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We do not call our dead, for we have no dead.
None, and yet you dwell on the sinister, savour its tang
in the fuming air, its pallor in the painted deaths-heads.
The Spanish trips on your tongue like tequila, as you curl
the words in the hollows of your mouth, rolling the taste
of silent ‘j’s – hijo de puta pendejo mierda mierda mierda

Death to you is a strange and fascinating liquor,
like the little ghosts who used to sit at your window
and read to you from the books of breathing.
My hands draw mariposas on the kitchen floor
and you talk on, unaware of La Catrina grinning
in your young teeth.

What is the day of the dead to one
who has never known death?
Dead men lie in banner-strewn streets,
the blood of their eye-sockets grown vitrified
in the stars of dust. The dead are in the air
they rise, listen, rise.
The chickpeas cascade through your fingers like years.

The film Closer opens with the Blower’s Daughter playing as Natalie Portman and Jude Law walk towards each other in slow motion through a crowd. She catches his eye; he smiles. Her hair’s red. So is the traffic light: he stops; she keeps walking. The camera stays on his expression as he watches her get run over by a taxicab.

In the street, Jude Law bends over Natalie Portman. She opens her eyes and says: “Hello, stranger.” After he’s taken her to hospital to get her leg fixed, they go to Postman’s Park. He asks her name; she tells him it’s Alice Ayres.

I walked down the memorial walk listening to the Blower’s Daughter and reading the plaques; by the end of it I had started to cry. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because the place was so beautiful. Maybe it was because the plaques were so sad. Maybe it was because I felt alone in London; maybe it was because I realised that, faced with the memory of these people who had given their lives for strangers, my loneliness was utterly insignificant.

Here’s to strangers. Maybe someday, one of them will save you.

I should have said, when asked how I was: I feel like jazz. Why does anybody ask that question, anyway; what do they do with the answers, I should like to know. Can’t shake this, though I should have shaken it off long ago. Words aren’t quite enough this time (are they ever?) need the music to carry it by. Those women: Billie and Ella and Doris and Peggy – they knew how to sing it out loud. Me, I’m sitting up on ladders. Plucking at the blues.

Day I met you, the signals weren’t working.
Why do you keep looking at my mouth? you asked,
amused – and I didn’t know, really, maybe because
it’s so damn close? You had a gaze as elusive
as smoke on the horizon; in your laugh I could hear
the sound of tracks vibrating. But I thought nothing of it,
till weeks later when the train hit, and I,
I thought I’d been waiting for it on the platform
when I’d been lying on the tracks the whole time.

This is me, dragging myself out of the wreckage.
This is me, limping my way to the barrier.
I can smell you on me, your cigarettes and your toothpaste,
the acrid tang of smoke in the air as I walk out of your room,
across the platform, away from the heap of twisted metal
on the tracks. I tear my ticket in half
and let the pieces fall at the turnstile.

Outside the station, I take off my shoes
and let the dust from the road settle
between my toes. I decide to walk from here.

You’re in my kitchen. There is a sweet violence in this,
how your presence is startling as a fire alarm
and routine as the smell of fried bread.
I flood the sink with soapy water and hold
the moment in my mouth, bite down
before it dissolves, when it is at its sweetest.
The clementine shells sit on the table,
perfect halves of a tiny world.

Back in my room, you peel me like a clementine.
I come to you whole, and you take me to pieces
with your fingers, pith from membrane, easing
the segments of me apart. I break
in your mouth, unutterably sweet.

I need to remember this because I need to remember what I have. That we were more fortunate than so many – if we hadn’t decided to get on the Heathrow Express when we did, if the conductor had checked Claire’s invalid ticket, if that woman in front of us hadn’t raised a giant fuss and distracted the guards so that we were able to sneak past into the airport. And also because we had people on the ground who wanted us home. We think it’s opportunity cost, if there are people who are waiting for us and we can’t go back to them – but imagine if you had nobody waiting for you. If you were stranded in Heathrow for twelve hours and it wouldn’t make a difference to anybody. Claire and I were lucky enough to have people willing to bend heaven and earth to bring us back to them. My father practically ripped apart the SIA home office to get us on the last SQ flight out of London. I have never been more glad to have a terrifying father.

Above all I need to remember the moment when I looked out of the window and saw the lights of the island appear through the darkness, like tiny brilliant jewels. As the plane went into descent, the lights rushing past, I began to cry. I can probably count on my fingers the number of emotional outbursts I have in a year, but when the plane wheels hit the runway I buried my face in my hands and sobbed like a little girl. The woman next to me started in consternation, said uncertainly are you okay? I couldn’t stop crying. Yes, I tried to say, yes. I’m happy. I’m crying because I’m home.

Cobb looks around at them, gets the nod from Yusuf, from Arthur. Eames touches the tight strings of his instrument with a single fingertip and gives his nod.

“All right then,” says Cobb. “Let’s give them the Kick.”

*

The tour hits Manila first. Because of Arthur’s environmental considerations, they fly first class instead of by private jet as Saito would have preferred; so they spend thirteen hours in the air with a couple of wealthy businessmen, a minor prince of Oman and a bunch of Korean pop stars who spend the entire journey engaged in an excitable inter-console game of in-flight backgammon.

On being whisked through customs by Saito and Co, they are confronted by a massive horde of screaming fans at Arrivals. Eames crashes into a stunned Cobb. “Wow,” says Cobb, wide-eyed. “I didn’t really expect to be missed so badly.”

Even Saito seems caught off-guard by the unexpected fan turnout. “We have insufficient security!” he is barking at his assistant. “Get me at least a level five cover!”

Arthur alone seems completely unfazed. Eames and Cobb stare at him quizzically. “Read the signs,” says Arthur, which is easy for him to say because only Arthur can read Filipino.

The Korean pop stars and their entourage are hustled past them and through the Arrivals gate. The entire horde of fans turns and chases after them, waving their signs and screaming variations on the theme of “MARRY ME SUPER JUNIOR!”

“…or never mind,” continues Saito, as the fans swarm out of sight.

“Yeah,” says Arthur to nobody in particular. “It’s been a while.”

*

In the Araneta Coliseum, it’s a different scene altogether. Eames has been doing the rap circuit in the past few years, of course – but he’s forgotten what it’s like to step onto a stage and have thousands of people screaming their undying love and adoration in your face. It’s terrifying. It’s like coming home.

It’s also punishing living. Saito has them out of Manila under an hour and on a plane to Jakarta; four hours later, they’re playing ‘Get Out Of My Head’ to another crowd at Mangga Dua before he sweeps them off once again, this time to Singapore.

“Bloody hell,” gasps Eames as they flop, exhausted, into their plane seats. “What is this? Where are the rave parties? The post-concert orgies?”

“Parties and orgies are for celebrities of the now,” intones Saito. “And until you pay off the venue deposits, you are still has-beens.”

“Seriously, man,” moans Yusuf from behind him, “I haven’t slept more than five hours this week.”

Saito merely stares him down. “When you earn enough for a foam party, I will let you know.”

Fortunately he relents by Singapore; they have a three-day stopover and only one show. Saito books them into the island’s shiniest new resort, which Yusuf insists resembles a spaceship.

