Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon
Two Spirits Dancing The Murder of John Lennon
By
D.W. Pryke
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CONTENTS
Foreword
Special supplement – The Countdown to Murder
Prologue to an act of murder
Two Spirits Dancing – The Murder of John Lennon
New York, Saturday 6th December 1980
Liverpool, November 1947
New York, Friday December 5th 1980
Los Angeles, July 1974
Honolulu, June 1977
New York, Monday November 10th 1980
New York, Saturday December 6th 1980
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Foreword.
For millions of people around the world, the death of John Lennon was one of the most shocking events of the last century, as high profile a murder as the assassination of J F Kennedy, and as incomprehensible an act as anyone could recall.
The killer was arrested within minutes of the shooting: in fact he made no attempt whatsoever to avoid capture, for he sat down on the sidewalk, took out a book, and calmly began to read.
Beforehand, he had set up a ritual arrangement of artefacts in his hotel room, knowing that the police would find them, exactly as he had left them. These items, photos, a music tape, documents, were perhaps meant to tell the world about his life, and tell the world that his life was over.
The murder of John Lennon was perhaps the surrogate suicide of Mark David Chapman.
Or, put another way, because he identified with the victim so strongly, in killing John Lennon, Mark David Chapman was symbolically killing himself.
So goes one theory.
But the full facts have never been revealed.
There was no trial; never a time when all of the facts were placed before the world’s media for scrutiny.
Conflicting psychological profiles of Mark Chapman emerged.
And there was no funeral.
Yoko had the body cremated, apparently against John’s wishes, and what became of the ashes remains unknown.
So people were denied the chance to grieve for their hero: they felt starved of information, and cheated of a proper farewell.
And so we have a number of other theories as to what happened and why: a number of alternate ideas have rushed in and multiplied to fill the vacuum.
Some believe Yoko had a hand in the murder of her husband. That she had conveniently given John’s bodyguard and security advisor leave of absence, despite his insistence that security be
Two Spirits Dancing page 3 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon increased. That she was having an affair with another man, and wanted John out of her life, and she had hired Mark Chapman, perhaps with CIA collusion, to kill him.
Some believe the US Government agencies, the FBI and the CIA saw John Lennon as a political threat, likely to arouse left wing activists in an anti-Carter campaign, and they therefore used Mark Chapman as a kind of “Manchurian Candidate” to kill the rock star.
Indeed, there are serious anomalies in the Mark Chapman story; serious questions that have never been answered, and we don’t have all the data about his exact movements. And again, where there are gaps in our information, different hypotheses fill the vacuum.
Some believe there was at least one other Mark Chapman on the New York streets that night: that the others were deliberately planted to act as decoys, to confuse the overall picture as to Mark Chapman’s movements.
Some believe John Lennon did not die.
Some believe that only days before, when he and Yoko had provided the New York police Department with a gift of bullet-proof vests, they had each kept a vest for themselves, and they were each wearing one of the vests that evening. The whole thing was an elaborate hoax to allow John Lennon to drop from public scrutiny.
Some believe John Lennon had been courting the idea of his own death for a long while. During the last year of his life, he had been having disturbing dreams of violent death, had had premonitions of his shooting, and was fascinated by the occult, by the idea of death and the afterlife. Some believe that he somehow secretly and subconsciously inspired his own death.
This book does not explore these different theories. After years of careful and meticulous research, I have pieced together what I think is a definitive account of what happened on December 8th 1980, and why.
I accept that Mark Chapman was a paranoid schizophrenic: disturbed, unstable but ever so convincingly normal to those who met him.
He was struggling to preserve his own tortured identity, but he was also planning to kill another.
Or perhaps, more accurately, it should be stated that he was planning to kill another in order to preserve his own identity. I believe the two halves of that statement cannot be separated.
Understanding that is the key to understanding the murder.
This book explores the strange and tortured logic system that paranoid schizophrenics construct around themselves to justify their actions beyond any possible doubt. They build a meticulous and watertight fortress of ideas behind which they feel safe; they leave nothing to chance, and cement every last detail into place. They convince themselves that they are tuned to a special wavelength, so they hear and see and feel all around themselves images and signals and signs that only they can perceive and understand. Often they believe they have been chosen for a special act, a special mission to save the world.
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For Mark Chapman, every thing around him could take on a special significance; every word of every song could be speaking to him, and only him; images on television could be beamed at him; the text of a book could be written especially for him; a painting could be sending him a secret, coded message.
Mark Chapman saw signs and signals and synchronicities at every turn - he heard the signs in the lyrics he listened to, saw signals in the album covers, and on television, in the paintings he collected, and in the books he read.
But that didn’t make him a murderer.
There is another side to this equation – John Lennon.
This book proposes that Mark David Chapman and John Ono Lennon were slowly but surely coming together over a period of several years.
Fate, destiny, synchronicity or strange twists of coincidence were drawing them together,
Mark Chapman began to target John Lennon in 1979.
John Lennon had been incorporating images of death in his songs throughout his career.
**
This book explores the idea that there is a Fate or Destiny, or call it what you will, a force that somehow gives shape and form to existence.
It also explores that age-old adage that artistic, creative genius and madness are very close kin. John Lennon is on record as saying “I had a feeling I was either a genius or a madman. Now I know I wasn’t a madman, so I must have been a genius.”
And one point at which the madman and the genius can be said to overlap, is in their hyper- sensitivity to the force we call Fate or Destiny. Their sub-conscious, their souls, are in tune to this something beyond.
This book proposes that on some strange and intangible subconscious level, John Lennon was indeed moving inexorably towards his own death. His lyrics, his album designs, his troubled dreams all reveal clues.
At the same time, Mark Chapman, in his confused and troubled state of paranoid schizophrenia, had undergone a kind of three-way split, because he identified himself with both John Lennon and the fictional Holden Caulfield.
The premise is this:
Mark Chapman saw himself as the Holden Caulfield of his generation, destined to save the little children from harm: but then John Lennon, on his “Double Fantasy” album, was singing new songs
Two Spirits Dancing page 5 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon claiming that he could send away the monsters and protect the children from harm. To Chapman, this sounded like John Lennon was claiming to be the new Holden Caulfield.
But if Mark Chapman was Holden Caulfield, John Lennon couldn’t be Holden Caulfield too.
And if Mark Chapman was John Lennon, then he couldn’t be Holden Caulfield, too.
The problem was John Lennon.
Take John Lennon out of the equation, and Mark could fulfil his destiny and be Holden Caulfield.
But taking John Lennon out of the equation would take a part of Mark Chapman out too, and that was dangerous. For Mark Chapman, it would be like killing a part of himself.
Holden Caulfield would be safe, but Mark Chapman or John Lennon would be harmed.
Killing John Lennon would be the suicide of part of Mark Chapman.
But if that could be done, then the Holden Caulfield part could live.
Such is the tortured logic of paranoid schizophrenia.
John Lennon and Mark Chapman were the two spirits dancing so strange that John sings about in #9 Dream; Mark Chapman is the angel of destruction John Lennon sings about in “Help Me To Help Myself”, one of his final lyrics.
#9 Dream
So long ago Was it in a dream, was it just a dream? I know, yes I know Seemed so very real, it seemed so real to me Took a walk down the street Thru the heat whispered trees I thought I could hear (hear, hear, hear) Somebody call out my name, as it started to rain Two spirits dancing so strange Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Dream, dream away Magic in the air, was magic in the air? I believe, yes I believe More I cannot say, what more can I say? On a river of sound Thru the mirror go round, round I thought I could feel (feel, feel, feel) Music touching my soul, something warm, sudden cold The spirit dance was unfolding
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Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé
"Help Me To Help Myself", recorded just before his murder, brings to the surface John Lennon's feeling that an "angel of destruction" was closing in on him.
There is also the suggestion that he is aware that there is this twin persona, there is the “me” and the “myself”…
He sings, "Well I try so hard to stay alive But the angel of destruction keeps on hounding me all around, But I know, in my heart That we never really parted....."
**
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Special supplement – The Countdown to Murder
Two spirits dancing so strange.
Mark Chapman is born in Fort Worth, Texas, on 10th May 1955
**
In 1969, Mark Chapman joins the YMCA South De Kalb branch. He is described as a “happy, well-adjusted boy.”
But he is 14 and already showing signs of rebelling at home and at school.
He experiments with drugs: first marijuana and then LSD. He gets the reputation as a “garbage- head”, someone who will take anything to get a high.
At this time, he runs away from home twice. He watches the Disney film “Toby Tyler” and emulates the main character by running away from home to join a circus.
**
In 1971, Mark Chapman discovers Jesus. He goes to an evangelist meetings led by the Reverend Arthur Blessed from California. Mark is overwhelmed. Friends notice a sudden and dramatic change in Mark.
**
By 1973, when he is 18, Mark’s idol is Todd Rundgren. He listens to the albums constantly, learning the words by heart, and singing the backing tracks too.
His friends recall Mark as having an easy, relaxed manner with the girls. He is definitely not the classic loner of mis-conception.
In May 1973, Mark leaves home. He and a friend travel to Chicago, with the aim of playing in the clubs and making his fame and fortune as a comedian and songster.
But, the dream dissolved quickly and Mark returned a changed and disillusioned young man.
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He applied for a job with the YMCA, working with children, and was accepted.
He is remembered as a charming young man, great with kids, and a great story-teller. The kids love him and call him Captain Nemo, from Jules Vernes’ “Twenty Thousand Leagues Beneath The Sea.”
**
In 1974, Mark is doing so well he is made Assistant Director of the summer camp, because he has shown considerable leadership qualities.
But…this bubble soon bursts, and Mark is back to square one.
**
In 1975, the YMCA launch a new ICCP/Abroad programme (International Camp Counsellor Programme) “to further international peace and understanding through person to person contacts in peace camps.” Mark applies in February and is accepted on the programme.
His first choice venue is to be sent to the Soviet Union, and he enrols in a Russian language course in March at Georgia State University.
But, in mid June, Mark is sent to Beirut in the Lebanon. The highly volatile situation in Beirut explodes into violence only a few days after Mark’s arrival, and he has to be evacuated back to the United States for his own safety.
Back in the States, Mark falls back on the YMCA for his next job, working in the camp at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas, which was a resettlement camp for Vietnamese refugees fleeing Saigon.
Again, briefly, Mark was in his element. But by December 1975, the number of refugees awaiting resettlement was so low that the Fort Chaffee camp was being run down.
Mark returns to Atlanta.
**
In January 1976, Mark enrols at Covenant College, a strict Presbyterian establishment in Tennessee.
Mark lasts just one semester.
By the summer of 1976, Mark is again looking for a job, and finds employment as an armed security guard. Friends notice a profound change coming over Mark.
**
Suddenly, in January 1977, Mark flies off to Hawaii.
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He spends the first few months of the year enjoying a kind of extended holiday, but as his money began to run out, he grew increasingly depressed and suicidal.
By the summer, he has checked in to a private Hospital in Honolulu, and is receiving counselling for his suicidal feelings.
He drives out to the north of the island, puts a Todd Rundgren tape in the car, hooks a hose-pipe up to the exhaust and sits back to die, listening to Todd’s “The Last Ride”. But the hose-pipe is burnt through on the exhaust, and the suicide attempt comes to nothing. It leaves Mark angry with himself that he couldn’t even kill himself.
He is then accepted as an outpatient at The Castle Memorial Hospital in Kailua. He is diagnosed with a severe depressive neurosis, but, strangely, he is released after only two weeks.
He stays at The Castle, though, getting a job as a maintenance worker, during the months of August to November.
In December 1977, his parents visit the island. They are on the verge of divorce, but put on a happy face for Mark. He shows them round the island and again enjoys a kind of extended holiday.
**
By summer of 1978, Mark has plans for another dramatic change: he intends to make a journey around the world. In July, Mark negotiates a loan from the Castle Hospital’s credit union, and with the money he buys a ticket that will take him on a seven week tour to Seoul, Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, Delhi, Israel, Geneva, London, Paris, Dublin, Atlanta and back to Honolulu.
Mark stays in YMCA hostels whenever he can.
The travel agent who had helped him make all the arrangement for this trip of a lifetime, is Gloria Abe, a half Japanese Yoko Ono look-alike, a demur and attractive young woman.
**
In January 1979, Mark proposes to Gloria.
They are married in June 1979, at the United Methodist Church in Kailua.
In August, under Mark’s persuasion, Gloria changes jobs from Waters World Travel to the accounts department at The Castle Hospital.
Mark and Gloria move back to Honolulu, even though it was inconvenient for them both and meant a long commute to work, and they rent an expensive apartment.
In September 1979, Mark has a new passion – collecting works of art.
The increasing strain of making his marriage work, the rising debts because of his buying expensive paintings, and the lack of promotion at the apartment block where he works as a security guard, all contribute to Mark Chapman's problems in 1979.
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By the end of the year, he has rowed with his employers and fallen out with his parents-in-law. More than ever, he feels trapped and alienated - more than ever he is not sure who he is or where he is going in life. Except, he feels he is on edge, waiting for a final signal that must surely come his way.
**
The Final Year.
By the end of 1979, John Lennon is thinking of getting back into the studio and recording again. Next Autumn, he will have finished the self-imposed five year period of looking after his son Sean.
**
In February 1980, Todd Rundgren releases "Adventures in Utopia", an album that has an inner cover design like television test cards, and an opening track that is a high-pitched signal. Mark Chapman is excited - is this what he has been waiting for? He listens to it over and over again, and decides the message is a "Wait and see", a call for him to adjust the fine tuning and just be patient.
By July 1980, Mark Chapman has real problems at work - there have been a spate of break-ins and he feels the others are blaming him for being sloppy and inefficient. In one apartment, the mirror has been scratched with obscenities and the family moving in are upset - especially the children. Mark feels he has let down the children, he has not been able to protect them from the evils of this world.
He is reminded of the scene in "The Catcher in the Rye" when Holden regrets not being able to protect his sister from the offensive graffiti. Mark buys a copy of the book and begins reading it.
Walking home one day from work, Mark feels faint and nauseous at the kerbside - again, he is reminded of the scene in the "Catcher" where Holden feels he is fading into nothingness.
John Lennon sails to Bermuda for a holiday. There, he works on the lyrics and arrangements for a number of songs planned for the new album. He visits a botanical garden and sees a beautiful flower called "Double Fantasy" and thinks that would be a wonderful title for the album - it is to be a joint venture with Yoko, and the songs will outline the loving relationship between the two of them.
By September 1980, Mark Chapman is alarmed at his own mental instability. He paints a picture of a sunset over Diamond Mountain and signs it "The Catcher in the Rye, Mark". He now identifies strongly with the hero of "The Catcher in the Rye" and tells his wife that he wants to change his name to Holden Caulfield.
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In October, John Lennon and Yoko Ono appear on television to promote their forthcoming new album. They describe it as a "Heart Play", a dialogue of love between the two of them. Mark Chapman watches with a cold detachment.
Amid the growing media interest in the new Lennon album, in October 1980 Esquire magazine features an article titled "John Lennon, Where Are You?", describing the rock superstar as a virtual recluse, frightened to leave his multi-million dollar apartment. It highlights the discrepancy between the so-called 'Working Class hero' and the multi- millionaire.
Mark Chapman reads the article with growing anger.
Chapman watches a television adaptation of "Paul's Case" by Willa Cather. It is the tale of a young man for whom the real world is mundane and dead, but the world of the theatre is alive and attractive. He steals money and runs away to New York to live in luxury at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, and when the law catches up with him, he commits suicide.
Mark Chapman is inspired by the tale: he plans a trip to New York, and books a room at the Waldorf-Astoria. Not for the first time, Chapman has identified with a fictional character (at the age of 15 he ran away from home to join the circus, after watching the Disney film "Toby Tyler") He intends to re-enact the role of Paul, and go to New York - but also, he has identified with Holden Caulfield, who drifts around New York after being expelled from his High school. Mark Chapman is reading "The Catcher in the Rye" constantly, and he has insisted his wife reads it too - she tells him he reminds her of Holden.
In response to the Esquire article, Mark Chapman researches John Lennon's life. From the Library, he takes Anthony Fawcett's "John Lennon: One Day At a Time". The book shows Lennon in his apartment, and Lennon and Yoko as dark figures in the sky over New York: Chapman is convinced that Lennon is an impostor and phoney. He is so angered by the image of Lennon that he openly talks of killing the rock star.
John and Yoko release (Just Like) Starting Over as a single. The song starts with a chiming bell to signify a new beginning, one of hope and contentment. It brings Lennon's ten year cycle to a close and points the way to a new beginning.
Mark Chapman signs out from his job as "John Lennon" then crosses out the name. He hears the new Lennon single, hears the delicate chiming bell - this is the signal he has been waiting for.
On 29th October 1980, Mark Chapman flies to New York. He stays in the Waldorf-Astoria, and he walks to the Dakota Building. But, although he waits, he does not see John Lennon. With the gun in his pocket seemingly weighing more and more, he goes to the top of the Empire State building, takes out the gun and tries to kill himself. But he cannot do it, and he breaks down in tears. He knows there is a wicked little child inside himself, battling with the adult Mark, and the child is insisting he do something evil.
He flies back to Hawaii on 13th November.
On 17th November, "Double Fantasy" is released.
Mark Chapman listens in wonder at the lyrics. Not only is there the chiming bell, there is reference to "watching the wheels" of the Carousel (from the final scenes of "Catcher in the Rye") and songs
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Chapman is now watching television constantly, waiting for the next signal. And it comes on 20th November, when he sees the text "Thou Shalt Not Kill" scrolling across the screen. Mark goes back to the Bible, reading both the Gospel of Saint John and Saint Mark. He feels the conflict in himself is reflected in the Bible texts, and he makes an appointment for counselling at the Makiki Clinic for the 26th November.
On 22nd November, Todd Rundgren releases "Deface The Music", a clear parody of the Beatles early music. Even the cover is a send-up of the "With The Beatles" cover.
Mark Chapman sees it as a signal to 'deface' the music: a signal to kill John Lennon. He flies to New York again on the 7th December, stays in a YMCA hotel that reminds him of the Edmont in "The Catcher in the Rye". In the next 24 hours, Mark Chapman becomes aware of other important signs and signals, all telling him that he is the "Catcher" for his generation, and not Lennon. Lennon is a phoney "Catcher", and there can only be one. For Mark Chapman, these amazing synchronicities, when history and time come together, mean that the phoney "Catcher" must die.
**
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Prologue to an act of murder.
“I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together”
Sometimes he was aware of himself sort of slipping away; of another figure taking his place. Sometimes it was a sense of someone else there; a figure just faintly glimpsed at the very edge of his field of vision. Sometimes there was a distinct chill of danger at the back of his neck, and the hairs lifted with the feeling that the shadows held a threat, that their darkness hid another.
He felt this wonderland he lived in was a world where everything was double: there were two of him all the time, and perhaps there always had been.
He was the little boy lost; the poor little tough nut nobody could crack. Exposed and so vulnerable, and yet so cruel and cold, he was the one who saw and felt too much; who closed himself down so he would feel nothing at all, who would hurt first, before anyone could hurt him.
He was the nowhere man who had been everywhere and done everything, the cardboard cut-out in its fake monkey-suit, in which he had taken up so many false poses, and underneath, the hard black leather rocker scorning, standing in the doorway watching it all passing by. There was the strident scream of his voice, like a thin wire in his throat, harsh and tight as a banjo string, and the tender love songs he could sing to cover his loneliness.
He was always the child in the man; the man he had to be in his child-hood – and so he knew all about that hood, hiding and hidden, the little child cowered beneath the covers, letting no-one see under the cowl. Child hood and man hood.
Making words his hood and ducking below them; puns and double meanings; one for you and one for everyone else; one for the truth and one to deceive the rest.
There were ever the two angels at his ear: creative and destructive. The spirit of genius, what artists called their muse, had made him its friend, and yet he was cursed for it. At times, it was an angel of destruction hounding him. Haunting him. But it brought him words and music from the other side of his dreams, from across the universe, just for him.
