The Bleed Magazine by Jonny Speak

Published in 2014 by The Bleed. Printed and bound by Northumbria Graphics. All rights reserved. Copyright of Daniel Thomson. This is presented as a work of fiction. All persons, living and dead, are purely coincidental.

Dedicated to Elliott and Evie.

Prologue

This is fiction. It has to be. Anything else would be too dangerous. It’s safer this way. For me. For the characters. For you. If this was a true story, then you wouldn’t be able to go back to the way life was before. Not after reading this. You might just find yourself absent-mindedly cutting your wrists over the sink or walking out into traffic. Believe me, it would change you. Just as it changed me. If this was a true story, then I would be a dead man or something much worse for my part, and so would everyone involved, all of the players. The Actor most of all. No, it’s better for everyone if you believe this is just a story. None of this happened. All similarities to the truth are coincidental. Nothing is real. The further from reality, the safer we’ll be. That’s why I’ve gone to every effort to create the hyper real. Turn the pages and you’ll see. Words. Art. Design. Photography. Everything bleeds together. Then start to read. It might change the way you look at the world. Just remember while you do, for your sake, for all our sakes, this isn’t a true story. Just keep telling yourself …

The Narrator 04

This is ction. 05 Where are we now? by David Bowie

The Actor

“I need you to be me.” Six words and the whole world changed.

The Actor 08

“It has to be you.” I paused, thinking carefully about my response. My first line of dialogue should be something profound. Words filled with meaning. I couldn’t think of anything. “And who will you be, Daniel?” I said finally. “Where will you be?” “I’ll be no-one,” he replied. “I’ll be nowhere.” A few days later, I’m flying to London, business-class, with an advance wired into my account and a lot of questions in my mind. Ten hours and more than five thousand miles give me plenty of time to replay the conversation. “It’ll be like the old days,” he told me. “Only this time you’ll be pretending to be me with my consent.” “That was just a game, a performance. I wanted to see if I could fool people.” “You did. My girlfriend if I remember rightly.” “This is different.” “It’s the same. The stakes are just higher that’s all.” “What stakes?” “The kind of money that could change both of our lives. It’s a business opportunity. Go in my place and I’ll cut you in. The investors haven’t met me face to face. There’s no way they’ll know you’re not me. All you need to do is attend, listen carefully, and make the right noises. I’ll tell you everything you need to say and do. If it goes well, I’ll never have to see them again in person. These are global business people and getting them all in one room together can take years to organise. This is a one-shot deal.” “If it’s that important why don’t you go yourself?” “You know why.” “I know you like to keep secrets.” “With good reason. If certain people knew where I was, everything I’ve been doing out here would be compromised. Assets would be at risk and years of work would be lost. The world needs to believe I’m in london.” “That’s why you need me, isn’t it? It’s not just about the meeting; it’s about having a double walking around london in your place while you play your games in the Middle East.”

Under The Pressure by The War on Drugs

“Ha, you always were smart. Yes, having a double in London wouldn’t hurt, especially as my work out here is about to reach a critical point, where maintaining my invisibilty is key, but the meeting is your priority. That’s why I need you in London.” “If I’m going to do this for you then I need to know everything.” “And you will. I’ll send you everything you need for the meeting in due course. I promise. This was just your audition. The detail comes later and then you’ll see this meeting isn’t anything to do with the world I live in. The opportunity came through those channels, but this is strictly business, global, high stakes, and extremely lucrative, but not dangerous.” “Who else knows about the meeting?” “Just you, me and my handler. He’ll meet you in London and give you the credentials you need. I’ve given him spare keys to my apartment. You can stay there while you’re in the UK.” “Why is your handler involved?” “He’s the one who brought me in on this. Men in our line of work need to think about the future.” “What about my future?” “It can change forever. Just one meeting, just 24 hours in a role you were born to play and you’ll have the means to make your dreams come true.”

In that moment, I was no longer standing outside my apartment holding my phone to my ear. I was a boy again, sitting in the darkness of the cinema, the ceiling lights a constellation of stars above me. I looked up at my own face on the big screen, so large it overtook everything, becoming all I could see, the whole world, more real than life itself. “Okay Daniel…I’ll be you.” Five and a half thousand miles gave me a long time to think about my decision, about where I was going, and what would happen when I arrived. Instead, I thought about where I had come from.

The Actor 10

“Okay, Daniel… I’llyou. be ” 11 The Actor

The King of America

Everything I was, Icreated. had

The Actorâ&#x20AC;&#x192; 14

We invented ourselves. I learned that a long time ago. Everything I was, I had created.

I was an actor and life was a performance. It had been that way for such a long time, I couldn’t remember when it started or who I was before. Maybe I was no-one. I didn’t see it as a negative, quite the opposite. I had come to realise that if you were no-one, you could be anyone. I wasn’t someone yet, just another work-in-progress, and I’d had to travel thousands of miles to get that far, all the way to LA. Now I was lost, a long way from home, in a city of reflections. It was hard to stand out here when you saw yourself everywhere. I saw copies, fakes and genuine imitations all around. Who was real? I saw handsome men and beautiful women on every street corner. One for every palm tree. That’s not to say there weren’t plenty of average people here. Ugly ones too. There was a need for them all. If everyone was beautiful then no-one would be. Appearances were important, but they weren’t everything. It wasn’t enough to be handsome. It wasn’t enough to be special. You had to be more in a place like this. You had to be more if you wanted to become the King of America. The sun always shone here, at least that was the myth. It was difficult to tell through the dirty, dreamy haze. The real heat rose up from below, like the city was built on a lake of fire. A hell of simulation, Or a simulation of hell. Either way, I never got used to it. Just one of the reasons I would always be a tourist here. Although in many ways, it was a city made for me. The great pretender in the capital city of unreality. Friends used to laugh at my Americanisms. I told them it was all those years spent in the darkness of the cinema, the hours in front of the television every day, all those US TV shows and Hollywood films. How could it not change me? America became my language, TV and films my reality. It had been four years since I moved out here and I was still fascinated by the place, the store fronts and street signs, the cars and buildings, the people from all over the world. They were all part of America’s visual iconography. It was as beautiful and compelling as it was unreal. Silver Lake was a different side of LA to Beverley Hills. East of the 101 freeway, it was a smaller, dirtier neighbourhood of artists and actors, dive bars, record stores, and coffee shops, with a reputation for left-field creativity. In the end, it was no less artificial than the rest of LA, but it was a more interesting and, crucially, more affordable place to live. I was renting a small apartment in an Art Deco block on Bellevue Avenue, close to Sunset Junction, Downtown, Echo Park, and Los Feliz. It was my base for auditions and casting calls.

15 Dying on the Vine by John Cale

Everyone here was damaged.

You could see it in their eyes. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to this place. I sometimes wondered how it all happened. I made all the choices. So why did I still feel like I was a passenger in my own life? I picked up a Black Cat espresso from the white carrera marble bar in Intelligentsia and walked out onto Sunset Boulevard, cars streaming past me like strips of coloured light as I headed for Hyperion Avenue.

It was easy to lose perspective, to forget how it began. It was more than just fame at the start. I had ideas. I wanted to make films. Acting was just a means to an end but the opposite became true after just a few months out here. They say the best acting is like holding up a mirror to a part of yourself. If that’s true then I was guilty of falling in love with my own reflection. More than that, I fell in love with the flattery of those who saw me as a commodity, with the adulation they promised would be mine, and with each taste of the life they offered, the greater my addiction became.

The Actor 16

I knew I was being used, but I didn’t care. I loved it. More than that, I believed it. I was handsome. I was special. I was the guy your girlfriend couldn’t keep her eyes off. I was the guy you wished you were. I would never say that out loud. In day to day life, I was the model of selfdeprecation, but I operated with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they were great. Yet, as much as this was true, inside I was full of holes. Inside, I had more neuroses, doubts and anxieties than a hundred average people. My ego may have been mountainous, but my insecurities ran deeper still, right down to the core.

I didn’t exist at all. Maybe the desire for fame and adulation was inside me all along, even when I was learning how to use cameras and making student films back in London, maybe somewhere beneath it all, it was always about creating vehicles for my ego, to paper over the void inside me, the emptiness, the growing darkness. In the end, it was about more than desire, more than fundamental need. It was about survival. Genesis by observation. I had to see myself on film, not just to affirm my existence, but to create myself, because if I wasn’t there on screen, I didn’t exist at all.

17 California by Mazzy Star

The Ghost

You were listening when he took the call that changed everything.

You were always listening, always watching. It wasn’t your job to wonder why anyone would be interested in the life of an anonymous actor. It was your job to watch, listen, and report. Every day you added another page to your file. His life in black and white. You had been doing your job for a long time, long before he received the call from his friend and agreed to go to London. It would mean a change of scene, but it was all the same to you, just another city, colder, but no different. The game always stayed the same even if the terrain changed.

The nature of the work suited you. His life was your priority at all times. Your thoughts faded into the background, your past became irrelevant, everything you had been before ceased to exist. You lost yourself in the life of another, in his life. You needed to. It was the only way you could live after what had happened. No, don’t even think about that for a second. Don’t think. Move on.

The Ghost 20

Your head was a labyrinth of dead-ends. 21â&#x20AC;&#x192; Darkness by Leonard Cohen

The only escape was not to go inside. You had to stay outside of yourself at all times, empty yourself of every thought, think only of putting one foot in front of the other, think of your next destination, your next action, your next target. Watch. Follow. Listen. Record. Report. Become a machine. Exist to carry out your function and nothing more. Observing the actor was your reason for being. You had been in LA for as long as he had, but you had to keep moving around. Silver Lake. Echo Park. Los Feliz. Elysian Valley. Atwater Village. Westlake. East Hollywood. From one cheap hotel, hostel and motel to the next. Never the same place twice. Never the same alias. You always paid in cash, you never left a paper trail. You had to stay close enough to him to do your job, but far enough away that he didn’t notice you. He never would, as smart as he was, he was much too interested in watching himself. Besides, you were good at what you did, the best. No-one noticed you if you didn’t want them to. Walking the streets at night, you were a shadow on their periphery that they didn’t want to see. Your presence scared them, like the wolf that haunted the borderlands. It was harder for you to turn a blind eye to their world, to all the unpleasantness. You couldn’t help but see it all. You watched, but you didn’t feel. At least, you weren’t meant to. Some days it was harder than others. You had to remember why you were here. They weren’t important. Only his life mattered. You checked into the latest hotel and went up to your room. It was always the same routine. You ensured it was safe, wiped everything down, opened your suitcase and laid your tools out on the bed one by one. Barska binoculars. Flashlight. Notepad. Walther PPK and holster. Flask. Pentax ME 35mm and Canon 1DX cameras. Pocket knife and leather sheath. IS Pro surveillance and recording equipment. You moved around the room slowly and purposefully, dressed, as you always were, in a white shirt and dark grey suit. Outside, the neon burning bright bathed the room in red. You turned to face the window and the night that lay beyond, but nothing could be seen, only your reflection in the glass, merging with the darkness outside and leaving an image that was more of an echo than a man.