“No, no, really,” he is saying, “look at it from over here.” They are standing in the driveway of the mall opposite Marina Bay Sands, where Yusuf has dragged them because he is adamant that they see the spaceship. “Say the towers are the launching pad pillars; now, doesn’t the skypark thing look like it’s about to take off?”

It’s sunset; as they watch, lights come on all over the skypark. It looks like a twinkling submarine. Eames has to admit that, lit up, it actually does seem like it’s raring to launch.

People have started snapping phone pictures of them. “Yes, yes, it’s a spaceship,” says Saito testily, “time to go now.”

*

Rehab made Cobb slower, so it was at least a week into album production before he worked out what Arthur and Eames were up to. This was the morning when Eames wandered into the living area where Arthur and Cobb were engaged in their pre-breakfast coffee ritual, which was Arthur making cup after cup of coffee and handing them to Cobb to be consumed in swift succession.

“No, Dom,” Arthur was saying as he entered. “No giant top.”

“Think about it,” exclaimed Cobb with the neurotic frenzy of the very caffeinated. “No rock band has ever used a giant top as a concert setpiece. We’ll go round and round in the middle of the arena, it’ll be sick.”

“We’ll,” corrected Arthur, “be sick.”

Cobb glared at him. “I insist we still have the whole set collapse at the end. It’s significant and apocalyptic.”

“And bloody expensive,” said Arthur, withholding the coffee. “Saito doesn’t love you that much.”

Cobb made a feral noise of frustration and grabbed at the coffee. Arthur spotted Eames and gave him a small smile.

“So I woke up this morning,” began Eames.

“Mm.” Arthur fielded a new cup of coffee from the machine and dropped two cubes of brown sugar into it. “Did you feel like P. Diddy?”

“Forget P. Diddy,” said Eames grandly. “I felt like me. And that was even better.”

Cobb, who was mainlining espresso with a vengeance, stopped to stare at them. “Wait.”

“Good morning to you too, Dom,” said Eames.

“No, no, not you,” muttered Cobb. He turned and pointed at Arthur, who was still stirring sugar. “I don’t take sugar.”

“It’s not for you, Dom,” murmured Arthur.

“Yeah,” Cobb went on, “but you don’t take sugar either.”

He stared at Arthur, and then he turned to stare at Eames. And then he turned back to stare at Arthur some more.

“No way,” said Cobb eventually, and then: “Oh, shit.”

Arthur calmly handed Eames the cup of coffee, folded his arms, leaned against the counter and waited.

“You are not!” exploded Cobb.

Eames drank the coffee. It was good. “Thanks, love,” he said to Arthur, who smiled thinly and nodded.

“Have you thought this through!” ranted Cobb, waving his mug around. Fortunately he had finished his coffee. “Have you considered the twenty million reasons why this would be a bad idea!”

“Yes,” said Eames. “Repeatedly. In all configurations. Arthur’s thorough like that.”

Yusuf wandered in, yawning. Cobb pointed the mug at him. “Arthur and Eames!” he shouted.

Yusuf paused and stared at him.

“They’re together!” thundered Cobb.

“That’s new?” said Yusuf. “You’re thick.” He wandered off in the direction of the bathroom.

Cobb gaped at him. Arthur went to the sink and began to wash a grapefruit.

“If either of you screws this up, I’ll kill you both,” finished Cobb, slightly deflated.

Arthur dried the grapefruit and began slicing it into quarters. “When we’re incarcerated in rehab, you’re perfectly welcome to come laugh at us.”

Cobb scowled at both of them and stalked off to make himself a quadruple shot.

*

They have time before they need to show up at the soundcheck for their show at Fort Canning. The rest of the band is spending it sleeping in, but Arthur gets his guitar, looks meaningfully at Eames and says: “Going for a walk. You coming?”

They don’t so much walk as get the handlers to find them a car. Arthur drives.

This is neither Arthur’s nor Eames’ first time in Singapore. Arthur lived here for anywhere between three to five months during his self-imposed exile, in a service apartment in Robertson Quay. Eames dropped in on the offchance that he might be there – by which time, of course, Arthur had already sold the apartment to an Italian divorcée with twin daughters and vanished to the Mediterranean. Eames thus has only a very vague memory of Singapore, of it being somewhere where something wasn’t.

Arthur parks near the river, and they walk – Eames with his hands in his pockets, Arthur with his acoustic on his back. He’s dressed down today, wearing his old brown leather jacket and slacks. Both of them have on their shades; a necessary precaution, even in somewhere like Singapore where they’re least likely to get mobbed on the street.

He follows Arthur past a bunch of churches and temples, a mess of religions, and into the clusters of bright blue flats. Arthur takes the musty stairwell with purpose, like he knows where he’s going, and Eames comes out after him onto the roof, which is paved with white dust and thick with pigeons. The flats rise all around the empty space, blue fingers clutching at a bluer sky.

Arthur props himself against one of the low walls and takes out his guitar. He plays a few chords, then raps his knuckles without speaking on the chalky surface of the wall. Eames looks: there is a string of chords scribbled in faint marker on the wall. He knows these chords; they’re from the first movement of ‘Penrose Steps’, page six. The ink is faded; countless rainstorms, months, years.

“You like rooftops, don’t you?” remarks Eames.

Arthur doesn’t say anything. Eames can see him, though, on rooftops across the world, carparks, abandoned factories, apartment blocks – wielding his guitar, chasing that same song.

They are alone on the rooftop. The old people who live in the flats watch them, but without curiosity on their wrinkled nut-brown faces, with no more interest than they show the flocks of pigeons. Arthur plays the full instrumental solo from ‘Penrose Steps’, acoustic version; he plays it like a lockpicker twisting the dial on a safe, who smiles to hear the click.

Arthur claps his hand over the strings to still them and tilts his head up. Eames bends down to kiss him, there on the dusty rooftop, the blue flats hemming them in, beneath the flatness of the sky.

*

Though Arthur has stopped writing ‘Penrose Steps’, he’s far from done with it. When there’s space in their crazy tour schedule – and believe it or not, he finds it – he’s working on the song, tweaking this line or that, refining its sound. By now everyone in the band has taken at least one look at it. Reception has been mixed.

“It’s a monster,” says Ariadne when Arthur lets her read the sheet music before they go on tour. “Though some parts of it are really good, I especially like the Tibetan chanting bit in the middle.” She sings out the middle experimentally. Eames likes her voice: it’s low, got a little Cherie Currie in it, doesn’t remotely suit her sweet-faced look.

“It’s Nepalese,” says Arthur, but he looks pleased nevertheless.

The other reviews are less positive. “The drum part?” says Yusuf. “Boring. Without substance.”

“It’s not about the drums,” points out Arthur.

Yusuf bristles. “Not about the drums! Never about the drums! What are we now, country bluegrass?”

“What do you want,” retorts Arthur in irritation, “tom-tom solos?”

Yusuf gives him a severe look. “Do not,” he says, “diss the tom-toms.”

Saito stares at the piece narrowly. “This is not going on the album, yes?”

“Oh, no,” Arthur reassures him, “it’s got its own arc of significance, separate from the album canon. And I’m not done with it yet.”

“Very good,” says Saito. “Because commercially speaking it is absolutely not viable.”

