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[tarago]

‘No! Go away! I’ve got nothing to say!’

Maxwell slammed the door of his room in the journos faces and backed away moaning with fear as they hammered on it and yelled his name.

He was trapped. He’d checked into Groves Hotel confident that he’d get enough money out of Paul to cover the bill but now Paul was dying and Maxwell had nothing: he’d even paid his bail with a cheque that was going to bounce; then the cops would add fraud on top of his assault charge and throw him in prison.

Maxwell hadn’t really understood how famous the Doug Anthonys were until he walked out of the police station and a pack of reporters had descended on him, jostling him, calling out his name and they hadn’t left him alone since. For two days every time he’d left his room they’d been there and it wasn’t as if he could sneak around and avoid them. He was six foot seven and a hundred and fifteen kilograms he wasn’t built for stealth.

The journos seemed to sense he wasn’t going to come out and trooped off. Relieved, Maxwell picked up the phone and ordered some room service: steak sandwiches and beers, he didn’t want anything that might be good for him and had consumed a mountain of junk food since this crisis began. Ordering more made him slightly hysterical. The room service tab was going to be huge. All he could think to do was to stay put and keep going and somehow the cash he so desperately needed would appear.

But not from Paul because Paul was dying.

Currently, Maxwell was angry at Paul for this. His grief at Paul’s fate was wild and unstable and at the moment he was fuming. For God’s sake it was only one punch. Maxwell had had his nose shattered and been thoroughly beaten up but he wasn’t in hospital, was he? He wasn’t dying but one punch and Paul was checking out. Typical. Yet another massive overreaction from the man who always had to be the centre of attention. Dying. What a prick!

‘And you’d be nothing without me,’ Maxwell thought, addressing the smirking Paul he could see so clearly in his mind.

All the other students on their art course had ignored Paul. Maxwell had been the only one to make an effort, keep going through the constant rebuffs, and earn Paul’s trust. Paul was very shy and very strange however Maxwell had seen what apparently the whole world now knew that there was more to Paul that he was quick-witted, very talented and the combination of singing like an angel and acting like a devil made him incredibly sexy. Maxwell was convinced that this was down to him that if he hadn’t been at Paul’s side and given him the confidence Paul would never have become an Allstar.

Grabbing a two thirds empty bottle of scotch, Maxwell made a mental note to ask the room service guy to bring him another then took a huge swig and carried on listing his grievances against Paul. Paul who he’d introduced to contact lenses and decent haircuts, neither of which seemed to have stuck it was like he was determined to look embarrassing (it didn’t cross Maxwell’s mind that perhaps Paul had changed his appearance to please him and was now happy and loved by Tim for who he was so no alteration was necessary).  

Maxwell knew that he was directly responsible for all Paul’s success and the little bastard had never once said thank you. Who had encouraged him to do some cabaret? Who had told him that the Doug Anthonys were looking for a new member? Who’d gone to their first few gigs and said supportive things even though they were rubbish? All right so after a few beers he’d told Paul what he really thought and been very critical and personal but that was for Paul’s own good. If he couldn’t take a few harsh words from his lover then he was never going to cope with negative opinions from strangers. Maxwell had been doing him a favour with his constant put downs and lack of enthusiasm but Paul had refused to see it that way.

Plus Paul was mind-bogglingly selfish, it was all one-way traffic with him he never gave Maxwell any support. As students whenever he went to Paul looking for sympathy over his failed assignments and piles of outstanding work, Paul would say that nothing would change unless Maxwell actually did some work instead of talking about it and putting it off. Paul never let him get away with being what he called ‘lazy’ never acknowledged the fact that Maxwell worked differently and couldn’t be shackled by a timetable. It wasn’t procrastination it was more than that and no one understood how difficult it was for him to overcome it. Getting fit and getting organised was for other people he was special.

