good title.’

‘Yeah. Could be the best thing about it. But, you know, there is something I want you to see. Something I wrote a while back.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. Something I wrote for you.’

Their drinks arrived and Larry chinked his glass against hers once more.

‘This
is
like being back at Clifton’s,’ he said. ‘Me trying to impress you. You know, that’s what my writing career was really based on.’

‘Zagorski, the limeade is making you sentimental.’

‘In mojito veritas. You were my inspiration.’

‘Okay, okay. Let’s change the subject.’

‘Okay. Well, you know, this film is really dumb, but Danny’s quite an interesting guy.’

‘Who?’

‘Danny Osiris. Yeah, quite an interesting guy. He believes in all this UFO nonsense, just like Sharleen used to. But he gave me this strange manuscript. Sort of a story but it refers to some crazy stuff that happened in the war.’

Larry was trying to focus but the rum was fuzzing his mind.

‘Mary-Lou, wasn’t there a woman called Astrid at your commune in Pasadena?’