The Ghost 22

23â&#x20AC;&#x192; Serpents by Sharon Van Etten

The Narrator

"It is no longer a question of a false representation of reality, but of concealing the fact that the real is no longer real." Jean Baudrillard. No more beginnings and no more endings. He taught me that. ‘I was never here’ were the first words he said to me. That was how it began, late one night, with a man waiting in my house, sitting in my study with a gun in his hand, his face concealed by shadow. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m just an actor.” In the days and weeks that followed, I thought about that night constantly. I was a writer without a book before he found me. He was an actor in need of an audience.

If he was Narcissus, I was his mirror. He chose me to write the book, but it was always about his story. I needed to be invisible, I knew that from the start, but I also saw an opportunity for myself at the same time. He promised me his story would change the world, but once it was in my hands, i knew it would become about my words and my interpretation, it would be my name on the cover and my success, not his. I thought I could use him, but once he began to talk I realised the naivety of my ambitions. His story could not be used. It had a life of its own.

The Narrator 26

It wasn’t simply that it was dangerous. Dangerous stories are told every day. Journalists win the Pulitzer Prize for telling dangerous stories. Just ask The Guardian or The Washington Post. This was something more than that. It was unsettling on such a level, so deeply disturbing, it called everything into question. The first feeling I felt after he had finished talking was panic. I wanted to pack a bag and run, but I realised there was nowhere to go. Hopelessness followed. I felt like going to sleep and never waking up. Despair makes your bones as heavy as lead. I lay in bed unable to move, unable to lift my head, imprisoned by my own thoughts, by the words he had spoken, by the truth I couldn’t escape. Eventually I forced myself to get up. I looked at my hand in front of my face and wondered if what I was seeing was real, I thought about how we each view the world exclusively through our eyes, how we experienced reality through the lens of our own perception, and how that meant nothing could be trusted. I splashed water on my face and gripped the cold, smooth enamel of the sink, concentrating on the details to ground myself. The phone began to ring, the sound cutting through the silence, but when I picked up the receiver there was no-one there. This happened every night after his visit. I began to feel like I was being watched. There were eyes everywhere. I saw groups of people standing together on the street, looking at each other as if they were in conversation, except they weren’t. They stood silently facing each other, but their eyes followed me constantly. They were everywhere.

27 Lying on the Floor by Turner Cody

Writing had always been my escape, but this was different. This was a story too dangerous to tell, but which would destroy me if I didn’t get it out of my head and onto the page. Finding a way to turn his story into a book which existed outside of me, in the world was no longer work, it was no longer art, it was a matter of survival. The night the story came to me, I had been out walking the streets, trying to find a path through my own head. I’d gone to a reading at Foyles by an American author who I admired, with the hope of finding some inspiration, but as I walked back from Charing Cross Road, I felt more of a failure than ever. It had been two years since I had published anything. My debut novel had been a critical success, but a disaster in every other way. My life had fallen apart while writing it and afterwards I considered giving up altogether, but I was lying to myself if I ever thought that was really an option. Trying not to write was like trying not to breathe. Kafka arguably said it best. A writer who isn’t writing is a monster courting insanity. Unfortunately, the time away from my work had not renewed me, it had damaged me. I wanted to write again, to breathe again, but I couldn’t. I was lost. Writing could be a lonely existence. All that time spent in your own head was time away from the world. It was a sacrifice no matter how you looked at it, but it was worth it if you could create something beautiful. I liked to walk the streets and breathe in the night. The city was alive, with noise and light and life, but I did not see buildings or streets or people, only words. Name and thing were one in my mind. I felt like the city was appearing before me, constructing itself as I walked, ready to meet my footsteps. I wasn’t thinking about where I was going. I wasn’t consciously aware of the route or the destination at all. The further I walked, the deeper into myself I disappeared. When I went out walking, I invariably came back with a clearer sense of what I wanted to write. That night, I found only dead ends.

The Narrator 28

I was

29â&#x20AC;&#x192; The Narrator

By the time I returned home I felt a desperate need to drink to take the edge off my thoughts. I walked into my apartment and locked the door behind me, hanging up my coat and kicking my shoes off. There was a bottle of Claret waiting for me. All I wanted to do was change out of my clothes and pour myself a glass. I looked down and saw newspaper pages strewn all over the floor, leading into my study like a trail of breadcrumbs. And there he was, waiting in the dark. He told me I could record the conversation as long as I used an analogue device. Everything digital was suspect, he said. Before he left, I asked him for a photograph too. I had an old Pentax film camera with a few shots left. I assumed he would refuse, but I realised later why he agreed. His ego simply wouldn’t allow him to be anonymous. Even if this was the end of his story, he still wanted to be a star. It was more important to him than living or dying. Coming to me was one of the most dangerous things he could have done, but what was power without adulation? He wanted his story to be told and he was willing to risk everything to make it happen. His pride wouldn’t let him consider this was the end. Maybe he was right. I thought he was bleeding in the chair when I first saw him, as if he’d been shot, but I found no blood afterwards. “This isn't a confession or a last will and testament,” he said. “I'm not interested in the truth. I'm interested in me, in my story.” “Who are you?” “I told you,” he replied. “I'm an actor.” “And why are you here?” “I read your novel,” he said. “I knew right away you were the one to write my book.” “What book?” I couldn’t see his face, just an outline in the darkness. The lamp in my study was casting a shadow that concealed his features from me. Every now and then I saw a flash of white teeth, glistening in the dark, a disembodied smile. It was like Baudrillard said, ‘Americans may have no identity, but they do have wonderful teeth’. Only the Actor wasn’t American, I would later discover, just an imitation of one. “I told you,” he replied. “My story.” “You come into my home with a gun and you expect me to write a book about you?” He looked down at the gun as if he hadn’t realised it was there.

The Narrator 30

I couldn’t see his face, just an outline in the darkness. 31 Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now by The Smiths

“Im sorry about that.” he said, sliding it inside his jacket. “But I had to make sure it was you coming through the door.” “How did you know where I lived?” “Finding you was easy. I can tell you everywhere you’ve been today, every street you’ve walked along, every shop you’ve visited. I could give you a file with transcripts of every SMS, instant message, email, and phone conversation you’ve had in the last month.” “You've been following me.” “I didn’t need to. If you have a smart phone then you’re allowing yourself to be placed under surveillance at any time. And that’s just one of the more obvious methods. It gets a lot worse.” “Tell me why I shouldn't call the police.” “Because I have something you need.” “And what’s that?” “The thing that matters the most to you. A story. One that will change everything.” “How do I know I can trust you?” “You can’t know,” he replied. “Trust is about faith. Nothing can be known with any certainty. I understand why you’re apprehensive. This isn’t a normal situation, but in the end your interest in the story will overcome your concerns.” “Why should I be interested?”

It didn’t take long for him to get my attention. Fragments of his story had been in every newspaper in the country for the last 12 months. You just had to know where to look to piece it all together. He showed me the truth between the lines, the reality beneath the fiction. All those stories. Murders. Accidents. Wars. Government investigations. Scientific breakthroughs. Scandals. Cover-ups. Regime changes. Industry buy-outs. Bombings. News on a global scale.

The Narrator 32

33â&#x20AC;&#x192; The Narrator

Global technology bosses deny cover-up after flagship HQ is targeted by terrorists Google last night denied accusations

in global surveillance. The explosion, which

of wrongdoing after claims its London

shattered more than half of the windows in

headquarters were targeted because of a

the building and caused structural damage,

controversial project taking place on-site.

is understood to have been caused by a

More than sixty members of Google staff

remotely detonated car bomb filled with

were injured in the explosion which rocked

canisters of liquid nitromethane. Google’s

the £1bn building near Kings Cross, London,

flagship 11-storey building is home to 4,500

at 6.20am on May 17. Although responsibility

staff and opened in 2013 amid controversy

for the attack has not been formally claimed

surrounding the company’s acquisition of

by any known terrorist group, the internet has

Kronos Aerospace, with its links to the CIA’s

been flooded with stories by anti-technology

drone strike programme, and Titan Dynamics,

activists, Aletheia, linking the bombing to

which specialise in unmanned autonomous

an unnamed project, believed to involve

weapons systems. This industry is expected to

the use of emerging technologies, such as

be worth more than £100bn by 2020 although

robotics, internet drones, virtual reality,

Google have denied they are involved in

machine learning and artificial intelligence,

developing this technology.

Death of civil service mandarin found dead in locked room could remain a mystery The death of a GCHQ chief found dead in a locked

who had served at embassies in South Africa and Jordan,

room may never be fully explained, police have said.

had most recently been linked to the controversial Parallax

Metropolitan Police last night admitted their investigation

telecommunications and surveillance project.

had proved inconclusive, conceding there were gaps in its

A post-mortem by a Home Office pathologist was unable

knowledge and contradictions in the evidence, but strongly

to determine the exact cause of death due to the state of

denied accusations of a cover-up. George Kaplan, 51, a

decomposition, but initial reports suggested Kaplan had

senior official at the GCHQ ‘listening post’ in Cheltenham,

suffocated. Deputy Assistant Commissioner Alex Travers

with links to MI6, was found suffocated in the bathroom

said reports that Kaplan’s apartment had been forensically

of his Knightsbridge home last year with his hands and

deep-cleaned to remove DNA evidence are ‘unfounded’,

feet bound behind his back. The room had been locked

but said GCHQ had been unable to provide information on

from the inside. Kaplan, who had previously worked for

the project he had been working on before his death.

the Office for Security and Counter Terrorism (OSCT) and

The Narrator 34

35â&#x20AC;&#x192; The Narrator

Future of Humanity Institute warns of extinction threat

Internet companies deny new reports of selling data to government surveillance programmes

Award-winning reporter killed in tragic accident Tributes have been paid to investigative journalist James Cole who died last week. Cole, 38, who died instantly after being hit by a bus on Shaftesbury Avenue, London, was special projects editor for The Guardian. It is believed he may have been listening to music while crossing the road and did not see the bus. Cole had previous worked as The Guardian’s Washington correspondent. Colleagues said he

Government denies ‘sinister’ agenda to Unigram programme

was a ‘terrific journalist’ who was ‘dedicated to exposing the truth’.

The Narrator 36

Technological arms race will lead to revolution in robotics

A multi-billion pound cold war is underway between Silicon Valley giants to pioneer the technology that will lead a revolution in artificial intelligence and robotics. Consumer technology groups, including the likes of Google, Amazon and Facebook, are using their vast fortunes to accelerate research into machine learning, drones, virtual reality, and wearable computing. Artificial intelligence expert Morgan Sullivan said: “We are already so dependent on technology and digital worlds in our everyday lives. One day very soon, the line between you and the machine will be indistinguishable.”

Celebrated activist sectioned after breakdown

37 The Narrator

The Human Rights and Freedom of

to use lethal autonomous weapons systems.

Information activist Jeffrey Goines has been

A witness said: “He was screaming about

detained under the Mental Health Act after

faceless people who were watching him,

being arrested in London. Goines, who earlier

who were everywhere, who were changing

this year helped expose the MoD’s use of

the way we lived now. He said he was trying

‘remotely piloted air systems’, otherwise know

to warn us. It was terrifying.” A spokesman

as drones, being used in surveillance outside

for charity Activate, which Goines co-founded,

of designated war zones, was arrested after

said: “Jeffrey has no history of mental illness

an incident in Covent Garden. Most recently,

whatsoever. We want to know how this

Goines was among 1,000 activists from more

decision was reached and we want to speak

than 114 countries who attended the United

with him, but so far we have not been allowed.