While Maxwell sat around being unique and misunderstood, Paul worked all day every day and for as many hours into the night as he could push himself doing without sleep entirely at least three times a week. Maxwell watched and sulked unable to make the connection between Paul’s phenomenal work ethic and his accomplishments as a student and an Allstar. He saw Paul being handed accolades and opportunities that he wanted for himself and was incredibly jealous.

Maxwell sincerely believed that it was Paul’s fault that they weren’t together anymore. Technically Maxwell was the one who’d been unfaithful and done the leaving but it was Paul’s fault because he didn’t care about anyone apart from himself and so Maxwell had been forced to seek a little company, a little love with someone else. It’s not like Paul had ever loved him anyway. If he’d loved him he’d have shared his achievements however he’d refused to give Maxwell money no matter how many times he’d asked and how badly they’d fought about it.

The blame for everything going wrong lay with Paul. Maxwell would have made something of his life if it wasn’t for Paul holding him back and belittling him and now he was going to die which meant Maxwell would go to prison. Unless...would Paul have left him anything in his will? He was bound to have, wasn’t he? Maxwell took another gulp of scotch and wondered how much money Paul had left him and how soon he could get his hands on it. Of course Paul wasn’t actually dead yet, but he would be very soon and that would solve a lot of Maxwell’s problems.

‘Room service.’

Maxwell opened the door with a smile. The thought of Paul’s will made him feel rather cheerful.

The room service guy was a room service girl who carefully shut the door behind her before dumping Maxwell’s sandwiches and beers on the table like she didn’t care which was odd.

‘How are you?’ she asked, staring at him.

‘Why do you want to know,’ Maxwell replied guardedly.

‘I just thought that maybe you needed someone to talk to. Shut up in here while everyone goes mad about Paul McDermott and no one gives a damn about you.’

Her words struck a nerve.

‘No one ever cared about me. It’s always been about Paul that’s how he liked it.’

‘Really? Go on.'

‘Yeah, right from the start he was...he was...’ Maxwell faded out. ‘Nah, what’s the point?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to set the record straight? Tell people the real story. You’re the victim here. And I believe you’ve been the victim for a long time, Maxwell. These showbiz types are always self-obsessed I bet he was hell to live with.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m someone who can help you get your point of view across.’

‘Journo?’

The girl nodded.

‘Come on, it’s time to talk.’

‘The bill here-’

‘We’ll cover it and give you five on top what do you say?’

Maxwell blinked at the journalist, confused.

‘Five?’

‘Five thousand dollars and your hotel bill paid,’ she cooed. ‘All you have to do is sit down and talk to me and my little machine here.’

She sat down on the bed and placed a tape recorder on the covers.

‘Join me,’ she said patting the empty space beside her. ‘Let’s have a chat. Ooh scotch, why don’t you pour me one and I’ll get some more sent up.’

Maxwell fixed her a drink and then sat down.

‘I’m Laura. It’s nice to meet you.’

They clinked glasses.

‘You’re being so brave, Maxwell. Going through all this alone. I bet you felt lonely even when you were with him, didn’t you?’

Maxwell nodded.

‘He never listened, wouldn’t try to understand.’

‘Exactly.’ Laura switched on the tape player. ‘So tell me, what’s Paul McDermott really like?’

Edited by tarago, 15 November 2011 - 09:54 AM.

[tarago]

‘You trying to steal my Pixie? Oh, you fucking arsehole!!!’

‘You’re the arsehole!!!’

‘You’re both arseholes! Deal with it!!’

‘Stay out of it, Mousey!!’

Paul was shocked. ‘I said never to call me that!!’

‘See? Even he thinks you’re an arsehole!!’

‘Enough! You’re both arseholes!!’

‘He’s right you know!’

‘Shut up, Richard!’

And then they were fighting. This was exactly why Paul had been going to keep Maxwell’s presence a secret. He’d known how it would go if Tim and Maxwell saw each other again and, as the first punches were thrown, Paul was proved right and it was horrible.