“But it – ”

Saito overrides him. “It is twenty-one minutes long, contains long stretches of instrumental solos, and sixty per cent of it is not even in English. What do you think?”

Arthur stares at him, mouth open.

“Glad you agree, Arthur,” says Saito smoothly, and swans out.

“I can’t see myself singing it,” announces Cobb.

“That’s all right,” snaps Arthur, “nobody asked you to sing it.”

“Yeah, so who’s going to sing it?” Cobb squints at him in a challenging way. “You?”

Arthur has famously never sung any solo lines on any of the Kick’s tracks. Even Nash contributed solo vocals from time to time, but Arthur never opens his mouth beyond chorus and harmony. When asked about it by music journalists, he insists it detracts from his presence as a guitarist. “That’s me,” he says with a straight face. “Out of the spotlight. Guitar gently weeping.”

“And anyway it doesn’t make sense,” continues Cobb, waving the sheet music vaguely at Arthur. “I mean, what the hell is there to go on about for twenty-one minutes? Seriously?”

“Honestly,” Arthur demands of Eames that night, “is it any good?”

Eames stares at him. “Darling, is that actual insecurity I sense in your tone? Do we need to call A&E?”

“Oh, you’re useless too,” mutters Arthur, and ignores him for the rest of the night in favour of rewriting the damn guitar solos for the nth time.

*

Ariadne rejoins them in Macau after her exams are over. She shows up at Arthur’s hotel room holding a giant box of egg tarts, and displays little surprise when Eames opens the door.

“Hello,” she says, peering inquisitively under his arm. “Where’s he gone?”

“Shower,” answers Eames. “If you wanted to catch us in flagrante delicto you probably shouldn’t have stopped to go pastry-shopping.”

“But they’re really good! I can’t stop.” She is munching on one as they speak. Eames peeks into the box. One row is gone.

Ariadne edges past him and plonks the massive box down on the dresser. “Shouldn’t you be in there, you know, with him?”

“You’re horrific,” says Eames admiringly. “I don’t know why people labour under the impression that I’m lewd.”

“Because you are,” interjects Arthur, emerging from the bathroom. “Ariadne, though, she’s deceptive, and that makes it worse.”

He’s in a towel, which sits very low on his narrow hips. Ariadne whistles. “Now that’s a bingo.”

“Allow me to remind you that we are not contractually obliged to have you write the next album,” retorts Arthur. “We can fire you for being lewd any time.”

“I grow on you,” says Ariadne blithely. “Like footrot. You’ll never be rid of me.” She pushes the box towards them. “Tart?”

Arthur takes one and sits down on the bed next to Eames, passing him the box. “How were the exams?”

“Apparently one can be a Billboard Hot 100 contributor and still flunk Anglo-Saxon. How’s the tour been?”

“Super,” says Eames. He takes a bite of the egg tart and discovers that Ariadne is not lying: it tastes like crème brulée had sex with egg custard and came in his mouth.

“We just came from Taiwan,” supplies Arthur. He sits down on the bed beside Eames. “Someone threw a corset at Cobb during ‘Like A Virus’. They missed and hit Yusuf. There was bruising, apparently.”

Eames is watching him finish his tart. Arthur eats neatly; when he’s done, he licks the pads of his fingers and sucks them clean with slow, deliberate pops. Eames can’t quite take his eyes off the spectacle.

“Don’t even think about it,” says Arthur abruptly. “I just showered.”

Eames innocently drops his hand back into his lap. Ariadne releases a peal of laughter. “The two of you are on the Billboard Hot 100 of Adorable,” she croons. “Well, I’m going to see Yusuf now. Will leave you to it.”

“Lewd,” Arthur calls after her. “Firing.”

Ariadne sticks her head back in. “Good girls go to heaven,” she says, and winks, “but bad girls? Go everywhere.”

*

Sometimes Eames thinks he is sleeping with a machine. For one, Arthur’s body has clearly never heard of sleep debt. They’ll be out performing till four in the morning, and Arthur will be up by eight tuning his guitars. International timezones collapse before his internal clock. Sometimes the handlers arrive in the morning to find Arthur making coffee for them.

Eames finds himself being dragged into consciousness some time past seven in the early morning by Arthur, who is sitting on his bed, already fully-dressed and rapping imperiously on his bicep. “You covered ‘Paradox City’.”

“What?” mumbles Eames, trying to wave him off. “What’d I do now?”

Arthur sticks an Ipod into Eames’ face. “What you did,” he says in long-suffering tones, “was a rap cover of ‘Paradox City’. A rap cover.”

Eames gets hold of Arthur’s wrist and peers at the Ipod screen. “You bought my CD? I’m touched.”

“Ariadne torrented it for me.”

Eames falls back onto the pillows. “I’m heartbroken.”

“A rap cover,” repeats Arthur.

Eames sighs. “I’m a rap artist. I rap. It made sense to me to try rapping some of our old stuff. It’s not half bad, you know.”

“It’s abominable,” says Arthur ruthlessly. “It is going on the list of unforgivable things you’ve done in this lifetime, after Robert Fischer and that time in Boston you slipped magic mushrooms into my juice.”

“Arthur, darling, love of my life,” begins Eames, “did you wake me up at 7 in the a.m. just so you could insult my music?”

“Someone has to,” says Arthur. “What is up with your lyrics?”

“I will have you know that my lyrics are most witty and urbane,” retorts Eames. “Just last year, NME called me the ‘Oscar Wilde of British rap’.”

“And as that great man once said: real friends will stab you in the front.”

“I will thank you to stop misquoting my national heroes.”

“And I will thank you to get up.” Arthur drops a kiss on his forehead and gets off the bed. “We’re on the road at nine and I need you to convince Cobb to change the Shanghai setlist before then. I absolutely refuse to play ‘Don’t Think Of Elephants’ again. I don’t know why he likes that song so much.”

Eames groans and rolls out from under the covers. Relationships are about compromise.

*

Japan is Saito’s homeground. It’s his territory, his turf, where they are supposed to be safest and at their best.

Of course, Japan is where everything starts to royally screw itself over.

To be fair, it starts off well. They open with ‘Whole Lotta Levels’, always a favourite with the Japanese crowd, and follow it up with pretty good renditions of ‘Extract Yourself’ and ‘Gravity What Gravity’. The crowd is soaking it up, raucous with delight, and Cobb is lavish with his compliments – “You crazy people, you sound fucking beautiful, y’all.” It is only when they’re halfway through the chorus of ‘Revolution In The Corridor’ when things go horribly wrong.

In short, never underestimate the Cobb Mobb.

Eames isn’t quite sure how it happens, because he’s playing to the opposite corner of the audience when it does. He does turn in time, though, to see the fan – a big, burly woman – take a flying leap through the air as the security guards grab at her and miss. Eames can only watch in ironic slow motion as she proceeds to spectacularly divebomb Cobb, who trips. There is a resounding crack in the Dome, which can only be that of Cobb’s head hitting the speakers.

The feedback is ear-splitting. The pause that follows it is much worse.

Eames can only gape at how surreal the world is getting. Security is carting the attacker offstage. It looks like she’s broken her collarbone in the attempt. Nobody seems to care. The medics are cautiously moving Cobb, who is out cold and bleeding slightly from the temple, into the wings.

