A Long Way Down

  My only consolation was that I didn’t have any friends and family here; no one knew who I was, except for a few fans of the band, maybe, and I like to think that they weren’t the type to read Linda’s paper. And some of the guys at the pizza place might see a copy lying around somewhere, but they’d have smelled the cash, and the desperation, and they could have cared less about the humiliation.

  So that just left Lizzie, and if she saw a picture of me looking insane, then so be it. You know why she dumped me? She dumped me because I wasn’t going to be a rock’n’roll star after all. Can you fucking believe that? No you can’t, because it’s beyond belief, and therefore unbelievable. ‘Shittiness, thy name is Woman.’ That was my thinking, at that point in time, you know, that it wouldn’t hurt her to see how she’d messed me up. In fact, if I could be temporarily invisible, then one of the first things I’d do, after robbing a bank and going into the women’s showers at the gym and all the usual stuff, is put the paper down in front of her and watch her read it.

  See, I didn’t know anything about anything then. I thought I knew things, but I didn’t.

  MAUREEN

  I didn’t think I’d ever be able to go back to the church again after the interview with Linda. I’d been thinking about it a bit, the day before; I missed it terribly, and I wondered whether God would really mind if I just sat at the back and didn’t go to confession – sneaked out somehow before communion. But once I’d told Linda that I’d seen an angel, I knew that I’d have to keep away, that I wouldn’t be able to go back before I died. I didn’t know exactly what sin I’d committed, but I was sure that sins involving making up angels were mortal.

  I still thought I was going to kill myself when the six weeks were up; what would have changed my mind? I was busier than I’d ever been, what with the press interviews and the meetings, and I suppose that took my mind off things. But all the running around just felt like last-minute activity, as if I had some things to get done before I went on holiday. That was who I was, then: a person who was going to kill herself soon, the moment I could get round to it.

  I was going to say that I saw the first little glimmer of light that day, the day of the interview with Linda, but it wasn’t really like that. It was more as if I’d already chosen what I was going to watch on TV; and I was beginning to look forward to it, and then noticed that there was something else on that might be more interesting. I don’t know about you, but choice isn’t always what I want. You can end up flicking between one channel and another, and not watching either programme properly. I don’t know how people with the cable television cope.

  What happened was that after the interview, I found myself talking to JJ. He was going back to his flat, and I was heading towards the bus stop, and we ended up walking along together. I’m not sure he wanted to, really, because we’ve hardly spoken since I slapped that man on New Year’s Eve, but it was one of those awkward situations where I was walking five paces behind him, so he stopped for me.

  ‘That was kind of hard, wasn’t it?’ he said, and I was surprised, because I thought I was the only one who’d found it difficult.

  ‘I hate lies,’ I said.

  He looked at me and laughed, and then I remembered about his lie.

  ‘No offence,’ I said. ‘I lied too. I lied about the angel. And I lied to Matty, as well. About going to a party on New Year’s Eve. And to the people in the respite home.’

  ‘God’ll forgive you for those, I think.’ We walked along a little bit more, and then he said, for no reason that I could tell, ‘What would it take to change your mind?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About… you know. Wanting To End It All.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘If you could make a deal with God, kind of thing. He’s sitting there, the Big Guy, across the table from you. And he’s saying, OK, Maureen, we like you, but we really want you to stay put, on Earth. What can we do to persuade you? What can we offer you?’

  ‘God’s asking me personally?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘If He was asking me personally, He wouldn’t have to offer me anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If God in His infinite wisdom wanted me to stay on Earth, then how could I ask for anything?’

  JJ laughed. ‘OK, then. Not God.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘A sort of… I don’t know. A sort of cosmic, you know, President. Or Prime Minister. Tony Blair. Someone who can get things done. You don’t have to do what Tony Blair says without asking for something in return.’

  ‘Can he cure Matty?’

  ‘Nope. He can only arrange things.’

  ‘I’d like a holiday.’