Nations in Geneva to protest against the right

He must be very scared.”

The newspaper pages lay discarded on the floor around his feet like leaves around a tree. I stood up and walked into the kitchen, my head filled with possibilities, with words, sentences, and paragraphs. I didn’t realise it at the time, but in that second, I had already started to write the story. “I was going to have a glass of wine, but I think coffee would be a better idea,” I said. “We have a long night ahead.” “The phone call set everything in motion, but it may have started before then,” I heard him say while I was in the kitchen. He seemed to be talking to himself. I asked him how he took his coffee, but he ignored me and continued talking. I made it black like mine. “Life had already started to become unreal even before the call. The audition. The girl. The ghost…” His voice seemed to drift away. I sat down and handed him a cup. “I almost don’t know where to start.” he said. “Try the begining,” I replied “I’m an actor. We rehearse and film scenes out of sequence, sometimes never putting the story in chronological order. My mind seems to work the same way now. No more beginnings, no more endings.” Long after he had left, as the hazy light of dawn bathed everything in pale blue, I sat alone thinking about everything he had told me. My heart pounded. I would feel panic and despair in the hours and days to come. I would question everything and everyone, even what it meant to be human. Yet there was one thing I was certain of, this was story that had to be told.

“No more beginings, no more endings.” The Narrator 38

39â&#x20AC;&#x192; For A Little While by Langhorne Slim

City of Reflections

“I’m your agent, but I’m also your friend and all I’m saying is it might be time to consider other options.” She paused and took a sip from her cortado. As she leaned forward, I watched my distorted image reflected in the sunglasses carefully positioned on her head. We were in the coffee bar at The Ace Hotel in Downtown's broadway district. “You had a good run in the begining and were really starting to build momentum,” she continued. “But there just isn’t a huge amount out there for you at the moment. It may be that we have to go back to basics – commercials, voiceovers – or perhaps go in a diffrent direction altogether.” “What kind of direction?” “Well, something unusual has come in and they asked for you personally.” “Unusual in what way?” “Were you at a gallery opening or art exhibition recently?” “Yeah, at Prism on Sunset Boulevard. A friend put me on the guest list for the rooftop after – party.” “Well, evidently, you caught someone’s eye. I had a call from an organisation that represnts an artist, I forget his name now, British I think, but with a Dutch surname, Mars or Mass or something, who is making a new conceptual piece in LA. Apparently, someone from his Foundation – that’s what they called themselves – saw you and would to invite you to an audition.” “For what?” “They wouldn’t say exactly, but it sounded like some sort of video or live art installation for the artist’s new show. They’re looking for an actor with a modelling background and a particular look which they want. Evidently, you have it.” Her cell phone began to ring. In a single movement akin to a magicians’s sleight of hand, she had the phone to her ear and answered before I could react. “Tom! How are you darling? Of course you’re not interrupting. I always have time for you. No, don’t be silly. I’m not with anyone.”

The Actor 42

43â&#x20AC;&#x192; Reflektor by Arcade Fire

I stepped out onto South Broadway and disappeared.

Hyperion

There were no signs, just a barber’s pole jutting from the side of a dimly-lit garage building like a hitchhiker’s thumb. Inside, it was dark and crowded and everything was bathed in red light. Two huge chandeliers hung down from the ceiling, as blatantly flamboyant as the exterior was intentionally nondescript. The rest of the venue was a similar clash of styles. One corner looked like a library, with wooden study tables and chairs, and walls lined with legal encyclopedias and reference books. Elsewhere it looked like an S&M club circa 1984. The large bar was cash only and served nothing but beer. Live music was loud and raucous, the floor was sticky, and the washrooms were a wreck with saloon-style doors. It was a self-conscious imitation of a dive bar, and all the patrons were in on the joke. They were imitations too, all skinny jeans and black converse, 80s band T-shirts and oversized glasses, drinking PBR. Still, the place had its moments. Sketch nights saw the bar staff hand out pencils and paper for impromptu illustrations and unsurprisingly there were a lot of artists in the neighbourhood. I wondered if the theme of the night had something to do with the history of Hyperion Avenue. Walt Disney’s first animation studio was opened here in the 1920s. Either way, having your portrait sketched while you got drunk and listened to music was a different way to spend the evening if nothing else. More importantly, the bar, like so many other low-rent establishments in the area, had a reputation for being frequented by industry talent-spotters as well as the occasional celebrity. It was a place to be seen and in this town someone was always watching. You had to be aware of your appearance and your environment at all times. You had to be ready for any opportunity. If they paused any moment of your life, any single frame, you needed to look like a star. The right you, in the right place, at the right time, all of the time. Hyperion was a place to be noticed, in more ways than one.

“You don’t look like you’re from around here.” I turned and saw a girl with pink hair and glasses sketching me. “And here I was trying so hard to fit in.” “Where are you from?” “Lots of different places.” “Is that so? Where was your favourite?” “Neverland.” “Ah, so you’re the boy who never grew up?” “I always liked the idea of living forever.” “Wouldn’t it be lonely?” “I’ll tell you in a thousand years.” “Imagine that.” Her eyes kept moving from my face to the canvas and then back again, her gaze intense and focused. “You ever heard of Dorian Gray?” I said. “Maybe I’ll stay young while your portrait of me ages in an attic somewhere.”

The Actor 46

She smiled, and told me to keep still. I didn’t listen and continued to talk while she sketched, asking about her influences as an artist. She paused for a few moments before replying with three names; Egon Schiele, Oscar Kokoschka and Hope Ganloff. I said I would look them up. She was staying in LA with friends, but was from the East Coast originally. I got the impression she wasn’t a fan of California. “Too fake?” I guessed. “Too real,”she replied. “But you wouldn’t know much about that being an actor.” “How did you know I was an actor?” I said. “I didn’t,” she replied with a smile. “But I guess I do now. Do you enjoy it?” “I was a real daydreamer when I was a boy. I used to make up stories where I was the hero and ended up spending more time in my imagination than I did in the real world. When I grew up and realised those stories weren’t going to come true, that I wasn’t going to be a real hero, I was a little heartbroken. Acting was the next best thing. You can pretend to be anything you want to be.” “It could get dangerous though. I mean, you know what they say about pretending,” she said. “What’s that?” “We are what we pretend to be.” I stole a glance at the portrait and smiled. It was an impressive likeness. “Do I get to keep it?” I said. “Write down your email address and I’ll send it to you when it’s finished. I have to go now, my friends are waiting, but I’d like to keep working on it.” “Will you be back here another night?” “Why?” “There’s a shortage of interesting people in LA. We should form a club or something.” She laughed and tore off a blank sheet of paper from her pad. “What’s this?” I said. “A magic trick. Now, close your eyes.” When I opened them again she had vanished. I looked at the paper in my hands and smiled. ‘I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.’ Like all great tricks, I didn’t know how she had done it, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last I would see of her.

47 Magic Trick by M Ward

Another Day

The world was shimmering and silent above me. Beneath the water everything was still and calm, but I couldn’t stay here. I had to go back.

If I didn’t move, I would die. Water forced its way down my throat. Flashbulbs in the darkness. “What is your real name?” a voice said. It was hard to think about anything with a cloth over your head and water forcing its way down your throat like an arm reaching inside you. “Who do you work for?” They took the hood off and tilted my chair back, so I was looking at the ceiling. Silhouettes surrounded me. I tried to get a sense of where I was, but the glare of the lights shrouded the room in a white haze.

“Tell us everything,” the voice said.

My hands were bound with plastic zip ties, which cut into my wrists the more I struggled. A hand pushed my head down into a tank of water and held it there.

The Actor 50

51â&#x20AC;&#x192;

California Earthquake by Lloyd Cole

My eyes were open, but it was too dark to see. Flashbulbs illuminated the blackness, like paparazzi on the red carpet. For a second, I was there too, but no-one could see me. They were there for the stars, not for me.

I was no-one. The flashing lights shimmered and faded. Before the darkness returned, I saw a man’s face looking back at me, watching. His features indistinct, like a blurred photograph. A ghost image, dissolving in the water, reflected from another place. They pulled my head out of the tank before my lungs exploded. “Last chance,” the voice said. I didn’t recognise my own face when I first saw it reflected in the blade as it moved toward me.

“Cut his throat,” “Cut him, cut him…” the voice said.

“Cut.”

The Actor 52

53 The Actor

The silhouettes stepped out of the glare. There were so many people watching me.

Voices. Applause. Lights. Someone was talking to me. The suited men slowly drifted away. Everyone did. The heat of the lights made my head pound. I loosened my collar and splashed water on my face. In the water, I saw a man at the bottom of the pool, unable to move, the world shimmering and silent above him. He began to swim. Higher and higher, but the surfaces kept getting further away from him. His eyes closed. Mine opened. I was still at the bottom of the pool.

Just another day ın LA.

The Actor 54

55â&#x20AC;&#x192; I'll Try Anything Once by The Strokes

Negative Space

Every day began and ended the same. The LA light faded in and out with the rhythm of someone breathing, illuminating another hotel room, another day, another report. There was a map on the wall. There was always a map. After each day you took a handful of coloured pins and marked his appearances around the city. If there were patterns, if his daily activity formed a shape, then you intentionally turned a blind eye to its potential significance. It was not your place to intuit meaning, only to track movement. You spread the map out on the wall wherever you were staying, adding surveillance photos, receipts, phone transcripts, and anything else you could gather to build up an accurate picture of his activity. At the end of each day, you documented your work on film before taking it all down, ready to start again, ready for a new day. Dawn. You watched him emerge from a woman’s apartment, his handsome face pale and tired, his dark brown hair ruffled. He turned up the collar of his jacket and started to walk. Women came and went from his life. There had been a number over the years. Actresses. Models. Artists. This latest one was a photographer. One relationship ended and another began. You had watched them all come and go. They each gave him something different and cost him in return. Most men would be jealous at the ease in which he attracted people, but

you felt nothing.

Perhaps because you could see the loneliness in his heart and the emptiness he was seeking to mask. He showered and changed at his apartment on Bellevue before buying an espresso from Stories book store and café on Sunset Boulevard. You picked up a copy of Which Lie Did I Tell? By William Goldman and pretended to read while you watched him browse the shelves. Later, you followed him to the Wildcard Gym on Vine Street, where you watched him sitting intently by one of the rings. He wasn’t there to train, just to observe. There had been a script about the late boxer Arturo Gatti in his apartment a few weeks earlier. You’d sat at his dining table and read the first couple of pages. He could be doing research, or perhaps this was just another place to be noticed. The Wildcard was regularly frequented by film crews and actors. Its owner, the boxing trainer Freddie Roach, founded the gym with the help of Mickey Rourke, who he coached to a professional boxing career in the early nineties.

The Ghost 58

â&#x20AC;&#x192; Afterwards, he attended a Transcendental Meditation class on Hillhurst Avenue. You waited outside, watching the entrance from behind a newspaper. When he emerged he was deep in conversation with the female instructor about one of his filmmaking idols, David Lynch, and the influence of meditation on his creative process. He had written a paper on Lynch as a postgraduate at the London Film School, but you wondered what he really believed about meditation. You suspected he had another agenda. TM was fashionable and popular with actors, directors and artists.