But these shadowy double-walkers can be mischievous and malicious, he knew.
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The crowds of photographers taking their millions of photos of him, taking, taking, taking. As if each flash had shed a pixel of white light over him, that instant when he was bleached and blanched, and something taken from him; as if each photo, in that split second flash, was trying to make a negative of him, take the light from him, rather than add the light to him. Those flashes of light, like billions of droplets of white, covering him in a flash, and he was disappearing beneath them, fading from sight, losing himself, ever so slowly.
Here he was at double fantasy now: everything doubling up as something else, and he could look back on the five years of black leather rock in the brothel clubs of Hamburg, the five years of puppet-suited mop-top yeah yeah yeah, the five years of hippy acid and heroin searching for himself, and five years of running away, five years of staying home.
Here he was, a father of forty years, watching over his son of five, hoping he would grow to know him for who he was, who he really was. Except that his son didn’t know he could be anyone he wanted, because that was what he had earned after all those years in wonderland nightmares, all those years of being known the world over: not the millions, not the fame, but the right to be anyone or no-one. After years of being everyone’s john, and for all the world a star, now and for all time – he could be who he pleased.
And he could do anything too. He could buy anything he wanted, go anywhere he pleased, do anything he wished. Except be himself, except be the one person he should be, the one person he wanted to be. And so he had earned himself the right to be anyone and no-one, because they had taken him from himself. They owed him – but they thought they owned him, too.
The dreams were getting worse; or maybe they were getting better.
The screen shrank in an instant to a tiny white dot; there was an audible crack as the light snapped into darkness and the darkness collapsed into a white hole. And he was trapped in that particle of empty space, or that empty space was inside his head, he wasn’t sure which.
Then he was the hole in the centre of the record and the universe was flat all around him, and he was the pole, and the stars turned on him, weeping.
He saw a lead bullet spiralling through the body, which yielded and parted to receive the slug, the cells vaporised at the point, the shock waves spreading like water from the prow of a boat, and in its wake, shattered flesh and bone.
Stu was in the last one, grinning like a madman in the back of a taxi, swaying through some dark streets, black with rain and red with reflected light.
And then it was another car, in another city, and there was pain and the whole thing was fading, and he wanted to hold on to it, but it was going, slipping from him. And he could smell the vinyl or leather of the seats. Music strained through the night that was closing on him.
He would do it: this time he would do it. Do it. Do it.
He wasn’t Toby Tyler now, nor Captain Nemo, and this time the stage wasn’t some pokey basement dive in Chicago, or the camp stage at Fort Chaffee. This was Big Time. This was the hour he had waited for, the moment, the now.
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He was the catcher for his generation, the chosen one. Picked out as special and given a mission. The rest had been preparation, all of it, the children in the camps chanting his name and laughing in his tracks, like the young children of Hamlin, they would follow him into the mountain and beyond.
He was Holden and his time had come.
He spread out his arms as wide as they could go to catch the screaming children running through his imagination, hurtling without a care towards the precipice, like lemmings. But he could stop them, and would do too, save them all, and only he could do it.
This was his big moment, a moment of truth and destiny and synchronicity.
It was all coming together like a well-rehearsed play, beautifully scripted, and he was lucky enough to have the star role. He knew his lines off pat, knew what he had to do and he had all his props sorted out. He was just waiting for his cue.
He smiled. It was all acting a part. Life was all lies and charades, playing one part or another. You played lots of parts, auditioned for lots of roles, had to play out some terrible scenes and speak ugly lines, but it was all the same in the end, all a kind of carnival or circus or show. Everyone playing a part that isn’t really them.
Except, he knew none of us are really what we play, and what we play is never who we really are. That’s the point: that’s the irony, and that’s what gives life its drama.
But, he also knew we all have a part to play, lines to say, gestures to give, entrances to make, exits to take, and some of them are true to who we are, and many are not.
But that was why he was here now: he knew someone else was playing his part, and he knew it was his part, that he was meant to take this role.
This other had stolen his star role and he had come to claim it back.
He was born to it, had lived for it, and now he was being robbed of the chance to fulfil his destiny.
He had been aware of it for a while now, though at first he was kind of fixed in fear, struck dumb by the fact. He was afraid of this other taking his place and he not being able to do a thing about it, afraid of the very similarity and sameness he saw, at the equality and identity of the details, and afraid that this was really a superiority on the part of the other, and an inferiority on the part of himself. He was afraid he would lose, and lose himself.
Then, as he thought and thought it through, it looked and felt like bitter rivalry, tinged with a sense of anger and outrage, but there was respect too. And jealousy and admiration, in equal portions. He was playing his part, and he had to play opposite this other him. In the end, there would be just the two of them, face to face, eye to eye, he knew.
And in the middle of it all, amidst all the doubts and searching, there was a knowledge, although that was too definite a word, and it was, in reality, all confused and blurred and imprecise, coming to him as it did in strange messages and signs, that he too was taking his cue to perform not himself, but a perfect imitation of himself; in confronting this other, he was going to have to step
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But this was his destiny: that was clear as crystal.
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Two Spirits Dancing – The Murder of John Lennon
New York, Saturday 6th December 1980
He arrived late Saturday morning, having flown in from Honolulu via Chicago, on a United Airlines flight, and from the airport, he took a cab to the YMCA closest to the Dakota, the West Side. In the back seat, he withdrew into a brooding silence, as if gathering himself for a final effort, pulling his thick winter coat tighter and staring blankly out the window. A faint reflected image of his face stared back. This was a part of the journey he had not really planned; he didn’t even think about it till the driver asked him where to: but he always seemed to use the Y, wherever he was, and it just came as kind of natural for him, having done so much for the organisation in the past. He was tired from the travelling, and cold from the change in climate, and detached in a way that made this short taxi ride take forever. But when he arrived, and struggled up the stairs with his holdall and an old army bag, and got to his room, he was disappointed at the cheap, sad furniture and the general air of shabby neglect. Still, he told himself, he was in New York, the big Apple, and despite his weariness, he could feel the thrill of being back in this city where he knew his destiny lie.
He dumped his bags in the room, showing distaste at the stale smell that met him and then, on a sudden impulse, almost immediately went out, walking the few blocks to West 72nd Street and the Dakota building. When he stood there, on the edge of Central Park and just across the road from the apartment block, he saw an ugly, sandy-grey mass of Gothic whimsy, with ornate cornices, decorated stone mullions, and gargoyles staring from the guttering, all looking like some fantastic film set, but totally unreal and unconvincing: so much so, Mark thought, it looked flat and two- dimensional, despite the squat oversized spread of the place. It was like Frankenstein’s castle in cartoon form, like the Addams’ family house projected on screen.
Mark craned his neck upwards to the windows on the third floor, trying to see a sign of life, a movement, something, but every pane was blank, blinded and shut, the whole building giving off a foreboding, forbidding air.
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Against the winter grey of the park’s bare trees, it rose awkward and ungainly, a part of the old world, blackened with generations of grime, its windows blinded and seemingly oblivious of the city, the people and the park. The block, in this weak December light, seemed unbalanced, as if it might topple down upon the unsuspecting shoppers below, and yet it had a perfect symmetry. Perhaps, standing as it did at the fringe of this forest of a park, it was just out of proportion or out of place.
When built in 1884, the block was so far out of town it was a joke. New Yorkers thought it so distant, so remote, they gave it the ironic title it held today. But places grow and change and places shift their point of focus. New York had grown and spread and the city had crept ever outward. Now the Dakota stood at the centre of things, and still looked as though it belonged elsewhere.
From the street, the apartment block rose in massive stone blocks, but it was made to look like carved and chiselled wood. It was incongruous in New York City, an outcrop of old Europe, transposed to the new world, a Medieval Cathedral or castle standing in its grounds.
Mark stood a long while taking in this scene, almost spellbound. It was something he had thought about and imagined so often, and anticipated so much, and now he was here and the building in front of him. But there was something wrong, something slightly out of perspective in all this: it was more like another of his dreams, a kind of detailed and vivid imagining. He also had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, of having stood there, at that spot, some time before in his life, but he had no clear memory when. He tried hard to get a fix on it, like trying to trawl up a faint and distant fragment, an impression, but every time he got any where near it, it slipped away.
He crossed the road, and realised there was a small group of people gathered on the corner, surprised in a way, that Lennon was able to draw others, and not just himself, to this very spot.
*
At a window on the third floor, stood a lonely figure.
The security glass, bullet-proof, blast-proof, shut out the sounds of the city below, shut out the bustle, shut out the energy.
Inside apartment 72 was undisturbed silence, and the man at the window seemed out of place. His body was leaning at the wrong angle, almost slumped, with his forehead pressed uncomfortably against the glass, hardly breathing.
The late afternoon light, filtered by the heavy white silk blinds, gave a smokiness to the rooms, as if everything was being seen through barely opened eyes. The apartment was both lavish and luxurious; in all respects a dream realised, a dream of wealth beyond desire, a dream of possessions seized and held. It was a fairy grotto of gold and jewels, jealously and obsessively guarded. White silk and gold leaf; antique and kitsch; Old Masters and avant-garde. Everything around him was testimony to the unbelievable success he had enjoyed and an acquisitive passion he indulged. This
Two Spirits Dancing page 19 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon was one of the most famous men in the world: his voice might be heard singing on countless airwaves bounced around the globe. One of the richest men too. The apartment was a multi-million dollar cocoon for John Winston Ono Lennon.
It was also a twilight realm. This late afternoon, the wintry shadows were beginning to gather in the stillness.
Lennon was tired. For the past month he had worked in a kind of creative frenzy. He was getting back and starting over. The dry, sterile period of self-imposed retirement was over. The autumn’s Bermuda holiday had fused several things in his mind and been the spur to get back into The Hit Factory. He knew he was ready, but he had not known that he would pour out nearly twice the number of songs he needed for an album. The dam had been breached: the music flowed again.
He was drained, though. He had spent almost a quarter of his life in various studios all over the world, and done it all, and sometimes had to do it all again and again, but these last few weeks had been different. The energy he felt had been almost a burn, and it had caught him unprepared: he had not felt that spark for years. He had thought he might never feel it again: that was one of the reasons for five years of nothing. Five years of self doubt: five years of living on his past. But he was determined to break the spell and find that creativity once more. The songs had come in the night, often waking him with their insistence, their need to be scribbled down, or else they would be gone forever. Taunting him, sometimes. That was how it had been at the height of his powers, and he was surprised that getting started again had been so easy.
And the world was listening once more. His songs were playing, Yoko's were playing, and the diary was filling with interviews. He had done Playboy in September and one for Rolling Stone only yesterday. Later this evening, it was the turn of the BBC.
That pleased him. The folks back home would hear it and they'd be thrilled he was back in business.
He ran his hand through his hair and looked around the room.
Despite everything, it was still a place of exile.
Below was the busiest city in the world, and the park. It was still the one city in the world he could walk about unnoticed almost. He could still be anonymous here, still free to roam. And he loved Central Park, because in many ways it reminded him of Tittenhurst, Surrey. He and Yoko spent hours losing themselves in this green heart of New York, strolling, the perching on their favourite bench, just talking. He had been amazed to find life-sized figures of Alice at the Mad Hatter's tea party: there they were, in Central Park. His favourite characters from childhood, waiting to come to life for him in New York. Yoko had smiled and told him so matter of factly that this city had everything. He knew what she meant.
But this city had another face. He knew that too. Seven floors down, it could have been the surface of another planet. Perhaps it was. A hostile planet, its inhabitants irrational, violent, destructive, unpredictable. The apartment had been virtually sealed off for several years, relying upon its own life support system, its air conditioning, its generators, its waste disposal, and of course, its security systems.
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From the streets and from the park, people would look up to the tall skyscraper block of luxury penthouses and apartments, and wonder what it was like, living a fairy tale life in that great grey stone castle.
*
Mark got chatting to a couple of fans, waiting like him, to catch a glimpse of Lennon. He talked about Hawaii and how he had come nearly six thousand miles to see his idol, and how he was overwhelmed with actually being there, standing yards away from the entrance to Lennon’s apartment.
It was suggested that he buy a copy of the new album, and when Lennon appeared, as he surely would, then Mark could get it autographed, and the folks back home would think wow, and really be impressed. And Mark went along with the idea, joking about how no-one would believe it, and how he would have to bring out all the airline stubs and hotel receipts and so on, to convince his friends that he’d even been to New York, let alone come home with this great trophy.
And so, mid afternoon, he walked the block and a half to the nearest record store, smiling all the time to himself that this too was part of it all: Holden had started walking over towards Broadway because he wanted to find a record store that was open on a Sunday, and here he was, following in his footsteps. He half expected to meet the family and the little kid about six years old, walking in the street, right next to the kerb, with the traffic rushing by, and the parents taking no notice. The kid singing “If a body catch a body coming through the rye,” and he could kind of protect the kid, see he came to no harm. But it wasn’t to be: not today, or perhaps he’d just missed that particular moment.
When he got to the record store, he soon found a copy of Double Fantasy, with its dark picture of Lennon and Yoko kissing on the front, and on the back cover, a picture of them standing on the sidewalk where he had been standing only twenty minutes before. He thought that was amazing, that he and Lennon and Yoko were somehow being brought together like this, everything confirming it, everything pointing to this coming together.
Back at the Dakota, the other fans were beginning to lose heart for the day, and the doorman had told them again and again that Mr. Lennon was out of town and wasn’t expected back for some weeks. Perhaps. But Mark knew otherwise: there were just too many signs, too many clear, unequivocal coincidences telling him that the time was right, that Lennon was here, now, and that he had to go ahead with it.
But the others wandered away one by one, leaving Mark all alone, now a little cold and tired for standing all day, waiting. At about five o’clock, Mark too had had enough, and with a final glance towards the entrance doorway, turned and headed back to the West Side YMCA.
As he went along, he was still concentrating on feeling how Holden felt, looking around him at the faces of all these phoneys, at the fake Christmas decorations everywhere, plastic Santa faces on street-sign posts, the shop windows of false snow scenes and tinsel, parcels and presents, and Christmas everywhere, but all of it strangely out of place in these dirty New York streets.
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He got back to the Y about five thirty and went straight up to his room, this time taking more notice of the tacky corridors, the paint flaking from the walls, the general air of neglect and tiredness. This place was a real dump. His room was not much better, cramped and sad, and he threw himself on the bed and covered his eyes with his arm, and lay there thinking, going back over the last few days and the sense of things gathering, everything gaining momentum, waiting for the final act.
He swung himself off the bed and switched on the tv. It was a big, old set that had clearly seen better days. The picture flickered into life but it was nothing but swirling snow, and hiss, and the figures were ghosts floundering. He tried the other channels, but they were all the same, the pictures rolling and twisting across the screen. Ghostly figures trying to reach him.
Mark thought of the images that had been beamed to him over the last couple of years, especially the Hermit album, and most recently the Adventures in Utopia. Those messages were crystal clear and precise: Todd never had, never would let him down. And perhaps these images were meant to be like this; it wasn’t a fault, it was two figures ghosting together, and that was how it was meant to be.
He went back to the bed and made himself comfortable in the middle of the sagging mattress and tried hard to relax his breathing and catch up on some sleep. He rested, but it was a broken, fitful rest, listening to the doors opening and closing, shouts and cackling laughter from all around him.
Just after midnight he woke with a start. Something had shaken him, a loud echoing shout just outside his door. This place was the pits: it struck him it was a lot like the Edmont Hotel, where Holden stayed, full of perverts and morons, screwballs all over the place. As he lay there listening, Mark was not the least surprised to discover the place was full of gays, and they were all quite open about it, standing in their doorways, hanging around the elevators, some of them hand in hand, chatting the night away. After all, things were coming together as they were written: no surprise there.
He lay there in the darkness, listening to the laughter and crude jokes, hearing every word with a mixture of disgust and fascination. On and on they went, not loud, but not too quiet, either, so everyone on that landing could hear their every word. No attempt to be private, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for them. Mark wanted to storm out there and scream at them to shut up, but lay there immobile, spellbound, like it was some part of a nightmare he could do nothing about, that he was outside of and yet it was touching somewhere deep inside him.
He could not sleep, and got up and paced his room, going to the window again and again, peering out and across the back alleys to other windows, other patches of light and colour. An orange glow covered the city, and above that a black winter sky. Orion hung overhead, like a giant hourglass, a giant sign that it was almost time, or like a huge conductor, his arms outspread, ready to bring the orchestra to order.
These thoughts of time made him feel impatient. He couldn’t stay here: he had to make it happen tomorrow, or the next day, because it had to be done and it had to be done now. The sand was running out, and he knew, the longer he left it, the more likely he was to lose heart.
He knew he had to get out of here and make it happen.
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And so, just after midnight, when he went down to Reception, they were surprised that he was checking out. Jesus, he thought, they ought to be surprised that anyone stays there. "Thought you said you were here for a week or two?" He thought of the dumb sort of look on the guy's face, mimicking in his mind, the nasal tone of voice, almost ready to wise-crack an answer. But it was no big deal. The guy was bored whether he checked you in or checked you out: it was all the same to him.
He took another cab to the Sheraton Center, which was much better. More classy, more comfortable, a place he knew from his first visit a few weeks back. This was better, a million miles away from that crumby Y, with its dirty corridors and all. Further, too, away from the Dakota, but that was no problem. What did a few more blocks matter? He'd come something over six thousand miles for this.
He worried about the cost of the room, but he did not intend staying long. And the Sheraton staff had really made the difference, made him feel that the extra cost was worth it. They could not do enough for him, making him feel a real somebody. They called him Sir all the time. "Carry your case, Sir? Staying for business, Sir? Or pleasure, Sir?" Chatty, like that but not nosy; they didn't want to know his life story: they just wanted to show they thought anyone who stayed at the Sheraton Center, had to be important, like a movie star, a celebrity. The sort of treatment they get. Shown respect, kind of silent acknowledgement that you counted for something. It was a great feeling, one he could get used to, had he time to enjoy it.
It wasn't as if this was a luxury place, or anything, but those guys had really made him feel good, with their warmth and their smiles, like he was a long-valued client, back in town from some business trip. Some old guy of a porter carried his holdall up to his room, all respectful and that, and Mark had felt a slight sense of embarrassment about the battered holdall, and about letting the guy take it. No expensive, executive set of leather cases that no doubt he was used to, just an old brown leather holdall that had been round the world with him, and showed the scars of its travels. Still, he didn't suppose it meant a thing to them; they must see all sorts, in a place like this.
When he made himself comfortable in Room 2730, he began to unwind a little, and he realised, with surprise, just how tense he was. Understandable, really, but it had sort of crept up on him. One moment he was feeling fine, the next he felt wasted, and washed out, as if it was all catching up on him. He sat on the edge of the bed, knowing that trying to sleep would be useless, his mind racing through everything. He'd been through it a million times, till he couldn't face it again, but he had to think it through again, as if looking for some way out of it, or looking again to check on the validity of the signals. He was restless, and the place was too quiet, and in some strange way, he felt quiet inside, too, but with a kind of whispering quietness that set him on edge. So, he quit his room. He felt stretched to the limit, and lousy, but he had to, needed to get out.
He hoped the sharp air this December morning might make him feel better, pushing along 7th Avenue, already quite busy with early Christmas shoppers. It had crossed his mind to walk the twenty blocks back to West 72nd Street, to the Dakota, but he decided not to. Tomorrow, he would do it. Tomorrow he would feel like it, tomorrow he would go back there and wait, maybe all day, if needs be, and try to end it. In the meantime, he needed some fresh air and a break from his own thoughts more than anything else. A distraction. And so, he window-shopped and tried to make himself feel like any other tourist in New York, seeing the sights, enjoying the atmosphere, and the experience of following Holden step by step. Except he was not like any other tourist: he was here on a mission to kill.