He stepped in-between them trying to push them apart and could feel Richard at his side attempting to do the same, but neither of them were strong enough and they both ended up getting shoved and hit.

‘Calm down!’ Paul yelled as he went to take Tim’s arm and try to pull him away. ‘Just calm the fuck down.’

Hyped up, Tim lashed out driving his fist into Paul’s face with sickening force. Paul screamed and fell back; there was a flash of searing pain and then nothing.

Darkness.

No breath.

Agony built and built as Paul’s body cried out for oxygen.

He couldn’t see, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly someone grabbed the back of Paul’s shirt and pulled him out of the darkness and into a clear light where Paul lay on his back gulping great breaths of warm, sweet air. When he’d recovered enough to take in his surroundings he discovered that he was lying on dry sand blinking up at a cloudless blue sky and standing over him was his rescuer. A very familiar face.

‘Si-Simon!’ Paul stammered in shock.

Simon offered a hand and pulled Paul to his feet and into a hug.

‘Simon,’ said Paul again. ‘Am I dead?’

Simon Carteret was Paul’s cousin. Three and a half years older he’d been Paul’s childhood hero and, as far as Paul was concerned, the epitome of cool. Simon had appointed himself Paul’s unofficial big brother and led his small cousin through adventures and misdemeanours that he otherwise would not have experienced. Paul worshipped him, wanted to be him and when Simon had been killed in a motorbike smash aged just eighteen, Paul had been devastated and his natural shyness morphed into a crippling introversion that took him years to overcome.

‘Don’t know,’ said Simon. He gestured at their surroundings. ‘Fucken beautiful, isn’t it?’

Paul looked around.

‘My beach,’ he said in surprise. Paul’s beach was a fantasy. White sands, vivid, tropical blue ocean, and two palm trees for cover and hammock-hanging. It was perfect in every way. There were no insects or flies, the palm trees were vibrant and didn’t have a single blemish or mark of decay, and there wasn’t a trace of humanity or any living thing just water, sand and trees. The depth of the colours was amazing and the temperature exactly the right degree. ‘Heaven.’

‘No,’ corrected Simon. ‘This is The Other Side of the Worst. Look over there.’

Paul followed Simon’s nod.

‘What’s that?’ he asked in horror staring at a black cloud that stretched from the sand to the sky. As he got closer, Paul saw that it was weirdly solid like a wall. Inside the cloud was a swirling, vicious storm of staggering violence and intensity. As Paul watched the lightning he was overcome by certain feelings: fear, uncertainty, self-loathing, hopelessness, panic, stress, loneliness...

‘That’s where you came from,’ said Simon, placing a comforting hand on Paul’s back. ‘Your mum pushes you into it, someone else pulls you out. That’s how it works for everyone.’

‘So that’s-’ Paul pointed at the cloud.

‘That’s your life.’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Yes it is,’ said Simon confidently. ‘Here is better and what comes next is...can’t describe it. Anyway I’m not allowed. If you want to know you have to go there yourself.’

On the other side of the beach was a path leading up a gentle slope.

‘What’s up there?’

‘Just told you,’ Simon said. ‘Can’t say. That’s next and you go there alone.’

‘When?’

‘When you’re ready.’

The cousins drifted along the beach stopping when they were roughly in the middle.

Paul squinted at the cloud. ‘It’s getting smaller.’

‘Yep. It’ll disappear at some point and when it does you can’t go back.’

‘Then I’m dead?’

‘Then you’re here and you’ll still have the path.’

‘Good.’ Paul didn’t like the brooding presence of the cloud. ‘Am I supposed to be upset about dying?’

‘No. It’s all over. You can’t be upset or scared or any of that. It’s life stuff and you’ve left it behind.’

Paul lay back on the flawless white sand and smiled. ‘It feels good.’

‘Everything feels good here.’

With a laugh of pure happiness, Paul scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers.

