Nightblindness By Callie

chapter IV

[New York City, 1984]

Curt stared untrustingly at the armed guards lining the streets. Did he vote for that asshole Reynolds to be in office? Did he even vote? The past nine years had gone by so fast, they all seemed like a blur now. How he'd possibly managed to spend this long with the sexual tension building itself ceaselessly inside of him, he'd never understand. But that man on the subway steps looked strangely familiar, any way around it. Three days ago now it had been since he saw the guy, and he couldn't get that shadowed image out of his head. Curt took a long drag on his burnt out cigarette and threw it to the ground, shoving his hands in his pockets as a few of Tommy Stone's mindless minions passed him in a flushed excitement. Tommy Stone, what a joke. He thumbed the wrinkled ticket in his pocket, reminding himself that he had a concert to go to the following night.

Distracted, he collided with the two men he wanted least to see. They grabbed him by the front of his shirt, a strange way of trying to be inconspicuous. "Mr. Wild," the man clutching him breathed. "We missed you at the office. You weren't supposed to leave early."

"I told you I couldn't stay another fucking minute behind that desk. Now take your hands off me."

The man opened his grip and held his hands up for Curt to see. "Tomorrow," He called as Curt marched past, bending into a mocking bow. "Don't be late, sir."

Curt quickened his pace towards the bar. They knew that he knew, and weren't about to let him ruin everything. But they didn't understand; Curt didn't care enough to expose the plastic superstar. A decade had substantially weakened his vengeance, and now all that was left was a need for the satisfaction, the satisfaction he'd get tomorrow night.

The gaudy letters on the board at the entrance introduced Mandy Slade, now appearing nightly singing for weary patrons, fellow victims of the monotone world around them. This was Ricky's brilliant plan to save his beloved, by finding a place for her in his dingy pub. Curt approached the smoke-filled booth where the strained performer sat, head in hands, holding a cigarette dangerously close to her forehead. She was always so graceful with them. Ricky followed, beer in one hand, dishrag in the other, and greeted the washed-up rocker in the usual way. "Thanks," Curt muttered, popping the top with his teeth and taking a seat across the table from his old friend.

"How were Shannon's henchmen today?" She asked, hardly looking up. Curt smiled and took another swig. "You missed the reporter," Mandy continued nonchalantly.

"What?" Curt felt suddenly uneasy.

"From the Herald," she continued, with feigned respect. "English kid. Doing a story about Brian." She said the name she so loathed with the sweet English dialect that she'd hid behind for so long.

"Well?" Curt asked, rather interested in this new development. "What'd you tell him?"

"Nothing." Mandy crushed her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. "Or everything."

"Are you going to the concert?"

Mandy sighed. "Honestly, darling," she cooed in an elegant English drawl, "I couldn't bare a minute of it."

"Fine," Curt snorted, finishing his beer and rising from the table. "I'll see you when you get off."

"Kay," Mandy smiled as her comrade kissed her forehead and disappeared out the door. Words she'd spoken earlier rang through her head once again: It's funny how beautiful people look when they're walking out the door.

The night turned into morning, and Curt and Mandy rose and parted ways again, Mandy to the pub, Curt to that cramped office where he'd spend the day once again avoiding any press or paparazzi trying to involve him in an exposé. Had it been ten years since the whole 'assassination' thing? Time certainly flies when one has nothing to wait for.

Across town, a tired blond sat at a barstool, trying desperately to forgive herself for yesterday's mistake. She had given the lad Curt's number, knowing honestly that he could offer much more insight into this matter than she ever could. She hadn't stopped to think that, even if he were able to answer that call, the last thing he wanted to do was remember the man who'd hurt him the most. But nothing can ever be done to change the past, and there remained a thin hope for repairing the future.

Somewhere in between, Arthur Stuart, a tall silhouette of former innocence, pushed a coin into the slot and dialed the numbers with unsure fingers. He held the phone tightly to his ear as the other end picked up. "Hello?" he said, straining to hear the faint voice on the opposite side, but nothing. "Er-I was given this number. I was told I could reach Curt Wild, er, here."

"Listen-" the voice began to mumble incoherently, as if arguing with someone else in the room.

"Yeah?" Arthur coaxed. "Hello?"

"Listen," the voice began again, rather gruffly, "I don't know who the hell gave you this number, but Curt Wild is not interested in giving you or anyone else an interview on this subject, got it?"

"I'm sorry, I-"

Curt slammed the phone down and stared piercingly at the suit-clad men on the sofa in front of him. He had done just as they'd instructed, saved they're poor little plastic idol from the truth once again. Why was he helping them, why had he given in? What could they threaten him with that he didn't already want? Death was a great adventure, after all. But it was Mandy's life that he valued. He'd been so protective of her for so long, seeing in her a part of him he could never retrieve. He'd managed to keep her out of this whole thing so far, and he couldn't give in now.

The concert was horrible. Bad music, bad sets, bad costumes; and yet legions of screaming fans soaked it all in. Curt wondered how anyone could be so fooled, how the world could possibly have come to this. He and Brian were going to change things, but they're revolution was premature. And this wasn't what they'd had in mind. He wondered if there was anyone in this crowd remembering the Death of Glitter concert, a show with substance and meaning, the show where Curt had ripped his heart out and left it bleeding for Brian to pick up, but had found it there in front of him when the lights went down. And suddenly his mind turned to the one-night-stand that changed his life forever. Might he have been in London right now, instead of in this God-awful crowd, had he followed his instincts and turned the kid away? No, that wasn't the point. Would he be any happier now, that was the question.

An encore would have been more than he could stand, so Curt beat the crowds to the bar. Mandy was nowhere to be found, so Curt took a seat in the back. The florescent lights hung a dull blue in the smoky air, casting an eerie tint upon the linoleum tables. Curt watched in disgust as patrons began flowing in. He sucked on the mouth of his beer bottle to keep from spitting at their Tommy Stone uniforms: tee shirts, buttons, masks. How fitting, really, Tommy Stone masks. That's all he really was.

Curt drained the bottle but was too lazy to get another, so he sat in silence, staring blankly at the ticket in his hands until the sight became repulsive and he threw it down in front of him. He had resorted to staring at his painted thumbs when a voice interrupted his lack of thought. "You're Curt Wild."

"Yeah," he said irritably, turning towards a tall young Englishman, dark and hardened from battles with his own demons, standing a few feet away. "Who the hell are you?"