59â&#x20AC;&#x192; Jesus of the Moon by Nick Cave

He went straight from there to a free filmmaking workshop at the AFI Conservatory on North Western Avenue, followed by back-to-back classes at UCLA and a screening of Hitchcock’s North by Northwest. There were opportunities to learn all over the city if you knew where to look and had the right motivation. He definitely did. You admired his dedication to his craft, his tunnel vision for achieving his goals. It was one of the few things you had in common with him.

When it came to getting what he wanted, he was obsessive and relentless.

Everything he did was for a reason. Everywhere he went, from auditions, casting calls and film classes, to coffee shops, bars, and pool parties, were part of his strategy for himself. Every part-time job he had taken to pay the bills was for a reason. Nothing was random. They were the right bars and the right parties, the right jobs at the right places. This was not simply a daily routine. He was building a brand.

The Ghost 60

You admired his self-belief, but you hated him too. You hated his vanity, his ego, his hypocrisy, his brilliance. As you watched his silhouette shimmer in the harsh Californian light, you chastised yourself. You were not meant to hate, you were not meant to feel.

Watch. Record. Listen. Map. Every day began and ended the same. You looked at the pins on the map and how they seemed to form a face. You looked at your gun for a few seconds too long, at the little pink painkillers in the bottle next to your bed. How easy it would be to swallow them all. You thought about the past and your life before, the people you left behind, all the things you weren’t meant to think about, everything you weren’t supposed to feel. You thought about ceasing to exist. You thought about it for a little longer each day, so much so it sometimes felt like you were already dead, but you carried on living, you carried on watching, because ghost or not, you had a job to do.

61 Holding on for Life by Broken Bells

The Method

If I wanted to be the best, I had to inhabit imaginary worlds and fictional selves as if they were my own, as if they were real. Not just one world, but multiple, not just one self, but many. It was becoming harder and harder to keep track, to stay anchored, to recognise the real world when I saw it. There was a time when submersion into fantasy made the experience of the real world more real by contrast, but it didn’t feel that way anymore, everything was bleeding into one. I couldn’t tell where one world ended and the other began. I knew this was dangerous, that if I lost control it could cost me everything, and yet I was letting it happen. I wanted it. Everyone had a method. This was mine. It would make me an actor like no other, one capable of becoming his character in ways that had never been done before. I sometimes thought about documenting my work, writing a book about my techniques that would inspire a new generation of actors as Stanislavski or Strasberg had done before me, but I needed to be famous for anyone to listen. It didn’t matter how great you were if nobody knew who you were. I would become famous first and then maybe I’d find a writer to tell my story. As the hazy LA sun shimmered and sank, I turned the corner onto Bellevue, nodded and smiled at the bikini girls reading scripts around the shared pool and climbed the steps to my apartment. Sometimes it felt like everyone around here was part of the industry. There was a letter waiting for me inside. I didn’t bother opening it, I didn’t need to. I knew exactly what it was. Another day, another threat, each day worse than the next. I put the envelope into an old suitcase in the closet with all the others. It was getting harder and harder to close the latch. One day I wouldn’t be able to. One day it would all catch up with me and everything would explode. I didn’t plan to be around when it did. I’d borrowed thousands to get to LA, more money to stay here and maintain my lifestyle, and then new loans to cover the payments on the original debts. Now there was no going back. The hole was too deep and the walls were caving in. I had gambled on being able to pay it all back once I made it, but I was still waiting for that day to come. Now I had almost nothing left, barely anything to live on and no way of getting more credit. The lack of money was suffocating at times and acting jobs were few and far between. Poverty did have some advantages however, it kept you lean, and in this town staying in shape was part of the game. The downside was I had to work-out daily to build my body back up and stop myself getting too thin.

The Actor 64

I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tellone where world ended and another began.

65â&#x20AC;&#x192; Prince Johnny by St Vincent

I couldn’t afford an expensive gym or a personal trainer, so I had to devise my own routines. Like a prisoner in his cell, I used whatever space was available to me. Press-ups on the floor of my apartment, dips where the kitchen worktops intersected, crunches, sit-ups, stretches, then repeat, over and over, night after night. I stripped down to my boxer shorts and watched myself in the mirror as I worked out. I didn’t think this was vain. Exercise didn’t come naturally to me and I didn’t enjoy it. The only way I could motivate myself to keep going was through the instant visual feedback of seeing the difference it was making to my physique, even if I knew it was an illusion and that real change took weeks. The only equipment I had was a pair of dumbbells. It was easy to lose yourself in the repetitions, conscious thoughts receding as you focused on the numbers. It was almost like meditation. I lifted weights until I couldn’t feel my arms, until my biceps felt like rocks, I kept going until my stomach ached and every muscle burned.

The Actor 66

67â&#x20AC;&#x192; You're So Vain by Carly Simon

Like so much in my life, it was fake, a real imitation.

I sat the weight down on the floor, the veins in my biceps pulsing, and looked at myself in the full-length mirror, music playing on my laptop in the background. I flexed my muscles like a boxer on the scales at the weigh in and smiled at how lean and defined I was, how muscular. I may not have been an athlete, but I loved the appearance of my physique. Still, everything had a cost, even this. The more time I devoted to my body, the more detached I felt from my mind, the more I drifted away. Sometimes I wondered whether it was possible for the mind to become completely separate. What would become of my body? Would it go on with its daily routine unknowing? What if my real self had already left and I was the ghost in the shell? In some ways, that was both the true genius and greatest risk of my method, the distance it created between mind and body, inside and outside, fantasy and reality. It was a gateway to a new world, but also a void that threatened to consume me. I was playing a very dangerous game.

The Actor 68

An email came through on my laptop, subject line ‘Neverland’. It was my portrait from the girl with the pink hair. I opened it and laughed. She had captured me perfectly. I read her message: ‘Peter, I’m going back home tomorrow, but I think we should start a correspondence. What do you say? Yours, Wendy’. I was about to email her back when the laptop flashed into life again. I had an incoming call on Skype. The actress. Green eyes, raven black hair, lips the colour of a stop light and a mouth that only said go. She only ever called me late at night, only when she needed me, only on her terms. I never heard from her at any other time. It was like we only existed to each other in these dark, lonely hours. She was a disembodied voice, a digital image on a superficial screen. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we rehearsed scenes together. Sometimes we did other things. She was exciting and dangerous, but we were too similar to work, too damaged, and our interactions often left me feeling sad, both for her and for me. Not tonight. I pressed mute and walked into the darkness of my bedroom to get dressed. As I stood naked facing the mirror, a woman’s arm emerged from the shadows behind me, her warm hand sliding around my waist, her fingers gently caressing my hard stomach, and moving up to my chest. “So many mirrors,” she said playfully, her breath hot against the back of my neck. “But I’d be a narcissist too if I had your looks and body.” “I didn’t think we’d made plans to rehearse tonight, or did you have something else in mind?” “Such a lovely body…it’s a shame you have to die.” We had been reading for a stage adaptation of a Chandler story. Naturally, she was the femme fatale. “Everyone dies,” I said, remembering my line. She ran her fingers through my hair slowly and pulled my head back. I felt the cold, hard edge of a knife slide under my jaw. “Some of us sooner than others,” she whispered. “What scene is this from?” I said, slowly reaching for the light. “I’m lost.” “You’re damn right you are,” she laughed. “Not everything is from a movie, handsome.” I flicked the light switch. In the bedroom mirror, I saw that I was standing alone, holding the knife to my own throat.

69 West Coast by Lana Del Rey

The Eye

It was easy to lose yourself in the work. Sitting in a rented room across from his apartment, you looked through the telephoto lens and felt yourself disappear. You were not in the room anymore, you were there with him, in the fine detail of his life. Your body became an extension of the camera. It was you and you were it. Every now and then, a picture would flash into your left eye that was out of sync with the image inside the lens, the world in real scale overlaid with life under the microscope, a vision of two different realities at once, disorientating you. The longer the surveillance, the more disturbing the effect became and the more susceptible you were to seeing things that weren’t there at all. Another man would have stopped, but you wanted to lose yourself, you wanted to disappear. Only occasional movement on your periphery kept you conscious of your physical existence in the room outside of the camera. A bird flew past the window to your left, suddenly taking you out of his life and making you aware of your physical self, reminding you of your place in the world, rather than just observing it invisibly. It was absorbing work and physically draining, especially on your eyes, but it was also uniquely compelling. When you finally put the camera down it felt like taking off one of your limbs .

You didn’t want to return to the room, to yourself. Every day you focused intensely on the minutiae of his life, even if it meant losing perspective on the world, because in isolation, the individual elements had order, they made sense to you. Other people needed to look at the whole to see meaning, but you preferred the fragments, because you could see how the world really was. It was chaotic and broken and none of the pieces fit together anymore. You realised your view of life was a deviation, an inversion of how most people saw the world, but you didn’t occupy the same space as everyone else. They couldn’t see what you saw, because they lived in the light.

The Ghost 72

You lived in the negative space.

73 Anyone’s Ghost by The National

The Audition

The Foundation’s offices were located in a former cement factory from the turn of the century on an isolated and sparsely-landscaped plot of privately-owned land in Downtown LA, which had been converted into an art gallery in the 1970s. Although the exterior maintained the original industrial façade, it had been extensively refurbished with reclaimed wood, glass, and other sustainable materials to create a stylish yet subversive home for experimental art. There was no reception. The doors simply opened as I approached. As I walked inside, I heard a sound like a plane taking off in the distance, only constant in a way that seemed strange to my ears and which played on a continuous loop. As big as the factory had seemed on the outside, the interior appeared infinitely larger, consisting of subterranean silos as vast as cathedrals, connected by corridors and rooms that were claustrophobically small in comparison. I followed a set of stairs down into an open exhibition space. At the centre of the room was a large square staircase that appeared to ascend and descend at the same time, like Penrose steps, leading neither up nor down. There was no art that I could see, only empty picture frames suspended in the air as if the space in between was the content. It was almost impossible to tell where the building ended and the art began. I thought the gallery was abandoned until I noticed a small blonde girl in a white dress staring into one of the empty frames.

“Excuse me,” I said. I repeated myself, but there was still no reaction. I began to walk away. “You're here for the audition,” she said suddenly. Her voice rang out in the empty gallery, cutting cleanly through the silence. “How did you know that?” I said. When I turned around to look at her, I found myself looking into eyes that were cold and hard, like blue-green marbles. They seemed to belong to someone much older. “Tell me,” she said. “Do you know what a Shepard tone is?” “No.” I replied. “It’s the sound you can hear right now, an auditory illusion consisting of a superposition of sine waves separated by octaves.” The more I looked at her, the less she seemed like a child. There was something distubring about her, beyond those piercing eyes. I wasn’t even sure she was a girl. she was androgynous, like an angel. “Can you tell me the connection between the tone and this room?” She said.