‘So you’ll be all right?’ Simon said and Paul knew that this was goodbye but he wasn’t sad. Instead he felt overwhelmingly joyful to have seen Simon again and know that he was somewhere safe and wonderful.

‘I will. Thanks for pulling me out.’

‘No worries. Always said I’d be there when you needed me, didn’t I?’

The cousins grinned at each other then Simon turned and walked across the beach to the path. Paul watched him going up the slope until he was out of sight before closing his eyes and lulled by the gentle lapping of the waves dozing contentedly in the sun.

When he awoke he looked over at the cloud and was pleased to see that it was significantly smaller.

‘Be gone soon,’ he thought with satisfaction.

Simon had said when it was he couldn’t go back however Paul had no intention of leaving the perfection of the beach. He certainly wasn’t going to plunge back into that hateful storm. When the time came he’d choose the path, walk up the slope and find out what was next. He could see the sense in moving forward, but going back especially back into something so dark and alarming held no appeal at all.

‘Tim’ll understand,’ Paul said to himself. ‘He’ll have to.’

Tim: a flood of images filled Paul’s mind which led to thoughts of Richard, then Steph, then other friends and family. But most of all Paul thought about Tim and how it felt to love and be loved.

He stared at the cloud which was rapidly diminishing. When it was gone, Tim was gone.

Paul tried to feel bad about this but the beach was incredible and the sun warm on his skin.

Tim.

Thoughts nagged at him, but Paul didn’t know if he had the strength to rip himself out of this paradise and go back to somewhere where he was presumably in a very bad way. Here on the beach he felt the best he ever had while on the other side of the cloud he was dying. He didn’t want to go back and be hurt and ill. He was beyond pain now and assumed that if he went back there’d be lots.

Tim.

He’d understand.


Lying in a hospital bed pumped full of drugs and spiked with drips and tubes Paul’s body gave a single convulsive jerk and his heart monitor triggered an alarm as he flat-lined.

Edited by tarago, 21 November 2011 - 10:53 AM.

[Mama Flame]

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"You can't think about nothing, there has to be something in that brain of yours."

"Do you think he'll forgive me?"

"He already has, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"He hasn't wanted to see me."

"Yes he has, he just doesn't want you to see him."

"Huh?"

"He's not the same person you know. He told me he had made the hardest decision in his life and, well, it changed him somewhat."

"That doesn't explain why he doesn't want to see me."

"I already told you, he doesn't want you to see him."

"I'm still not getting you."

"He's a bit of a mess. He doesn't want to remind you of what happened."

"Like I can ever forget."

"He's forgiven you. Stood by your side, so to speak. All charges dropped and your record wiped clean. Well, as clean as it was before all this bullshit."

"It's not that bad."

"Just as well."

"Can't believe that that bastard tried to blame everything on Paul."

"I can't believe the reporter actually had the courage to see through all his bullshit, check things out and then publish what she did."

"She could've hung Paul up to dry with that information."

"Can't believe a reporter actually has integrity and honesty."

"I want to see him."

"Are you sure? He's still pretty weak, and not as cute at the moment"

"He's still my Pixie and I'll love him regardless. I still have to apologise to him, face to face."

"He's already forgiven you."

"But I haven't forgiven me, and I can't do that until I speak to him."

Richard sighed and slowly stood as he glanced up at the clock. "Well, come on then. He should be back from rehab by now."

Tim just about jumped out of his seat. "Let's go!"

[tarago]

After one last kiss, Steph got out of bed, paused only to slip on a pair of lacy briefs then sashayed to the bathroom in a way that made Richard grind his teeth with desire. He loved Steph naked, of course, he worshipped her naked, but somehow near nakedness was more endearing and the promise of what was hidden by those ghostly threads of spun black silk stretching wickedly across her flat brown belly drove him wild.

He lay back against the pillows and smiled: sanity was definitely being restored.