Eames looks up at the drummer’s stand and sees his own horror reflected on Yusuf’s face. He stares across the stage at Arthur, and Arthur – unflappable Arthur – is staring back in shock.
Arthur, being Arthur, recovers first. In swift, rough movements he hands Totem IV to a nearby stagehand and walks offstage. Eames hurriedly does the same.

They congregate by the lighting pylons, and then everyone is talking at once.

“We cannot cancel!” Saito says urgently. “We are just three songs in!”

“We have no frontman,” Eames hisses back. “And I know the rest of us are important to the sound and all, but everything about the Kick revolves around there being Cobb. Singing.”

“So? Evolve.”

“Shitshitshit,” Yusuf is muttering to himself, “shitshitshitshitshit – ”

“I got a physician in,” adds Saito, “but he says it will be at least an hour before we can get him back on his feet – ”

Even backstage, they can hear the sounds of a crowd shifting in growing impatience.

“Hm,” says Arthur.

Eames, in that moment, loves him more than he ever thought possible. Their frontman is out cold for an hour, there are seventy thousand people out there who in that time will be ready to rip the stage to pieces, they’re utterly fucked, and Arthur has absorbed this entire catastrophe and distilled it into “Hm.” This is a man to be worshipped.

“Yusuf,” says Arthur. He raps their cursing drummer sharply on the temple. “Yusuf!”

“– shitshitshityes?”

“Get your fancy drums out there,” says Arthur. “The timpanis. The bongo. That thing with the wooden ears, I don’t care, get out there and improvise. You always complain the percussion never gets its own spotlight, now’s your chance. Buy us six minutes, we’re going to prep Ariadne to sing.”

“This is madness,” says Yusuf in wonder.

“Nope,” says Arthur. “This is rock and roll. Now, hit it.”

*

“I knew I should have stayed in Minnesota,” hisses Ariadne.

A quick jaunt with Hair & Makeup has piled her hair atop her head in a messy heap of gel and glitter. They’ve also managed to find her a leather outfit and a substantial amount of jewellery draped over her neckerchief, which is turquoise paisley today. Eames looks her up and down critically. “You’ll pass,” he says. “Might want to lose the neckerchief though, love.”

“THE NECKERCHIEF STAYS.”

“Right, sweetheart, whatever you say.” Eames backs off and leaves her to the tender mercies of Arthur.

“No fear,” says Arthur without pre-amble. “They can smell it. Especially this crowd, they’ll be calling for your blood before you can say chicken.”

“I was scared shitless,” says Ariadne. “Now, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Eames leaves them to it and goes to check on Yusuf, who is buying them time in a truly impressive fashion. He has all the timpanis out – and the dpanlogos – and the taikos, and the repinique, and other stuff he frequently introduces to Eames when they’re drunk and Eames never remembers when he sobers up – and is whaling on them with vigour, coaxing absolutely enormous sounds from each. Sweat is dripping from him like someone just removed him from a fridge and left him out to thaw. Eames will never, never underestimate percussion again.

Yusuf brings everything to a crashing finish of flawless sound. In Eames’ narrow experience with drumming, finishes involve manically hitting anything he can reach in three seconds. It is not, not easy.

“And that,” pants Yusuf into the mic, “was ‘Did You See That?’ Which I just made up, by the way.”

The crowd gapes at him, stunned, then begins to clap slowly, the applause building into a roar.

“Truly, I am incredible,” adds Yusuf, and stumbles offstage for water and a towel.

“She better be ready,” he mutters to Eames, “because my genius, it is spent.”

“She’s ready,” says Arthur, frogmarching Ariadne past them.

Ariadne gives Eames a look of pure terror. “This is even worse than SATs Biology,” she says in a tiny voice.

Eames gives her what he hopes is a consoling look. Yusuf takes a long swig of water, towels off like he just swum an Olympics 50m butterfly stroke, and hurries out after them.

“Everybody,” says Eames into the mic, “this is a friend of ours.” He gestures for Ariadne to come over, hooks an arm around her shoulder. “And if you’re wondering what she’s doing here, well – she wrote half this shit. So give her some love.”

The applause trickles in, and then crescendos. Ariadne gives Eames a grateful smile, then turns to speak into her own mic. “My name’s Ariadne,” she says, “and when I was a little girl I dreamed about working with these guys. And yeah, dreams do come true. Don’t hate me for it.” And then she grabs the mic and hollers: “A-ONE, TWO, THREE, GO!” and they plunge straight into the crashing opening of ‘Haters Gonna Rotate’.

It takes a couple of songs, but the crowd warms to her. Ariadne is, after all, infectiously likeable, and even broadcast to seventy thousand people it’s hardly watered down. Also, she’s been around the rest of the Kick long enough to be totally comfortable, even in the glaring onstage heat: one moment she’s bouncing next to Yusuf, the next she’s singing the chorus to Arthur, who smiles his amused smile and plays the riff back at her. Ariadne dances over to Eames to press her shoulder against his and they sing back to back; when his harmony is up, he drops a light kiss on her forehead and she grins, then is off to the stage apron to sing directly into the pit.

With Ariadne on lead vocals, they kill a good forty minutes. But whenever they glance into the wings, Saito is still standing there looking bleak. At the end of forty minutes, Ariadne is flagging; she isn’t a seasoned performer, she lacks the stamina to sing for hours on end. “My throat is dying,” she gasps on their third water break. “Please please don’t let’s sing ‘How Do I Drop You’, I just know my voice is going to crack on that note.”

The physician is talking in low, anxious tones to Saito, who comes over to them. “He says he needs another twenty minutes to bring Cobb round.”

There is a long pause.

Then Eames says, looking over at Arthur: “I know a way we can give you twenty-one.”

Arthur snaps up to look at him in horror. “No, Eames.”

“It’s all we have left,” reasons Eames, “short of my rapping. And you abominate my rapping. There are specific lines in the band contract forbidding me to rap in concert.”

“I’m not saying you should rap,” protests Arthur, “I’m just saying that – god, it’s not ready!”

“What do you need to do with it, cover it in yoghurt and chocolate buttons?” Eames grabs Arthur by the shoulders in exasperation. “It’s ready, Arthur. Believe me.”

Arthur swallows, then gestures haplessly at the uneasy crowd outside. “They’re not ready. These people can’t take twenty-one minutes of experimental composition, they’ll riot.”

“Not if you pull a Boston,” says Eames.

Arthur’s eyes go wide. “No, Eames. Not that.”

“Why not?” exclaims Eames merrily. “I mean, you’ve done it before! In, you know, Boston.”

“You slipped me magic mushrooms,” says Arthur wearily. “I still haven’t forgiven you.”

Ariadne looks up hopefully. “Is he doing a Boston? Please say he’s doing a Boston!”

“Why,” grits out Arthur, “are you even old enough to know what happened in Boston?”

“Yes,” says Saito abruptly.

Arthur covers his face. “Not you too.”

“It will work with a Boston,” continues Saito.

“You said the song wasn’t commercially viable!”

“Refunds,” thunders Saito, “are not commercially viable. As your manager I command you to do this. Now go forth.”

“I said – ” begins Arthur. Eames decides this is taking far too long and kisses him.

“ – said no,” Arthur continues into his mouth, and then: “ – ah, shit.”

