Chapter 12
A bump in the road jolted Patrick awake, and for one deeply confusing moment he had no idea where he was. It happened from time to time, usually during a press tour, when he would wake up each day in a new time zone. Now, though, he was on the way to Manchester with Will, the guy from the bookstore, who had texted him that morning to let him know he was heading up north after work in the afternoon to meet a collector of rare memorabilia and hopefully they’d have some luck.
Patrick knew that it wasn’t exactly normal for clients to tag along, but filming was suspended for the day while the director and the studio hashed out some crucial creative difference that neither Patrick nor Audra was privy to—they were only the meat puppets who had to do as they were told; why would they need to know about anything as inconsequential as story or character?—and so he had been at a loose end.
But this, he reminded himself, was for work. Richard Ranger’s character seemed to shift with every new version of the script they received. How was he expected to build a performance on foundations that kept shaking? He’d decided he would go back to the beginning, the original run, except those early issues had turned out to be shrouded in mystery. With nothing but time on his hands, Patrick had gone deep down the rabbit hole of online fandom, the fabled Omega Issue evoking first curiosity, then obsession.
His privilege was showing, he figured. He could request whatever he wanted at any hour of the day. Of course he would fixate on one of the few things he couldn’t have.
It might even be fun, he had thought, to try and track down this piece of apocrypha. A real-life quest. And time away from the set, the hotel, the cast, was its own reward. Time instead spent with Will, who sat smirking at him in puckish amusement from the opposite side of the spacious backseat.
“Did you enjoy your nap?” Will asked, sweetly.
“Sorry about that,” said Patrick hoarsely, reaching for the bottle of water in the armrest. “I always fall asleep in cars. On trains. Planes. Can’t help it.”
“A handy skill,” said Will. “Being able to nod off anywhere. Also, adorable.”
“I…what?”
“You’re like a baby.”
“I am not.”
“A baby whose mum has to take him for a drive to lull him to sleep.”
“I am a grown man.”
“I hope all the supervillains out there don’t find out that the unbeatable Captain Kismet can be thwarted by the slightest rhythmic motion.”
Will’s use of the words “rhythmic motion” was, of course, entirely incidental. But now that he was fully awake, and those green eyes were looking at him so intently, Patrick was painfully aware that he’d become somewhat…excited in his sleep. He shifted in his seat, hoping against hope that Will hadn’t noticed. Jesus, it really had been too long.
“You’re not going to tell all my enemies, are you?” he asked, adopting the same irreverent tone.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Will told him. He winked, and Patrick nearly choked on his water.
The collector in Manchester was, Will had told him, a quintessential crypto bro. “I mean that in the most derogatory way you could possibly interpret,” he’d said, but Patrick hadn’t really known what he meant—still didn’t fully understand what crypto was—until they were being welcomed into the front hall of a new-build mansion just outside a place called Altrincham.
“Patrick Lake, a pleasure.” Their host clasped Patrick’s hand between both of his own, shaking it in some studied display of dominance. His skin bore the kind of tan that did not occur in nature, and the blinding white of his pressed shirt was only outshone by his veneers. “Harley Manning. And you are…?” He turned to Will, scanning his denim jacket and black jeans as if he could visually ascertain his value.
“I’m Mr. Lake’s broker,” said Will, his voice comically deep, thrusting his own hand out. “We spoke on the phone.” Patrick suppressed a giggle.
“Of course, of course,” said Harley Manning. “Come through to my office, both of you, please. I really think you’ll appreciate my collection, Paddy,” he said, appearing not to notice the twitch in Patrick’s temple at this presumptuous nickname.
“That’s an original Ronan McCann,” Harley said, gesturing to an ugly painting en route to the study as if answering a query. Neither Patrick nor Will had asked. “It’s expected to double in value by this time next year.”
Harley’s “office” was a large white room with a marble floor looking out onto an expanse of lawn through plastic double-glazed patio doors. A pool table dominated one end of the space, while a giant sofa took up the other. The walls were dotted with framed movie posters, comic pages, magazine covers, and cabinets displaying various action figures, vintage toys, and other collectibles.
“Mr. Manning,” Will began. “I never told you Mr. Lake was my client. How did you know to expect him?”
Manning shrugged. “Educated guess,” he told them. “I know our leading man here has a thing for obscure memorabilia, and I know he’s filming in Birmingham. Then out of the blue comes a query from a Birmingham dealer asking about something only the real fans have ever heard of. I took a punt!
“Not to brag, and I haven’t had this, like, officially verified or anything,” he continued, “but I’m pretty certain that I have the biggest collection of Captain Kismet merch in the country.”
“Really?” asked Patrick, curiosity piqued.
“Yeah, man!” Harley gurned. “I get that the character didn’t go down as well over here because he’s such an all-American hero and that, but he was always my favorite. The way he just kicks arse and takes no shit, man, you know?”
“I like to think he’s a little bit more nuanced than that,” said Patrick.