  ‘God. You’re a cheap date. You’d choose to live out the rest of your natural life for a week in Florida?’

  ‘I’d like to go abroad. I’ve never been.’

  ‘You’ve never been abroad?’

  He said it as though I should be ashamed, and for a moment I was.

  ‘When was the last time you had a holiday?’

  ‘Just before Matty was born.’

  ‘And he’s how old?’

  ‘He’s nineteen.’

  ‘OK. Well, as your manager, I’m going to be asking the Big Guy for a holiday a year. Maybe two.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ I really felt scandalized. I can see now I was taking it all too seriously, but it felt real to me, and it seemed like a holiday a year was too much.

  ‘Trust me,’ said JJ. ‘I know the market. Cosmic Tony won’t blink an eye. Come on, what else?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t ask for anything else.’

  ‘Say he does give you two weeks’ holiday a year. Fifty weeks is a long time to wait for it, you know? And you’re not going to get another appointment with Cosmic Tony. You got one shot. Everything you want, you’ve got to ask for in one go.’

  ‘A job.’

  ‘You want a job?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘Anything. Working in a shop, maybe. Anything to get me out of the house.’

  I used to work, before Matty was born. I had a job in an office stationer’s in Tufnell Park. I liked it; I liked all the different pens, and sizes of paper and envelopes. I liked my boss. I haven’t worked since.

  ‘OK. Come on, come on.’

  ‘Maybe a bit of a social life. The church has quizzes sometimes. Like pub quizzes, but not in the pub. I’d like to have a go at one of those.’

  ‘Yep, we can allow you a quiz.’

  I tried to smile, because I knew JJ was joking a bit, but I was finding the conversation hard. I couldn’t really think of anything very much, and that annoyed me. And it made me feel afraid, in a strange sort of a way. It was like finding a door that you’d never seen before in your own house. Would you want to know what was behind it? Some people would, I’m sure, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to carry on talking about me.

  ‘What about you?’ I said to JJ. ‘What would you say to Cosmic Tony?’

  ‘Ha. I’m not sure, man.’ He calls everyone ‘man’, even if you’re not a man. You get used to it. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. Live the last fifteen years all over again or something. Finish high school. Forget about music. Become the kind of person who’s happy to settle for what he is, rather than what he wants to be, you know?’

  ‘But Cosmic Tony can’t arrange that.’

  ‘No. Exactly.’

  ‘So you’re worse off than me, really. Cosmic Tony can do things for me, but not for you.’

  ‘No, no, shit, I’m sorry, Maureen. I didn’t mean to imply that. You have a… You have a really hard life, and none of it’s your fault, and everything that’s happened to me is just ’cos of my own stupidity, and… There’s no comparison. Really. I’m sorry I ever mentioned it.’

  But I wasn’t sorry. I liked thinking about Cosmic Tony much more than I liked thinking about God.

  MARTIN

  The headline
in Linda’s paper – page one, accompanied by the picture of me flat on my face outside a nightclub – read ‘FOR HARPS – SEE SHARP’. The story did not, as Linda had promised it would, emphasize the beauty and mystery of our experience on the roof; rather, it chose to concentrate on another angle, namely, the sudden, gratifying and amusing lunacy of a former television personality. The journalist in me suspects that she got the story about right.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Jess asked me on the phone that morning.

  ‘It’s an old lager ad,’ I said. “ ‘HARP – STAYS SHARP”.’

  ‘What has lager got to do with anything?’

  ‘Nothing. But the name of the lager was Harp. And my name’s Sharp, you see.’

  ‘OK. Then what have harps got to do with anything?’

  ‘Angels are supposed to play them.’

  ‘Are they? Should we have said he was playing a harp? To make it more convincing?’

  I told her that, in my opinion, the addition of a harp to the portrait of the Angel Matt Damon that we had painted was unlikely to have helped convince people of its authenticity.

  ‘And anyway, how come it’s all about you? We hardly get a fucking mention.’