The Actor 76

1 Cz

“Is it part of the audition?” I replied. There was no response. I looked around. Everything was designed to look like an illusion. I had a feeling it FC was all connected, but one feature dominated the room more than the rest. “The staircase,” I said. “It’s the same as the tone. It ascends and descends at the same time.” She smiled. I was right. “Did I pass?” “It wasn’t a test, just simply a question to pass the time. The audition begins when you walk through that door.” I reached for the handle. Something made me look back. F

“Remember,” “Nothing is real.” the girl said.

The door opened into a brightly-lit corridor where a group of men stood waiting. I joined the end of the line just as the first man was taken away by a pair of women in white coats. One by one the men disappeared. When it was my turn, I was led into another room and seated in a darkened cubicle facing a large TV screen. A rubber cap covered in electrodes was placed on my head and sensors were attached to my hands, both connected by wires to a machine which purred with power.

“This is an emotionally-modulated response test,” one of the women said. “The machine will analyse responses in the amygdala.”

C C2 h

CC F

77 Breaking Glass by David Bowie

C C1 h

She left the room and a few seconds later the lights went out, leaving me in complete darkness. Images flashed on the screen. Lakes. Meadows. Fjords. Beaches. Gunshot victims. Road accidents. Stabbings. Forest fires. Rose gardens. Birthday cakes. Decomposing bodies. Bombings. Children playing in the park. A human brain. Birds singing. A mushroom cloud. Christmas. A firing squad. The voyager satellite drifting through the blackness of the solar system. A beating heart. Bursts of white noise and flashes of light assaulted my senses, testing my physiological and emotional responses, while electrical currents passed through my hands, measuring my heart rate and blood flow.

The camera moved slowly through a beautiful, green wood, rays of sunlight reaching down through the branches, but the sound accompanying the scene was all wrong. It was heavily industrial, a whirring, groaning, mechanised dirge that was growing louder by the second. The trees opened into a clearing. There was something in the distance, getting closer, a dark shape that didn’t belong, a tangle of plastic and metal. Rows of chairs stacked up and a man in black sat looking out into space. He looked like me, but the image cut away again quickly before I had a chance to process it, the high-speed assault of images beginning all over again. Lakes. Meadows. Beaches. Starving children. Battlefields. Brutalised bodies. Over and over.

The test seemed to last for hours.

Eventually the pace of the images slowed, the sound faded into a low murmur, and the screen went black. Just when I thought it was over I realised there was still an image on the screen. A bedroom in darkness. Lying in the bed was a man sleeping. The camera moved closer to him, up over his body, before stopping at his face. My readings spiked as I realised I was looking at myself. My legs were heavy when I stood. One of the women returned and led me into another room. Inside, the girl in the white dress sat in a chair. Behind her a man stood facing the wall. He appeared to be blindfolded. She indicated for me to sit in the empty chair that was opposite her.

The Actor 78

“What happened to the other candidates?” I asked. “You were the only one to make it this far,” she replied. “How did you get that video of me?” “I’m not following.” “During the test. There was footage of me sleeping in my bed.” “That’s not possible. Perhaps you imagined it?” “I know what I saw..”

I was getting tired of these games.

Even before I arrived I had been asked to complete psychometric tests and personality profiles by email along with a detailed questionnaire about my career to date with questions about my childhood and sexuality.

“How could we possibly come by such material? We haven’t had someone following you if that’s what your implying?” “What ever you say, Dorian Gray.” She smiled coldly. “I’m sorry if my appearance disturbs you. I was born with Aubrey Sydrome. It reduces cellular degeneration to a rapidly decelerated rate.” “You age slowly?” “You don’t think I’m telling the truth?” “I think you’re like everything else in this place. A fake. You’re just a very good child actress hired to make this process as unsettling as possible.” “I was hired by the man who owns the Foundation because of my condition. He believed if he siphoned my bloody and had it transfused into his own body he could achieve a kind of biological immortality.” “And what does your master want with me?” “He wants to find out who you really are.” “How? Through this?” “Through art. This is just the beginning.” “What kind of art?” “I’ve already said too much.” “If you want me to work for you then I have a right to know.” “He will create a new form. Not on the page or the canvas or the screen, but in the cells of your body, in the mind, in the world.” “What if I say no?”

79 Digital Witness by St Vincent

“You won’t,” she replied. “Your whole world is going to change.” “You want this. You want to be special and you will be. ” “So what happens next?” “One final test, ” she said. “There are two revolvers strapped to the underside of your chair. One contains blanks, the other live rounds.” I reached under the chair. She was telling the truth. One gun had red masking tape around the handle, the other blue. The blind-folded man, who had been been standing silently behind her facing the wall, turned around and began to slowly walk towards us. “You must choose which gun to use. If you do not fire, he has been instructed to kill you.” “Who is he?” “Who are you? That’s what we want to know.” I aimed the gun with the blue handle and emptied it into the man, hitting him in the leg, stomach and shoulder, before missing with the final shot. The blood seemed to hang in the air as he fell, like the moment had been freeze-framed. He hit the floor hard, like a puppet with its strings cut. A few seconds passed, blood seeping out from under his body. The man began to move slowly before gradually standing up. He took the blindfold off and smiled. The girl looked on coldly. “Did I fail by shooting him or pass?” “We’re not finished here,” said the girl. “Do it again, This time with real bullets.” There was a look of fear in the man’s eyes. “What?” he stammered. “This wasn’t the arrangment.”

The Actor 80

one, two, three, four, five, six times. She turned away from him and looked into my eyes. I picked up the gun and pulled the trigger

I threw the revolver down at her small pink feet.

“When do I start?” The door opened into bright, merciless sunlight. I stepped into the glare and found myself in the car park behind the gallery, alone and confused in the shimmering heat, uncertain what had just happened to me and where it would lead. The waves of light which washed over me couldn’t have been a starker contrast to the growing darkness in my heart.

81 The Actor

The Empty Mirror

You no longer recognised the face looking back. The years had not been kind. You had grown old and your face had become a caricature of itself. You felt almost nothing when you saw your reflection. You had become separated from it.

It wasn’t you anymore.

It was just a face in the mirror, an object that existed outside of you, a mask. If anything, the actor was your reflection now. Perhaps you had become more grotesque in contrast to his beauty. His strong, handsome face the antithesis to your exaggerated features, his glittering blue eyes the inversion of your shadowy gaze. You had been handsome too once. Not like him perhaps, but good looking in a rugged kind of way. That was many years ago and a lot had happened since then. It had all taken its toll. Maybe it was punishment for your crimes, to bear the physical scars of your mistakes, to wear them like a mask. It didn’t matter. You knew how to become invisible and how to bury the past. You had no choice. The alternative was to face it directly and you couldn’t do that. It was too painful. You would die first.

The Ghost 84

The job was your solution. By focusing on the other rather than yourself, on the outside world rather than your inner thoughts, you were able to survive. It was not repression, but subversion. The actor was your subject and your savior. Some days were harder than others and every day had its challenges. It was hard to occupy yourself through the night. While he slept, your mind drifted back to yourself. That was dangerous. Logic said you should sleep while he slept, like a mother and newborn, but it wasn’t always possible. Insomnia was another of your punishments. Sometimes you watched him while he slept to get around this. Sometimes they asked you to film him while he slept. Other days you just sat in the same room, watching, listening, your breathing slowing to mirror his. Anything to prevent your mind from wandering, from tuning into a frequency you didn’t want to hear, but which was always, invariably, there.

It was the sound of your memories, of your pain, of the sadness inside. It was like a constant electrical hum in your brain, always present in the background even when you didn’t consciously register it. Sometimes you felt it more acutely than others. There were days when it forced you to feel it, to acknowledge it, as if it had coalesced into a solid form, weighing down on you with the mass of a mountain. If it was just a burden to be carried then that would have been some consolation, but it was much worse. Sadness did not simply crush, it consumed. It was not a glacier, but a vast slab of mud, which smothered and suffocated. This was still not the worst it could do. Despite its size, it was subtle and could reach deep inside you with a surgeon’s skill, making you feel physically sick as it slowly turned you inside out, making the tears roll down your face until you begged for death to end your suffering. That was why you could not allow yourself to feel, why you must give yourself to your task completely, why you must watch, record, map and report, but never feel. Don’t feel and don’t ask questions. Don’t think about who gives the orders, don’t ask yourself who reads the reports. Every month, you took the Purple Line to the western edge of Koreatown and the dark, empty corridors of the Art Deco Hotel Earle. You slid your report under the door of Room 21 as instructed and left. You never saw the reports again. You didn’t know who or what was inside the room. You didn’t want to know. You feared it was empty.

85 Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight by The Beatles

The Female Form

I kissed her so hard it pushed her back through the door and into her apartment. We hit the wall together and in the darkness began to tear at each other’s clothes. I pinned her arms above her head and kissed her neck, moving slowly down her throat, my lips and tongue hot and wet, my teeth sinking into her soft skin.

I met the photographer for the first time at an after-show party at Prism in West Hollywood. I was drifting aimlessly around the room, floating like one of the bubbles in the free champagne they were handing out. She stood at the crowded bar, in a pretty floral dress with fishnet tights, waiting for an elaborate cocktail to be mixed. I’d arrived with a group of women, but they had drifted away from me one by one. It didn’t matter. In life, people came and went. I had a feeling she was special. “This isn’t really my kind of scene,” I said. “Me neither,” She smiled shyly, looking away. There was nothing more beautiful than innocence. She was British too. It was good to hear a voice from home “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

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She turned back to me and our eyes met. I smiled. In that moment, she was lost. Tangled up in blue. In the dark, our hunger for each other was all consuming. We kissed savagely, relentlessly, barely coming up for air, our hands frantic, our caresses gentle and violent all at once. My chest was pounding. I picked her up, wrapping her legs around my waist, and carried her from the hall to the living room. She whispered what she wanted in my ear as I slammed her down on the dining table, pushing everything else aside and onto the floor. I ran my hands up over thighs, sliding her dress up, and pulling her toward me. Later, as the dawn light gradually illuminated her room, she laid her head on my chest, our legs intertwined under the sheets, her body a perfect fit for mine, a trail of clothes leading from the front door to her bed. I traced my hand down the length of her back, her skin soft and smooth beneath my fingers, her beautiful curves rising and falling in the half-light as our breathing slowed together. “You feel lovely,” she said. “So do you,” I replied. “What are you thinking about?” she said. “Nothing,” I replied. “And that’s a good thing. I feel content, peacful. It doesn’t happen very often.” “It’s this city,” she said. “It changes everyone. Do you ever think about leaving?” “I think about owning it.” She laughed. “Sometimes I think about a simpler life, in a different place, just the two of us.” “It’s a good dream,” I said. “It doesn’t have to be a dream,” she replied. “It could be real.” I kissed her deeply. Time lost all meaning in those quiet moments together in the dark, our warm bodies merging into one.

It was the closest Itocame peace.

89 Let’s Get Together (In Our Minds) by Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci

Months had passed since we first met. She had become my personal photographer and I was her willing model whenever she needed one. The following morning, I walked hand in hand with her through MOCA on South Grand Avenue, looking at the new Helen Gorrill exhibition, Femme Fatales. The super-sized drawings challenged the traditional nude in art by reconstructing and deconstructing the female form through a combination of layered paint and collage fragments, cut, torn and slashed. As stunning as they were, I felt a sense of unease looking at them. The British artist’s femme fatales were beautiful and mysterious, but also compromising and dangerous, just like the women in my life. It wasn’t the drawings themselves that left me uncomfortable, but how they made me feel about myself, about my behaviour and attitudes, about my own femme fatales, the witnesses to my many crimes and misdemeanours,

the keepers of my secrets.