“And the women! He was swimming in it, wasn’t he?” Harley laughed. “Sura, Penny, that Russian spy lady who could do the splits…”
“The ’80s were a weird time for comics,” said Will. “April did a whole thread on it,” he added as an aside to Patrick.
“Check this out,” Harley continued, taking a frame down from the wall and handing it to Patrick. The cover illustration showed a man in a blue flight suit, blond hair jutting out from behind a pair of goggles, standing with his hands on his hips, surveying an alien landscape. An aviator turned spaceman turned hero.
The Adventures of Captain Kismet, #3.
“It’s a first printing,” said Harley.
“That’s awesome,” said Patrick, adopting the same tone as he did when meeting fans under ten. “These are pretty rare, right?”
“Exactly!” Harley enthused. “I was so excited! It was like, here are all these opportunities to create whole new original NFTs based on content in the book…Not to mention using AI to autogenerate whole new IP projects! Then my lawyer told me that I only bought this issue and not the ‘copyright’ and that’s not how NFTs work. And I was like, so why did I spend so much of my coin on a few old sheets of paper? But it turns out the issue itself is rare enough to qualify as an investment piece, so it all worked out in the end.”
He pulled a Sharpie out of his jeans pocket.
“Would you sign it?” he asked. “On the glass, obviously, not the issue itself.”
“Sure,” said Patrick, taking the proffered marker and scrawling his autograph across the lower half of the frame.
“Sweet!” Harley pumped his fist. “That just doubled in value,” he added, either to himself or to the frame, but seemingly not to either Patrick or Will.
“Mr. Manning,” Will interjected, still forcing his melodic voice into a pantomime baritone. “The Omega Issue?”
“Hmm?” Harley looked up at them, as if he had genuinely forgotten their presence. “Oh. That. I thought you were kidding! The thing’s a total myth. But I knew Paddy here was a bit of a connoisseur, like myself.” He nudged Patrick in the ribs. “I figured you’d want to see this. Pretty impressive, right?” He used his free hand to take out his phone and snap a rapid selfie of the two of them. “I’m a bit surprised you actually came in person,” he added. “Must be my lucky day.”
“OK, that’s enough,” said Will. “Let’s go.”
“Before you do,” said Harley, putting an arm around Patrick’s shoulder. “I’ve got an investment opportunity…”
“Nope,” Will barked, stepping between the two, chest puffed out, his performance of butchness somehow still more convincing than Harley’s alpha male facade. “Mr. Manning,” he continued, “you’ll be hearing from Mr. Lake’s lawyer about the delay you caused to production by dragging him away from set today. Not to mention the subterfuge of getting him here under false pretenses.” He steered Patrick toward the door of the office with a single wiry arm, and Patrick went along with the charade. Will made a face like he was doing mental math, then gave Harley a verbal estimate of how much he was going to end up being sued for.
“Come on, now,” said Harley. “That’s not exactly necessary, is it? Paddy, mate…”
“My client’s name is not Paddy,” Will said. “And if I were you, I’d start liquidating assets. Mr. Lake’s attorneys don’t accept payment in the form of NFTs.”
“You make a very good handler,” Patrick told Will in the car, once they were back on the road and had finally stopped laughing.
Will clutched his own chest. “I hardly ever use my Top Voice,” he said. “But that was pretty convincing, no? I was kind of hot.”
“Top Voice?” asked Patrick, sensing Will’s use of capitals.
“Oh, you know. The voice you use for talking to, like, plumbers. When you need to perform manhood.” Will glanced over at him. “I suppose you don’t know, actually, do you? Your Top Voice is just your…voice.”
Patrick laughed. “I guess.”
“Must be a gay thing,” said Will, turning to look out the window.
“If you say so,” Patrick replied, his heart thudding a little faster at the confirmation of his pretty robust hunch that Will, the person fast becoming a recurring character in his life, was, in fact, gay. “Hey, what was up with that guy’s office? It was halfway between a child’s bedroom and a sports bar.”
“A man cave,” said Will, shuddering even as he said the words. Then, more sincerely, he added: “I’m sorry, Patrick. What a waste of time. I just…” He huffed in frustration. “I can’t believe he let us come all the way up here when he didn’t have what we were looking for, on the off chance he’d get a photo and an autograph out of it. That takes some serious brass neck.”
“Dudes like that love to show off,” Patrick told him with a shrug. “He who dies with the most toys wins.”
“And you’re one of the toys?” Will asked.
Patrick shrugged again and smiled. “A highly collectible action figure,” he said.
They continued in silence for a little while, and Patrick, so used to sitting around doing nothing until somebody cried “Action,” suddenly found himself fidgeting, reaching uselessly for things to say.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’m hungry. We should stop somewhere. To eat. Could you eat? I could eat.”
“Uh, sure,” said Will.
“Great,” said Patrick. “Why don’t you pick somewhere when we get back. My treat, obviously. To say thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Today was a flop.”
