Altered States (35 page)

I stopped and I turned around. I don’t know why, and I don’t know why a smile formed on my lips as I watched two burly men pounding towards me, emptying bullets into the air like they had shares in a munitions factory. They didn’t appear to be getting any closer. Time seemed to have slowed.

I had clearly spent too much of my life moulding my brain to the shape of a Hollywood movie, because then a banging rock track kicked off in my head. It was one of my favourite tunes of all time. One of those songs that makes you feel invincible. That when you put it on the car stereo you just keep reaching for that volume knob until you feel so powerful that the laws of reality just don’t apply to you anymore, and you can throw the car into that bend at whatever speed seems most fun. I nodded my head and tapped my feet to the drum beat as it picked up, and as I watched the men it felt like I could almost see the bullets whizz past me; that I could will them to miss.

Then time skipped a beat and the men were bearing down on me like rabid butchers. It was time to drive. Yet I was still peculiarly untroubled. I just reached for that volume knob and put the pedal to the metal.

An attractive terracotta lion figurine exploded in front of me but I was already shielding my face. My forearm was peppered with shards of pottery but I felt no pain. I just felt good. I pelted along the suburban streets, faster and faster, leaving the two men panting in my wake. And I kept running flat out for the two straight miles to where I’d dropped my car.

It was only as I recovered my breath that I realised why every one of those bullets – from the guns of trained marksmen – had whistled past me. It’s because they weren’t trying to hit me. They just wanted me to stop running. Tanya Scarlett wanted me alive – to call off the contract. That was the idea. So, it was true, I had no telekinetic powers over speeding projectiles, which was a bummer because that could have come in handy. But I allowed myself to be smug over the running bit anyway. That was all me.

It was too soon to say it was almost over.

But for the first time I thought that it might not always be too soon.

Heroes

As I waited for my associate to arrive, my mind drifted back to when I was fourteen years old; to when a superhero died. A
real
one, I mean. It’s not that I’m some kind of delusional comic book nerd. I don’t quote my personal moral code by reference to Marvel back-issues. You know that by now.

However, like most people, I do know the basic superhero concepts. All superheroes have a super power, obviously. And they all have a weakness too. They
can
be harmed. But, most importantly, they always recover. They always find a way to fight back and save the day. But
he
didn’t – not this day.

The man himself was actually a film actor known for his portrayal of a popular superhero character. But for many people – adults and children alike – it was hard to distinguish the formidable figure from the alter ego he played on screen. So when he was thrown from a horse and broke his neck so severely that he would never walk again, the world was shocked and saddened. I was too, but in my naive childish way I saw it differently. It seemed apparent to me that this was the first scene of his next adventure. A touch of silver-screen magic had leaked into real-life, and this was the superhero’s next calling. I was totally sure that he would rise to this new challenge. He would fight his way back. He had the fame and the fortune to attract the research that was required in the field of spinal injuries. He
would
walk again, I was certain of that. And in so doing he would save the world – the real one this time. In this respect, I was quite excited.

And sure enough, the chapters unfolded. After some years there was a breakthrough and against all odds he began to regain feeling and some movement in his body. It is impossible to imagine the elation of once again feeling a wife’s hug, where there had been nothing but numbness for eight years. I know this sounds like movie pap, but it’s all true. And so is the next bit; the bit when, suddenly, he was dead. Blood poisoning from bed sores. This really wasn’t in the script.

It affected me a lot more than most. At my adolescent age I had spent all of my recent years uncovering one-by-one the dull reality behind each of the childhood fantasies doled upon me by a grown-up world; coming to terms with the fact that they were little more than lies. So with the death of this hero came the death of my last remaining fantasy. And that settled it. There was no magic in the world. No greater guiding purpose. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people. That’s the way it is.

However, this experience did allow me to realise something quite fundamental, even at that young age. It made me realise just how desperate the world is for a superhero. I don’t just mean those of the comic books. For there is an inexhaustible supply of would-be superheroes throughout history and across the globe. From the legends of King Arthur and Robin Hood, to the Gods of a thousand religions. From Santa Claus to Peter Pan to a myriad other folklore characters. Monsters from the Lochs. Spirits from the other side. Aliens from distant planets.

The world longs for something ... something
else
. Something powerful and exciting. A little bit of magic.

But there’s one tiny flaw with every one of these revered characters. That’s just what they are,
characters
. They are all make-believe. Or at least, none of them are tangibly real; not as far as my own personal belief system is concerned. Only the deluded or slightly peculiar can take comfort from the existence of any of them. And, in a way, these believers are the lucky ones. Religion, for example, is a very powerful placebo. If you
can
believe in a God, then invariably He
will
help you. Alas, the rest of us are left wanting.

All of this leads to an interesting philosophical question. If any one of such mystical characters could be proven to be real, which would bring greatest good to our world?

It was clear to me that Jesus was not a contender. I was sure his timely reappearance would not result in peace on Earth to all mankind. Indeed, it would probably result in the bloodiest period of holy warfare the planet had ever borne witness to. The fundamentalists would finally have someone
real
to fight over. Heaven forbid.

Similarly, if aliens turned up on our doorstep, it would scare the living crap out of most people, even if the little green fellas did insist they came in peace. We’ve experienced racism before, but the display that would ensue from this event would cast a planetary shadow over any that preceded it.

The answer, of course, is
None of the Above
. What we really want are the everyday heroes. The bystander that throws himself on the tube lines to save a stranger. The pilot who expertly lands a stricken plane in the ocean, then wades up-and-down the sinking craft, waist deep in water, to save his passengers before himself.