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Later, we drove downtown to Little Tokyo to find a good location for her latest shoot in an area known as the Art District. It was one of the city’s go-to areas for photographers interested in documenting urban decay and graffiti. She was doing a fashion shoot for Informer magazine and the model had dropped out at the last minute. I was happy to step in and help her. The photos she took of me were easily the best in my portfolio. She did all of the headshots I used for auditions and casting calls. Her brief for today’s shoot required a backdrop showing the alternate side of LA to contrast against the designer suit I’d been given to wear. We found a crumbling stairwell, covered in graffiti, off Alameda St and started shooting. I loved watching her work. She was an artist, even when I was doing my best to distract her.

91 The Actor

“You should be in front of the camera not me,” I said. She rolled her eyes and smiled. Native Americans supposedly believed that photography stole a piece of your soul. If that was true then mine was long gone, erased, piece by piece, and used to buy a different kind of immortality. But I didn’t believe the camera was a thief. How could I? It helped create me. It gave me everything.

I may have been empty inside, but on film I had a presence. If my image was my identity, it was the camera which made me a real boy. Years ago, I hated having my photo taken. I felt self-conscious about my appearance and shied away from the camera, but I had conditioned myself to overcome that weakness. I had to. If I was going to be a star, I needed to control the camera, not fear it. I had learned that anything could be overcome in time.

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Now I loved the camera and it loved me in return. Just like her. She moved around me, shooting me from different angles, making me feel special, making me feel like someone. I needed her just like I needed to be on film. Her love was proof of my existence. “Have I ever told you how sexy you look with a camera in your hand?” I said. “Don’t look at me,” she smiled. “Look at the camera.” I looked and felt myself disappear, into the black hole that was the lens, into a space where my fears lived, into the emptiness inside me where my soul should have been.

93 I’d Have You Anytime by George Harrison

News from Nowhere

I breathed in the dirty, dreamy haze that clung to the edges of everything and took a seat in Café Stella on Sunset Boulevard where I was due to meet my agent. She was late. Three weeks had passed since the audition for the gallery and I still hadn’t heard anything. One of the junior executives from the agency walked in carrying an iPad. He was a small, tubby character called Brandt or something similar. His eyes scanned the crowded faux Parisian café. He was wearing a waistcoat with a silver pocket watch, skinny black cords with turn-ups, which he had squeezed his short legs into, and steel-capped work boots, his sandy hair slicked back and shaven around the back and sides. I hoped he wasn’t looking for me, but there was a look of embarrassment in his eyes when he saw me which told me that he was. “I like the beard,” Brandt said as he sat down opposite me and ordered a Brazillian Agua Preta latte with a shot of agave syrup. “It’s a good look for you.” “Where is Catherine?” I said. “Miss Hayes sends her apologises. She’s back-to-back today. She asked if I could take the meeting for her.” “She said she had some news about the audition.” “The art foundation? Yes, I’m afraid you didn’t get the part. She said they decided to go in a different direction.” “What?” I was stunned and struggling to hide it. “You’ve got to be joking. I must have got it. They said I was the only one to get through the full audition.” “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” “Bad news? You’ve got no idea what they put me through. The whole thing was insane. I walked out thinking I’d killed a man.” “If it’s any consolation, Miss Hayes is very unhappy with them. She suspects the foundation was lying to her from the beginning.” “About what?” “She suspects the whole process was staged to provide material for the conceptual art installation they were supposedly hiring for. In essence, the audition was the job.” “If that’s true then I want to be paid. They messed with my mind...

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...itpractically was torture.” “They did pay you, but after Ms Hayes’ percentage and the amount you owed the agency in arrears, I’m afraid there wasn’t anything left. In fact, you still owe us money.” I sighed and kneaded my temple with my fingers, my head pounding. There was a ringing in my ears, like an insect buzzing. I looked at Brandt and for a second saw him as the parasite he really was. “Does Catherine have anything else for me at least?” I said after a moment. The bloated bug had been glancing at his phone while I spoke. “Hmm?” he said, looking up. He clearly hadn’t heard my question. “Yes, that’s great,” he added inexplicably, his smiled fixed and vacious. “I said does Catherine have anything for me?” “In a sense,” he replied. “Miss Hayes and I have been talking and we both think it would be a great idea if you joined my client list. She just isn’t able to give you the time you deserve anymore. I’m sure you understand.” “Catherine has represented me for the last three years. She has long-term plans for me. I think you must have misunderstood what she was trying to say.” “She was very clear.” “Look, I realise you’re ambitious and looking to build your client list, but this isn’t the way.” Brandt smiled as if he was in on a joke that I knew nothing about. “I’m not sure you’re following me,” he smiled. “I’m not trying to steal you away. This wasn’t even my idea. Miss Hayes begged me to take you on because otherwise the agency was going to let you go.” He was serious. “Get Catherine on the phone now,” I said. “That’s not going to happen.”

97 Wah Wah by George Harrison

I grabbed hold of his waistcoat and pulled him toward me. “Get Catherine on the phone now,” I repeated. “You just don’t get it, do you?” Brandt said, his face pale and sweaty. “We’re not asking you, we’re telling you,” he said with a smirk. “You come over to me or you’re out.” Brandt seemed more embarrassed that I was causing a scene than he was scared. He pulled away from me and straightened his collar, trying to regain his composure and reassert his control. “You just don’t get it, do you?” Brandt said, his face pale and sweaty. “We’re not asking you, we’re telling you,” he smirked. “You need to face reality,” he went on, starting to enjoy putting me in my place. “If you were going to be the next major studio star, it would have happened by now.” He took out his iPad and placed it on the table, moving the coffee cups and cutlery to one side. “Just look at your IMDB page. You have to go back two years to find anything worthwhile. It’s sad, but the phone just isn’t ringing for you anymore. It never really did from what I’ve heard.

You’re no-one. You’re nothing.” The Actor 98

99 The Actor

Dark red blood pumped out from the wound and spread across the mahogany, soaking the napkins, seeping under the china, spilling off the table and pooling on the floor. I walked out of Café Stella to the sound of sirens and screaming.

I picked up a fork and drove it through his hand, pinning him to the table.

Orpheus and Eurydice

You were sat three tables away during his conversation with the agent in Café Stella, watching their reflections converse in the mirror behind the counter. For a second, it looked as if it was going to turn nasty, the Actor’s hand moving slowly, unconsciously, toward the fork that rested next to his coffee, but his eyes grew cold, the anger leaving him, and he walked out of the cafe without incident. You followed him from Sunset Boulevard, as he walked the streets, his face growing darker with every step. His ego would protect him from failure as it always had, it would erase and rewind, it would heal him and restore him to his previous level of confidence. You almost didn’t need to follow him. You knew him so well that it was obvious where he would go. He arrived at the photographer’s apartment on Scott, a pretty tree-lined street in Echo Park just after dusk. She kept him at the door, her large blue eyes muted, her strong, beautiful face filled with sadness. You moved closer to listen, careful to stay out of sight. You had missed the beginning of the conversation and could only make out fragments.

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“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you heard her say. “I can’t keep doing this. I need to be more than your escape.” “You are.” “I’d rather be alone than not have you completely and I don’t think that’s going to happen is it?” “You already have me. I’m yours.” “Only when you want to be, only on your terms.” “That’s not true.” “It’s how I feel. I’m sick of being on the periphery.” “My whole life is on the periphery. There is no centre.” “Well, I’ve had enough.” “I’m standing here at your door because I want you, I need you. I came to you and no-one else. Does that not tell you everything you need to know about me?” “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.” She closed the door. He stood for a moment, as if he could will it to reopen, before slowly, sadly, walking away. Alone on the sidewalk, his face illuminated by the light from his cell phone, you watched as he looked through his contacts. Who would he call? The actress? The artist? He hesitated. You watched as he put the phone away.

Maybe this time was different.

He hadn’t called anyone. Interesting.

His reaction may have surprised you, but you still knew exactly where he would go next. The only place he had left. Home. If you were still capable of feeling, you might have felt sympathy for him in that moment. After all, you knew what was waiting for him at his apartment. You could have warned him, but that was not your place. You watched, listened, recorded. You did not intervene, even if knew his day was about to go from bad to worse.

103 You’re a Big Girl by Bob Dylan

When I Was Cruel

Everything was unravelling. I had been walking for hours, the pale purple sky darkening above me, people and cars streaming past, everything a blur. I couldn’t blame her for closing the door on me, on us. She was right about everything. My first reaction had been to call one of the others, but it would have just been the same.

Love was not enough. I loved all of the women who walked in and out of my life, but it didn’t matter. I might have had a good heart, but it didn’t make my actions right and it couldn’t change the truth. I shouldn’t have got into relationships with any of them and that was a fact. I might have had good intentions, but we all know where those lead and that’s where I was headed. My fate had been decided a long time ago. I hadn’t wanted it to end like that with the photographer, I really did care about her, but they all left me eventually. They all saw through me and realised there was no one there, they all moved on with their lives. I wanted love. Even if I feared it was impossible for a man like me. There was no agenda other than that. I hadn’t set out to attract people, to seduce them and break their hearts. They came into my life of their own accord, each different, each falling for an alternate version of me, while a different part of me fell for each of them. In time, each of them came to want more from me, but there was no more to give. They wanted to know the real me, but I didn’t know myself.

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In truth, I feared I didn’t exist at all.

Every broken relationship led to another and I kept starting over, despite the knowledge I was repeating the same mistakes again and again with a new person. In my mind, I was a drowning man. What did one more sin matter when I was already in hell? It was like living at the end of the world. Nothing seemed to matter very much when you were minutes from oblivion. It was that sense of fatalism which had governed my behaviour from the start. I had been locked on a self-destructive collision course from day one and whether I meant to or not I had seduced them all into following me. The photographer and I had been a speeding car from the start. I could have stopped it before it went too far and spared her the inevitable pain, but I wasn’t good at letting go. I never had been. There had been more than one opportunity, but I hadn’t taken any of them. I couldn’t. It had been the same with all my relationships. My ego wouldn’t let me walk away even when I knew it was going to end badly. I was addicted to their presence in my life, to their love, their attention, their flattery, their hearts, their minds, their bodies. I may have loved them all, my heart may have been filled with good intentions, but however I spun it I was the bad guy and there was no getting around it. I was using them and allowing myself to be used by them in return. There were no winners in this game, only losers.

107 How Can You Mend A Broken Heart by Al Green

I should have known it would fall apart with the photographer when I needed her the most. I deserved it after all. I had brought it on myself. But it wasn’t too late to do the right thing. I needed to let her go even if it broke my heart. I needed to keep walking and let her start again without me. She deserved to be happy. I didn’t. When I got back to my apartment, I could tell something was wrong. The door was already open and the lock had clearly been forced. I stepped inside slowly. There was something lying in the hall. As I knelt down to pick it up, someone closed the door behind me and I felt something heavy come down hard on the back of my head. I dropped onto my knees, my legs giving way. I tried to move, but a second blow turned the world to black.