Eames breaks off. “There’s a love.”

“You’re using me,” says Arthur plaintively, but storms off in the direction of the roadies with Totem IV.
“Mister Eames,” says Saito solemnly, “I give you the medal of awesome.”

“Yeah, well,” replies Eames, eyes on the stage, “better save it for him.”

*

“There’s something I’d like to show all of you,” says Arthur.

He’s standing in the middle of the stage, where Cobb would stand were Cobb around. “It’s called ‘Penrose Steps’, and it’s a little long.”

He’s removing his cufflinks as he speaks, dropping them into the hand of the roadie standing by, holding Totem IV.

“So if you don’t mind,” says Arthur, loosening his tie. “I’ll get into something more comfortable.”

He drapes the tie over the arm of the grinning roadie; he’s smiling that smile of his, that thin, amused half-smile that says I know what you did last summer and then some. And then, as seventy thousand people watch in breathless silence, he shrugs off his jacket.

As every Kick trivia page on the web would tell you, there are only two occasions on which Arthur March was seen to remove any part of his suit onstage. The first occurred in 2001 at a gig in Boston: he removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, tossed his tie into the audience and later denied memory of the incident in all press conferences despite video evidence. The second occurred in 2004, and was a result of Dominic Cobb accidentally setting fire to the suit sleeve during a particularly high-octane performance of ‘You Shoot Me All Night Long’ featuring vodka and a sparkler machine.

The third occasion, it seems, is going to top both of those.

Arthur, very, very slowly unbuttoning his vest, begins to sing. The first segment of ‘Penrose Steps’ – there are many segments – is sung a capella, and is written entirely in French. Even Eames in his most indulgent moments has never been able to judge that as being particularly wise – until now. Somehow the entire world makes sense when Arthur sings in French.

Arthur’s voice is low, slightly raspy, not powerhouse like Cobb’s – but it fits this song. Arthur finishes unbuttoning the vest but leaves it on, and this draws an audible groan from the crowd as he takes Totem IV and segues into the second part.

Eames watches Arthur, because there isn’t much for him to do on bass – it is, after all, Arthur’s song – and because it’s hard to keep your eyes on anything else onstage. The song thuds along, ominous and beautiful, and Arthur is coaxing incredibly melodic riffs out of the guitar, sweet and liquid as violin notes but somehow richer and darkly electric.

Minutes pass. Before Eames realises it, they’re already in the strange atmospheric chanting section and Arthur has somehow managed to lose the vest without taking Totem IV off. Eames can’t remember how many minutes they are into the song, and if it weren’t for Saito’s anxious face in the wings he wouldn’t give a damn.

Arthur is unbuttoning his shirt now, maybe one button every stanza, and the tension from the audience is at fever pitch. He doesn’t lose the shirt yet; instead he unbuckles and slides his belt out of its loops in one smooth curl, and the crowd lets out one vast sound that is half-scream half-moan.

Like its name, ‘Penrose Steps’ is sometimes never-ending; it curls in on itself, picks up at places where you thought it’d leave off, and all so smoothly you’d never notice unless you were looking for the hooks that keep it together. It’s uncanny and unearthly and downright bizarre, and at this moment it’s the most beautiful thing Eames has ever heard.

And then suddenly it comes to a stop, a sort of heart-crashing stop like you’ve been chasing somebody and he disappears, and in the next heartbeat you realise he’s been behind you all this while. Arthur lets Totem IV hang loose, peels off his shirt in one polished move, then grabs the guitar and really rips into it, tears up the song like it’s confetti and detonates it in the air. The Dome is alive and shrieking with the sound of it, and of seventy thousand people revelling in the power of the storm.
Eames stares and drinks it in; he wants to remember this vision forever, of Arthur’s lean torso silhouetted against the glare of a hundred strobing lights, and the sound, the sound that is bleeding through those fingers.

And then it ends. Arthur stands, drenched in sweat, fingers dripping over the strings of his guitar. Eames can’t see his face, it’s turned towards the seventy thousand people screaming his name; but then Arthur unslings Totem IV and thrusts it into the hands of the roadies coming to field it, and then he flings his arms around Eames, hard and vicious and rib-cracking. Arthur’s soaked to the skin with perspiration, getting it over Eames’ jacket. Eames doesn’t give a fuck.

“How was it?” he hears Arthur breathe.

Eames smiles into Arthur’s hair. “Fastest twenty-one minutes of my life.”

*
In the midst of the giant frenzy following ‘Penrose Steps’, Cobb’s revival pretty much goes unnoticed.

“How is he?” demands Arthur over the heads of the make-up artists swarming over a groggy Cobb. Someone has found Arthur a T-shirt to wear, which is going to make a lot of people very upset when he goes back on. “Is he coherent? Can he sing?”

“I was going towards this bright white light,” mumbles Cobb. “And she was there. Mal. Standing in the path of the light.”

“Let me guess,” says Arthur hopefully. “She said, ‘Go back, Dom, they need you.’”

“No, actually she said ‘What the hell is taking you so long, I thought you’d be here already.’” Cobb rubs a hand over his eyes ruefully. “So I said ‘But Mal, I have the kids and I have the music’, and she said ‘Play your damn music then, but it had better be worth all this waiting I am having to do.”

Arthur blinks at him, speechless.

“She’ll wait for me forever if she needs to,” finishes Cobb. “But she really hates it when I waste her time, so we better not.”

He swings himself off the bed and dashes out of the sick bay. The rest of the Kick stumble after him in shock.

Cobb grabs his guitar from a stunned roadie and marches onstage. The crowd goes insane as everyone else follows him, attempting to make it look like this is all part of the performance schedule.

“You are not getting rid of me this easy,” says Cobb into the mic, as the crowd shrieks his name. “Thanks for waiting, people. I know it’s hard. So now I’m going to play you something about that, about waiting.”

He takes hold of the mic with both hands and closes his eyes for a beat. Then he opens them and says: “This song is ‘Waiting For A Train’.”

He doesn’t cue Eames, but Eames knows to start playing the bassline. A hush has fallen over the crowd. Cobb closes his eyes again and sings:

I will tell to you a riddle
You are waiting for a train
You don’t know where it’ll take you
But you know it’ll ease your pain
Have you ever been a lover
Have you been half of a whole
Where the train goes doesn’t matter
We’re together in my soul

There are tears in his eyes as he goes into the bridge, but his voice doesn’t break. Eames, playing, watching him, remembers: they are the legend they are today, because Dom Cobb made them so.

When he finishes the song, there is silence, a full ten seconds of silence before the applause begins to trickle in. Cobb looks up, up over the crowd he isn’t really seeing, and says quietly, “Yeah, I love you too.” Then he bows his head and steps away from the mic.

In retrospect, Japan may well be their best show to date.

*

“So do you want to hear my new song idea?”

“And that’s our version of pillow talk now, is it,” says Arthur, arching an eyebrow.

“It is my plan to outdo you,” continues Eames grandly. “It will be twenty-seven minutes long, contain stretches of Latin and Swahili, and – wait for it – it will be entirely in rap. Iambic pentameter.”

“If you ever finish it,” says Arthur dryly, “you can release it as the B-side to ‘Penrose Steps’. They’ll practically be their own album.”