But the miraculous events that give rise to these heroes are few and far between. Or maybe it’s that these brave souls are rare in themselves. Either way we find ourselves obliged to revere a different class of hero. Some would say a less worthy class of hero.

The celebrity role models.

The superstars of stage, screen and sports field.

In an increasingly post-faith world,
these
are the Gods that we idolise irrationally. These are the deities that impressionable adolescents worship fanatically, and pilgrimage toward, and post effigies of on their bedroom walls.

They are the ones who teach us how to act, how to look, how to
be
. And so they wield an alarming degree of power over the collective psyche of our world. We should channel it wisely ... if we have the opportunity.

Consider Danny Rubeck, the retired football player from England. He caught the attention of the media early in his career when he was romantically linked with a member of the royal family. From then on he never looked back. In his sporting career he reached the top of his game, captaining his nation’s team and playing for them in over one hundred games. This alone would have been enough to secure his name in history, for him to become an ambassador for his sport and a hero for his nation.

But, if anything, he sparkled
off
the field even more than on it. He had that certain indefinable quality, the X-factor. He drove fashion. Not just for clothes or hair. His image became the very definition of good-looking, in a very literal sense. He was, basically, just plain cool.

But if all this wasn’t enough to make him one of the most admired people on the planet, he managed to trump the lot by marrying one of Hollywood’s most popular A-listers.

Sadie Winters was an undeniably good catch. Raised on the wrong side of the tracks, she strived tirelessly for the stardom she longed for. She was the very epitome of the American dream. She was beautiful, but also a very talented actress. No Oscars on the family mantelpiece yet, but it was only a matter of time.

The pairing of these two individuals – a British sporting icon and a beloved American actress – was like manna from heaven for the global media. And what makes them still the hottest couple on the block is that they appear almost squeaky clean, still together after ten years of marriage and three adorable children.

They are nothing short of a symbol for the people of the world. A symbol of success, integrity and family values. Of course, this means one thing. They are marketing dynamite and the advertisers know it. Consequently, they are obscenely wealthy. But maybe in this case it is justified. The existence of an entity like Rubeck-and-Winters has an immeasurable affect on the world. A few snaps of the couple on a red carpet can do more to lift the spirits of the populous in bad times than a hundred world leaders shaking hands over a new international trade agreement or nuclear disarmament treaty.

Of course, continual gratuitous coverage of media sweethearts is enough to make a manly man like me – ahem – almost want to hurl. But in a world of people drowning in a constant tide of dark news, it would be remiss of me to overlook their power to heal.

Finale

The façade of the Rock Hotel was fully Igneous-branded for the occasion, adorned with large flickering flames, courtesy of some technical wizardry, and two eight-story high images of the stars of the show, Rubeck and Winters.

As the Fabrics of Life event had approached over recent weeks, details as to its nature had slowly leaked into the public domain. Though it was increasingly difficult to tease apart the truth from the speculation. In essence, most eager onlookers believed that the Igneous clothing firm had generously sponsored an economic think-tank to study the ethical dilemmas faced by large multinational corporations in the modern world. And the result ... was a solution. A solution to how a consumer-driven ‘globalised’ world could, well,
work
. No more was known than that. It seemed far-fetched, but the fact that ultra-ethical couple Rubeck and Winters had bought into whatever the plan was added significant credibility to the occasion.

Although, not everyone was so ecstatic. Or so it would seem, given the recent serious threats against the event received by the police and verified as genuine. Due to the threats, the cordon around the hotel extended for one block in each direction, such that the immediate vicinity was uncharacteristically quiet. Beyond the barriers, a street away, was a different story. Thousands of excited fans jostled for position, staring up at the huge video screens. Around the world people would be doing likewise in their own living rooms. This was a big event. A big event with no known fundamental substance, yet engendering a sense of unparalleled significance. Such is the glittering magic of celebrity.

A reporter shouted into a camera with the screaming crowd as a backdrop.

‘I’m talking to you live from outside the Rock Hotel, venue for the Igneous Fabrics of Life event. The launch of a campaign that has been billed as one that could change the world.’

An event that would change the world.

‘As you can see behind me there is huge excitement as it nears, and we’ll be with you live throughout the proceedings.’

Inside, the atmosphere was similar in a more reserved fashion, although was sure to change as the champagne flowed. The audience was studded with so many stars as to make the night sky jealous. These were the elite invitation-only guests. Considering the security concerns surrounding the occasion only those with a very long history of not shooting people were on the list.

The venue was vast, as to be expected from a convention hall in New Meadows. It was decked out like an awards ceremony, with guests grouped around circular tables.

From the stage at the front, a catwalk jutted into the audience. This was a fashion show of sorts, after all. Though no one knew really what to expect.

No one knew what to expect.

As the chattering onlookers grew steadily more excited with anticipation and champagne bubbles, there was one group of individuals that were slightly less relaxed. Those charged with preserving the security of this event. Despite the potential for this to be nothing more than a massive publicity stunt, in everyone’s hearts and minds it was much more than that. And certainly in the minds of the New Meadows officials this was a fundamentally crucial occasion. As such, no risks could be taken. It was decided that no private security firm would be involved in the operation and even the regular venue staff were all off-duty. The only people in the room who were not A-listers were either secret service agents or long-serving police. The heads of security were determined that any threats would remain firmly outside, that any demonstrations – be they anti-globalisation or anti- anything else – would be restricted to the streets. So far there had been only a few limited scuffles with police.