Flashbulbs in the darkness. The Actor 108

They were taking photos outside the mansion when I arrived. I smiled and posed, exchanging pleasantries with the paparazzi I was familiar with. It was good to keep them on side. They had been specially invited to document the party. Ordinarily they wouldn’t get within 10 miles of this place. This was Hidden Hills after all, LA’s gated city, exclusive to those with the wealth and power to afford its luxurious seclusion. The neoclassical mansion enjoyed panoramic views of the Hollywood Hills and San Gabriel Mountains and was surrounded by swimming pools and tennis courts, marble fountains and orchards producing 24 varieties of fruit. At least, that’s what Dustin Hoffman had told me the last time I was here. The doors to the mansion opened as I climbed the steps, leading to a vast entrance hall with a spectacular double-staircase. The room was already filled with guests, mingling and chatting, while waiters carrying silver trays handed out flutes of Dom Perignon White Gold. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Jack Nicholson smiling. Everyone was here. Tom Cruise. Julia Roberts. Brad Pitt. Angelina Jolie. Everyone. They were all happy to see me. I was one of them after all, one of the chosen few. I followed Martin Sheen along a mirrored corridor, past Marlon Brando and Montgomery Clift, leading to a cathedral-like ballroom, gold and glittering, where bodies whirled and danced in a blur of colour and movement. Marilyn Monroe’s hand emerged from the tangle of limbs and pulled me inside the maelstrom to dance, our bodies so close I could smell the perfume and Piper-Heidsieck on her skin, until jolting Joe Di Maggio dragged her away. I stopped to catch my breath and felt something wet run down my forehead. I wiped it away absent-mindedly, but when I looked at my fingers they were smeared with red. I turned around and glanced in the mirror. There was blood running down my face as if I was wearing a crown of thorns.

109 Valley by Doves

Flashbulbs in the darkness. When my eyes opened, I felt angry and confused that I was waking up. I hadn’t slept so well for a long time. Then came the pain. I reached around and felt the back of my head, my fingers coming away stained with blood. I pulled myself up onto my knees and looked around. My apartment had been turned upside down. Anything of value had been taken. There was almost nothing left and what remained had been treated with contempt. There was a wire trailing across the floor and out of the window. It took me a few seconds to realise what it was. They had thrown my telephone through the window. It lay in the grass in the shared garden outside my apartment, broken glass spread around it like a halo on the hardwood decking. I walked outside and picked it up, brushing off the dirt and glass, before setting it down again. There was blood in my hair, running down the back of neck, and my head was pounding. I breathed in the night, hoping to be carried away on the air, hoping to disappear in the dark and begin again. There would be no redemption, but this was not the end either. Nothing ever ended. I was alone with the night, with the stars, with the silence, but it wouldn’t last. No sooner had I realised this, the stillness washing over me, when the phone begin to ring. I picked up the receiver slowly and placed it to my ear.

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“I need you to be me.” Six words and the whole world changed.

111 The Actor

A New Career in a New Town

London, a dirty great metropolis, where cold, glittering steel rose up between ancient stone, where past and future, squalid and spectacular, stood side by side. The knowledge capital of the world. At least, that was one of its more flattering names. There was a lot of history in this place. My history. I had started a new life four years ago and left it all behind, planning to return only when I had become the man I wanted to be. This was not how I had imagined coming home. I wasn’t the film star I had dreamed of becoming yet, but I wasn’t the man I was before either. From the second I stepped off the plane, I was not an actor anymore, I was Daniel, and this was not my homecoming, but his. As vast as it was, the city felt dark and claustrophobic compared to the empty spaces and limitless horizons of Los Angeles. I stood looking out at the maze of grey streets, at the beautiful decay. I was home.

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The meeting was three days away. The air was cleaner here and colder too. I felt the change in temperature even before I stepped off the plane, but I didn’t mind. I liked it. It made you feel alive. My body would reacclimatise in time. I had obviously become used to the Californian sun during my years in self-imposed exile. I got the express train into Liverpool Street from Heathrow and made my way underground to the Tube, navigating my way through rivers of people flowing past me in all directions. Daniel’s instructions said the nearest stations to his apartment were Angel and Old Street. The Tube’s multi-coloured, branching tributaries stretched out before me like a circulatory system. Both stations were on the Northern Line, but I needed to pick up the keys first. My phone vibrated with a message from a private number. ‘Searchys Champagne Bar, St Pancras, one hour’. The caller ID was blocked, but it had to be from Daniel’s handler. He was the only one who knew I was coming. The bar, with its panoramic view of the grand terminal and its historic vaulted ceiling, was already busy with wealthy businesspeople enjoying pre and post-Eurostar flutes of Piper-Heidsieck. I took a seat at the bar, bathed in light from one of the Art Deco lamps. My eyes scanned the faces of those around me as I pretended to read the drinks menu. I ordered a glass of Henri Giraud Homage from the exotic, dark-haired woman who was working behind the bar and waited for someone to make their move. I didn’t know much about Daniel’s handler, except for fragments of information he had told me over the years. I knew he had reported directly to them for his entire career in intelligence and that he trusted them implicitly. But I realised that didn’t mean I could. The exotic woman behind the bar returned with a phone in her hand and passed it over the counter to me.

115 Le Grand Bidou by Jef Gilson

“A call for you,” she said, in an accent which could have been Colombian. “For me?” I took the phone. “Hello?” “The keys are in your left jacket pocket. I’ll be in touch.” I reached into my pocket and there they were.

The keys to the kingdom.

London was so busy I had been forced to push my way through crowds at every turn. Thieves were commonplace, people putting valuable things into your pockets probably less so. Maybe I should have felt unsettled, scared even. Most people probably would have, but I wasn’t like everyone else. I felt thrilled, exhilarated, almost lightheaded with excitement. This was the beginning of a new adventure, a new world. It was like something out of a film. I passed the phone back to the woman behind the bar.

“How did you know it was for me?” I asked. “They asked for the most handsome man here,” she smiled.

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Daniel lived on the top floor of a stylish apartment block on Wharf Road, overlooking a canal side development. The building had a porter on the door and a reception manned by an attractive blonde in her 20s. Neither gave me any trouble. I nodded and smiled knowingly as if I owned the place. Their expressions were neutral. I wondered what level of relationship Daniel had with them, if any? Did he talk to them? Was he friendly? I was only going to be in town for a week, but I wanted to get into character and to do that I needed to learn as much about what kind of man Daniel was as I could.

We had been like brothers once, but we had not seen each other in six years. Most of my knowledge of him went back to our time at Magdalen, Oxford, where I read English Literature and he studied Aesthetics, but that was before I went to film school and he disappeared into the world of military intelligence. We had kept in touch since those days, mostly by email and the occasional phone call, always blocked numbers and anonymous messages, but my first-hand experience of his physical mannerisms, his gestures, his vocabulary and tone, was dated now. The years would have changed him. I needed to know what kind of man he was today.

117 Things Have Changed by Bob Dylan

His apartment was stunning. High ceilings, tiled floors, and spacious rooms, halogen spotlights throughout, two balconies with dual aspect views over London, a stylish kitchen with integrated appliances and stainless steel barista express coffee machine, a wet room with walk-in shower and Victorian roll top bath, the list went on and on. There was a fine layer of dust over everything, suggesting Daniel had been away for at least a couple of weeks and that no-one else had been here in that time, but otherwise it was immaculately clean. Everything was in its right place. I set down my luggage and walked from room to room, getting a feel for the layout of my new home. There were three bedrooms over two floors, an en suite master bedroom and a guest room upstairs, with a third bedroom converted into a home gym. I looked through the clothes in Daniel’s fitted wardrobe. He had always had good taste. Now he had the money to indulge it. Bespoke suits from Savile Row tailors like Henry Poole and Co, Gieves & Hawkes, and Anderson & Sheppard. Brogues by Dolce and Gabbana. Salvatore Ferragamo Fantino Oxford shoes. A TAG Heuer Carrera watch. Tom Ford aviator glasses. If anything, there was too much money here, even given his position. Questions for another day perhaps, but I wondered if it was something to do with the circles he was now mixing in. He had talked about power players who operated on a global scale. Were his designer clothes and expensive accessories part of the persona he used in their company?

We wereall actors.

Daniel’s apartment was my set, his life, my stage, his clothes and belongings, my costume, London, the big screen. I continued to explore. There was a large bookshelf in the living room with a wide and extensive selection of fiction and non-fiction. I wasn’t surprised. Daniel had always been highly intelligent and wellread. There were several books in his bedside drawer, which looked like they had been recently read, including Temptations of Power: Islamists and Illiberal Democracy in a New Middle East and The Arab Spring and The Gulf States. Not exactly page-turners, but probably required reading in his line of work. His taste in fiction was more eclectic and perhaps more revealing of his personality. Samuel Beckett. Thomas Pynchon. Charles Bukowski. James Joyce. Philip K Dick. I had owned most of the same books myself. At least that was one thing I wouldn’t have to fake.

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There were very few personal items that I could find. I wondered whether he had another home elsewhere, if this property and everything therein were for public consumption. He kept no photographs of himself, or anyone else, except for a crumbled Polaroid that he used as a bookmark. The book in question was a biography of Audie Murphy, the war hero and one of the most decorated soldiers in American military history, who became a Hollywood star after the Second World War. The Polaroid was from our days of Oxford. Strangely it was a photo I clearly remembered posing for with Daniel, but from which I now seemed to be absent. I took off my clothes, folded them carefully and put them with my bag in the bottom of the wardrobe. They belonged to my old life. I took out one of his crisp white Givenchy shirts and checked the collar size as I held it up against me. We had always been a similar height and build. If I was going to become Daniel, I had to dress like him. He had slightly smaller feet than me, but it wouldn’t be a problem. I began to try on different outfits. Nothing was a perfect fit, but some were better than others. When it came to the meeting in three days I needed to look the part. If I was going to be confident, I had to be comfortable. I stood in front of the mirror in a sleek single-breasted suit made from navy sharkskin wool. I held out my hand to greet my own reflection. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Daniel.” I deepened my voice slightly and tried again. “I’m Daniel.” Do it again, I told myself. This time I tried a softer, insouciant tone. That was more Daniel’s style. “I’m Daniel.” I smiled. I was getting better, closer to the truth. Again and again. I repeated his name, my words, over and over. I had to get it right. The success of the meeting depended on it. I stared into my own eyes. My gaze could not falter. I had to believe it before I could convince anyone else, I had to condition myself, to drill myself over and over. I had to face my reflection, until my eyes took on the gaze of the other. There was a receipt in his suit jacket pocket for a nearby coffee shop, The Shoreditch Grind. I made a mental note to visit there before the meeting. I needed to know as much about him as possible. The books he read, the films he watched, the television he recorded, the music he listened to, the food and drink he liked. This was the method.