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*
The Sunday was spent retracing Holden’s footsteps again, making his way through the streets full of Christmas shoppers, everywhere bustling and busy. He felt exhilarated in the crisp steel-blue air, pushing through the crowds, pausing a while on the sidewalk and watching this great tide of people drifting by. The city seemed decked in red and gold and silver: red robed Santas, ringing bells, rattling money boxes, shouting out their seasonal greetings; gold and silver decorations draped on street signs and trimming the shop windows. He felt alive and good, better that he had felt for a while. The sidewalks were in deep shadow but they glittered and sparkled with miles of coloured lights, strung up like beads of dew on giant spiderwebs.
When he got to Central Park he was in another world, a world of wintry grey; a frozen, stark other place, quieter, motionless.
This was a hushed, muted world. The occasional car horn, a distant police siren, these sounds crept in, but they did not belong, for there was something keeping that world at bay. But Mark felt he belonged. The air was different, the pace slower, but somehow more intense. He felt he could breathe here, and relax a little, though all the time he knew he was getting closer.
He looked around, at the Sunday joggers and dog-walkers, couples just strolling, talking. There was humanity here, but Mark felt he was in an ancient forest, where the frosted grass and the dark outlines of trees brought a sort of peace to him: as if they were from a different time, before all this began. He heard a lone woodpecker hammering at a tree. He could not tell from which direction the sound came, and that was it: he sensed he was being drawn in and slowly disoriented. As if the longer he stayed in this magical place, the less chance he would have of breaking free.
The greyness closed around him. There was a tint of bruised plum to the light, a darkening in the distance, like leaking blood in the sky. He felt he was being pulled into a fossil world, where everything was sponged of real colour, still, and ossified. The wicked Queen had cast her spell. She had poisoned the very core of the Big Apple.
This fanciful idea had made him smile, before he realised the truth of it. Why shouldn't she? That's what wicked Queens did. This was not a park, a place of play and innocence: it was a forest of experience. He had heard the tales of mugging and murder and rape. That was the work of the wicked Queen, that was what lent an unreal air to the place. Snow White had hidden in the forest, had escaped the murder intended for her, and lived in magical innocence. But not for long. The forest must have its way, the darkness is the more powerful and will get you in the end. The apple had to be the bait, like it was in the garden, and it had to be poisoned: half poisoned, half o.k.
He noticed some children playing on roller skates, shouting and screaming, pretending at murders and monsters. They were unaware of the blurred boundary between innocence and experience, though they exploited it to the full.
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Mark remembered one winter, just before Christmas, when his teacher had read "The Snow Image" to the class. He had been lost in its simple beauty, savouring each moment yet anticipating the end. Hawthorne certainly understood, that fragile, magical snowchild was doomed as soon as she had been created. The children's innocent fantasy destroyed by the warmth of kindness, by the cruel blindness of adults. Children were so vulnerable, and the child inside the adult as vulnerable as ever. Suffer the little children to come unto me.
It had been his favourite story for ages afterwards. He had borrowed a copy of the tale from the library and read it over and again. He knew it was teaching him something precious, that a child's mind is open and trusting and unsullied. It was the adults who corrupted. They deceived, they lied, they twisted everything. They could leave nothing untouched, nothing unspoiled. He resolved that the lesson would not go unheeded, he would be on his guard against betrayal.
And then, suddenly, he saw a red cap. A girl running over the rise in the distance. He caught his breath. Phoebe. It was Phoebe. It was another sign. The crazy red hunting cap that Holden had given her. The people-shooting cap, he called it. And he felt kind of dizzy, faint with excitement. This was it. He was so close, so goddamn close.
He was nearing the Carousel: could just make out that special merry-go-round music, that was always playing, always the same. It wasn't 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes' this time though, like in the book, but he couldn't quite make out what it was. But that red cap was clearly Phoebe, and he just couldn't stop thinking of her, and then, in turn, of his own sister Susan, and how he might have seen her for the last time. And the rest of his family. They sure wouldn't want to know him soon, once all of this came out. He knew he was leaving them behind: that sounded so final, but he had been leaving them behind for years. Like Holden says, you start missing everybody, and there’s nothing you can do about that.
But he pictured old Phoebe, smiling, and going up to the Carousel, but walking round it slow and casual at first, like she had no intention of ever being the little kid again, and then climbing on that big old horse. Saying she was too big, but really only teasing. And then, once on, grabbing for the golden ring. All the kids trying to grab the gold ring, and Holden knowing you have to let them try, even if it's odds on they'll fall off and hurt themselves. You have to let them grab for the gold ring, have to let them have their grab for happiness.
Round and round on the Carousel, the kids so damn happy: laughter and squeals, shrill and piercing. Round and round, riding the horses, enjoying the danger, excited and safe. And the parents and mothers and everybody sitting on the benches watching over them all.
Mark felt happy. Content and complete, and kind of at peace with himself, because he knew from this, that he was near the end.
He stood watching.
He looked for the red cap, but it was gone. The darkness was gathering, the wintry world closing in.
*
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Earlier that Sunday afternoon, walking the crowded sidewalks of 7th Avenue, he had slipped into a bookstore to buy a copy of Catcher In The Rye, but he was stopped in his tracks in the entrance, by a large poster of Lennon there before him, that bespectacled face famous the world over, staring at him, as if asking him why are you here? Or rather, where have you been? Mark Chapman stood rooted to the spot, held by those other eyes.
Lennon was back bigtime; the glossy-covered Playboy magazines featuring his latest interview were piled high, and a small group of shoppers were flicking through the pages, trying to get a flavour of the article. Mark was drawn forward and his hand reached out, and he was out, on the street and in the sunshine, the magazine slipped inside his coat pocket. The whole thing had taken no time at all, and in a way, he had felt nothing, just a coldness, a detachment from it that left him numb, a kind of holding his breath and keeping his eyes dead ahead, like a little child who has shoplifted for the first time, telling himself he will be alright if he can just make it to the door and away. Get out, get away.
That, rather than reel with the shock of this coincidence, this synchronicity slapping him in the face. That poster, those eyes: that strangely quizzical look of greeting, of recognition.
Once back on the sidewalk, Mark began to breathe again, but he dare not look behind, feeling as though the something that had just confronted him might now be following him. He was two blocks from the bookstore when he began to relax and look around him, and enjoy the place. It was a beautiful day, almost spring-like, and this city was electric and alive; alive in a way that was different from all those other cities, all those tired and sad great cities he had visited on his grand tour, when he skidded around the world at break-neck speed in that long summer of 78. Looking back on it, it had been like a cat chasing its tail, perhaps chasing himself, perhaps getting it out of his system, before settling down with Gloria. He didn’t like to think about that. But this city was something else: there was nowhere like this. Paris, London, Dublin: they had all had their days, but to Mark, they were all burnt out. There was a spirit of place: and places come alive, have their time, and then die.
New York, the gateway to the New World. New Life, new beginning. The city throbbed with energy. He could feel it all around him, a definite charge, a dull, low hum of constant activity. The sounds and the colours and the smells seemed supercharged, as if the place had energy to spare.
He walked, enjoying the wintry sunshine, and had been drawn to a street corner, where a small crowd had gathered. Mark hovered on the edge and watched. He had been expecting a busker or street entertainer: something he had always had dreams of being. But this was something else, an hallucination, a vision meant for him. It was another sign. Mark stood captive, transfixed at the scene before him, and yet somehow, it seemed to be happening not outside, not there before him, but inside him.
Two figures, all in black, white plastic Pierrot masks. Death masks. Faceless faces, sightless eyes, dumb black mouths.
Losing the sound from the scene was unsettling. It was like being tuned to a radio or tv station that suddenly stopped transmitting. He seemed to lose reception. Mark felt he had stumbled into a pocket of silence, or into a familiar dream he knew so well.
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It was a mime. The two figures mirrored each other, their each and every movement, exactly, with the slow precision of pent up frenzy. They performed a long routine of robotic dance, a ballet of machine becoming flesh. They danced to a silent and yet tangible music. For Mark, they were dancing to the music of this city. But there was also an inner beat, hammering so loudly inside his skull, and they were dancing to the reverberations. They were linked to him through this inaudible music: he knew they were the only three in that crowd who could hear these whispered rhythms, the moan and sigh of New York breathing.
The black figures began crouched on the sidewalk. Mark could not tell what they were. Shapes. Inhuman. Sources of energy. They rose almost imperceptibly slowly, ten yards apart, back to back. They were opposite poles, holding the other in check. As the figure on the left stretched an arm, so the figure on the right stretched the corresponding arm. The ballet took both figures full circle, for they seemed to revolve in each other's orbit, and once back where they had begun, to the inch, they turned to face each other with those white plastic non-faces. Their mime was then a dance of recognition, of tentative, momentary reaching out, and then withdrawal. They turned away, or tried to, but something always pulled them back. And finally, they were drawn across their circle, their index fingers touched, like God instilling life into Adam, but this was a touch of death. It was the touching of opposites. Yin and Yang, black touching white, Death taking Life. Both figures flinched and fell to the sidewalk, lifeless heaps.
He wasn’t sure he had taken breath during this whole performance: now his lungs fought for air. He had witnessed an omen.
He wanted to hold onto the moment and never let it go. This was it; this was the clearest sign yet and just for him and nobody else. The crowd did not see it. They had watched but had not seen. And now it was too late, because it was over, and one or two people had thrown coins into an open suitcase, and some were clapping, as if this was just another street act. The crowd had started to disperse: on their ways once again, these New Yorkers and tourists for whom this had been a minor distraction, an insignificant and bizarre drama in a day of trivia.
For Mark, it was a glimpse of something within. It was a sign that everything would work out fine.
It was telling him that the time was right. This was his destiny.
He had learned to recognise the significant coincidences in life. His time at the Castle had taught him that, because there, he had learned the everyday was not the everyday. There was more meaning than that, a pattern, a timing, a rhythm, and you just had to find the rhythm that was yours and tune in. Everything had its time. Everything had its tuning, and he had begun to find his true note and his now.
His mind raced over the last few months, during which time he had become obsessed with piecing it all together. Going over the details again and again in ever closer focus. He had begun to make it an exact science, and once he started using the keys given to him, he had uncovered so much. For years, he had been floundering through the maze, hopelessly lost, until he had discovered this key of focussing, fine-tuning the signal. Now he could open all doors. Now he could unlock all the caskets, be they of lead or of gold. It was only by endlessly replaying and re-examining incidents that they made any sense.
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This had been the awakening of Mark David Chapman, or rather his re-awakening. He recalled that fantastic burn of feeling reborn, that spiritual rebirth that had been his salvation.
The energy of that rebirth had driven him to New York. He had never before felt such power, not even when Jesus had come into his life in 1971, and saved his soul. That had been fantastic, but it did not touch this. Once he had the key, he could see where he should be, where he should go, and what he should do. It was all so clear. The walls of the maze just crumbled into dust. He now had an uninterrupted vista, a purpose, a mission.
As he stood there, still, on that corner of 7th Avenue, as the performers who had acted out his omen shrugged themselves into winter coats and prepared to move on, Mark thought back to those agonising years when he had felt something was wrong in his life, but he could never figure out what that something was. The sense that he never really belonged in his family. He never really seemed to get anywhere with Jessica. He never really knew what he was doing, because it had all been so unreal. Unreal and unconnected. It was the connections that were missing. Somehow they had been cut, somewhere, so nothing connected with anything, and that made him a nothing. That was why he had drifted and spun out of control: he had nothing to hold onto, nothing to do. Nothing to do with him: nothing to be so be nothing.
As a child, the sense of bewilderment and loss and anger and frustration and everything, had been at its most potent. What can a child do? They're so trusting and vulnerable. But what can they do when there is nothing to hold on to? He remembered being little boy lost, like he was wandering so long through a dark and fearsome forest, or stumbling through a mire, his life a nightmare, never going anywhere, never ending.
And he had tried, really tried, to kick and scream his way out and find his way home. He had battled with everyone, had fought and been bloodied, but he was never sure who or what he should fight. Most times, he was fighting himself; he knew that now: perhaps he had known it all along.
He felt like one of those characters in the cartoons, where the little angel is whispering in one ear, and the little devil is screaming in the other.
He could not win. He was the one who fouled up on everything, watching others claim the spoils of victory, while he was the all time loser. No matter what he tried - and he had tried so damn hard to fit in, to be like the others, to do the right thing, to say the right words, to be perfect, and play the part written for him. He had even struggled to have the right kind of dreams, and to keep them neatly tucked away - but no matter how hard he fought to cut down and even cut out those beautiful dreams of his, they just kept on surfacing and spoiling it for him.
But then he had awoken to the idea that you can not control your dreams, they are your destiny, and your truth. He had Todd to thank for that. You must let your dreams control you, let your dreams have their reality.
He had such wonderful dreams, real dreams, not some kind of meaningless mess, all bits and pieces, fragments, just thrown together. Not random, freewheeling images. Not the mind unwinding, not vague, almost remembered impression. No. Mark's dreams had become something else, incredibly vivid, living, intensely real experiences that played over and over in his mind like a film loop. They rehearsed themselves to a precise script, they re-ran and re-ran and perfected themselves to the unheard commands of a great Director: a master of word and image. These
Two Spirits Dancing page 28 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon dreams were far more real than the empty life he was living. Or rather, they were his life. That's what this re-awakening had shown him. So why deny them? Why not live them.
As a little child, he had longed to be a dragon slayer. Pictures of dragons filled his drawing books, stories of dragons filled his head, and that dream-longing, with all its variations, had gone on for weeks, like a neverending fairy tale. He wanted to be able to even it all up a little, to take on the dragons and defeat them. He wanted to take his seat at the Table Round amongst the heroes. He wanted to sport his Lady's favour and joust as Champion. He would ride a milk white steed, bear the arms of a true knight, and join the quest. Pennants would stiffen in the breeze, the green oaks would dapple the earth with their shade, fair damsels would adorn the field, and the quest would draw him on.
He had dreamed of storming the enchanted castle on the border of a sparkling lake, beyond the deep, dark forest, and only he could break the spell. It was his quest. He must enter the very core of that eternal fierce destruction.
That's what the moment meant to him: it recalled the wonderful dreams of his childhood, and it calmed his soul.
*
And the same afternoon, Mark stood outside the Dakota again, gazing up at the intricate Gothic stonework, trying to imagine some of the apartments inside, running his eyes from window to window. He recalled the building had been used as a set for the film, “Rosemary’s Baby”, which he had seen some years before. He looked up at one of the balconies and involuntarily shivered at the memory of the figure plummeting to the sidewalk below, right where he was standing. The thud of bones breaking, the slow spread of blood at his feet.
Caught in this reverie, he had had another glimpse of this force that was taking him to his destiny: as if it were some movie re-run, he watched a slight figure of a woman glide past him, unnoticed by anyone else, frail and ordinary enough to pass like a phantom through the small crowd gathered. She was gone before he could react, and only then did a kind of recognition come: it was Mia Farrow, the actress. He was suddenly sure it was her, and felt exhilarated with excitement.
Rosemary had walked by him: the girl who had been seduced by the Devil. Suddenly, things dovetailed in his mind: not long after shooting the film, Sharon Tate, the director’s wife, herself heavily pregnant, had been slaughtered in the notorious Manson Family murders. And there, in the background, were some Beatles’ lyrics, songs like Helter-Skelter, and Little Piggies and Blackbird, all from the “White Album”. It was another sign, another signal that all was going to plan: Manson claimed it was the lyrics that had called him to action, that he was to start an apocalyptic race war that would destroy the world, so a new world could begin.
Again, Mark was stunned at the simplicity and the complexity of the signal. There was the Dakota connection; there were the Beatles’ lyrics, and Lennon’s in particular; there was the killing power of white, and Lennon again; and there was the idea of the Anti-Christ, the Devil’s child, innocent, beautiful, but Satan nonetheless.
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For Mark, it was all coming together with amazing clockwork precision, and with such speed it left him breathless.
*
It was dark, very dark, when he got back. He was thankful when he saw the Sheraton's neon sign, because he had had enough. Tired, almost lethargic, he felt he had been treading tarry black sidewalks: wet, sticky tar. His legs ached, his feet were sore, despite having bought the orthopaedic shoes, knowing he would have to wait around ages. He was cold and hungry, his mouth was dry, his throat seemed tight. But his mind was racing. Jesus was it racing! So many things to think, so many ideas to go through in every detail.
Mark came out of the elevator and felt kind of unsteady as he went down the corridor to his room. With sudden, rising panic, he wondered if he was going down with 'flu or something. That would really screw up his plans. He was sweating and felt really bad. As he fumbled with the key he told himself to get a firm grip, forced himself back under control: this was crazy, to fold up now, when he was so close to the final act.
He kept his heavy winter coat on, giving himself time to warm up, but almost an hour passed and he still felt shivery. He had not eaten much that day: perhaps that was it. Should he call Room Service and ask them to bring him something? Or call out for pizza? But then the thought of it made him feel quite nauseous. He went over to the washbasin in the corner of the room. There was one of those strip lights over it: a shaver point and a mirror. He took a real good look at himself. Pulled down his eyelids, stuck out his tongue. He did not look good. His face was drawn and pale, almost totally drained of colour. His eyes were bloodshot and they seemed to have a strange, fixed kind of stare. As he turned away, there, for just a fraction of a moment, he caught sight of Mark, the old Mark, out of the corner of his eye, kind of looking back at him: but what he saw, with a tremendous sense of distance and detachment, was not himself. That wasn't him. There was no recognition in that stare. This was someone else intruding.
He tumbled onto the bed and threw his arm across his eyes. He had to get a grip on this. He felt he was falling apart. This was crazy. He had prepared and planned this: he couldn't blow it now.
The main thing was to concentrate on his breathing: slow and steady and easy. Slow and steady and easy. Slow and steady and easy. Work it out, think it through and keep control.
Despite the lack of sleep over the last few days, it was not tiredness he felt. It was a kind of desertion, a crisis of confidence, even, trying to rob him of his strength and his destiny. Earlier, he had felt the buzz of New York, begun to feel the energising power of this city that never sleeps. Each breath he took confirmed in him that the signals had led him here and the time was now. Keep still. Keep quiet. Keep control. Let synchronicity see it through, let New York do its work.
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*
He was here to be alone, here to be on his own. He knew that now. Now that the whore had left, he knew it had been a terrible mistake. He thought he needed her, needed company, thought it would ease the tension. He thought being alone was too dangerous, and the Playboy magazine had got him roused. And after all, Holden had tried with the girl: that bit was just amazing, that she should turn up like she had stepped out of the pages of the book, blonde hair dyed to the roots and the green dress. The same sort of age, even: it was pure synchronicity, a pure coming together of time and history, and a sign of total confirmation for him. He was really Holden now and no mistake, like he had made the pages come alive, created them from the black ink and the white paper, and, with amazing power, breathed life into her. Or perhaps it was not him, he had not made anything happen, but it had happened none the less. He was now Holden, in New York, with the whore in the green dress, and on the trail of the phoney “Catcher”.
He looked at the disturbed bedclothes and thought of the girl, young enough to be his kid sister, old enough to be Sin herself.
But no, he needed this stillness, this silence, found in the middle of the night, in the middle of this city. He had to be alone. He wanted, more than anything, to lose himself in this towering mass of concrete and steel and glass, amongst these numberless hordes of lonely people. Here he thought he would wander like some free spirit. Be himself, be who he wanted to be.
And he had come to New York to finish it. That was it, pure and simple.
Mark felt himself drifting into a warm and comfortable doze, and went back to the girl, sprawled wide open for him, looking pale and unreal in the dimmed lighting. He could enjoy her now, as an image in his mind, in a way that he couldn’t when she was there with him, cool and white to his touch, offering herself. He had never been able to enjoy sex, never been able to understand the idea of it being a pleasure, being drawn into some other body, being unable to control it once it began. Even with Gloria it was difficult.
Sudden feelings of guilt disturbed him, like a dull punch to his guts, a wash of feelings that nearly always did hit him after the act. He thought of his wife, thousands of miles away in a different world, and how she had no idea what he was going through, or why he was here. He had not told her because he knew she would never understand, and though he didn’t like keeping things from her, this was too big for her to even begin to grasp.