“It’ll be epic. ” Eames turns dreamily into Arthur’s side. “Like, the Iliad circa Kanye.”

“If you need creative inspiration, I could go sleep with Fischer,” offers Arthur. “Believe me. It does wonders for the muse.”

“Don’t mock the man dedicating a twenty-seven-minute-long rap to you.”

“What can I say?” Arthur shrugs. “It’s a long way to the top – if you want to rock and roll.” 

“Polite stores will have the covers censored,” argues Saito.

“And it’s already the title of a Mark Millar graphic novel,” adds Ariadne.

“Only geeks at Comic Con will give a damn!” fumes Cobb.

“They made it into a movie while you were in rehab,” says Arthur.

Eventually they settle on Kicking It Old School. Saito flies off to Shanghai to settle the preparations for their tour, and the album goes into editing. The band has a celebratory dinner, after which Cobb goes shopping for new stuff for his children, and the rest of them go out for drinks. Arthur would have stayed in all night to fiddle with Totem IV, but Ariadne talked him into coming. Ariadne, they have discovered, is very good at talking Arthur into doing things. Eames is considering keeping her on full-time.

Normally they would go somewhere low-key, but Ariadne’s never been in a celebrity nightspot before so they try the Limbo, which is the nearest one they can think of. “It’s not that I don’t see celebrities, I write for lots of them,” she is saying as they enter, “but they never take me anywhere, ‘cos I’m just the lyricist. Well, there was that one time Orianthi and I hung out in Berkeley, that was pretty cool, only then they cut my song from the new album so I guess she felt awkward whenever she saw me after that. Oh my god, is that Jude Law?”

“Table for four,” says Arthur to the hostess, who doesn’t bat an eyelid on being confronted by half the original Kick.

They take a table near the bar. Ariadne’s still giving an animated commentary on their fellow patrons, and her excitement is infectious. Even Arthur cracks a grin from time to time, looking more relaxed than he has in days of recording. Their drinks come, and Eames takes a long draught of his. Tonight will be a good night, he feels.

“Hey,” says Ariadne, “did Robert Fischer just walk in?”

Eames nearly spills his drink on a passing waiter.

*

The music industry loves a story like Robert Fischer’s. On his twenty-first birthday, the young heir to the Fischer energy empire told his father that he was going to New York to write songs and make great music, screw the inheritance, no day but today. Fischer Sr had his son disowned in a fit of apoplexy that would indirectly contribute to his fatal heart attack years later, leaving Robert Fischer with a lifetime of unresolved daddy issues.

In the meantime, Fischer Jr – with nothing but the clothes on his back and the guitar on his shoulders – was hitchhiking his way across the country in a journey so epic it would put a Miley Cyrus music video to shame. In New York he lived in abject poverty, driving taxis by day and composing furiously by night. This state of affairs continued for a year and a half, until the day a music producer got into Fischer’s taxi and heard, on what he thought was the radio, a song that changed his life.

It wasn’t the radio; rather, it was Fischer’s recording of a personal composition called ‘Pinwheel’, which he played endlessly in his taxi in the hope of getting inadvertent constructive criticism from his passengers. The producer did not realise until much later that the dreamy young man in the driver’s seat might well be the origin of this amazing song. When that happened, there was a dramatic search sequence through the taxi companies of New York, terminating in a bewildered Fischer signing his first contract with a major label. New York loved him. And then, so did the world.

This is what everybody knows about Robert Fischer. When they met in Melbourne, Eames discovered some additional things about the beautiful tragedy that is Robert Fischer in person. Like how he’s got cheekbones so sharp that you catch yourself when running your thumb along them, in case you cut yourself. Or how everything he does is infused with a sort of calm anguish, so much so that just watching him sleep can make you despair of life slightly.

In short, that week-long affair with Robert was a really depressing thing to do. Eames figures he did it because everyone else in the band was already so depressed. The things people do for solidarity.

*

“Eames,” says Fischer genially. “Been a while. May I?” He gestures at the table.

“…of course. Lovely,” mumbles Eames. Arthur is wearing an expression like a hatchet blade.

“Good to see you,” goes on Fischer, pulling up a chair. “How come you never called?”

“And have you met our new drummer!” says Eames loudly. “Yusuf, Robert, Robert, Yusuf. And this is our Ariadne, she’s a rising lyricist, has worked with the best, brilliant future and so forth, say hello Ariadne – ”

“Yes, um, hello,” says Ariadne, shaking Fischer’s hand and staring at Eames in confusion. “Love your music, Mr Fischer.”

“Do call me Rob,” says Fischer. “And of course the last member of your party needs no introduction. I have heard such a lot about you, Arthur – may I call you Arthur?”

“Knock yourself out,” says Arthur.

Everyone turns to stare at him.

“I’m afraid I can’t pay you the same compliment, Rob,” Arthur continues. His body language is deceptively relaxed, but Eames can see that the whiskey in the glass he has in his lap is quivering. “I haven’t heard a thing about you. All I know is based on…pure conjecture.”

Eames tries to hide behind the menu.

“So,” says Ariadne a shade too brightly, “what brings you here, Rob? Business?”

“Oh no,” laughs Fischer, “I’m taking a break. Got a world tour coming up in a month, those are exhausting.”

“World tour!” exclaims Yusuf. “Congratulations!”

“Yes,” says Arthur, “it’s amazing how far a pretty face and a nifty origin story will get you.”

Yusuf’s mouth drops open.

Fischer regards Arthur coolly across the table. “Indeed. So many things are overrated nowadays. Like talent. And, oh, imagination.”

Eames locks eyes with Ariadne, whose face is broadcasting OHNOHEDIDNOTJUST.

Arthur puts his glass down on the table. “Implying I have no imagination, Rob?”

“So I’ve heard from some,” returns Fischer. He slides a glance at Eames. “Of course – pure conjecture. As, I am sure, was the slight on my talent.”

They continue staring at each other. The rest of the table remains frozen in horror.

“Well, let’s not leave things up to conjecture, shall we?” says Arthur briskly. “How long are you in town for, Rob?”

“My flight doesn’t leave till four,” replies Fischer. “I’d say we have a couple hours to play with.”

“Superb,” says Arthur. “There’s a multi-storey carpark two blocks down from here, open rooftop, great view, you know it?”

“I do know it. Midnight?”

“Midnight. Bring your gear.” Arthur snaps his fingers at the gaping waitresses. “Check, please.”

Fischer pushes back his chair. “Been a pleasure,” he says to Yusuf and Ariadne. To Eames: “See you.” He leaves.

“What is going on?” demands Ariadne. “Did you just challenge Fischer to some kind of duel? Aren’t there laws against duels?”

“This isn’t the eighteenth century, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Arthur snaps to his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go lock and load.”

*

“Saito,” babbles Eames, “Saito, you have got to come back now.”

Saito sounds irritable over the phone. “Mr Eames, I am in the middle of some very important business with the Hong Kong media authorities.”

“Arthur,” shouts Eames, “just challenged Robert Fischer to a duel!”

“I’m on the next flight,” says Saito.

*

Eames maintains Arthur started it.

Their first real gig was at a club in Brooklyn. It was called ‘Club Foot’. Eames privately thought this was ridiculous, but he didn’t say so because the owners were Friends of Mal. Nearly all their contacts in those days were Friends of Mal.