Paul had been in hospital for ten days and seemed to be holding his own with Tim spending most of his waking hours by his side. Deciding that that was as close to normal as their lives were going to get right now, Richard felt able to leave them to it and whisk Steph off to the most expensive hotel in the city and indulge his love’s every whim.

When she emerged from the bathroom Steph sat down in front of the mirror and began brushing her hair.

‘Let me,’ Richard said eagerly.

Steph returned to the bed and Richard began to methodically brush her hair stopping occasionally to drop light kisses on her narrow shoulders. She’d reapplied her perfume and he relished the scent and the way it blended with the aroma they’d created together: lust, sweat and sex. She wasn’t particularly vain but after months in a remote scientific research station permanently buried under layers of thermals and waterproofs where the whole team shared two sinks, one temperamental shower and three toilets only one of which ever seemed to work, Steph loved a little pampering and Richard was more than happy to provide it.

‘Stay,’ he said.

‘I can’t.’

‘Course you can you just don’t go back and you stay with me in this bed forever.’

‘And then what do I do? Follow you guys around on tour after tour? No thanks.’

Richard paused holding the brush in the air.

‘No more tours,’ he said quietly.

Paul had beaten impossible odds to stay alive. His doctors had said that ninety-eight per cent of people who have a cardiac arrest outside of a hospital die within minutes and those that make it to hospital but are still comatose forty-eight hours later die quickly without ever waking up. That Paul had not made him an honest-to-god, genuine, bone-fide medical miracle.

The big question was how long could he continue to defy the astronomical odds against his survival? Paul had not been told any of these details in order to spare him the stress but Richard, Steph, Tim, and Paul’s parents had been informed that there was a less than ten per cent chance that he would live long enough to leave hospital and even if he did over half of all patients who survive one cardiac arrest suffer a fatal one within six months or die of other causes like a heart attack or a stroke within a year.

It was beyond distressing but the hospital had gently and kindly prepared Paul’s loved ones for the fact that he was very, very unlikely to still be with them in twelve months time and that the best-case scenario was that within three years he’d be gone with the likelihood of him living beyond that a mere 0.1 per cent.

As those hateful numbers and statistics flashed through his mind yet again, Richard did what he hadn’t allowed himself to do in front of Tim or Mr and Mrs McDermott and started to cry. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Paul, he’d never be ready. He and Steph moved around so that he was cradled in her arms.

'That's it,' Steph murmured. 'Let it out.'

Richard curled up a little tighter and sobbed.

Hours later after the catharsis of crying – there was an ache in his chest where he felt the absence of the solid lump of worry and grief that had been lodged, hard and impenetrable, inside him  – and a long walk in the sunshine, Richard felt a lot better.

‘I meant it,’ he said as he and Steph sat by the river clutching lattes and chicken salsa wraps. ‘Please stay.’

‘Academic rather than practical research,’ Steph mused.

‘Exactly. And you could teach.’

‘I can’t just transfer overnight, you know? Short-term I’ve got to go back.’

Richard nodded. Short-term he could handle if it led to long-term not being apart.

‘What about you?’ Steph asked. ‘What happens now?’

‘Don’t know. DAAS is over-‘

‘Is anyone going to tell Paul?’

‘Shit no,’ said Richard emphatically. The list of things Paul didn’t know seemed to be growing by the hour. ‘He’s fixated on working again.’

‘It’s good that he’s got goals,’ Steph said cautiously. ‘Sad it’s never going to happen.’

‘I don’t know,’ Richard said unable to bring himself to write Paul and his ambitions off totally. ‘He should have died right there on the hotel floor and he didn’t. Should never have come round from the coma and he did. Should have serious brain damage and, yes all right, his coordination’s screwed and he can’t find the right words most of the time but that’s fixable: so’s the memory loss. He’s better every time we see him. Maybe he could go all the way.’