He reached for the phone and after some problems with the switchboard girl, he called Gloria, trying to tell her, trying to tell her not to worry, trying to make sure she was alright. He found it hard though, because there was too much he couldn’t tell her, and she wanted to know what was going on, and there were no words, no way to tell her, so the phone call was punctuated with long, heavy silences, and he thought she was crying at the other end, sniffing, and her voice trembling, but he couldn’t do a thing to help her. And he didn’t really care. It was just impossible, trying to reach her over that kind of distance.
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He put down the phone with a dead click.
Mark rolled from the bed and went over to the display he had set up. It was his altar display, his farewell message to the little child inside him, that insistent little child who wanted to cause so much pain. These were all the things that were important to the person he once was, to the child he still harboured inside.
He picked up the black-bound Bible from its position, checking that it was splayed open at the right page: Saint Mark, Chapter 7. It was his own Gospel, his very own, and therefore special to him. And it was his favourite, because it said it all. It was all there: the phoneys, the hypocrites, the evil from within and the casting out of that evil. All there, and written just for him.
"And looking up to Heaven, he sighed, and saith unto him, Ephphatha, that is, Be opened."
Be opened. He loved that. It spoke directly to him. Opened, like he had been opened to his destiny. Opened to receive the signal.
He replaced the Bible carefully and picked up the photograph of himself at Fort Chaffee. There he was, the Pied Piper, leading all those Vietnamese kids, playing guitar, leading them in songs. God, he was so happy there, and he knew he was doing so much good, and something to change the world for the better. He was somebody important there, and there was nothing more important than what he had done there: he made a difference. He cherished those memories.
He glanced at his expired passport: it had taken him round the world. And the airline tickets that had brought him here, to his destination. Brought him to his destiny. Now, there was nowhere else to go.
Everything was in place. He had agonised over what to include in this display, because there were so many possibilities, so many bits and pieces that you picked up in your life. So much trivia, so much trash, and so little of any real value or meaning, and yet everything before him was charged with special significance, charged with the power that was to see him through. He knew they made a strange sight, but he knew they were the right things.
He picked up the small photo of Dorothy in her red shoes: it was overlain with so many meanings, reminding him of that night with Jessica, when they watched the movie together and she had called him the lion, timid and caring; those jerks at High School calling him “Pussy” to his face, and behind his back, the bastards; perhaps, like Dorothy, he had been brought here on a twister, spun around and up and down till he didn’t know which way to turn, but that he was here to destroy the wizard, and the wicked witch, that much he now knew.
Among all of these meanings, which to choose: from all his possessions, which to display? There were always so many meanings cramming for space.
Everything in its place.
In this hour before dawn, he knew he was almost there. The time was right and this was the place he had to be.
Today, the child and the man would finally resolve their differences, today, he would finish it once and for all. Today would bring the end of the nightmare.
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*
Liverpool, November 1947
The black iron railings were ranks of spears shutting them in this gladiatorial ring. This was what they were trained for, taught to be tough, taught to fight. School was war. The playground was where you battled and bled, where you bandied wicked, venomous words. There were rules of engagement, as there are on any battlefield, and so there was a sort of ritual that everyone observed, a kind of formality to it all. It was like a ballet or some great operatic scene.
That playground was where the endless grouping and re-grouping took place, the never-ending search for mates, and for victims. Play; just playing, but with punches and pain. Twist the arm further back. Just playing games. But wargames, played just for fun, but played for real, though it was still only playing. Child's play.
"How'd you get on at school today?"
Wish you wouldn't ask. Never, please never ask. Don't ask, because I don't want to tell. I can't show you the bruises, so what's the point? The scars are inside and hidden deep, almost as deep as they hurt.
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Learn how to survive, learn how to hide the pain, and learn how to tell them what they want to hear. Cover up and toughen up, but don't ever let them see a thing.
The only way to play these games and survive, was to learn how to be in charge. How to make them listen. Learn how to make them follow your lead. Make it your game, and your rules, and then make them follow, dance to your tune. Be in charge, and then you got respect. Make it your gang, and make it tough, otherwise they don’t want to know. The tougher the better, to the point of being cruel, then you got real respect. Those were the rules, and he had learned them better than most. Learn to be a leader, and a bully, and learn how to find your victim: it was all the same. Any victim will do, but pick him well and teach him a lesson he won't forget. Day after day, so he won't forget, and keep turning the screws, so he won't forget. Keep after him. Be the leader of the wolfpack, baying for blood, and make sure you got it, and all the others had a taste of it too.
Playing and learning and teaching hard lessons: that was what school was.
"Foureyes! Over there!"
"Let's get 'im! Get him! Quick!"
"Don't let him get away!"
Crowd him, push him, corner him, get him, do him.
"Any dosh today? Let's see what youse got. Hey, Foureyes, hand it over!" "Cough it up. Or we'll smash those nice little goggles. Then we might smash you."
Make him cry, make him cry. Teach him a lesson he'll never forget, and the harder the better.
The bell would signal the intermission, like it did at the boxing matches at the Club. It was just the same: all these games were the same; they all had strict rules of engagement.
All take your seats for the next act in the drama, when you had to go back to the classrooms, the entertainment over, briefly. Tearstained cheeks, swollen eyes, pale face. The last one back to the lesson.
"Hurry along, lad! Haven't got all day!"
And Dovedale Primary School settled down to the quiet routine expected of it.
The Headmaster, Mr. Bolt, prided himself on running a disciplined and well-managed school. The kids were from a tough area, but they were as honest as the day was long. There was no real trouble at Dovedale. One or two incidents a term; much as you'd expect at any school. A few fights among the lads, scuffles, more than any serious blows. Boys waving their arms at each other, occasionally making contact. But one blast of the whistle and they scatter like rabbits from a gun. Most teachers enjoy the playground duties, you know. See it as a chance to observe the children in a different light, you know, not in the classroom. At play. Children at play.
Mr. Bolt had lived in the area and taught in the school for some years, from well before the war. He knew many of the families quite well. And they knew him. He was a respected man in the neighbourhood. On a Saturday, he would be stopped in the street and asked about the progress this
Two Spirits Dancing page 34 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon child or that child was making. People nodded to him as he passed. It was not difficult being Headmaster among these good people. They were the salt of the earth. Not that there were no problems to face from time to time. He had come to know the families that could cause the trouble, he watched the children grow up without the proper discipline, he was aware of the parents' weaknesses. And he had witnessed the irreparable damage that the war had done. The fathers who had not returned, and the mothers who had seen their families fall to pieces around their ears. Perhaps more worrying, was the impression he had that the children had lost some of their innocence, had retained less of their sense of discipline. One of his Senior Masters had even suggested that the children had become more wild. He would not go so far as to word it that way, but there had been a change in the children. Perhaps there had been a change in them all: children and adult alike.
At the end of the day, the boys and girls streamed through the school gates with squeals of delight. Another day done. And now there were the games to play. Games of skipping and whooping along the pavements; games of pushing and pulling at blazers and caps; games in Strawberry Fields, chasing and hiding; games in the corner shops, nicking whatever could be had.
*
John Winston Lennon led a small gang of faithful followers into old Mrs. Maclean's shop. A brass bell coiled above the doorframe, sang a cracked note through to the back room. They knew they had about twenty five seconds before the white-haired and red-faced Mrs. Maclean swung and lolled her fat body through to the counter. This had been planned at break: Lennon's idea. He had been in the shop several times over the last few days, working out angles and options. Twenty five seconds. He had counted them slowly, to give himself plenty of leeway.
When the five little boys closed the door behind them, and stepped out into the street, there were broad grins all across their faces and in their pockets, the trophies they had lifted: chocolates, a packet of biscuits, a small tin of condensed milk and, prize of prizes, a packet of five Woodbines.
The jingle of the brass door bell was drowned in their excited shouts of congratulations. They had done it. Really done it! Hearts pounding, mouths so dry, but they had pulled it off. They had all kept their nerve: no-one chickened out. It was so easy! It was a dream! They felt tingling and alive, like they were new to their bodies and they were feeling and seeing everything for the very first time. They could do this every day! Every day! It occurred to Lennon, that this was like having a key to a secret Aladdin’s cave, full of all the things they could ever wish for, and all they had to do was reach out their hands.
Lennon felt a special thrill and a special pride. Hadn't he told them it would be a piece of cake? Hadn't he proved himself yet again? As gang leader, he had sole claim to the Woodbines: he had stretched right over the counter, swinging his feet off the floor to give himself the reach. He had been scared that the old biddy might see his arm as she waddled through, but he had to take the risk. It had paid off. It was magic. He had felt just like Alice, elongating his arm across that space, wishing himself invisible, and defying gravity. Magic.
The gang went rolling and bowling down the street, swept on by the elation at what they had done and by the relief that they had not been caught. They would share out the ciggies in a quiet corner
Two Spirits Dancing page 35 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon of the Fields: the sweets were already being unwrapped and crammed into their mouths, stifling the yelling and laughing with great greedy gobfulls of chocolates and toffees.
For the boy known as Foureyes, there was another, a different walk home. He hoped and prayed his mam would not notice. And if she did notice, then not ask. He could face the taunts day upon day, but he couldn't face his mam knowing.
*
One afternoon, summer it was, and John had been on an errand. He was almost home, just a street or two away, when he had caught the sound of Tommy Livermore's voice on the next corner. Tommy was bad news, particularly bad news. And yet, there always seemed to be a Tommy Livermore waiting for someone like him. John wondered for a moment whether he could back- track down the lane he had just passed, and so avoid it all. But they may have seen him. Or they might be waiting for him, rather than just waiting.
They were lounging on the corner, one of the lads dribbling an empty can round and round the lamp-post. There was an air of expectancy, a slow, wary waiting that was almost tangible. As soon as John turned into sight, he felt a tightening of his stomach, because he just knew this was going to be trouble.
"Ey up, it's that shit-head Lennon loony," called Tommy Livermore, springing into life, looking for all the world like some big cat that had just caught sight and scent of its prey. "Where's your puny gang then, Lennon? 'Aving their snotty noses wiped?” "They're probably being sick from all the nicked sherbet they've been sucking! Pukin' in the park." They were enjoying this. "All alone, eh?" taunted Tommy. He glanced all round. "Aaagh," one of the others sighed, "nobody loves 'im." "Yeah, I hear that's the story of your life, Lennon. Your pa's pissed off to sea and your mam doesn't want you around. She's too busy being seen to." They broke into a forced hyena laugh at their own crudity.
Lennon's steps had not faltered, and he was now level with Tommy Livermore. "Shut yer foul ugly gob, or youse'll feel me fuckin' fist down yer throat."
The gang reacted as one, as though kicked or slapped hard across the face.
"Oh, I'm shitting it," leered Livermore, leaning forward till his face was only inches from John's. The others slowly gathered round. Lennon had taken the bait, now they had to play him in and land him. This was what they had been waiting for. This was going to be good. Tommy would murder him.
"You're so full o' shit I'm not surprised," came the reply. John kept his eyes on Livermore; it seemed he was totally unaware of the others. He had been in situations like this before, and he
Two Spirits Dancing page 36 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon knew that every gang had its cock: take out the leader and the rest ran away. He had to beat Livermore: the others did not matter: they were nothing.
Livermore stretched out an arm, almost lazily, gracefully, to hold Lennon where he wanted him. It was like a policeman stopping the traffic. "Goin' someplace?" He said it so softly, it was like a lover's sweet nothing. Lennon slowly looked him up and down and fixed his cold stare deep into Tommy's eyes. No wavering. Hard, cold stare. Fix him. Fix him like a moth pinned to a board. Peg him out.
There was no warning that the first blow was coming. These were experienced fighters, both of them, and they did not waste time in poses and postures, they fought to win. Forget that Queensbury crap: this was for real.
Tommy's eyes widened then snapped tight with the sudden dull pain that started in his groin and soaked into the rest of his body. The next blow landed almost on top of the first and served merely to knock him backwards into one of his gang. There was a moment when both of them might have gone tottering, but they clung to each other and regained their balance.
Tommy now eyed him with murderous venom. "You fuckin' bastard, Lennon! You're gonna die!"
They closed on him. Lennon glanced over his left shoulder as a fist came in, and was vaguely aware of its impact on the back of his neck. At the same time a boot thudded into his knee. They were going to murder him.
He struck out blindly with fists and feet, flailing forward at all of them. He did not care who. All that mattered was to hit out and hurt. And then he was through, so suddenly that he nearly pitched forward on to his nose, but he forced himself up and then he was running, pelting away. And then he slowed and turned with a sort of jig, to look back at his would-be killers and taunt them.
He stuck up two fingers with an elaborate wave, turned, and ran home; tears in his eyes, blood in his mouth.
*
Aunt Mimi was at the gate, talking to Mrs. Sutton, when John came running round the corner. He glanced up, took in the scene, then rushed at the gate like it was the winning line. But Aunt Mimi stood firm. It was as if she had sensed his mood, the moment he had come into view. "What's up, John, love?” He tried half-heartedly to push past her, trying to hide the tears brimming in his eyes. "John. I'm talking to you. Tell me what's wrong." He knew she had him. But with Mrs. Sutton looking on, no doubt with a smile, finding it all just a little bit amusing, John wanted to bulldoze his way into the house. “Well?”
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There was now a slight edge to her voice. Aunt Mimi was accustomed to his sulks and his tempers. "Nothing." He was staring at the scuffed toe of his shoe, but he clearly heard the deep intake of breath, felt the pause, and then the long sigh that told him he was not going to win this one. "John! Stop this sulking nonsense at once. Do you hear me?” He bit his bottom lip to fight back the tear that was gathering on his eyelashes. Bloody tears. They always let you down. No matter how he tried, there seemed no way of stopping their fall. He knew he could not say anything now, with Mrs. Sutton there, with these tears betraying him. He sniffed hard to clear his nose and eyes. His whole torso heaved.
Mrs. Sutton broke the deadlock. "Probably some lads picking a fight with 'im. Is that not right John?”
Stay out of this, you nosy old cow. None of your bloody business. I don't have to answer to you. So shut up. Shut up. Just leave me alone. Can't you. All of youse, leave me alone!
“John! Mrs. Sutton is talking to you. I'm talking to you! John, whatever it is, and I can see you're upset, I don't expect you to be rude to people who're trying to help."
Tell her to piss off. Just leave me alone and let me past.
He felt her hands, heavily, on his shoulders. Her fingers dug in. too late he tried to resist, tensing his whole body, making himself hard and heavy, as immovable as....
Mimi shook him hard. She had had a difficult day. She was tired and not a little worried at these regular tantrums from John. She could not get to the bottom of them. Every time she tried, he clammed up, took himself off somewhere for several hours, and when he re-appeared, he would be quiet and distant. She knew the moods were something to do with kids getting at him, because these kids could be such mean, cruel little sods; she knew that. With John, it was something to do with his parents. Poor soul, he was taking it so hard inside. She didn't want to open up all the old scars, and yet, if she didn’t, how was she supposed to sort these problems out? George said the thing to do was to let the wounds heal, and just keep it calm, don't rake over the old coals. Let it die, which it would, sooner or later. But he didn't see John like this, all screwed up and hurting.
"John, love. Listen. I want to know what's wrong. Has someone been upsetting you?"
She motioned to Mrs. Sutton with a sort of a wink and a shrug, that it might be better if she were to disappear, and Mrs. Sutton was a good enough neighbour to take the hint. She knew they were not having an easy time bringing up John.
John, without looking up, felt that Mrs. Sutton had gone. Mimi's grip on his shoulders relaxed a little.
"Come on, John, love. Let's not give the neighbours a show. Come on in and we'll sort it out."
She took a step aside and reached out to release the catch on the gate, so that the way was now clear.
Head down, tear tracks on his cheeks, John led the way down the path.
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"What are we going to do with you? Eh? I don't know. Whatever are we going to do with you?"
In his head, a small voice, quiet and insistent. Dump me. Run out on me. Dump me and run. That's what you all do.
"Come on, love. In we go. You tell your Aunt Mimi all about it."
You tell me all about it. Tell me. Tell me. Me. You never do. You never do.
"We'll sort it out. You just dry your eyes. Have you got a hankie?"
I'm not crying. Not bloody crying. Not crying for them. Not for anyone.
"Now just calm down and tell Aunt Mimi what's upset you. Come on, John, you can tell your Auntie Mimi."
Me. Me. Me. Me. What about me! Nobody gives a shit about me. Just clear off and dump me.
“Come on, love.”
Once inside, with the door closed, John began to meet Mimi's intent gaze. He knew he had not been the easiest child to bring up, and he was genuinely sorry for the pain and problems he brought her. She didn't deserve them, he knew. He didn't mean the hurt for her, but he wondered if he would ever stop hurting, if this gnawing pain would ever go away.
"Was it a fight, is that it?"
Nothing.
"Did you get into trouble again?"
John shuffled from one foot to the other, feeling the pressure of this concern. He knew Mimi loved him, he knew she had taken him in when his pa ran off and his mam ditched him, but he just could not trust her or anyone else yet. Why couldn't she see that? How could she expect him to trust any adult again? They always let you down, always lied to you. To them, you were just a kid, just in the way, you didn't count, didn't matter, and so, if need be, they dropped you.
And here he was, everybody's 'pass the parcel'. Big game, it was. Pass the parcel as quick as you can: make sure, when the music stops, you aren't carrying the baby. What a scream! What a laugh! And the biggest scream was at the end, when you realised that there was nothing in the parcel. No prize for the winner: in fact, there was no winner, just the loser.
"John," Mimi said, once again gripping him tightly by the shoulders, "I want an answer."
John locked his jaw tight.
He noticed Mimi's lips, thin and pale with the tension of it all. But he would not give in. Those soddin' tears had let him down. He needed to prove to himself that he was harder than that.
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Mimi sighed and straightened up. "Very well. Have it your way. You've always got to win, haven't you? Always. Right or wrong, that doesn't come into it; all that matters to you is getting your own way." And she gave him one last, long stare of something between hate and love.
That's right. Walk away. All of you, walk away. Leave me alone. Leave. Me. Alone.
He turned as calmly as he could, because now it was a matter of honour. He thought she might be watching him as he walked away, he imagined he could feel her gaze burning into the back of his head. Don't look back, don't give in. It was vital that he keep control. Every step was made more difficult by the deliberateness of it. His whole body seemed to want to betray him: turn around and go rushing back to her warm arms and sob out his pain and anger. No. Keep in control. Keep control.
He slowly walked through the house, into the kitchen, opened the back door and went out into the garden.
*
In the garden he could be alone. There was an old timber shed with an ill-fitting door, and John had moved a wooden stool in there last winter. Mimi wondered if she should lock the shed and so deny him his escape, but he had so little left, the poor thing. He'd had enough taken away from him.
So he sat on with closed eyes, and half believed himself in Wonderland, though he knew he had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality.....
He loved Alice. He lived the story. It was his very special way of filling the empty space whenever Aunt Mimi ignored him. And that was her way of telling him he was wrong, or he had been rude. Alice did not belong either. She fell headlong into that strangest of worlds where they all demanded to know who she was.
"Who are you?" "Who are you?"
That's all they ever cared about, as if who you are really matters. Alice knew she could be anyone or anything, and that's why she always had the last word. It was true though, people only ever want to know who you are, or what you are, as if they are the same thing.
"Explain yourself!" said the caterpillar. "I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir, because I'm not myself, you see."
Who was he? They couldn't tell him that, could they? His father an ocean away: his mother only streets away, but too busy to have him. Where did that leave him? He was a foundling, an evil goblin child who'd frightened clean away, first his father and then his mother. Clean away? No, not clean: messy and painful and black and spiteful and spitting and screaming and screaming. He remembered feeling he was walking around with a huge hole torn right through him. There it was,
Two Spirits Dancing page 40 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon an enormous black emptiness that everyone could peer through, but they all pretended he was whole. There were times when he wanted to scream at everyone and make them admit the hole was real. Why did they carry on so? Treating him like some little kid who couldn't see for himself. Like the Emperor in his new clothes. Well he was no Emperor. He was.....That was just it. Who was he? The boy with the hole, the boy who'd had his heart and soul torn out, the boy who'd lost his dad and his mum and half himself.