Cobb was having a nerve attack during their final rehearsal, nitpicking on everything and everyone – Eames for not coming in fast enough on that bar, Nash for overdoing the snares on that number. Most of it, however, was directed at Arthur.

“There’s something missing!” he kept shouting. “Something in your playing, it’s just not there!”

“If we could put a little definition on ‘something’, that might help,” retorted Arthur dryly.

Cobb grabbed his hair in handfuls and attempted to lift himself by his follicles. “I don’t know! The feeling’s just not coming through! This is music, Arthur, not precision engineering!”

“All right, that will be enough for now,” Mal was saying. She had one hand on Cobb’s back, rubbing in soothing circles. “Relax, boys. I will call you back when it is your turn to go on.”

She walked Cobb out, talking to him in a low voice. Nash tossed his drumsticks at the wall in annoyance and stormed upstairs to get a drink. This left Eames in the cellar with Arthur, who was standing by the wall dangling his guitar by one hand and staring at the graffiti.

“Cheers, love,” tried Eames, “Cobb’s just throwing a wobbly from nerves, he doesn’t mean a thing by it – ”

Arthur cut him off. “He’s right. Something’s missing.”

Eames waited.

“I’m doing everything correctly,” went on Arthur after some time, “but it’s not enough, I can feel it isn’t. We’re going on in ten minutes and I need to bring it but I don’t know how.”

Eames shrugged. “You need to loosen up, mate.”

“I am trying – ” began Arthur, and then he stopped and simply stared at Eames.

“Arthur,” ventured Eames after several seconds of staring had gone down, “if you’re going to keep this up I will end up doing something to your – ”

“I would like to raise the disclaimer,” said Arthur, very quickly, “that what I am about to do is in a purely professional capacity.” And then he slung his guitar behind him, crossed the room, grabbed Eames’ face in his hands and kissed him.

Arthur kissed like he’d studied it from textbooks, precise and thorough and practically annotated, which was both adorable as fuck and not to be stood for. Eames pushed back, tongues clashing, really pushed, and then something clicked and sparked and caught fire and now Arthur was licking up into his mouth, hands fisted in his collar, technique gone from academic to devastating, and if they weren’t going to stop for breath soon Eames was really going to –

Arthur broke off two seconds before Mal walked in to say “You’re up in five,” then pause, look them over and say with amusement, “or do you need more time?”

“No,” said Arthur, breathing hard, “we’re good to go.” Then he grabbed his guitar and fled up the stairs from Mal’s quirked eyebrow.

Over the weekend, the agents started calling.

*

Their first real concert, Arthur turned to Eames, licked his lips, made a vague gesture and said: “Do you mind – ?”

“For you?” said Eames. “Any time.”

*

The New Orleans Arena; the suit now Arthur’s stage trademark, cufflinks rubbing cold against the back of Eames’ neck.

The Rose Garden, Portland; Eames: “You’re a fucking paradox, you are – ” and Arthur laughing into his mouth and saying yeah, that’s an idea.

The London O2; on the hydraulic lift seconds before the opening riff of ‘Paradox City’, Nash rolling his eyes: “Jesus, get a room, people.”

Festival Hall, Melbourne; Arthur stepping back, hands raised between them: “Really, Eames, is that what you’re looking for? A little more imagination? Well. Your loss.”

Then, three years of nothing.

*

“So, all those years of making out,” demands Ariadne, “and you never – ?”

“No,” says Eames. “We never. At least, I don’t think so. There were all your usual tour-parties-turned-drunken-orgies and so forth, but I’m fairly sure he sat those out.”

“What you’re saying,” concludes Ariadne, “is that this band has produced eleven hit singles, five of them Grammy-nominated, based on seven years of Arthur’s unresolved sexual tension.”

“Whoa,” breathes Yusuf. “Now that is suffering for your art.”

They watch in horror from the couch as Arthur storms through the suite carrying Totem IV, trailed by frantic PAs. “But Arthur, you can’t get the roof on such short notice! The license applications will take at least three working days!”

“Fuck licensing,” is all Arthur has in response. “And if my amp isn’t on that roof in ten, you’re all fired.”

“And what about Fischer?” demands Ariadne.

“There were extenuating circumstances,” says Eames vaguely. “This is the sort of thing you understand when you’re older.”

Ariadne flips him the bird.

Cobb wanders into the middle of the chaos, carrying his shopping. “What the hell is going on?”

“Arthur challenged Robert Fischer to a duel,” explains Yusuf.

“Oh.” Cobb puts the shopping down. “I didn’t see that one coming.”

“Will you please talk some sense into him?”

“Arthur must fight his own battles.” Cobb sits down in the armchair and assumes a grave expression. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

Eames throws his hands up in despair.

*

To give them credit, the team Saito assembled is impressive. In twenty minutes they are being driven over to the carpark, where a path to the rooftop has already been cleared. They are escorted to the lifts, Arthur striding ahead with Totem IV and the rest of the band trailing nervously behind him. The lift doors open and Arthur marches in. Everyone else makes to follow, but Arthur turns on them such a glare that they all fall back.

“…we’ll take the next one,” says Cobb.

Arthur gives him a curt nod and hits the ‘close door’ button. Eames makes a split-second decision and charges forward, slipping in between the doors just as they close.

“Reminds me,” he says brightly, “of the time we filmed the MV for ‘Elevator Music’. We were going up and down in these all day, Nash complained his ears kept popping.”

Arthur turns his glare on him. “What do you want, Eames?”

Eames begins: “While it is very flattering that the two of you would duel over my humble self – ”

“Don’t overrate yourself,” says Arthur, “not everything is about you.”

“And then?” demands Eames. “Is it about you, then? What are you trying to prove?”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. Eames tries again.

“The thing is. The thing is – yes, I fucked up. With Fischer. Because Mal was gone and Cobb wasn’t going to make it and you’d turned into some sort of android and seriously, Arthur, seven years? And he was lovely, and, well, not actually the first, but that’s not the point, the point’s that all this time – ”

“God, Eames,” Arthur grits out in exasperation, “how can anybody talk so much without actually saying anything?”

“I mean…” Eames trails off lamely. “See, Fischer and the rest of them, that’s one thing. But you – we – that was professional. That’s a higher level.”

“Fuck you,” says Arthur. “You were the only unprofessional thing I ever did.”

Eames has to think very hard on what he’s saying next.

“I think,” he says finally, “if you’re trying to prove to Fischer that you have something he doesn’t, you needn’t really bother. Because you have it. You’ve had it all this while.”

The lift doors open.

“Too late,” says Arthur, and steps out onto the roof.

“Arthur,” says Fischer pleasantly. He and his people have already set up on the other side.

“Robert,” replies Arthur. The other lift comes up, admitting their own people. The next few minutes are tense as Arthur and Fischer walk around, setting up, tuning their guitars, watching each other. Eventually they come to a halt.

“Ready when you are,” says Fischer, still pleasant.

Arthur is not looking in the least pleasant. Keeping his eyes on Fischer, he lowers his hands to the strings. And then he plays.

He plays one pure, clean lick, then stops and looks up at Fischer. Arthur’s got his back to him, but Eames has the feeling that Arthur is watching him using Fischer as a mirror, however warped that sounds.

