with the music, and when he peered around he realized that the walls and ceiling were pulsing too, exactly like the rubber walls of the bathroom. His stomach contracted suddenly, and vomiting on every single guests’ coat at once suddenly seemed a very real possibility, so he hauled himself upright, and searched for a point to focus on—a nifty little trick he’d picked up in a jazz-dance class—and settled on a reproduction full-size white Storm Trooper helmet from
Star Wars
. Like a toddler, he allowed gravity to take him over to the mantelpiece, and picked up the shiny white fiberglass helmet, which stood next to what seemed like a fairly comprehensive collection of
Star Wars
figurines, not boxed, but still in excellent condition. The inside of the helmet was lined with scrappy yellowing foam, and smelled a little musty. Might it be nearly thirty years old? Might it be—my God—an
original
? There are few, if any, men of Stephen’s generation who can resist wearing a genuine, original Storm Trooper’s helmet, and accordingly he lowered it reverently onto his head, like a crown, and nearly gagged at the sudden stuffiness, the distant aroma of a stuntman’s egg-and-chips breath from 1977. From somewhere within the hot, dense fudge of his brain came the instruction “Don’t spew in the Storm Trooper’s helmet,” and he hurriedly took it off again.
And putting it back on the mantelpiece, he suddenly became aware of what Josh was using as a helmet stand.
A British Academy of Film and Television Arts Award. Best Actor 2000.
He picked up the heavy bronze trophy, felt the weight approvingly, nearly dropped it, then scanned the room for a mirror, just out of curiosity, just to see what he looked like holding an award.
He decided that he looked superb, and entirely natural, and that he’d have looked even better had it not been awarded to someone else entirely. Swaying a little now, he attempted to swing the trophy up to arm’s length in front of him. “Ladies ’n’ Gendlemen of th’Academy, than’ you all f’votin’ f’me, and I’d jus’ like to say a big than’ you, if I may, to my old pal and understudy Josh Harper…”
It was at this precise moment that Nora Harper returned with news that the cab had arrived, and with an almost supernatural speed and grace, Stephen deftly tucked the award under his overcoat, clamping it tightly under his armpit.
And after that, everything got very vague indeed.
Fade to black.
The King of the World
T he first thing Stephen saw when he cranked open his eyes on Monday morning was the man’s face on the pillow next to him. Classically handsome, a little like Josh Harper’s—flat-nosed and strong-jawed, and framed with short, curly Renaissance Prince hair, it stared back impassively at Stephen with its one unseeing eye, perched upright on a marble block pedestal, engraved with the words “Best Actor 2000.”
Stephen squealed, and scrambled to the wall side of the bed as far from the face as possible, tugging the duvet with him. The face teetered for a second, then fell backward onto the floor, landing with a thud, like a severed head. Stephen lay frozen for a moment or two, just long enough to work out where he was and what he’d seen, then crawled to the edge of the bed and peered over, hoping, praying that he’d imagined it. There it was again, next to a spilled glass of water, the heroic bronze face, just like Josh’s, looking up at him, the corners of his mouth turned up in an almost imperceptible grin.
A memory bubbled up like swamp gas, of a long, hallucinatory cab ride home, of finding the award jammed under his coat, where he’d hidden it from Nora….
He had accidentally stolen an award.
He must get rid of it. He contemplated wrapping it in a trash-bin liner and throwing it in the Thames. But it’s hard to throw anything in the Thames without someone seeing you, and what if someone called the police, or some freak tide washed it up? What if
Star Wars
. Like a toddler, he allowed gravity to take him over to the mantelpiece, and picked up the shiny white fiberglass helmet, which stood next to what seemed like a fairly comprehensive collection of
Star Wars
figurines, not boxed, but still in excellent condition. The inside of the helmet was lined with scrappy yellowing foam, and smelled a little musty. Might it be nearly thirty years old? Might it be—my God—an
original
? There are few, if any, men of Stephen’s generation who can resist wearing a genuine, original Storm Trooper’s helmet, and accordingly he lowered it reverently onto his head, like a crown, and nearly gagged at the sudden stuffiness, the distant aroma of a stuntman’s egg-and-chips breath from 1977. From somewhere within the hot, dense fudge of his brain came the instruction “Don’t spew in the Storm Trooper’s helmet,” and he hurriedly took it off again.
And putting it back on the mantelpiece, he suddenly became aware of what Josh was using as a helmet stand.
A British Academy of Film and Television Arts Award. Best Actor 2000.
He picked up the heavy bronze trophy, felt the weight approvingly, nearly dropped it, then scanned the room for a mirror, just out of curiosity, just to see what he looked like holding an award.
He decided that he looked superb, and entirely natural, and that he’d have looked even better had it not been awarded to someone else entirely. Swaying a little now, he attempted to swing the trophy up to arm’s length in front of him. “Ladies ’n’ Gendlemen of th’Academy, than’ you all f’votin’ f’me, and I’d jus’ like to say a big than’ you, if I may, to my old pal and understudy Josh Harper…”
It was at this precise moment that Nora Harper returned with news that the cab had arrived, and with an almost supernatural speed and grace, Stephen deftly tucked the award under his overcoat, clamping it tightly under his armpit.
And after that, everything got very vague indeed.
Fade to black.
The King of the World
T he first thing Stephen saw when he cranked open his eyes on Monday morning was the man’s face on the pillow next to him. Classically handsome, a little like Josh Harper’s—flat-nosed and strong-jawed, and framed with short, curly Renaissance Prince hair, it stared back impassively at Stephen with its one unseeing eye, perched upright on a marble block pedestal, engraved with the words “Best Actor 2000.”
Stephen squealed, and scrambled to the wall side of the bed as far from the face as possible, tugging the duvet with him. The face teetered for a second, then fell backward onto the floor, landing with a thud, like a severed head. Stephen lay frozen for a moment or two, just long enough to work out where he was and what he’d seen, then crawled to the edge of the bed and peered over, hoping, praying that he’d imagined it. There it was again, next to a spilled glass of water, the heroic bronze face, just like Josh’s, looking up at him, the corners of his mouth turned up in an almost imperceptible grin.
A memory bubbled up like swamp gas, of a long, hallucinatory cab ride home, of finding the award jammed under his coat, where he’d hidden it from Nora….
He had accidentally stolen an award.
He must get rid of it. He contemplated wrapping it in a trash-bin liner and throwing it in the Thames. But it’s hard to throw anything in the Thames without someone seeing you, and what if someone called the police, or some freak tide washed it up? What if
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