Not lost. No. He was going to get this right. Using the right words was important, because words were not sloppy, they meant things and the meanings stuck. You knew where you stood with words. He loved that chapter with Humpty Dumpty talking to Alice about how he could manage the whole lot of words. "When I use a word, it means just what I want it to mean - neither more nor less."
Humpty Dumpty was good at explaining the meanings of words, though the adults around him used words in a different way. John had not “lost” his parents. There were kids in his class who had lost their dads in the war; they were dead, and would never be around. For John it was different: he had been deserted. His dad had deserted him. His mum had deserted him. Run out, abandoned, ditched. That was the right word.
Aunt Mimi said they still loved him. They still loved him ever so much, but they had drifted apart, because their lives had changed. They had changed. And now things were very hard for his mam; she couldn't see how she could bring him up as well as Mimi could. But that didn't mean Julia didn't love him. She loved him so much she had given him up. He'd understand that some day, when he was older. He mustn't be angry with her: she was only doing what she felt was best for him.
Explain that, Humpty Dumpty! What was best for him! Best for him.
Well nobody ever asked him what was best. How did they know what was best for him? They didn't even know who he was. To them he was Julia's little boy, or else he was Fred's poor little sod. He was Mimi's, and he was George's, and he was little Johnny lost. Nobody saw him for who he was.
He had a store of cheap exercise books in that shed, and in them he wrote such marvellous, fantastic stories. Opening the covers was like unlocking a trapdoor into another world where he was in command. In control. The characters he invented did exactly as he told them, because he was their creator and their controller, and the adventures they had were all down to him. That was what was so wonderful. When Alice fell down the rabbit hole, or tumbled through the looking glass, she was discovering that wonder-world where she was no longer the little girl lost. John knew how she felt, lost in wonderland, where you were never really lost. Lost where you could find yourself, where you could lose yourself. That was the wonder of it.
And something else he understood only too well: you only got into that wonder-world, like Alice did, on a flood of tears. That was the key, wasn't it? That ocean of tears she sobbed, washed her through and into Wonderland. Well, he had cried a few tears himself, a few bucketfulls. Enough to know how to get through into that secret world where adults could not go, and that too was wonderful. Alice was free of all those cheating, deceiving parents and aunties and uncles and teachers and adults. Free from their lies. Whatever you wanted to be true, could be true in Wonderland. It was as simple as that, and as wonderful as that. All those lies they told you, just to keep you under their control, but you could break free, if you were strong enough and hard enough:
Two Spirits Dancing page 41 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon you could spring the trap. In those stories, in those magical tupenny books of his, he could spring the trap whenever he needed to re-gain control, he would go to the garden shed and open up that magic trapdoor cover and begin to write.
And more than that. Much more than just write. In fact he never felt he was writing: he was creating his own world, and his own identity.
Shut close inside that garden shed, John loved to go through his most treasured memories, and his worst. That helped him put everything in order.
He remembered one day, when he had come in from playing, come in for something to eat, the house had suddenly seemed hushed. He went through into the front room, where here was an unfamiliar smell of tobacco. George didn't smoke, so he knew, before he opened the door, that someone was visiting. And then, he pushed open the door, and peeped in, to see a stranger, standing there, slowly rocking to and fro, legs apart, hands in pockets, large grin on face. A weathered face, and a toothy grin.
"Well. And who have we here? Is this my little Johnny? All grown up!"
Big grin advancing on him. Back off. Back away.
"Come on, lad. Let's 'ave a good proper look at yer."
Getting closer. Look to Mimi for some sort of help, some sort of signal, some sort of clue to playing this game.
"My! Look at yer. Just look at yer! Yer don't remember me, do yer? Don't yer know yer own pa?"
Nodding and grinning, nodding and grinning, like a voiceless laughing Policeman.
And he remembered the panic rising in his throat. His pa? His pa was dead. His pa was a ghost locked away at the bottom of the ocean, in Davy Jones’ locker. Had this grinning ghost come to haunt him? With panic rising in his throat, John wanted to scream. Get away. Back. Get back. But he just could not move, couldn’t make a sound, though there was shouting inside his head. "Back. He's back. Back away!" Back away from this grinning ghost. He looked across at Mimi, and she was nodding too. She was part of it, part of this nightmare moment.
He wanted to turn and run, wanted to scream and turn and run. He wanted to lash out at them all for this cruel, sick joke, but he couldn't. Something held him. It wasn't fear or fascination, it was as if he were trapped in a dream. Things were spinning on around him, beyond his control. He was being held by two strong arms and grinned at and eyed up and down and in and out. Mimi was looking on, big smile creasing up her face: tears in her eyes.
He wanted to cry. He didn't understand what was going on, but he knew he didn't like this game. He didn't like this man holding him.
And then he noticed there was someone else in the room. To his left, half hidden by the door, stood his mam, Julia. And he could see she was crying, too. What was going on? His mam was staring at him with a look on her face he couldn’t recognise.
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Then he thought it wasn't his pa who was the ghost, it was him. Somehow he had died and he didn't know it. He was the ghost. They were all looking at him because he was the dead one, he had been knocked over, or murdered, and he had come back, and they were seeing him, and horrified too. But as soon as the idea had properly formed, he knew it was crazy.
Then he was aware of his mam stepping forward, and her face replaced that of this grinning man from the bottom of the sea. Davy Jones. He knew about that dreadful locker full of dead flesh, where ghostly fish fed on your eyes. Full fathom five, at the bottom of the ocean.
What was happening? The room seemed to shrink and swing and stretch and sway. Was this what Alice had felt when she drank that magic stuff labelled 'Drink Me'? Had he drunk some magic brew? Was he being poisoned by some wicked witch? Poor lost John...no...not...lost at all...he was really a handsome prince...not lost...a prince in hiding...whisked away at birth because the witch was after him...Mimi was protecting him...keeping his real identity a secret...but...the witch had tracked him down. She had poisoned him. Or he was dead already, and was now looking down on his own empty body, and watching his family paying their last respects. He felt he was floating, lighter than his own breath. The mouths were going, shaping themselves into grotesque and distorted nothings, because the sounds were coming muffled and dead from the bottom of the sea, drowned by the hissing whisper-scream from a million shells. It was a 78 slowing to a dead stop, it was his life running out. It was his dad running out on him, and it was his mam running out on him. It was a stream of senseless fear running from his mind, as if someone had turned on a tap and he was emptying. Or all the silence in the world was pouring into him.
"Watch out! The lad's going to faint!" "John, love, are you alright? John? My word but you're pale as a ghost!" "Get him a chair. Quick!" "He needs air, Mimi."
And John was spinning out of control. It was spilling away from him. He was trying to catch water, trying to catch clouds. Losing control. Losing himself. Losing those who made him who he was. They were slipping away or he was drifting off into nothingness, and he would be nothing soon, swallowed up by that giant black nothing at the heart of his world.
*
He watched the light seep slowly into the darkness, but he was not watching the change, he was awake and the day was dawning before him and he felt as if he were not really there. He lay with his eyes open on the dark, aware of the familiar shapes of things in his room, but gazing blankly at the black square of ceiling above him.
It was a coffin lid. It was a door of a tomb: his father's. Was he already locked inside, or was he about to enter? Would there be more demons to face? Were they waiting for him, or would they come for him?
It was a hole he was falling upwards into, a nothingness he was being drawn into.
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But he felt curiously detached. There was no struggle, no panic, no thrashing and flailing of arms and legs. No screaming and spitting and cursing. He knew his fingers had not clenched into a fist, he knew he was quiet and still. He felt relaxed and at ease. He was empty of everything, or he was full of the ideas he was thinking and they left no room for wild emotions.
He knew his life had been changed. Something beyond his control had come along and turned his world upside down and inside out. He had been mangled, squeezed and wrung and left to dry, taken from the ocean bed and left high and dry.
He knew how a butterfly must feel emerging from its dead shell.
He knew how a snake must feel shedding its old skin.
New but the same. Different and new but the same: with bits and pieces that needed to be fitted together.
Yesterday he had had a father but he had not had that father, because that father was not there. He had a lost father who was not lost but away. He had lost a father who was not dead but missing. He had missed that father. He had hated that missing lost dead gone father for being missed lost dead and gone. He had lockered that father deep inside a black coffin for fear he should break out, and left him there. Safely locked away and the key buried deep deep deep. But not deep enough, not beyond the reach of this spring tide.
And the sea will give up its dead. He should have known, should have guessed that no deep is deep enough. And so, back he had come, like an Ancient Mariner. Changed and new, to change their lives forever.
Today he was waking to a father found, a father gained, a father come back. Waking to a father alive and well, who was a father ghost with the ghost of a love that was a toothless bloodless grin that would devour him. Risen from the grave, he was. Risen from the bottom of the sea where the blackness was so perfect and so crushing, where unknown monsters glowed with their own evil. How do you rise from that blackness? How do you come back from that?
And why?
His father had walked in and picked up that old thrown-away life as if it was a favourite but forgotten hat, just remembered. Picked it up and put it on and smiled in the mirror like it was a party trick that everyone would enjoy: just walked in on their lives because he had walked out of their lives: the one leading to the other and nobody even giving it a second thought. Hugs and smiles and 'Well, well, and where have you been all this time?' Like it was the most natural thing in the world for a lost dead missing father bastard to walk in the room and turn everything up and inside out. A turn up for the books.
And it was supposed to be a trip to Blackpool today. It had been his father's idea late last night, sure that the lad would enjoy a day or two by the sea and get to know his pa. He could have the time of his life.
John had listened in silence to the strained conversation in the living room. His mam had insisted that he rest on the settee in the front room, after scaring the lives out of them all with his silly faint. She had drawn the curtains, throwing the room into a sombre half light that reminded John of
Two Spirits Dancing page 44 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon death. He knew that front rooms were kept for just this sort of thing: old Mrs Moore around the corner had lain in her front room for two days before she was buried, her friends and neighbours and relatives all trooping in quietly to pay their respects. He wondered if he were going to die. Would his friends be coming in, whispering, awe-struck, giggling with grief? Would they be made to kiss his dead lips? That was what they did. Your parents made you kiss the dead goodbye.
Except this was different, because he was having to kiss the dead hello. He thought about it and knew he could never do that. A chilling, clammy sweat broke out on his brow at the very idea. He would never kiss that man hello, no matter what.
Blackpool. From the black depths of the bottomless ocean, to Blackpool. The Black Pool. From the sea to the sea. Blackpool: that was where his father was going to take him. That was where he would find out the truth, in the black pool of truth. His father must have the smell of the sea, the salt smack, the eternal whisperings. And now he would take John down to the sea, now he would take John down. He would take John.
Lying there, John struggled to make sense of it all. He thought he was going insane. He imagined it was all a bad bad nightmare, and he bit his tongue hard to wake himself from it. The blood in his mouth was like the salt sea where he was bound.
And in the next room they talked about him as if he were dead, or dying, talked in whispered tones. It seemed to him that dying always takes a long time. When the cowboys got shot in those Saturday morning pictures, that was not what death was like. That was too quick. He knew that death was a matter of dying over years and years, slowly, imperceptibly, inexorably.
But they would not get him that easily. His father was not going to walk in and take him off to any black pool, some sea briny tomb. He was a long way off dead. His father could go back where he came from: no loss this time. No tears and no bitterness. This time he would be cold hard steel, would show no feelings whatever, just black granite heartstone. That would sink him forever.
He was going to be out of reach, untouchable and unfathomable. He had fallen for it once, but now it was different. He could control it now. The faint was a betrayal, he knew that. His body had failed him, then, but it was a big test, a great shock, seeing his father's ghost like that. It would not happen again. He had sometimes wondered how he would react to seeing a ghost: now he knew. But he would be harder next time, if there was a next time. And he would not let it happen like that, because from now on he was going to look and plan ahead, to the very last detail, and that was how he would control it. Not let them sneak up on him and catch him unawares. Be prepared, and make sure he could see it coming. They were all in on it, this betraying you every step of the way. Your father won't be coming back, John. Here is your father, John. He's back, John. I hate your father, John, for what he's done to us. He's back, John, give him a big kiss. Give him a hug, John, tell him you love him.
But oh no. Never again. Not any more. They wouldn't catch him again, because from now on, he was going to be Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. First to the bottom of the beanstalk, first to the axe, first to react and chop off his head.
He had already begun. He had rehearsed the scene at breakfast, having learned the lines he must say, already practised in his head. He had even learned the lines that they would say, trying to make light of it all. They would not draw him again, not like before. The words were the thing, were his thing, and all he had to do was stick to the words. Play the play a thousand times, a thousand times
Two Spirits Dancing page 45 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon it's the same, as long as you stick to the words. That was their beauty, they held you to themselves. You controlled them and they controlled you. As long as you controlled them, you were safe. Listen to the stories again and again, like a child, and sing the song a million times, and play the tune forever. It was what you knew, what you know, and what you will know.
It was what you were, and it was what you are, and it was what you will be. No betrayal, no lies, no deceit.
*
Fred Lennon was all set to take him to Blackpool. His mum kissed him goodbye at the front door, tucked a clean handkerchief into his pocket and told him to be good. Aunt Mimi did not say a word: she was crying too much. One or two neighbours came to their doors and watched the prodigal father take away his child, a feeling of holiday in the air, a sense of something being celebrated.
John was somewhere else. He felt he was watching this scene from some secret vantage point, and he was invisible, looking on, studying expressions, listening to the awkward comments, watching this pale little boy handed over.
The first part of the journey was in silence. Fred did not want to take things too quickly and run the risk of spoiling the trip. He did not know quite what to make of his boy. That faint and John's detached air left him more than a shade unnerved. He had expected the boy to be agog with excitement, he had imagined John being wide-eyed with the thrill of having his pa back home, beside himself with happiness. The stories he could tell the lad, and the places he could talk about. John would find it wonderful, incredible.
It was not supposed to be like this.
He glanced at the boy. He sat with the side of his face pressed hard to the train window, gazing blankly at the world spinning past. His eyes were empty, and he was shrunken into a hard silence. Fred thought he had better not risk it yet: better to take it easy for the first day or so, just till the lad had had time to come round. It was going to be very difficult for the boy, he understood that. It was a big adjustment to make. Julia had warned him that this trip was not a good idea; it was too sudden, and perhaps she was right. After all, she knew the lad better.
But that was the whole point. A few days together would give him the chance to get to know his son, and give John a chance to know him. They both needed some time together, both deserved it, too. Blackpool was his idea, to get him away from Mimi and his ma, and into neutral territory. Give the lad a change of scene. It was bound to do the trick: after all, Blackpool was a magic place for kids, with so much to do, so much to see. The Pleasure Beach and all that. John would be so knocked out by it all.
He wanted to stroll along the beach, John at his side, hand in hand with the lad, and tell him why he had not been around much. There was a great deal to talk about. He would tell John straight, how
Two Spirits Dancing page 46 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon the war had put thousands of miles of ocean between him and his ma, but now they would be together again for good. He would understand. They said what a bright boy he was, how quick on the uptake he was, so he would tell him he knew how he must have felt, growing up with his pa the other side of the world, and, if he got the chance, explain to him, how he appreciated how hard it must have been for him, but it was just one of those things. Nobody was to blame. Blame the war, blame Hitler, and hopefully, John would understand.
John could see ahead, see what was coming. He could see a serious, slow walk along the sand, could see his father, hands in pockets, trying to feel at ease, trying to find the right moment, trying to find the right words. He knew that scene was there waiting to be acted out, and it had already been written. He studied his part. He had nothing to say; had to act dumb. He would say nothing: his lines had all been wiped, so he would do nothing and make the scene work.
It would not be easy, he knew that. He would not make it easy, anyway. He was determined to stay in control at all cost. That made him smile, the idea of cost. He had already paid everything and for what? For nothing. Not a very good deal, that, to pay all you have, for nothing. This man, this forgotten father, was expecting to reclaim him, like some suitcase he had left in lost property; just march in, pay the ticket and reclaim what is yours. Pawned and reclaimed.
But it was not going to be that easy, because John would not let him do that. It was not going to be easy for either of them, he knew that, and John was determined that he was going to control this. This was not going to be some 'pass the parcel' game, no 'I claim you' charade. He would freeze it, hold it and make him squeeze out every word. Control it all, the pace and the scene and the mood. Pay it out slowly, carefully, and not let him get away with anything, but make him pay, this time, and for ever more.
Blackpool sands, Blackpool promenade, the lights and the amusements. Holiday smiles all around, and big picture postcard laughter and enjoyment and happy families.
No. Not happy families. Not happy: not family.
This stranger, with a past to catch up on, with a son to reclaim, with such a lot of talking to do, with so much that needed saying, so much that needed explaining, and so many missed conversations to make up. Where to begin? Where to begin?
Better not to try. Better not to bother, than try the impossible. There are things better left unsaid, he knew. What words could this stranger offer him?
The Walrus and the Carpenter, talking of many things: he loved that poem, the way it meant nothing and everything. He would be the Carpenter and say nothing when the knives were out. His father was the Walrus, smelling of the sea, drooling and dribbling oysters, the foul stench of betrayal on his every word.
And his mam too. Yes, she was guilty too.
She had him, and she let him go. Mimi had him, and let him go. Go to Blackpool. Go to hell, or just go. What did any of them care about him? They did not want him: that was pretty clear.
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Mimi said she loved him and Mimi said his mam loved him. They all said they loved him, of course they did, and they had always loved him: always. And always would love him. Yet they loved him so much they had to give him away.
Julia did not want him. Mimi did not want him. This stranger said he loved him, said he wanted him, said he has come back to make amends. To try to give what he took away. What did that mean? What did any of it mean? They spoke words that meant nothing, they changed the meaning to suit themselves, just as long as they cheated him out of everything. Cheated him out of love, cheated him out of his childhood, and what did they care? They did not know him, they knew nothing about him. How could they? How could they know what he thought or felt? They never bothered to ask, they never took the time to ask, and they never spent any time with him. They never gave him the time he wanted from them.
No love, no childhood, no past, no parents, no time.
No hope.
No future, except what he could make for himself.
*
It was about half way through the third week that Fred noticed a change in John. The lad seemed more relaxed, more at ease; some of the tension had gone. He knew he had to tread very softly now, but he felt sure John was beginning to come round, and the longer they stayed in Blackpool, the more chance there was of John accepting him completely. Fred knew he was making progress, and he appreciated that he could not hurry this affair, but at the same time he felt frustrated by the delicacy of the situation.
John had been closed to him for nearly the whole fortnight. He had shuttered himself away. They had been strangers trying to pretend the gulf between them did not matter. At least he had been trying, but John had been difficult, had really given him a hard time.
And this was harder than Fred had ever imagined it would be. He had had a long crossing from America to think about and run through what he would say to both Julia and John. He knew it would take time, and he was going to give it the time it needed, but he was convinced that slowly, surely, he would bring them round. Once they knew the circumstances, once they saw that he was determined to do right by them, then they could all be a family - for the first time, a real family. After all, John was his son, and Julia was his wife. Blood was thicker than water, and there was nothing could change that.
But this past fortnight in Blackpool had been tough. To start with he was just not prepared for it all. He had no idea how difficult it could be to get on with a five year old lad. He had seen lads of this age on some of the crossings he had done, and he'd spent the odd moment or two with them, chatted to them, watched them playing, that sort of thing, but this spending all day and every day with John was impossible. They did not like each other. They had nothing in common: there were times when they were total strangers. There was no other word for it. Everything he tried fell flat,
Two Spirits Dancing page 48 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon everything he said died. And when he let the silence run, he could see the distance between them growing, growing, growing.