  I had many other phone calls that morning – from Theo, who said that there’s been a lot of interest in the story, and who thought I’d finally given him something he could work with, as long as I was comfortable talking to the public about what was obviously a private spiritual moment; from Penny, who wanted us to meet and talk; and from my daughters.

  I hadn’t been allowed to speak to them for weeks, but Cindy’s maternal instinct had obviously told her that the day Daddy was in the papers talking about seeing messengers from God was a good day to reinstate contact.

  ‘Did you see an angel, Daddy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mummy said you did.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t.’

  ‘Why did Mummy say you did?’

  ‘You’d better ask her.’

  ‘Mummy, why did you say Daddy saw an angel?’

  I waited patiently while a brief conversation took place away from the receiver.

  ‘She says she didn’t say it. She says the newspaper says it.’

  ‘I told a fib, sweetie. To make some money.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So I can buy you a nice birthday present.’

  ‘Oh. Why do you get money for saying you saw an angel?’

  ‘I’ll tell you another time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  And then Cindy and I spoke, but not for very long. During our brief conversation I managed to refer to two different types of domesticated female animals.

  I also received a phone call from my boss at FeetUp. He was calling to tell me that I was fired.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I wish I was, Sharpy. But you’ve left me with no alternative.’

  ‘By doing what, exactly?’

  ‘Have you seen the paper this morning?’

  ‘That’s a problem for you?’

  ‘You come across as a bit of a nutter, to be honest.’

  ‘What about the publicity for the channel?’

  ‘All negative, in my book.’

  ‘You think there’s such a thing as negative publicity for FeetUp?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What with no one ever having heard of us. You.’

  There was a long, long silence, during which you could hear the rusting cogs of poor Declan’s mind turning over.

  ‘Ah. I see. Very cunning. That hadn’t occurred to me.’

  ‘I’m not going to beg, Dec. But it would seem a little perverse to me. You hire me when no one else in the world would give me the time of day. And then you fire me when I’m hot. How many of your presenters are all over the papers today?’

  ‘No, no, fair point, fair point. I can see where you’re coming from. What you’re saying, if I read you correctly, is that there’s no such thing as bad publicity for a… a fledgling cable channel.’

  ‘Obviously I couldn’t have put it as elegantly as that. But yes, that’s the long and the short of it.’

  ‘OK. You’ve turned me round, Sharpy. Who’ve we got on this afternoon?’

  ‘This afternoon?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s Thursday.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Had you forgotten?’

  ‘I sort of had, really, yeah.’

  ‘So we’ve got no one?’

  ‘I reckon I could get JJ, Maureen and Jess to come on.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The other three.’

  ‘The other three who?’

  ‘Have you read the story?’

  ‘I only read the one about you seeing the angel.’

  ‘They were up there with me.’

  ‘Up where?’

  ‘The whole angel thing, Declan, came about because I was going to kill myself. And then I bumped into three other people on the top of a tower-block who were thinking of doing the same thing. And then… Well, to cut a long story short, the angel told us to come down again.’

  ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you reckon you can get the other three?’

  ‘Almost sure of it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. How much will they cost, d’you reckon?’

  ‘Three hundred quid for the three of them, maybe? Plus expenses. One of them’s a… Well, she’s a single parent, and her kid will need looking after.’

  ‘Go on, then. Fuck it. Fuck the expense.’

  ‘Top man, Dec.’

  ‘I think it’s a good idea. I’m pleased with that. Old Declan’s still got it, eh?’

  ‘Too right. You’re a newshound. You’re the Newshound of the Baskervilles.’

  ‘What you’ve got to tell yourself,’ I told them, ‘is that no one will be watching.’

  ‘That’s one of your old pro tricks, right?’ said JJ knowingly.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Believe me. Literally no one will be watching. I have never met anyone who has ever seen my show.’