119 The Actor

The artof becoming someone else. I walked into his kitchen. His fridge was empty. It made sense if he worked away for extended periods. His cupboards weren’t much better, with only an odd combination of foods inside. Rice. Pasta. Ramen noodles. Tins of tuna fish. Powdered milk. Honey. Peanut butter. Nothing I could make a meal from but then I realised the one thing they had in common. They all had a long shelf life. One cupboard was stacked high with foil pouches with the letters MRE printed on. I took one out and looked at the ingredients. I’d read about these. Meals Ready to Eat. They were foil packed dinners taken into war zones by the military and could last up to five years if unopened. He may have dressed like a millionaire, but he ate like a soldier. Alcohol was another matter. There was enough bourbon in Daniel’s apartment to keep a whole company of soldiers drunk for five years straight. It was the highest quality too. Wild Turkey. Maker’s Mark. Buffalo Trace. Jack Daniel’s. Jim Beam. I splashed a generous amount of Buffalo into a heavy crystal tumbler over a handful of ice cubes, the burnished gold liquid glistening and glowing as I inhaled the charcoal and vanilla notes, and stood admiring the view across the London skyline. I pressed play on the digital sound system in the living room. His music collection was as refined as his choice of books. Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Elvis Costello, Van Morrison, Bruce Springsteen, and many more. The last album he had been listening to was Low by David Bowie. I swayed around the room, the tumbler full of bourbon in my hand, the alcohol reaching my bloodstream with a pleasing amount of ease. My body felt drained after the long flight, but my head was overflowing with possibilities. I undressed, carefully returning Daniel’s clothes to where I found them, and ran a hot bath. I looked at my reflection shimmering in the water and was transfixed. I was becoming someone else. As I sank into the heat, I felt myself melt away. I had been slowly vanishing in LA, a witness to my own disintegration. Everything I was, all that I had spent four years building, had begun to fall apart. I thought about the people I had hurt and left behind, the mistakes I had made, I thought about failure, about love, about loss, and then I let go.

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Igoletof it all.

And I fell, into the blackness below, into the silence and oblivion, into the endless nothing, only to find it was more real than the world above. If you were no-one, you could be anyone. I had lived to invent, now I would invent to live. My past could be overwritten, replaced, edited like a script, like a story. Scenes could be cut. New material could be inserted. Daniel’s life, his history, would become mine. The art of becoming someone else. In the days to come, I would wear his clothes and eat his food, I would sleep in his bed, read his books, listen to his music, and walk in his footsteps, but it had to go deeper than that. His history had to become mine. I had to become him. When I emerged from the water, the transformation would be complete. Beneath the surface, the room seemed to swell and contract like a heart beating, like a womb from which I would be reborn. Ontogenesis, coming into being, a new person born into existence. A new man for a new world.

The meeting was two days away. 121 The Actor

I spent the next day rediscovering London. In the years I had spent away, my brain’s internal knowledge of the streets, their layout and interconnections had been replaced with that of LA. I had never known the entire city, I was from much further north originally, an outsider here like I was almost everywhere, but I came to know parts of it well while I was studying at film school. I revisited those old haunts, walking for hours until I felt London was inside me once more. The next stage was to take it further, not just to find the city within me, but to find Daniel’s London. I had to walk in his footsteps. From the South Bank to Covent Garden, Soho to Sloane Square, I had to project a world, invent a history, create what I didn’t know. Eventually, I returned to Old Street and decided to go for a coffee before returning to the apartment. The vintage, cinema-style sign above the entrance to The Shoreditch Grind promised sex, coffee and rock n roll. It was a fashionable coffee shop by day and a neon-lit cocktail bar by night. It may have been small and busy, with seats hard to come by, but with its whitewashed brick walls and 1950s vibe, it was effortlessly cool, and I liked its style immediately. After ordering a flat white, I sat in the window on a leather stool overlooking the busy junction known as the Silicon roundabout. Someone had written something on the napkin beneath my drink. ‘Beware the many dark actors playing games’. It was a line I had heard before, but I couldn’t place where in that moment. I smiled grimly as I finished my drink. Raindrops ran down the window like tears, the world beyond the glass a swirling haze of grey mist, concealing a city of innumerable spectres and phantoms.

The Actor 122

I waited until it had cleared before walking back along the canal, the water a murky green, the sky above like wet concrete, the air filled with electricity. The rain was just the beginning. A real storm was coming. When I returned to the apartment, there was a white envelope waiting for me inside, carefully placed on the tiled floor where I couldn’t miss it. ‘Daniel’ was handwritten on the front. I opened it and laid the contents out on the kitchen counter. It contained details of where the meeting was taking place and directions how to get there. There was also various forms of photographic ID, all bearing Daniel’s name, but with my image. Even a passport. They were perfect forgeries. When I saw the address of the venue I realised which ID I would need. I examined the pass identifying me as a senior officer for the Office for Security and Counter Terrorism. They were sending me to Whitehall. I poured myself a tumbler of Maker’s Mark over ice and fell asleep watching a late night showing of Billy Wilder’s classic Sunset Boulevard on BBC One. That night, I dreamt of friends past and present, from all of my different lives. Their eyes were filled with sadness, like mourners at a funeral. I excused myself from their company and found myself alone in front of a cracked mirror, a shard of glass in my hand. My face was bloody, the skin peeling away to reveal someone else underneath.

Dawn.

I woke to the sound of the intercom buzzing aggressively. It was 4.11am. The listless, early morning light drained the colour from everything. I rubbed my eyes, stretched and yawned. The intercom buzzed again. I was trying to move quickly, but my body felt as heavy and uncooperative as a corpse. I stumbled into the entrance hall, the intercom buzzing a third time, before I was able to press the button to answer.

“Hello?” “Daniel?” A woman’s voice, filled with fear. “Yes.” There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing. “I didn’t recognise your voice there for a second,” she said eventually, her voice shaky. “It’s me,” I replied, altering my tone subtly, the way I had practiced. “Thank god,” she said, her relief palpable. “They’ll kill me if they find out I’m talking to you, but I had to warn you. Don’t go to the meeting tomorrow. They’re going to - .” The intercom cut out. I pressed the button again. “Hello?”

123 The Actor

Nothing. No answer. I ran out to the balcony and looked down over the edge. There was a car speeding away along Wharf Road, past the canal, too fast for me to see who was inside. I stood looking out at the London skyline, at the pale blue clouds infused with the warm, incandescent glow of a new day.

Everything was uncertain. Everything was possible. I wondered who the woman had been and what she was trying to warn Daniel about. Someone had plans for him and they didn’t sound good. Of course, any plans for him, were now plans for me, and I had no way of discovering what they were. Despite everything, I was not worried, because I knew something they didn’t. They may have had plans for Daniel, but he was not going to be at the meeting. I was. They could prepare for him, but not for me. They didn’t know what I was capable of because I didn’t know myself. In that moment, facing the dawn, all I knew for certain was that I did not feel fear, only defiance. I stood, on the brink of hell, looking out into the abyss, and I saw a new world filled with opportunity, I saw myself looking back from the infinite blackness and in my own gaze I saw the future.

The Actor 124

I more was dangerous than they could imagine.

The meeting was one day away. 125â&#x20AC;&#x192; I Appear Missing by Queens of the Stone Age

The Age of Information

“We live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning.” Jean Baudrillard A secret is a living thing inside the mind. Hard to bury and impossible to forget. The actor told me his and disappeared, leaving me to face the consequences. His secrets would haunt me forever if I didn’t act. I was a writer. Stories were my power. Words would be my salvation. He had opened my eyes and now I couldn’t close them. Now I could see the truth and it was everywhere. They were everywhere. They were always watching, always listening. They cleaned the streets and drove the buses, they served your food, they policed the streets, they dictated national policy and global change, they controlled the satellites, they led us into war.

The Narrator 128

They were everywhere and they were watching me.

129â&#x20AC;&#x192; We Exist by Arcade Fire

They had eyes on every corner, in every house. They were looking back at you when you watched television, they were listening while you were on the phone. They knew where you were at all times, what websites you visited, what news stories you read, what products you liked to buy, what turned you on. They had photos of your children. They knew where you would be tomorrow. They read your messages and emails. They killed people based on metadata, on probabilities, on numbers, on keywords. They levelled cities at the touch of a button. Now I was in their sights. The actor had delivered a destructive, annihilating truth into my hands before he disappeared. If I didn’t face it, I knew it would destroy me. The story had to be told. I just didn’t know how at first. It took me some time to understand, to learn my lessons. It was a fatal curve. They controlled the information, they used it against us, and I had something they wanted. A secret. The secret. I called a friend at The Guardian for help. He heard the desperation in my voice and told me to wait for him at Seven Dials. I was anxious as I hovered under the sundial. I began pacing. I felt the seven streets converging on me, marking me out. Exposing me. I lost my nerve and decided to walk around the block. I made for the cool shadows cast by the trees on Shaftesbury Avenue. I hadn't been there long when I saw my friend up ahead. As he crossed the road towards me I caught his eye. In the time it took for him to raise his hand and wave, he was struck by a bus. The force of the impact was such that he vanished before my eyes.

His blood atomised, spraying my face like a sea fret. The Narrator 130

I knew then that I couldn't share the story with anyone else. At least, not in the way I had hoped. I had to write over the actor’s words with my own. I had to create a palimpsest, not to erase and destroy his story, but to give it a new form. Until it was ready, I had to act as if nothing was wrong. I had to pretend as if I didn’t notice them watching me, standing in groups, talking without speaking, their expressions cold, unmoving. I had seen their true faces. Skinless, red and glistening, rows of razor teeth whirling, eyes as black as oil. They were creating a new way of life, a new age. They were changing who we were, replacing us with more like them, erasing everything we had been, eradicating our humanity, our freedom of consciousness, even as abstract concepts. And the most terrifying thing of all was they were not monsters or demons, they were human. I prized open my smartphone and took it to pieces, destroying the SIM and SD cards. I disconnected my computer, my digital boxes, my broadband hub. I sat in the dark and thought about what I was going to do next, about the actor’s words. I started to write the story by hand. I gathered photographs, illustrations, and artwork. I began to create the book you hold in your hands right now. Time was running out. Not just for me, but for the world, for you, for everyone. The clock was ticking and the hour was late. We were one minute from midnight.

131 Beware of Darkness by George Harrison

Epilogue

Part one is concluded. But my novel will continue. Follow The Bleed. There is much more to come.

Take my advice.

Just keep telling yourself â&#x20AC;Ś

The Narratorâ&#x20AC;&#x192; 134

This is ction. 135 Mystery Dance by Elvis Costello

Writer Daniel Thomson Design Jonny Speak Photography Helen Taylor Art Tom Boyle 51, 53, 55 Abi Buchan 39, 73 Helen Gorrill 68 La Donna Rose 88 La Parisienne 90 Rose Karen Lusted 43, 65 Meaghan Ralph 29, 66, 84 Jonny Speak 21, 60-1, 76-7, 99, 114, 117, 129, 130-1 Helen Taylor 08, 11, 14, 16, 23, 31, 59, 78, 91, 93, 102, 111, 122, 125 Title Pages Jonny Speak Cover Jonny Speak Editor Daniel Thomson

Additional thanks to Helen Taylor, Dean Forbes, Andrew Mitchell, Trevor Pill and Vicky Blacklock. The Bleed was created by Daniel Thomson.

thebleedmag.tumblr.com twitter: @thebleedmag contact: thebleedmag@gmail.com

To the memory of Stuart Clark.