John gazed at the amusements with blank, dead eyes. He walked on the beach as if it was a lifeless desert.
Meal times were the worst. John ate like a condemned prisoner, slowly chewing the food as though every mouthful might be poisoned. Fred found all his attempts to lighten the atmosphere were met with a stony, blank stare.
But at last, near the end of the holiday, there was a glimmer of light. They had spent the afternoon just browsing round the souvenir shops, John taking very little interest in the gaudy, cheap plastic bits and pieces. Fred had felt the cold tension that had become a feature of their walks.
The other side of the street was a small amusement arcade, its noise and clatter drawing people in. Fred noticed John glance across. Fred saw his chance. He stepped off the pavement and was into the road before John could close that opening. He dare not look to see if John followed: he just hoped and prayed and trusted that he would.
He drew some coppers out of his pocket with a terrific, very deliberate jingle, and noticed that John was by his side. This was it. Don't break the spell now. Take it easy, slow and easy. He wanted to turn to his son and pour the money into his hands and just let him loose on those machines, never mind how much it took, just let him spend it all and enjoy himself, and he would keep on finding the pennies and the tanners and whatever it took. But he knew that was not the way. John stood still for a second, as if suddenly stopped by the thought that coming into this place was another big mistake. As if any moment now he would turn away and walk out into the street. Fred knew that his son had to be convinced that he was in charge, that he was the one who would decide whether they stay or go.
He was aware that John had wandered into the corner over to his left. He let him go, playing him like a fish. He would reel him in soon.
John had noticed the mirrors. A row of five large mirrors, distorting mirrors, stood along the back wall. They were somehow out of place, but they still drew John. They were like doorways out and through, like magic doorways beyond, to another place, to all kinds of other secret places.
He stood before them, and one by one he tried them all, slowly, seriously, studying the effect they had on this frail, five year old figure that was himself. Except this was not him, this was another John. Taller, thinner. Shorter, fatter. These were other Johns, but they were him, too. They stared at him as if puzzled that anyone could look like that, as if these other Johns were real and normal, as if he were the circus freak.
The end mirror held John longest. It made his body short and fat and bulged in the middle, and it showed that gaping black hole inside him. There it was for all to see. Almost perfectly round, and black as nothing ever could be, that gaping emptiness, that gaping great nothingness that he thought he had been imagining: it was really there. And standing right beside him, his missing, long lost father could not fail to plainly see it. Look what you've done to me! Look what you've done! Look what you've done to me! He screamed silently, knowing there was no need, knowing his father knew.
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And Fred knew that it was not a matter of finding the right things to do or the right words to say, and though he could see it in his son’s eyes, there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to heal the wounds. He had no magic wand, he had nothing but empty, lost years and nothing to fill them with.
But at least he knew now what he was up against, or rather he had some idea of what the lad must be thinking and feeling deep inside. He knew that John too had no way to talk about his pain, because there just were not the words.
They stood looking at each other in that mirror, looking at their reflections looking back at them. Father and son, meeting for the first time. Really seeing each other for the first time, and at last, or at first, recognising the pain they shared. In that twisted sheet of glass, Fred saw the screwed up agony of the boy, and in that crazy mirror John saw the wrung misery of the man.
John's eyes filled with tears. He felt his lip tremble and quiver, and he wondered whether his dad could see him breaking up. Immediately, he fought for control, and fought desperately, cursing those tears for falling. But it was no good. He knew about fighting losing battles: he had been fighting them all his life. He blinked, and tried to peer up at his father's face, but the tears merely added to the distortion of the mirror, and with the battle lost, he turned and buried his face in Fred's jacket and sobbed and sobbed.
*
In the early evening they passed the funfair, when the strings of coloured lights were at their brightest, and Fred could not help noticing the sparkle in John's eyes. He had hold of the boy's hand: they had been talking like father and son and it was John who tugged him through the archway gate, and then stood agog at the colours, the blare of lights and music. There was wonder in his face.
He pointed to the spindly frame of the Big Wheel: John held his crook-necked stare while it turned almost lazily through three slow cycles. "Fancy a ride on that, lad?" John shook his head and stood there a long moment more, and then pulled him off through the crowds, a mixture of wonder and fright in his face. He was skipping to the jumble of music that came from all sides, and dragging his dad along behind him. They were surrounded by noise and colours and energy, a whole whirling galaxy that had crashed to Earth.
Fred could hardly keep up. He had never seen John so excited, so exuberant. The lad was dancing, twirling, skipping, weaving himself through the crowd, seeming to skim off the edges of the rides, drawing his energy from them.
In the heart of the funfair he stopped, as if he knew he were at the still point. He stood, slowly, slowly turning, taking it all in. Fred watched him, silent at his side.
John gazed at a giant, thundering, quivering ride of spinning chariots, almost throwing people out of its own tight circle. He was transfixed. He could feel the rush of wind as the thing whipped round and round, as if trying to pull him in, suck him to its centre. Its garish colours, its whiplash
Two Spirits Dancing page 50 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon arms, like an octopus hungry for more. It screamed and hissed, the chariots rose and fell. Faces whizzed past, laughing, shrieking, distorted with fun or fear, pain or pleasure.
"If yer wanting to try that...forget it. Yer won't get me on that thing. See what it's called? Waltzer. Some Waltz. Yer ma'd murder me, if she knew I'd taken yer on that."
But John stood fascinated. He knew what a waltz was, he'd danced with Aunt Mimi at Christmas, awkwardly shuffling his feet, trying to avoid the toes of her shoes. This was something else, something terrible. They were clinging on for dear life. It was murder. Those people looked like they were being murdered, and sounded like it too, wails and screams, and bloodcurdling cries in the darkness. Yet they were screaming with delight, laughing at their own spinning round and round and going nowhere. Spinning: out of control.
John wondered what it must be like, to let go, to be out of control for just a little while? Perhaps that was what they were so happy about, perhaps you had to let yourself go sometimes and lose control and let yourself go, spinning, trapped. Going but not going.
"Shall we be off? Eh, lad? Find something for youse to go on? A bit more gentle, like."
And now Fred led the way, and John looked everywhere and listened to everything, trying to capture the laughter and the excitement.
A train-like thing clattered and rattled its way through a swing door, frightening the life out of John, who was looking back over his shoulder. "It's alright. Only the Ghost Train, coming into its station." Fred laughed to see the look on John's face. "Go on it if yer want?" John could not answer. "I'll hold yer hand. No need to be frightened. It’s not real ghosts, in there."
On the opposite side, it seemed as a rival, another doorway crashed open, another train swung into view. The Tunnel of Love spat out another dozen victims.
"We'll find yer a Merry Go Round, for yer to ride on. There's a nice little Carousel somewhere over there. Youse can have a couple of rides on that if yer like. Eh, John? What do yer say? Would yer like that?"
And off they went, John still skipping and swinging his arms wildly, laughing and aglow with a new-found delight.
John did not understand it, did not understand either the how or the why, did not understand even that certain moments can have a significance that reverberates through your life, but he did know that he would never forget this funfair, never forget being surrounded by light, colour, people, music, energy and excitement, thrill and fright.
*
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New York, Friday December 5th 1980
Mark Chapman had had time to think and talk things through, on the long and uneventful flight from Honolulu to Chicago, where his grandmother had lived most of her life. She'd loved the islands, especially Oahu itself, and had extended her visit by nearly a week. It had been his mother's idea for her to come out and see them in this new life of theirs. At first she'd said she was too old to fly half way round the world, but Mark had insisted. He knew it was about time the family tried to get itself together, perhaps one last time.
Mark and his grandmother had always been close. He did not have to pretend with her. She knew when things were going well, and when things weren't. What he liked about her, was that you didn't have to tell her. When he'd gone up to Chicago after his graduation in 1973, with Mike, they'd chosen that cold, cold city partly because she would be on hand if they needed her. She was that sort, always ready to help. She'd be there without you asking her.
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He was pleased she was impressed with what he'd shown her of Oahu. They'd really done the tourist thing: Waikiki Beach, Diamond Mountain, Kailua Bay. They'd been all over, and she'd loved it, marvelling at the real Fantasy Island stuff. And it had brought them closer together. Mark felt closer to his mother too, and she needed that: she'd found it hard to adjust after her divorce.
Throughout his grandmother's vacation, and particularly on the return flight, Mark and she had talked over everything. They seemed to have so much to say. She shared her perceptions and memories of his childhood, and he told her how frustrated he'd felt through his teens, when he'd gone off the rails and got mixed up in some heavy stuff, drugs and all that. He really felt all this talk was a kind of settling up of accounts, a kind of closing things down, and she seemed to regard it in the same light.
The couple of days he'd stayed in Chicago, they had been good for him too. He had looked up the apartments where he and Mike had stayed, when they'd come to Chicago to seek fame and fortune as entertainers, all those years ago. Mark could smile wryly now: at the time Chicago had destroyed his dream, and partly devastated him, and he had never really got over that, never felt quite so sure of himself after that.
But it was good to re-visit their old haunts. It somehow tidied them away in the past where they belonged, lay them to rest at last.
He wondered whether to let Dave Moore know he was in town. He owed Dave so much, owed the YMCA so much. But this wasn't the time. They had seen each other last, in Geneva, when Mark had been on his world trip. Mark felt nothing could possibly match that meeting, so he had left Chicago without seeing or even calling Dave. Perhaps there would be another time, or perhaps it was better to leave it with the high in Geneva.
It had saddened him, but he could not share this thing with Dave.
For some time now, Mark had been aware that things were coming together. Lines were converging, different strands were being twisted together, that much he knew, but he didn't know how to think about it or talk about it: not even to himself. He didn't really know how to handle it. Sometimes it just seemed like a lot of crazy things gelling in his mind, sometimes it was so real: unbelievably real, other times it was just crazy. It was spooky: it freaked him out. But it was so obvious. Things screamed at him, seized hold of him, with their unmistakable significance.
He'd had some tough times lately: when things just didn't seem to work out like he planned. Just when he felt he was getting somewhere, it all started falling apart: that seemed to be the story of his life. He'd enjoyed working at the Castle Memorial Hospital, but then he found out they were pissing him around. He was a good security guard, but they didn't really trust him. It was depressingly predictable; always the same. He made a great start to things, but just couldn't seem to keep it going.
The Castle had helped him adjust. That couple of weeks he spent there, getting first rate treatment, had really shown him how to pull himself together, and things had definitely got better after that. Gloria understood the kind of pressures he was under, but she couldn't help much. It was something he had to work out for himself, and he was doing it: they were pleased with the progress he had made.
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At the Castle, he'd learned how to look back and put things into perspective. Go over and over it all till it made sense. Then, and only then, could he start to deal with the uncertainties of the future. That was how he had managed to hold on to himself and not come apart at the seams.
It wasn't difficult to go back to where he felt things had gone wrong, though the last ten years provided plenty of scope. In all that time, he'd never felt part of his family. Never got on with his old man. Had never been close to his mom. Had never been able to share things with his sister, Susan.
*
Mark could almost feel the heavy atmosphere as he reached the bottom of the stairs. That cold, stony silence that had become a feature of their relationship. They had yelled at each other last night: now came the Ice age. It was becoming his old man's trade mark. There he sat, sure enough, just as Mark knew he'd be, always the same, same pose, right down to the left hand resting lightly by the side of the plate, clutching a screwed up napkin. Another breakfast keeping his head down, another meal time on edge. It was all too much.
Mark decided he would go on the offensive. He threw himself onto his chair and shuffled it closer to the table. It was designed to annoy. "And a bright and lovely morning to you." Mark looked up and grinned. Silence. "I see we have happy smiling faces once again." "Cut the smart-ass comments." "You know, you said that without moving your lips. Ever tried going on stage?" The left hand, so fast it was like magic, had clenched itself into a fist, risen, paused, and come crashing down on the table, upsetting the cup of coffee nearby, sending a black slick rolling across the surface.
"You and your damn smart-ass wisecracks. That's all we ever get from you now. Damn stupid, smart-ass nothing junk." "Yeah, and all I ever get from you is this silent treatment. Like I'm not here. Like I don't count. Well, I do! I do count! OK?" His father glared at him across the table. “When you start making something of your life, that’s when you’ll count.” “Oh, yeah. Ha ha. Very funny.”
David Chapman sat very upright and still, gripping and releasing his fist with slow, deliberate rhythm, trying to regain control. He steadied his breathing, but he felt his whole body tense and knotted. The coffee continued to spread. Let it. God, he hated these scenes. Almost every Goddamn day the same. And for what?
He looked across at Mark. He no longer knew his son. This wasn't the boy he'd brought up, the Mark who'd been so keen to learn to play the guitar. This wasn't the happy, smiling youngster he'd taken to ball games, or over to choral practice at Columbia High.
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"What you staring at?" Mark challenged, but coldly, quietly.
His father shook his head. "I don't really know. That's the saddest part. I'm looking at you, but I don't really know you any more." "Now who's being a smart-ass? First you give me this silent stuff, then you talk in riddles. Jesus! I’ve had enough of this shit."
Stung into response, David Chapman stabbed a finger at Mark. "You will not cuss and blaspheme in this house. We have told you that. We have told you and told you, I don't know how many times. And still you do it. Well, I will not have it. Your mother will not have it. We will not have it. That is not how we raised you." Each not was stabbed home across the table. The voice was hushed, strained and sharp with menace.
Mark leaned back and ran his fingers slowly through his shoulder length hair. It was one of his habits, and he knew it did a lot of damage. He shook his head, feeling the hair swing against the nape of his neck. He hoped he could keep cool, or at least appear to, and he knew, he counted on it, he had to deflect the attack onto his hairstyle. It was a tried and tested tactic, and it never failed. It drove his old man mad. Years of USAF crew-cuts had made his old man paranoid about long hair. So the hairstyle was his fall-back position, his territory. The fight on his terms: it would lead to his victory.
"Leave your Goddamn hair alone! All you ever do is preen yourself! All day long. Preening, preening, preening. Look at you! What the hell do you look like? Some Goddamn Hippie, who spends half the day in front of the mirror." "Oh, sorry Sarge. Yes Sir, Sergeant Sir, I'll get my hair cut straight away, Sergeant Daddy Sir." Mark threw in a salute for good measure. He knew it had worked. "What the hell have I got for a son? A Goddamn Hippie? A girl? A smart-ass, long-haired bum?"
He turned in utter exasperation towards Diane, Mark's mother, standing by the fridge. She was always the silent witness to the bitter attrition that was systematically destroying this family. She felt helpless, because there was nothing she could do. It was something very male, something that father and son had to slug out. She sometimes thought they were each trying to find their own space, each trying to push the other to the edge of the circle. Like that Japanese wrestling. Trying to make room for themselves.
She loved her husband, but she felt he was too hard on Mark. The boy could never do right. Yet Mark tried and tried to please his pa. He tried real hard to do the right thing. You couldn't run a home like a USAF base. You couldn't run a family like that. He was too strict. But she knew it was for Mark's own good. She knew Dave was really worried about who Mark was mixing with at Columbia High. There were a lot of kids into drugs, and she knew Dave was real worried that Mark was going that way. The long hair, the Hippie look, the wild behaviour. It was worrying the both of them, but Dave took it hard, took it kind of personal. She felt that somehow Mark was putting down everything his pa had been and done, everything he stood for. Dave felt it too. He'd been a good Sergeant. It had been his life. He'd been a good father. So proud of his boy. But lately...
"Is that what you really think of me? Gee, that's just great! My old man thinks I'm a no-good bum. You think I'm goddam queer, eh? Come on, is that what you think? Is it?"
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"I don't know what to think any more! That's the whole problem. I don't know what to think because you're just not the Mark you were. You've changed. Changed." "Yeah, I've changed alright. And perhaps I needed to change." Mark pushed his chair right back.
"We used to be close. We used to do things together. We used to talk to each other."
Mark up-ended his chair with savagery. There was a look of murder burning in his eyes.
"We used to be close? We used to talk? Don't make me laugh. We've never been close. We've never fuckin’ talked. We've never communicated. Oh yeah, you've told me what to do, told me what to be, every Goddamn day of my life. Well I'm not one of your freshfaced recruits, to be bawled at and shoved into some damned mould for your convenience. You don't like what I am? Well, tough shit! I'm me. Got that? I'm me. Me. I'm not a junior version of you. I'm me. But you don't want to listen, you don't want to see that, all you want to do is turn me out like you want me to be. And if I don't shape up, you yell at me, you put me down. That's all I've ever had from you. Call that talking? Talking! Jesus Christ! You don't know the meaning of the word. And you think we were close. Close! You know, I can't ever remember you once holding me, touching me, hugging me. Call that being close? You never came close to me. Not once. You always pushed me away. Always kept your distance. Like I…."
Mark spun round and stormed from the room. Seconds later the slam of the front door shook the house.
*
There was a fire burning in his head. The joint had not dowsed it, but he needed something far stronger. And he also needed to get away. He could see himself wasting his old man, one day, pulling out a gun and blasting his head right off his shoulders. They'd go at each other like that, and he'd walk out, go back cool as could be, get him in his room, alone, put a gun to his head, and blow him away. Just like that. He could see it coming, just like Jim Morrison sang it.
He was hitching to the station. He'd take a through train to New Orleans and lose himself for a while.
The first ride had come easy, some trucker had stopped for him straight off. He'd just finished the joint he had stashed away in the lining of his coat, when he was on his way. He didn't know whether the trucker thought he was an odd-ball or not, but Mark just could not concentrate on the conversation, and after a while, silence had settled.
The radio was turned up loud, and the cab filled with the sound of 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'. Mark had had to smile. Yeah, he could do with some LSD right now. Boy, did he need to trip. He sat still, rested his head on the seatback, and just listened to the music. He liked some of the Beatles' stuff, and he thought Sergeant Pepper was a great album, not only the songs, but the whole
Two Spirits Dancing page 56 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon concept. He'd spent hours poring over that cover, with its graveside scene, the floral tributes, the people gathered round, and the lurid colours. And that strange mirror image on the back, like they were looking out from the other side. And Paul turning his back on it all, as though not part of the Lonely Hearts Club band at all. Mourning for what they'd lost, like their past selves. It was like the death of how things used to be, and the start of something new. He could dig that.
He needed to make a break and start anew. He'd had enough of living in Green Forest Drive: he had had enough of other people running his life.
Mark turned up his collar and waited for the next truck to come along.
*
Mark had spent years running away from his parents and being alone. He often looked at them as if he didn't really know them, and couldn’t really reach them, because there was so much distance between. It was like they had their life, he had his, and there was no point of contact. When he did look closely at who they were, Mark just could not accept the neat, tidy, straight line lives they led. Everything cut and dried, everything sorted and sure. They believed so firmly in a world where everything was so simply good or evil, so obviously black or white, so clear and uncomplicated. Mark could not go along with that. He could see the world wasn't like that, and it was no good pretending it was. But his parents put their trust in their church's teaching, in their Bible classes and in their faith. They lived their faith and they expected Mark to do the same.
But Mark started to scorn everything they stood for: he rejected everything they believed in. If his old man saw himself as a soldier of Christ, digging in to halt the advance of evil, or as a bastion of the South, Mark saw it all as a sick joke; the whole religious thing was so crazy. He couldn't remember a time when the Lord Jesus Christ was not in their very home, sharing their meal, watching tv with them. To his parents it was all that real: to Mark it was just so phoney. There would be his pa, hands clasped in fervent thanksgiving for the meal before them, while on the tv in the corner, the Vietcong would claim another of our brave boys, or else a napalm blanket smothered another Gook village, or the cop car screamed round another corner on its way to the next murder scene.
Mark began to see he just did not fit in. No matter how hard he tried, and he tried so, really, so hard to please them, to make them proud of their son, to be the son he knew they wanted him to be. But it was no good, no matter what he tried.