  The world headquarters of FeetUp TV! – known, inevitably, to its staff as TitsUpTV! – is in a sort of shed in Hoxton. The shed contains a small reception area, two dressing rooms and a studio, where all four of our homegrown programmes are made. Every morning, a woman called Candy-Ann sells cosmetics; I split Thursday afternoon with a man called D J Goodnews, who speaks to the dead, usually on behalf of the receptionist, the window cleaner, the minicab driver booked to take him home, or anyone else who happens to be passing through: ‘Does the letter A mean anything to you, Asif?’ and so on. The other afternoons are taken up by tapes of old dog races from the US – once upon a time the intention was to offer viewers the chance to bet, but nothing ever came of it, and in my opinion, if you can’t bet, then dog racing, especially old dog racing, loses some of its appeal. During the evening, two women sit talking to each other, in and usually about their underwear, while viewers text them lewd messages, which they ignore. And that’s more or less it. Declan runs the station on behalf of a mysterious Asian businessman, and those of us who work for FeetUpTV! can only presume that somehow, in ways too obtuse and sophisticated for us to decipher, we are involved in the trafficking of class A drugs and child pornography. One theory is that the dogs in the races are sending out encoded messages to the traffickers: if, say, the dog in the outside lane wins, then that is a message to the Thai contact that he should send a couple of kilos of heroin and four thirteen-year-olds first thing in the morning. Something like that, anyway.

  My guests on Sharp Words tend to be old friends who want to do something to help, or former celebrities in a boat not dissimilar to my own – holed under the waterline and sinking fast. Some weeks I get has-beens, and everyone gets wildly over-excited, but most weeks it’s had-beens. Candy-Ann, D J GoodNews and the two semi-clothed ladies have appeared on my show not just once, but several times, in order to give viewers a chance to get to know them a little better. (Sharp Words
is two hours long, and though the advertising department, namely Karen on reception, does its best, we are rarely interrupted by messages from our sponsors. The theoretical viewer is highly unlikely to feel as though we have barely scratched the conversational surface.) Attracting people of the calibre of Maureen and Jess, then, constituted something of a coup: only rarely have my guests appeared on the show during the same decade that they have appeared in the newspapers.

  I took pride in my interviewing. I mean, I still do, but at a time when I seemed to be able to do nothing else properly, I hung on to my competence in a studio as I would to a tree root on the side of a cliff. I have, in my time, interviewed drunken, maudlin actors at eight in the morning and drunken, aggressive footballers at eight in the evening. I have forced lying politicians to tell something like the truth, and I have had to cope with mothers whose grief has made them uncomfortably verbose, and not once have I let things become sloppy. My studio sofa was my classroom, and I didn’t tolerate any waywardness. Even in those desperate FeetUpTV! months spent talking to nobodies and never-weres, people with nothing to say and no ability to say it, it was comforting to think that there was some area of my life in which I was competent. So when Jess and JJ decided that my programme was a joke and acted accordingly, I suffered something of a sense of humour failure. I wish, of course, that I hadn’t; I wish that I could have found it in me to be a little less pompous, a little more relaxed. True, I was encouraging them to talk about an unforgettable experience that they hadn’t had, and which I knew they hadn’t had. And granted, that imaginary unforgettable experience was preposterous. And yet, despite these impediments, I had somehow expected a higher level of professionalism.

  I don’t wish to overstate my case; it’s not bloody rocket science, doing a TV interview. You chat to your guests beforehand, agree on a rough conversational course, remind them of their hilarious anecdotes and, in this case, of the known facts about the fictions we were about to discuss, as provided by Jess in her original interview – namely, that the angel looked like Matt Damon, he floated above the roof, and he was wearing a baggy white suit. Don’t fuck about with those bits, I told them, or we’ll get into a mess. So what happens? Almost immediately? I ask JJ what the angel was wearing, and he tells me that the angel was wearing a promotional T-shirt for the Sandra Bullock film While You Were Sleeping – a film which, as luck would have it, Jess had seen on TV, and was thus able to synopsize at considerable length.