Fischer cocks his head to one side, props a foot on his amp. He plays the same lick back at Arthur, and at the last note his fingers slide and then it’s on.

If you watched a video of Arthur playing without sound, it would be the most boring thing in the world. Arthur March is famous for walking onstage in a suit and then not doing much in it. He has no stunts in his arsenal. He doesn’t duckwalk, windmill, or play his guitar behind his back using a toothpick just because he can. Sometimes, if a particular riff has him excited, he stands on one foot. It’s dull viewing.

But turn the sound up and his stillness becomes lethal. He’s no longer motionless, he’s coiled; an entire body of force channelled into the pure precision of ten fingers on wood and wire. His hands, moving faster than the blink of an eyelid. And then when he looks up and through you, that look, the one that says this is my sound, I could stop your heart with my sound and I wouldn’t even break a sweat doing it. And finally, that smile. That smile. Sure, the fans worshipped Cobb like a god. But Arthur – he’s always had the devil in his fingers.

And it’s like being back in that cellar a decade ago and hearing it for the first time, that maddening stream of genius that Arthur’s fingers are effortlessly ripping out of those strings; only now Fischer is swallowing this and building on it and throwing it back at him, and Arthur catches and his fingers stroke along the whammy bar, and the sound of it hits them, the listeners, like a high-power twist drill between the eyes. Arthur makes his guitar scream, and Fischer’s guitar screams right back him, slicing through the air above the rooftop and building to an impossible climax that will never arrive.

And this, of course, is the moment the police choose to invade the rooftop and pull the plug.

*

“Sir,” the officer is saying briskly, “you are charged with disturbing the peace. We are going to have to detain you overnight in our facilities.”

Arthur is not resisting arrest. He is, in fact, looking positively beatific for a man facing the prospect of a night in the clink.

“You don’t want to be doing this,” their assistant manager is saying angrily. “Do you even know who you’re dealing with?”

“Don’t know, don’t care, lady.” The officer spins Arthur around and proceeds to frogmarch him to the lift.

Cobb decides to intervene. “Officer, you do realise that we are the Kick.”

“The who?”

“No,” says Cobb in minute exasperation, “not the Who, the Kick. Totally different bands. Like I was saying, we are the Kick. And the man you are trying to arrest is Arthur March.”

“I don’t care if he’s the goddamn lovechild of Elvis and Madonna,” snaps the officer, “he’s coming down to HQ with me.”

Cobb gives him the Conspiratorial Squint at full power. In his younger days when the world was weeping over his angelic smile, the effect would have been devastating. The Cobb of today, however, looks like a slightly portly werewolf, and so it comes across as vaguely myopic.

“It’s okay, Dom,” says Arthur. He is still beatific. “Saito will fix it.”

“Saito’s not even here!”

“Yeah, but he’ll fix it,” says Arthur vaguely. “Please make sure they pack Totem properly.”

“You will absolutely regret this!” the assistant manager yells after them. “Our lawyers will be sueing the shoe leather off your descendants way into the next century!”

Fischer is marched into the lift alongside Arthur. “Hey,” he says. “Good game.”

“Quite,” says Arthur. “I would have kicked your ass, too.”

“We’ll see about that next time,” says Fischer.

“Yeah,” says Arthur as the doors close on them. “It’s a date.”

*

Eames would very much have liked to be there when Saito marched into the police station, guns blazing, to retrieve his investment with lordly disdain. However, he was grounded.

“You can’t ground us!” says Eames plaintively. “We’re your clients, not rebellious fifteen-year-olds!”

“Something which I am having great trouble trying to believe!” thunders Saito over the phone, which is on loudspeaker. The band winces as one musician. “Now lie low, Mr Eames. If any of you sets one toe outside that hotel room I am cutting it off, insurance be damned.”

*

Eames wakes with a start. He’s not sure why. He’s fallen asleep on his bed without taking his shoes off. Arthur is sitting in the armchair opposite him, one foot elegantly propped on the other knee, fingers steepled, expression carefully blank.

Eames peers at him blearily, then at the floor. There is an embroidered cushion lying innocuously half under the bed.

“You threw that at me, didn’t you?” says Eames accusingly. “Just so you could wake me up without leaving the chair.”

Arthur merely raises an eyebrow at him. He’s been in a guitar duel, arrested, and bailed out by a furious Japanese agent, and he hasn’t a single hair out of place. Eames really has to hand it to him.

The clock says it’s 4.18a.m. “Clearly we overestimated Saito,” says Eames. “If it took him this long just to get you out of jail.”

“I went to see Robert off at the airport,” says Arthur.

Eames gapes at him.

“Killing time in a holding cell is a fantastic bonding experience,” continues Arthur fluidly. “Turns out we have a lot in common. Besides guitars, and you.”

“Look,” begins Eames, “whatever he told you, you ought to take with a pinch of – ”

“He knows a lot about me,” cuts in Arthur. “Apparently you don’t talk about much else.”

“ – or you could take him at his word,” finishes Eames lamely. “He told you that?”

“He said you went on at such length, he started to find the subject of me boring,” says Arthur. “So when he met me in real life, my exciting personality was a happy surprise.”

“…I did try to tell you,” mumbles Eames.

“Of course you did,” says Arthur, rising to his feet. He comes to stand over Eames, arms crossed in a critical fashion. “Except you fucked up. And Cobb, he fucked up too after Mal. And Nash, with the drugs – and I don’t know about Yusuf, but I’ll bet Totem IV he’s been there, done that. Everyone, except me. As rock stars go I’m a terrible specimen.”

“This is the most number of words you have said to me in a decade,” says Eames. “And counting.”

“Well,” says Arthur. He places both hands on the bedspread, leaning into Eames’ space. Eames’ mouth goes dry. “This,” whispers Arthur, “is me, fucking up.”

He kisses Eames.

“Unprofessional,” says Eames after some time. “It looks good on you.”

“What can I say?” Arthur removes his tie. “I learn from the best.”

*

Eames comes awake, slowly this time. Arthur’s not there. The table lamp is on, he realises, and drags himself up to see what’s happening.
Arthur is sitting at the table, writing furiously. His acoustic is propped against the chair leg. He hasn’t even bothered to get dressed.

“What time is it?” mumbles Eames.

“Did I wake you?” says Arthur, not even looking up. His hand is speeding across the paper like it’s a fretboard; without stopping, he picks up the guitar and plays a swift string of chords. “Yeah. I did wake you. Sorry.”

Eames cranes to see the pages. “’Penrose Steps’? How long is it now?”

“I think we’re at seventeen minutes.” Arthur taps his chin with the pencil, then picks out a couple of notes on the guitar thoughtfully. It’s fascinating, the way the burnished wood lies against the plane of his stomach.

“Can’t it wait till morning, love?”

“Eames,” says Arthur, “I have been working on this for at least three years. No, actually, for more than seven. It is my Bohemian Rhapsody, my Desolation Row, my November Rain. And if I don’t finish the damn thing tonight I swear I will shoot myself at dawn. You want me to live, don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Eames. “That would be very nice.”

“Great,” concludes Arthur. “Save my life and shut up.”

Eames lies back and watches him write till morning.

/

/

PART III