And so he began to retreat further and further into himself, spending time in his room, surrounded by his Little People. They had scared him at first, when he first noticed them all around him, living in their tiny cave-like houses in his bedroom walls. But then he discovered he had some kind of hold over them, some kind of power that earned him their respect, even their fear. He could summon them and they would come, he could call for silence and they would obey. He could confide in them, he could command them, he could kill them by the thousands if they displeased him. He was their leader, their King. Even their God, if that is what he chose to be. He would assemble them, and hold meetings, like it was some kind of World Government, which it was – his
Two Spirits Dancing page 57 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon own world to rule and govern as he saw fit. He would discuss his feelings with them and listen to their advice, knowing he could trust them in a way, because they were afraid of his power.
He appointed Senators and Congressmen from among their ranks, giving some of them special responsibilities for the Arts and for Music and for Child Welfare programmes. And there was a Defence Department and a Secret Service, whose Special Agents would protect Mark wherever he went. It wasn’t a game, this, it was the only sane thing he could hold on to sometimes, when the rows with his pa got too much. He would shut himself in his room and call a meeting of the Little People and they would straighten him out.
He knew he had to choose his own course, and he knew it would run counter to his parents' wishes, but he felt he had to break away from them, had to make his own way in life. It was hard: at first Mark and his parents were like two trains on collision course, and the rows had been something else, like a tornado tearing through his life, lifting him up and dropping him in some alien world where nothing made sense. Then came a slow and long period of adjustment and a kind of compromise, but a compromise of drifting apart into indifference: not a compromise of coming together.
Mark couldn't talk to anyone but his People; his ma just did not understand. She saw only the best in people, which was fine, but it wasn't what Mark was seeing. His pa worked hard and provided them with what they needed, but Mark needed more than that. His sister was too young to appreciate what was going on and that just meant she and Mark were miles and miles apart.
He waited and waited for some of this love he kept hearing about, just a little bit of it, to come his way. His parents talked, sang, prayed it almost every day. They talked about the love of Jesus as if he were a part of the family, a close relative even. Where was Mark's share?
He felt outside of it all. Lonely. Left to himself. Not a part of this, but apart from.
He felt starved of affection, starved of attention in this family. Corny. But true: the classic mixed up, misunderstood adolescent. His salvation every time were the Little People: they never let him down, never showed him anything but respect and love.
It was like there were two worlds at home, the family world of confrontation and hurt and pain and misunderstanding; and the private world of his Little People, where he could be himself and be somebody.
And this alienation went beyond the comfortable and well-kept home of Forest Green Drive. When he went to choral practice, even when he joined the Fellowship Club of the South De Kalb YMCA, and tried his best to fit in, he still felt he was an outsider, an intruder.
And it was the same at school, although, at first, at Columbia High they treated him like a nobody. He was an average kind of kid, lost in the crowd, but they couldn't see he was different. Why was it nobody, apart from his People, could see that Mark David Chapman was a somebody?
But then the dope had changed that. The choice had been so clear: he either closed himself off and became some podgy little creep, or he opened the doors on a new Mark Chapman. “Pussy” they called him, meaning to hurt him, meaning to humiliate him, and they did, and it hurt deep.
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He was going to be a Mark Chapman who would force people to notice him for what he was. It seemed so easy to think like that, but he had to keep it vague for it to mean anything at all. There were no details, just an intention. It had not been a difficult choice to make. He knew that he was being stifled by his parents, ignored by his teachers: and he knew there was a something special to him that nobody had seen yet. He did not know what it was, or what it might be, but he knew there was something inside him that would make the world take note. One day.
So he chose to open up. The speed, the joints, the bombers, and then the acid; they all made him something special. So many of the kids pretended they were into stuff, and boasted they had taken so much and done such and such, but Mark had the guts to do it for real. He took whatever he could get. Mixed it and all. He knew they called him "Garbage head" but what the hell?
His grades went down, his attitude was lousy. He rowed with his teachers, and he shuffled around Columbia High looking like some down-and-out dope-head. But what the Hell? It was his life.
*
And then the Reverend Arthur Blessed came along. It seemed, when he spoke, he was speaking directly to Mark, speaking with the voice of God. Mark had gone there for a laugh, to see some crazy, soul-shaking preacher go through his act, but Mark had stood there and been transfixed. There, in that hall, he felt a laser knife sear its way through his chest, he felt hands reach inside and rip him apart, he felt spread-eagled and exposed. And the words were for him.
" Down, down, down. All my dope is gone. Go ahead. Say it. Sing it. Do it. Mash it down in the john. And be free. Free to open your heart to Jesus. You know, Jesus is the Greatest trip of all. With Jesus you are free. With Jesus you are high. All the time. Free and high. Can your dope match that? Listen to the word of God. Saint Mark tells us, "And Jesus, moved with compassion for the leper, put forth his hand, and touched him, and saith unto him; be thou clean." Be thou clean. Clean out that dope. Throw away those joints. Grind those pills into the dirt with your heel. The Lord saith 'Be thou clean!'
It was like a key turning in a lock. He had been shutting out Christ for years, bucking against his parents' belief, laughing at his friends and neighbours. But Jesus had really turned him inside out and opened him up.
Just like that: from dope head to Jesus freak. Friends thought it was a joke at first, but if they couldn't see the new Mark, then that was their problem. Mark cut them out of his life.
And with Jesus running the show, things got so much better. His whole life was transformed. He had always been quiet and gentle; now he became more genuinely caring and considerate, and he grew closer to his parents than he had ever felt before. They looked at him differently. Perhaps a bit suspiciously, but they welcomed the conversion. He knew they could at last see that he had a purpose and direction in life. They praised the Lord, and felt their son was at last doing things right.
He made new friends, lots of new friends. They loved his quiet humour, his compassion, his concern. Jesus was at the heart of everything he did, everything they did. At the prayer meetings
Two Spirits Dancing page 59 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon and the Bible study classes, they listened to Mark. They really listened to him, and he was somebody. They knew he had things to say. They wanted him to share his optimism with them, they wanted him to lead their group. They listened to him talking about Jesus and the Disciples, telling the parables and spreading the word. Each meeting would end with a call for Mark to take up the guitar and sing their praise of Jesus.
Jessica Blankinship came into his life. Mark met her at Bible study class and was at once captivated by her warm, open smile. He became obsessed with seeing her, and not a day went by without their seeing each other, doing things together. He made her laugh. That's what she said when he asked her what she saw in him. He made her laugh: he made her happy. She had fun when she was with him.
On one fantastic date, early on in their relationship, they had driven over to catch a movie in Atlanta. Mostly they went to the drive-ins just to be out and alone together, tonight they just wanted to be close. It had been wonderful. In fact, it had been so good, Mark was afraid he was having some kind of acid flashback. Every sense in his body seemed super-magnified that evening.
The movie had been 'The Wizard of Oz', one of Jessica's favourites, and they just sat there, really close, thrilled by the whole thing. Mark felt so high: he wondered if Jessica had noticed, but he dare not say anything because he knew for her, drugs were an evil. He thought she knew about his sinful past, but he was not going to push it, and not going to foul this up. So they had just held each other like young lovers, hardly saying anything, but not needing to: this was enough. And at the end of the movie, he noticed Jessica had been crying. She said she loved that movie, really loved it. She said she sometimes thought of herself as Dorothy, she'd been plucked up by a whirlwind and she was trying to find her way home. It was a crazy idea, and Mark was a little taken aback: to him, she always seemed so secure and in control.
"And I suppose you see me as the Tin Woodman?" he joked.
She laughed at that, and shook her head. "No, no. You are the Lion."
Mark had frowned: "Oh, I see, I'm a coward. Is that what you mean?" He pretended to be greatly hurt, pushing to the back of his mind the idea that she had heard the taunts of “Pussy”, hoping she was not going to tear out his heart.
But Jessica had turned to him and gazed deep into his eyes.
"Don't be silly. No, I mean you're gentle and caring and sensitive like the Lion is. Loving and loveable. A kind of protective person. You're not cowardly, you're just soft and kind and good."
And she had squeezed his hand so lovingly.
It had been a fantastic, magical evening. One he would never forget.
*
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Mark thought back to fall of 1973, and the disastrous escapade with Mike MacFarlane in Chicago. It was now painfully embarrassing, but at the time they had thought it was their first step to fame and fortune. And it was going to be their way of spreading the word of the Lord. After all, why should the Devil have the best music ? Their success in performing for the Bible classes and Scripture Unions was to launch them on a career in entertainment. Mike was full of it, though Mark was not so sure: he jokingly thought they were like David and Jonathan, and he was David called to play before King Saul, summoned to cast out the Lord's evil spirit. But Mike convinced him they were going to take Chicago by storm and put Jesus top of the charts. That was the idea, anyhow. He now saw how immature he had been.
The Club they worked had been the pits. It stank. The whole thing was menacing, threatening. The owner and the staff and the audience had been hostile, from the moment they stepped into the place. Mark was not expecting an easy ride, he knew it was going to be tough getting their act established, but he had not been prepared for what happened. He was shocked that everybody assumed he and Mike were gay. That really freaked him out.
Far from spreading any kind of word, Mark felt like the proverbial "voice crying aloud in the wilderness."
Chicago had been like a crucifixion. On stage, with their guitars and their anecdotes, a few songs and a couple of jokes, in a routine Mike and he had worked out, Mark was savagely broken open and exposed. They could see right into him and through him. He felt his very substance had been stretched and thinned to the point where he would snap. Like a balloon, opaque and solid to start with, but blown thinner and more transparent with every breath, until he reached the point where he could take no more. It had scared him to discover just how vulnerable he was. He almost lost hold of himself.
After a few days they both admitted the obvious and quit.
Picking up the pieces had been difficult. Looking back, he just would not have made it without Jesus. And the help from the YMCA. They were great. They were always there with the support he needed, and he could talk to them, and he knew they would listen and understand. They would hear him out, even when it was so difficult to put into words.
The summer schools and the camps they arranged had been his salvation: he could see that now. He was a natural with kids. Everybody said so. He was most at ease when surrounded by scores of excited kids, all yelling for his attention, and he gave them all the attention they needed. He made everything a game. Everything was fun. Hunts and quests and mysteries and fantastic adventures, and, boy, did they love it. He loved it too. It was like a warm light burning inside, and for the first time in his life he felt he was revealing the real Mark. He could really relax at the camps, and be himself. He didn't have to put on an act for kids, because he knew they saw through any kind of act. They hated phoneys. Had no time for them at all, and Mark understood that, so he just , his true self come through, and he was magic with them. He let himself be natural, and found the kids came flocking round him, clamouring for his attention.
They loved him. One of the Counsellors had called him a Pied Piper: he preferred the nickname the kids gave him: Captain Nemo.
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Mark remembered one occasion in particular. They had had a great day, taken up with a fantastic crazy Treasure Hunt that had lasted all afternoon. There they all were, gathered around the campfire, feeling real fine, and Mark had started telling one of his fantastic stories. It was something about a marvellous quest in an undersea kingdom, but that wasn't the point. It was the fact that he enchanted the kids with his tale, that was what was special. The fire gleamed in their eyes, they fed on every word, and it was pure magic.
"Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the Kingdom of God." His Gospel again. Mark’s own words meant for him.
Mark was doing so well. They were all so pleased with him and said he had real leadership potential. Assistant Director was a distinct possibility. That made him feel somebody; somebody special. He began planning a career with the Y, thinking that they had establishments all round the world, so it wouldn't just mean Georgia or Texas, it could mean Europe, or Central America, somewhere: Mexico, maybe. He had always wanted to travel. See the world. Reach right out as far as he could. It was one of his big dreams, to go right round the world, but not as a two bit tourist. That wasn't seeing a damn thing. No, he wanted to stay in each place a while, settle there for a month or two, and really get to know the place.
The way this summer camp job was shaping up, in a couple of years he could be a Regional Co- ordinator. He just had to keep proving he could do it, and get himself through college to get those qualifications they set such store by. They would help him all they could. They realised he wasn't an A student, but they knew he was wonderful with kids, and they would do everything they could to get him the qualifications he needed.
And Mark gave it his best shot. He really put his all into those studies, but it just wouldn't work out. He began to feel De Kalb Junior College just was not his scene. He tried, but he just couldn't keep it together. He did the work, he went to the seminars and the lectures, but somehow his heart wasn't in it. Sometimes, he'd come out of a class not having heard a single word that'd been spoken. There were so many other things on his mind. Not worries, not problems, just other things. They came between him and the work. He just couldn't concentrate and felt he was drifting, off target. He had no real fix on anything. He clung to Jessica harder than ever, but that was no good. He read the Bible knowing it held the answer, but the answer was hidden.
It was a period of his life when he seemed to be reading the Scriptures through a gauze veil. Nothing was clear anymore. Nothing had a sharp focus. The words had lost their meaning. He read the pages mechanically, looking and looking, but not seeing. He began to doubt himself. He began to doubt his faith. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps Jesus was not he answer. There was something he wasn't quite getting, something he was close to, but it was just out of reach. It was like swimming offshore, against dangerous currents, and suddenly realising you were drowning, and in your panic, you started treading water, harder and harder, but you were going down all the same.
He remembered one evening drive with Jessica. It was her idea: they had met that afternoon for Bible class, and she could see he was uptight and needed some space. So they had gone out of town, and it was a beautiful evening, so they just sat in that wonderful big old 65 Chevrolet of his, and talked and talked. She said he could talk about anything that came to mind, and she had let him do most of the talking, while she listened. He hadn't known where or how to start, but gradually he began to find the words.
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He told her about the frustrations he was feeling, the sense of restlessness that was gnawing away at him, the way things always started so well, but then started drifting away from him. He didn't know what it was, couldn't explain it clearly, but just trying to talk it through might help. He felt there was something he had to straighten out.
He talked about the pressure he felt coming from his friends, and what they expected of him. The pressure coming from his parents, and how he knew he would let them down, because he just didn’t feel he could meet their expectations. What was he going to do with his life? The kind of thing they always asked, and to which he had no real answers. And finally he got to the pressure he felt coming from her. He knew it was crazy, but he felt as though he were falling under her spell. He felt as if she was making him take the initiative all the time, expecting him to push the relationship on, make it grow and develop. But he didn't feel ready for that, he wanted them to be friends, always be the best of friends, but he felt she was pushing him into a physical relationship. He couldn't handle that. That would be altogether too heavy. She understood, she really did, though Mark wondered if he was hurting her, saying the things he did, but she shook her head slowly and gave him one of her loveliest smiles. She was so good for him. She really did understand him so well. He did not want to settle into a demanding relationship just yet. He maybe wanted to travel, first. He didn't know. She shouldn't take it personally: it wasn't her, it was him. He needed to get himself sorted out. Mark suggested they cool it down slightly, for a while. It would give him a chance to concentrate on his studies. She agreed, showing she was exactly the kind of friend he needed.
But even Jessica could only help him so far. Mark realised, that night, that he had to work this thing out himself, and also, that there was no easy solution: it might take a long time, but he was on his own. And realising that was both exhilarating and frightening.
He saw the full meaning of "And if a Kingdom be divided against itself, that Kingdom cannot stand." That's how he felt: divided against himself. Full of doubt, full of uncertainty, with the prospect of dropping out of College before him, because he felt he was getting nowhere, because he felt he was tuned to something else, but that something else was clear enough yet. The College was doing its best to put out a clear signal for him, but he wasn't picking it up. It was scrambled. Too much static. There was something else coming through, or starting to come through. There was nothing definite as yet, but Mark could feel something trying to come through to him. He was on stand-by to receive a message from God. That's what it felt like, exactly that.
It was incredibly scary one night, when he'd been studying late, and he'd fallen asleep in front of the tv. He remembered waking up suddenly, as if he'd heard a noise, only to find the tv screen snowed over, and hissing and crackling, and the room bathed in a ghostly cold blue light. He felt then, as if someone was trying so hard to get through to him, through the tv screen. For a while, it freaked him out.
The air was full of tv signals and radio signals and satellite signals, all passing into and through him, and everyone else. Being beamed and bounced around the world, raining down in a never- ending storm of silence. Signals minus a receiver.
Mark was uneasy, and restless. He felt he was failing in the one thing he was good at: working with kids. How could it be? It just didn't make sense. The strain was beginning to tell, and though there was nothing he could put his finger on, there was this nagging, insistent feeling that he had lost the fix he had. He was still seeing Jessica, and that too was not going so well now. After a date, they
Two Spirits Dancing page 63 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon now needed a couple of days break from each other, or else things spilled over. Mark knew he had to do something, or something had to be done.
And the Y came to his rescue once again. Through the newly set up International Camp Counsellor Program, Mark was offered the chance to work abroad for the YMCA. It was spring 1975, Mark had just turned twenty and he almost ran to check it out in the College Library Atlas: he was bound for Lebanon; Camp Faris, on the outskirts of Beirut.
*
Beirut was beautiful. It shone in the bright June sunshine: it positively gleamed. Coming down into the International Airport, Mark and Martin Andrews, an ICCP worker from Michigan, were craning for a sight of the crisp white hotels and villas that seemed to make up this city. Mark knew it was going to be everything he hoped for. He felt almost sick with excitement, like he was a little child feasting his eyes on a Christmas cake for the very first time.
They both knew they were in a different world. The light was different, far more intense, than Atlanta or Michigan. The sounds were half an octave higher. Colours were brighter. The scent of spices filled the air. The whole place was bustle and noise and wonderful. They were met by Ghassan Sayyah, Director of the Beirut YMCA, who pumped their hands energetically in welcome. They took a cab out through the city, doing a spot of sight-seeing: along the fantastic sweep of the Jun Mar Jirjis, where the sugar-ice city met the blue-silk ocean, to the impressive site of Camp Faris, looking more like a holiday resort than anything else, with a backdrop of grey and green pine-clad mountains beyond.
Mark was elated. Not a trace of jet-lag, despite the long haul. This was going to be great. Sayyah talked so fast about the start they had made, and what they hoped to do, both Mark and Martin could only nod and grin in agreement and anticipation.
They settled in quickly. Introductions were conducted at great pace, as if there was a matter of urgency about everything. Mark felt the energy of the place. It was like being on speed.
With some of the other ICCP workers, Mark spent a couple of days getting his bearings and playing the tourist. Sayyah was his guide on a number of occasions, taking him through the various and distinctly different quarters of the city: along wide boulevards of modern, luxury hotels, down lane- like streets of the poorer, and primitive hovels of the Sunni and Shi'ite Muslims; through the affluent Al Ashrafiyah district where most Maronite Christians lived. It was a city polarised and polarising. Mark had never seen such clearly marked distinctions. Down-town Atlanta was bad enough, and some of the kids he got at the summer camps back home, came from very deprived backgrounds, and yet, a few blocks up-town, there were always the wealthy neighbourhoods of a proud middle America. But nothing had prepared him for the level of poverty he witnessed in Beirut, or the ostentatious show of wealth. Side by side. Beggars in the gutters. Millionaires on the sidewalks.
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Muslims in the west: Christians in the east. In the middle, a tension that was tangible.
Two worlds. Joined, or on collision course? Joining or splitting? Coming together, or falling apart?
Mark was horrified and fascinated at what he saw all around him.
Perhaps this was why Mark had chosen Beirut. Or rather, this was why God had chosen to send Mark to this city tottering on the brink. That's how Mark thought of it: he was there to do the Lord's bidding. It was a time in his life when he needed to experience life on the cutting edge. His first choice had been Moscow: Communist, cold-war Moscow: a negative image of everything American. He had enrolled in Russian classes at Georgia State University, convinced he would be sent to Moscow, and he was devastated when the refusal came.
But Beirut would do. The more he learned about the city, its history and its present-day problems, he could see it was a city on the boil. It was the city that would act as a safety valve for the explosive pressures of the Middle East. And those pressures had been building up for some time.
If Mark was waiting, he did not have to wait long. Within a week of arriving, the city erupted in sectarian violence. The tearing apart had begun. Civil war broke out. Mortars exploded in the streets, rockets were fired at the hotels, car bombs maimed and mutilated, and machine-gun fire rattled and chattered all day long.