‘The big comeback gig at the opera house,’ Steph said. She’d been there when Paul had rasped out his plans one halting word at a time which took ages as he frequently went blank or said a word that was only approximate to what he meant and had to rely on the others to interpret the meaning.

‘He could do it,’ said Richard. ‘Why not?’

Richard and Steph shared a sad glance.

‘You know why,’ said Steph gently.

‘Yeah,’ Richard sighed. ‘Fuck!’ Venting his sudden anger he threw his coffee into the river.

‘Do you think it would be kinder to tell Paul it won’t happen? What if he starts worrying about it?’

Richard shook his head.

‘We can’t it would kill him.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Along with everything else that’s going to. Do you know the sick thing? Part of me wishes he’d just do it, die, and then we could move on. It’s this endless waiting...I can’t...how messed up am I? Can’t believe I’ve even thought that but I have.’

He wrapped an arm around Steph.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘Don’t know. Shall we go back?’

They walked in silence for a while then what he hoped were the prefect words formed in Richard’s mind.

‘I don’t want you to stay because Paul’s dying. I want you to stay because I want to spend my life with you,’ he blurted out as he faced Steph and took hold of both her hands. ‘I love you and we spend too much time apart.’

Steph looked up at him with a loving smile.

‘Marry me,’ she said.

Richard grinned. Left to his own devices he’d have proposed after weeks of careful planning and freaking out. One of the things he truly adored about Steph was that she always cut through any complications and saved him from himself by going straight to the heart of the matter.

‘Richard Fidler, will you marry me?’

Richard took off the silver ring on his little finger and gently put it on Steph’s ring finger: it would do until they could go to a jewellers and he could buy her the ring she deserved.

‘I will.’

Giggling and kissing they made their way back to the hotel radiating happiness like a shield against the bleak circumstances that surrounded them.

Edited by tarago, 01 February 2012 - 04:40 PM.

[tarago]

It was Allstar time.

Richard seized his electric guitar and striking a rock god pose he played a searing heavy metal riff then looked confused when no one started singing. He did it again: same result.

‘Why aren’t you singing?’ he asked Tim.

‘I don’t do the melody, that’s your job.’

‘Nah-uh. I do the bass harmony.’

‘So who does the tune?’

Both men looked thoughtful for a moment.

‘Didn’t there used to be someone else?’ Tim wondered slowly, sounding baffled.

‘There did, didn’t there? Short bloke, usually stood about here.’ Richard pointed to the large, significant gap between himself and Tim. ‘What was his name?’

Tim frowned with the effort of remembering. ‘Was it Dennis?’

‘Francesca?’

‘No, it was Paul!’ Tim and Richard shared congratulatory smiles at this amazing feat of memory.

‘Paul,’ Richard repeated happily. ‘That’s right. What a wanker.’

They waited a beat for effect then launched into their first frenetically paced song.

“One, two, three, four. Didn’t wash, avoided work and simply hid.
Got in our way, held us back, so we had to get rid. Oi!      
So he got felled with a left hook and us Allstars now have the right look.
Finally DAAS is just real men,   
We’re gonna rock and never, ever mention the shortarse again.

Paul’s not dead,
But he’s certainly fading fast.
Trying to die a death,
That lives up to his past.   
Needs a walking frame to get around,   
Pacemaker for his heart,   
Paul’s not dead.
He’s just totally fallen apart!

Now like Dylan we’ve gone electric,   
Like Christ we’ve risen again-“

Tim stopped singing and glanced over at Paul who was lying on the sofa blissfully comfy in a nest of pillows and blankets.

‘Can’t do this,’ he said. Then he turned to Richard. ‘Sorry, it’s just...’

‘Shit,’ said Richard decisively finishing Tim’s sentence for him and switching off his amp. ‘Seriously, this isn’t going to work. Everyone's gonna hate it.’

‘I don’t,’ said Paul.

‘Well, yeah, course you don’t,’ said Tim. ‘No one hates what they write themselves. It’s like farts: secretly everyone loves their own.’