“Still. To say thank you for trying. I insist.”
Will gave him a confused smile and nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
“Great,” Patrick said. The silence that followed was a little more comfortable, Patrick gazing out the window at the unfamiliar gray stretch of highway, Will absorbed in his phone, until he heard a mumbled “Bugger.”
“Sorry?” Patrick turned back to him.
“I have this thing tonight,” said Will. “Family dinner. I completely forgot about it until just now.”
“Oh.” You don’t have to lie, Patrick thought. I get it. I’ve taken up enough of your time, and now you want to get back to your own life.
“My sister is texting asking what time I’m going to be there,” Will continued, reading his mind. “I’m sorry, I—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Patrick said, forcing a smile. “I totally understand.”
Will frowned and screwed up his mouth, then said: “You could…come?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Right. I mean, it’s not fancy or anything. Lasagna at my sister’s house, maybe some wine.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude. I mean, if it’s just family…”
“That’s kind of an elastic term,” Will said. “Margo, her kid, April, and Jordan. Really more of a free-for-all. You wouldn’t be intruding, honest. You’re more than welcome.” Will paused, clearly calculating whether or not to say what he was about to say. “I just thought you might want a night off from being…you know.” He flapped his hand in the air, like that explained everything.
Patrick did know. But how did this guy know? That no matter how grateful he was for where he’d got to in life, and even though being recognized in the street by little kids who thought he was a real superhero filled up some empty part of him, there were days when he just wanted to go back to being Patrick Carmichael from South Amboy. To walk into a bar unremarked upon. To hold any hand he pleased. To eat lasagna.
“I’d love to,” he said.
“Late! Again!” Margo yelled as she opened the door. “What’s your excuse this ti—”
“Hi, Mags,” said Will. “I brought a friend, hope you don’t mind. Margo, this is Patrick. Patrick Lake.”
“I know who he is,” Margo hissed, stepping aside to let them both in.
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Patrick. “This is for you.” He held out the bottle of Fleurie he’d picked up on the way, insisting that he could not show up to dinner at Will’s sister’s house empty-handed.
“What kind of guest would that make me,” he’d said, “to show up without a gift?”
“Sir,” Will had said archly, “you’re the gift. Margo and Dylan will be so excited to meet you, it won’t even occur to them that you didn’t bring something.”
But Patrick had insisted, and so, upon returning to Birmingham, they had taken a detour to a wine merchant in the Jewellery Quarter, where Patrick had quizzed Will on what kinds of reds Margo preferred. He didn’t know why it suddenly felt so important that Will’s sister like him, other than he was an actor, so it was in his nature to want everyone to like him.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the bottle and guiding them through to the kitchen, where April and Jordan were setting the table and squabbling over what might be a suitable playlist to put on while they ate.
“Room for one more?” he asked self-consciously, like he might have to audition for a seat at the table. April and Jordan ceased their bickering and stared in stunned unison. Because seeing him at a bookstore or a nightclub, sure—they were both public places of business. But he suspected that showing up to an intimate family dinner was a different matter altogether.
“We’re a little short on chairs,” Margo interrupted. “So you might have to carry in a spare from the living room, Patrick. Put those lovely big arms of yours to good use.”
“Sure thing.” By the time he reached the living room, Patrick heard the kitchen fall almost silent. He could picture their faces, asking Will what the hell was going on in incredulous whispers.
He gave it a full minute before returning to the kitchen, depositing the smallest armchair from the living room at the end of the table, where the lasagna had been laid out next to a large bowl of salad, focaccia, and the wine he had brought.
“You don’t have to sit there,” said Will. “Take mine.”
“No, no,” he said. “I’m the one who showed up last minute, unannounced.”
“Exactly,” said Margo. “That’s how it works.” She poked her head out into the hallway and yelled: “Dylan! Dinner!”
A moment later, Dylan slumped down the stairs and into the kitchen, so engrossed in their phone that they didn’t even notice Patrick until they were sitting across from him, a steaming, bubbling tray of pasta between them.
“Erm. Hi,” they said, face unmoving, before turning to Margo. “Is one of us dying or something?”
Everybody laughed, like they had been given permission to acknowledge how unusual this situation was, and Patrick relaxed into his (comically low) seat.
“Your uncle Will tells me you’re in a band,” he said to Dylan, while Margo hacked into the lasagna with a spatula. “What are you guys called?”
“Right now we’re the Duvet Ghosts,” said Dylan.
“Whatever happened to the War on Christmas?” Will frowned.
Dylan shrugged. “Christmas won.”
And slowly, Patrick felt everyone around him remember why they were really here. Jordan opened the bottle of wine, April tore off a chunk of bread, and to his left, Will held out his plate. Patrick looked to him briefly, and they held each other’s gaze for just a moment, almost like a private joke, and then it was Patrick’s turn to offer up his plate to Margo and be fed.