‘What busking stuff can we do with two of us?’ Richard wondered. ‘At least we know all that works.’

Their rehearsal descended into yet another discussion about how Tim and Richard were going to fill their slot on the Big Gig and whether or not they should have agreed to do it. After all it had only been a few weeks since what the three of them always referred to simply as That Night which among its many and far-reaching effects had triggered intense media coverage that had gone on and on.

‘I still think Australia’s had enough of us for a while,’ Tim stated. ‘We were in the papers every day for so long. I’m sick of me and I am me. Let’s lie low for a bit longer. Maybe ask Ted if we can go back next season.’

‘No self-portrait?’ Paul suggested which made the other two pause for a second while they deciphered the true meaning of his utterance. His speech had vastly improved and was getting better and better however something still kept going wrong with Paul’s words. Sentences that were perfect in his brain unfortunately got scrambled on the journey to his lips and Paul only rarely seemed to be aware that it was happening. Tim and Richard tried not to bring it to his attention because they didn’t want him getting embarrassed and going silent on them.

‘No self,’ Tim repeated as his mind worked furiously. ‘Ourselves? Not be ourselves?’

‘Not talk about ourselves?’ Richard hazarded.

Paul nodded.

‘Too much of a cop-out,’ said Richard. ‘We’ll look like we can dish it out but not take it. It’s got to be about us.’

Paul reached for his notebook. ‘I’ll try again.’

Tim snatched it away.  ‘Not now. You should be resting.’

He saw Paul’s eyes flash with resentment and the fire quickly fade as he realised Tim was right.

‘Time for leaves?’ Paul asked hopefully.

Leaves meant tea.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Richard and he wandered off towards the kitchen.

Once they were alone Tim decided to invade Paul’s space and rearranged things so that Paul was in his arms before making sure the blankets were still covering him. Tim couldn’t help but squeeze Paul a little tighter for a moment as they settled down.

‘It’s all right,’ Paul comforted stroking Tim’s arm. ‘I’m okay, very not dead.’

Tim didn’t like the word miracle because he didn’t believe in them or anything supernatural and yet he kept applying it to Paul. Paul who had fought back hard enough to leave hospital, Paul who was getting stronger, Paul who Tim could convince himself during his most positive times seemed to have a real chance of going all the way and becoming that most rare of human beings: one who’d survived a cardiac arrest and gone on to live a long and healthy life.

Other times Tim would acknowledge that Paul had only lived a few weeks so far, had zero energy, trouble moving about, and while his lyrics had lied about the walking frame he did have a pacemaker and every time he suddenly winced and rubbed his chest as it thumped his heart back into a stable rhythm it tore Tim’s nerves to shreds.

Was Paul going to make it? Compared to the gravity of that question the Allstars current anxiety about going back to work was so trivial that it was meaningless.

Softly, Tim kissed Paul’s head. ‘Thanks for coming back,’ he murmured for the thousandth time.

Paul had been entirely candid about what Tim reckoned was a near-death hallucination brought on by lack of oxygen or something. Paul had told him and Richard all about seeing his cousin and the time he’d spent on his perfect beach before choosing to plunge back into the horrible swirling darkness of life. He’d written a long and detailed account to make sure that he was fully understood and tried endlessly to mix the right colours so that he could paint it. Paul maintained that it was real that it had actually happened and wouldn’t be dissuaded otherwise. Not that Tim had tried particularly hard because it seemed cruel to talk Paul out of his bullshit when the memory of it brought him such comfort.

Richard came back with the teas and turned the TV on. He flicked through the channels but nothing held anyone’s interest. Paul began to get drowsy and barely joined in as Tim and Richard decided to watch a video and argued happily over which one.

Choice made one of the Allstars slept soundly while the other two watched Ghostbusters one more time and the question of how or if they were going to maintain their careers went unanswered for another day.

Edited by tarago, 04 March 2012 - 03:33 PM.