As if caught up in an earthquake, Beirut was splitting itself apart. The Green Line snaked across the city, keeping side from side. Separate. Split. And the war went on, and the divide grew wider.
Mark was thrilled by it all. He was seeing history first hand: he was caught up in it. He was right there in the middle of it all, and yet he felt strangely detached from it. The threat was so real, but the war seemed like a bizarre piece of theatre. It gave him a buzz, a real, tangible charge. It was kind of sexual. Voyeuristic, even. Or he felt he was exposing himself. He didn't know what to make of what was going on outside and around him, or what was going on inside. As an American, he was a prime target. He could be shot, he could be blown up, he could be taken hostage, because he was himself a target. He knew that. But he, himself, did not feel threatened.
It was so unreal. From his apartment window, Mark had a great view of the whole stage. The curtain had gone up: the pantomime had begun. Oh, what a lovely war. That was what it was like.
He sat in his bedroom and recorded, on cassette, the sounds from the street below: gun-fire, mortars and wailing sirens. It was going to be his sound track. It was all that close, that immediate. Like a John Wayne movie, and he was watching it and he was in it, waiting in the wings, faint with fear that he might not know the part he was expected to play.
This beautiful city was ripping itself apart. One side cutting itself away from the other in a brutal war. Bloody. Callous. It was living on a razor edge. He was so scared he would shake uncontrollably. He was so exhilarated he could not sleep.
It drew him closer to the other ICCP workers. They lived through it together, sharing each other's fear. They were each other's strength. Mark led them in prayer. He sang songs to keep their spirits high. It was a wonderful time of coming together. He had known Martin only two weeks, but he felt closer to him than he did to many of his closest friends back home.
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But it could not go on like this. The whole thing had just got out of hand. It was just too dangerous.
When the Beirut operation had to be closed down, and the ICCP workers told to evacuate Camp Faris within the next two days, Mark felt his world had collapsed. He was shattered. All his hopes came tumbling down. He was going to do such great things at Camp Faris. And now this. He could see it was hopeless, he could even feel a genuine sense of relief to be getting out of this situation, but he had not expected to meet failure and disappointment even before he had begun.
He could remember packing, hurriedly, Sayyah anxious to get them away safely, half of him wanting to go, half of him longing to stay.
*
Tony Adams, Executive Director of the South De Kalb branch of the YMCA, felt kind of responsible for Mark. He could see, when Mark came back, that the Beirut thing had left him devastated. Mark had had such high hopes, only to see them come crashing down so suddenly. The worrying thing was, he was sure Mark somehow blamed himself, saw himself as a failure. Of course, that was nonsense, but try telling that to Mark. He had to be seen to do well at everything he tried, was a true perfectionist, and if there was the slightest hint of things going wrong, then Mark went to pieces.
Tony got in touch with Bonnie Mairs at ICCP Headquarters, to see what they could do for Mark. She in turn, got in touch with Dave Moore, in Arkansas, the newly appointed Director of the Fort Chaffee camp for Vietnamese refugees. That would give Mark a real boost.
And Mark needed it. He had come back to Decatur feeling a total failure. His globetrotting had lasted just over two weeks, his imagined long-term career with the Y or with ICCP, was in ruins. He had returned after a fortnight and was a laughing stock. He could not face his parents, he could hardly face his friends, but he ended up staying with some former College associates, while he sorted out his life.
Mark hauled himself from the slough of despond into which he was sinking. At first, the Fort Chaffee job held no interest for him. he thought now was the time to make a break with the Y and all its spin-offs. He wanted that phase of his life to be closed. But what to do instead? It was Jessica who persuaded him to give Fort Chaffee a try. To her, it sounded perfect for Mark; laying on leisure activities for the children of nearly five thousand Vietnamese refugees. Mark would be in his element.
Reluctantly, he decide to give it a go.
And when Mark got there, as Assistant Director, he found it was all that he wished for, and more. The set up was fantastic, the prospects were great. He felt really blessed to be given the responsibility, and the opportunity of working with these kids. They were so fragile and so vulnerable: they had had their lives ravaged and damaged: they had lost moms and dads, had seen
Two Spirits Dancing page 66 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon sisters and brothers blown away. They had witnessed all the horrors of Hell, had been raped and burned with napalm, threatened and frightened out of their minds. Mark had never seen such kids. All that, and they still smiled, sang, laughed. They played, they enjoyed every minute of the day, full of life and energy and hope. They were fantastic, an inspiration. He had worked with some tough kids at the De Kalb Summer Camps, kids from the worst side of Atlanta, and Mark thought he knew what disadvantaged kids were like, but these kids were something else. He realised he knew nothing. And he wanted only to heal some of their wounds, and protect them all from any further harm. That was what God wanted him to do, he could see that now. And he would show them all, just how good he could do it.
In comparison, he saw himself, sadly and starkly immature and selfish: another spoilt brat from the good ol' U.S. of A.
Sure, his brief taste of Beirut had opened his eyes and heart to a world of pain and suffering and fear and loss, and a kind of meaningless madness that destroyed everything you were. But that was looking at it from the outside. That was days. These Vietnamese kids, with their bewildered eyes and frozen smiles, had survived years, not days, of that: for some, that had been their whole life. Mark could not even begin to appreciate what they had been through, and here he was, trying to repair the damage. He wondered why God had chosen him for this. It was a daunting task. What could he offer these fragile, eggshell minds? He didn't know, but he knew that God was somehow asking him to help them. The trip to Beirut had been a kind of crash-course to prepare him to help these hordes of lost and lovely children. They had lived through the most fiendish of wars: he had had a brief taste of a different war, but they could build from that common experience. And Mark also had his faith, and his love of children.
A couple of months into the job, and Mark was as happy as he had ever been. He loved what he was doing. He loved working with these kids. He loved it when they crowded around him, begging for attention, their voices high and excited. He wanted to share this. He wanted to let everyone know. So he called some friends back home in Atlanta, eager to let them spread the word he was doing so well. They had shared his disappointment with the Beirut trip, and Mark was keen they should know he was back on top at Fort Chaffee. He spent several evenings on the phone, excitedly telling them what the Vietnamese kids were like.
One or two of his friends called him back, and he was overjoyed that they thought so much of him. It really touched him. He had a couple of calls from Gary Schneider, a close friend since Columbia High days, and now working in the Sheriff’s office in Georgia. It was great to hear from him again. Gary had learned of Mark's work at the Camp from mutual friends. They got round to talking about him coming over to see Mark in Arkansas. Nothing definite, but Mark thought it would be a great to get together again.
He called Jessica to remind her that she had promised to visit him: he would love to see her. He wanted her to see him working with these wonderful kids. He wanted her to see that he was a success. And he wanted her to meet Dave Moore.
Jessica made the trip in October, intending to stay a week. Mark was over the moon. He strode around the Camp arm in arm with her, kind of showing her off to everyone. He felt great. He was so happy. She loved Fort Chaffee and everything they were trying to do there. She could see Mark was happier than she had ever known him, and seeing Mark like this, made her fall in love with him all over again. He seemed relaxed and easy, everything going his way.
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Dave had them round for an evening. He cooked a great meal, they had a couple of bottles of wine, and talked through most of the night. It was a memorable occasion. Mark was full of fun, laughing and joking all evening, really dramatising the Beirut thing, throwing himself around the room with every explosion, shaking his whole body with machine-gun fire, like a gangster in a Jimmy Cagney movie. All three of them shrieked with laughter. Jessica was radiant. Her lovely smile was turned on Mark all night long. Dave could see they were good for each other. He had never seen this side of Mark, before. He had struck Dave as a rather quiet and anxious kind of young man. Especially just lately. Mark had been a little withdrawn, kind of troubled, reserved, but Jessica brought out this other Mark Chapman. With her, he was like a little child. She thought he somehow seemed younger and more innocent.
Mark was delighted that Jessica spread her sunshine smile over everyone. In particular, he could see Dave was impressed with her. That counted a great deal. Mark had grown close to Dave in the few months they had known each other. Dave was older and so much more mature, and Mark looked up to him, respected his opinion, and looked to him for advice. They had had some long, serious discussions, and Mark always came away with the sense that he could learn from Dave. He seemed to know. His life seemed to be founded on solid rock: Mark felt he, by contrast, was trying to build on sand. Dave talked about going into the Church and that impressed Mark.
The friendship had grown from working closely together day in, day out. They worried over the same problems and they shared the same successes. It was understandable then. In many ways, Mark looked up to Dave Moore like a father figure. He was the kind of father he would have loved, but there was more to it than that. It calmed him, but it troubled him too, deeply troubled him. It scared him. It horrified him. The realisation had come suddenly, terrifyingly, catching him completely unawares: he felt himself attracted to Dave. It had come like a blinding flash, leaving Mark stunned, and in a kind of blackness.
Mark plunged himself into a period of meditation and prayer. What was happening to him? What was going on? This was crazy, just pure crazy. Complete madness. At first, Mark wanted to run away, and put some distance between him and Dave, but he couldn't. He knew he had to stay and work this out.
He fought hard to look deep inside himself; and when he couldn’t find an answer within, he asked God for guidance, for help, for strength. What he saw, was that the Devil was behind it. He knew Satan was real and not just spirit, but real flesh and blood: evil incarnate. As real as himself. And he knew Satan was always ready to pounce, would always be there to frustrate him in any way he could. That's how he works, and it just didn't make sense otherwise. Where else did these thoughts for Dave come from? Dave didn't encourage them. They were from within: evil, sick thoughts put there by the Devil, working within. Or else unclean spirits. Satan had so many evil spirits at his command. Mark must pray to God Almighty to help him through, pray for all he was worth.
He told himself he needed to get things sorted out with Jessica. Perhaps the underlying frustrations in their relationship, were what were causing this problem. If he could only straighten it all out with her, it might resolve the thing with Dave Moore. Did he love her? Did he even know what love was?
He called Jessica to arrange her visit, but he could never let her know the reason. Perhaps seeing her again, and spending some time with her in this fantastic Camp, surrounded by so much good, would strengthen his feelings for her, would re-awaken his love for her, and strengthen his faith. God, he hoped so.
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But, come early November, not only was Jessica's time up, Mark discovered that Fort Chaffee was beginning to wind down. Dave had really stunned him with the news: Mark had never been one for looking ahead, or planning long term, and he'd given no thought whatsoever to what he'd do when the work here was finished: it hadn’t crossed his mind. Most of the refugees had been allocated to families, and Dave advised Mark to start planning his next move.
"Stick with the Y. You're a natural with these kids. Get into the International Division. Maybe even the World Service Program. That's what you ought to do." Dave said it so matter-of-factly. "You see, Mark, someone has a lot of faith in you," smiled Jessica. "Take Dave's advice. He knows what he's talking about. I've been watching you here; you're like a little child who's found out that every day is Christmas. This is where you belong, doing work like this." Mark shook his head. "It's not as easy as that." "Of course it is. You've been marvellous here. Right for Fort Chaffee, and Fort Chaffee has been right for you." "Oh yeah. And what about the small problem of a certain degree I don't happen to have?" "There are ways round that." "Not for me there aren't. I've tried before. I can't get through a degree course. I just can't stick with it all." "What about if we went through it together?" And Jessica paused. "Meaning?" "Meaning that we both enrol on the course and we help each other through it. Together, I mean. You helping me, and me helping you. When it gets tough, we see it through together." Mark was shaking his head slowly. Dave was to one side, nodding. "There's something I'm not getting in this..." "Yes, Mark, I am saying what you think I'm saying. I'm talking about us, in a committed relationship. It'll be three years....” "Four." “...... O.K. four years, and we'll be together. O.K.? A kind of engagement if you like, if that's not too strong a way of putting it." "Sounds good to me," said Dave. "Why don't the two of you really take some time and think it through. It's a big step, I know, and you don't ought to rush into it. You know how you feel about each other. And Mark, you know how you feel about working on the kind of project we've got here. I'll leave you two a while. You've got some talking to do."
And so Dave bowed out. So simply, so beautifully simply, and Mark felt an overwhelming relief that events had taken the problem out of his hands. He thanked Jesus. He thanked Jesus with all his heart and soul. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was merely putting off the time when he would have to face the truth. He recalled the jibes from his old man, and the trauma of Chicago and the failure in Beirut. He had buried them deep down. But he might have to face it some day.
But for the moment, he'd won a reprieve. In a month or so, he would be gone from Fort Chaffee, Dave would be out of his life, and he'd be with Jessica. And perhaps together they could do it.
*
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"Hi, Mark? Gary here." "Gary! Hey, great to hear from you!" "How's things, then?" "Great, man. And you?" "I'm fine. Real fine. Could be better, but just fine. You know." "Gee, it really is good to hear from you." "I bet you say that to all the guys." "Yeah. Course I do. So what you been doin'?" "Oh, this and that. You know, keeping busy. How's life in sunny Arkansas?" "Just great, man." "And the Fort?" "O.K." "They made you Chief Boss yet?" "Yeah. Didn't I tell you?" "So when's the party?" "Gee, I am sorry. You missed it, man. We've been celebrating for a week!" "Thanks." "You're welcome." "Seriously, just thought I'd phone to see how's things with you?" "Just fine." "You O.K. Mark? You sound a bit down." "Well, could be better, as you said yourself." "Why? What's up?" "Nothing really." "Come on. I know you. I can tell when you're down. What's the problem?" "Oh, you know. Just when things were goin' well, it's all turned a bit sour." "Wha'd'ya mean, exactly?" "It's the camp, man. The whole thing is coming to a close." "You're kiddin'! When, for Christ's sake?" "New year." "What, man! That's crazy! Hey, I thought you were fixed till next summer at least. New year! Why, man?" "Just the way it's gone. Most of the families have been placed. So, end of story." "And end of job?" "Well, that's a little uncertain." "Wha'd'ya mean, exactly. They dumpin' you? Man, you bust a gut for them, you know you did. They just gonna 'Bye bye and thanks'?" "It's not like that, Gary." "Hey, don't take shit from those guys. What is it like, then? Tell me." "They want me to complete my degree." "You...they what? You mean back at College? What about bread, man? What'll you do for bread? "They see to that. Kind of sponsorship. Anyway, they reckon if I can finish a degree course, then I'll be in line for a job in the International Division. The World Service Program, maybe." "Maybe! For Christ's sake! Maybe my ass. Listen, man, you get 'em to commit themselves. I mean it. In writing. Tie 'em down to some kind of contract. They owe you, man. Jesus, you put everything into that camp."
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"I know. And I'm trying to sort something out. Jessica's been up here. We plan to go through the course together." "You and Jessica? What's this course, exactly? How long?" "Four years." "Four years! God! You'll be an old man when you get out." "It's College, not State Pen." "Where is it, then? Los Angeles?" "Tennessee. Covenant College." "Sounds holy." "Yeah, it is." "Hey, Mark, I never imagined you as a monk." "Ha ha. Very funny." "Jessica and you O.K., eh?" "Yeah, really good. I think the break from her has been good for the relationship." "Yeah, you sound like some preacher monk already." "Oh cut it out, Gary. Jesus, you really know how to wind a guy up." "O.K. man. Hey, so when do you reckon on quitting the Fort?" "Not really sure. It depends what we can sort out. Jessica and me, I mean." "Hmm, I was gonna come up and see you at Christmas. Bang goes that idea." "You were? Well, I mean, you can still come. I'd love to see you." "Nah. Not if it's finishing." "You can have Christmas here. I won't be starting at College till the new year at the earliest." "Hey. I've a better idea. Can you quit for Christmas?" "Suppose so. Why?" "You quit on them straight away. And I'll drive up there, pick you up and you can have Christmas in Atlanta." "I'm not goin' home, if that's what you're thinking. And I can't stay with Jessica." "Come and stay at my place. It's a humble little abode, man, but you're welcome." "You sure?" "Sure. Give it a shot."
The arrangements were made, the date set.
And so, Mark waited for Gary to arrive at Fort Chaffee, waited nervously, with expectation and hope. Mark felt privileged, even honoured, to think that Gary had invited him to stay with him. Mark had always looked up to Gary. He had done so for several years, ever since their days at Columbia High, where Gary had been three years his senior. They had had some great times together: had some downs, shared a few fantastic trips. Gary was so mature. He seemed so self- assured. He was grown up in lots of ways that Mark didn't feel he was. There was a certain air about him, of quiet authority. He kind of expected, demanded respect, and got it. Mark had always envied that.
Mark had packed his holdall. He had showered, shaved and put on a clean sweat-shirt and jeans. For once, his Todd Rundgren Tee-shirt was not good enough.
Waiting in the YMCA reception office, time really dragged. Mark kept glancing anxiously down the drive looking for the car that might be Gary's. He thought the arrangement to spend Christmas with Gary was great. He'd be in Atlanta, so he could look up his old friends. He could spend some time with Jessica, and finalise the details of the move over to Tennessee, and he'd be living in Gary's apartment. Jessica was pleased he'd sorted out something, and the Y had cleared it with
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Covenant College that they start their studies in January. It was all turning out really well. 1976 was going to be a new start. New year. New beginning. New life.
When Gary arrived, Mark rushed for the door. They greeted each other like long lost brothers. Gary had driven over straight from work, still, in fact, with his revolver tucked neatly into its holster. The white handle gleamed with evil intent. But for a moment, Mark had thought of him as the Lone Ranger, doing good wherever he went. "It's O.K. officer, I'll come quietly," Mark joked, and extended his wrists to await the imaginary handcuffs. "Hey, sorry. I didn't think. The kids here had better not see this." Gary unfastened the catch and lifted it out. "They've probably seen too many guns and things, eh?" "I shouldn't worry too much. There's not too many kids left around here. Anyhow, they're all off playing someplace. Let's see."
Mark took the gun like it was a holy relic. He studied it. Weighed it, first in one hand, then in the other.
"Never seen a gun before? queried Gary, smiling at the affectionate way Mark was caressing it. "Never this close. It's beautiful. You know, cool and hard and yet perfectly balanced. Got a real feel to it." "It is one Hell of a gun. You're right. You got good taste."
Mark was now looking down the sights, holding the weapon at arm's length, taking aim on a distant window. As if one thought ahead of him, Gary announced it was O.K., the thing wasn't loaded.
"Do you ever use this? I mean, you know, is it fired in anger? Or is it just for kind of show?" "Oh yeah, man. Shoot-outs every day. The barrel never gets a chance to cool down." Mark swung on Gary. "Freeze! Don't move a muscle, or you're wasted." Gary's face was transformed. "Quit clownin', you crazy mother. You don't play with it."
He knew it was just a bit of fun, but it was like the Gorgon had turned on Mark. The look on his face and in his eyes just froze him. He blanched, as if the life were being drained from him. Gary was stone still. Mark was stunned.
"Er..Er..Hey, sorry. I mean, really sorry. O.K.? I mean it. Stupid of me. O.K.?" Gary's ice-cold stare thawed slowly. Mark was flushed with embarrassment, but the moment passed. "You ready?" Mark nodded. "Let's go then."
And Mark picked up his holdall and followed Gary out to the pick-up.
*
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The year began with optimism, the course began with determination and dedication. And it began with such high hopes, because Mark felt he could do this and make a success of it, so he was quietly positive. Jessica, in contrast, was as level-headed and resolute as ever.
But it all went wrong.
Early in the semester, Mark could see that the course was going to be more demanding than he had imagined. Most of the classes were a real drag. Most were too much. Jessica struggled too, and tried to help him through, but Mark was out of his depth. However, some topics were truly fascinating, and it was these that Mark concentrated on, thinking that as he couldn't possibly do everything well, he was going to do what he could do, spectacularly well.
He particularly enjoyed the Sociology and the Psychology classes. They looked at case histories, and did a lot of good seminar work. Mark was in his element, arguing points with the other students, putting forward his view of things. He got absorbed in a series of seminars that explored the sense of alienation that adolescents feel.
He loved how the Professor took them through both real and fictitious case studies. Mark found the factual stuff boring and difficult to follow, but somehow the fictional characters brought the concepts alive, so he could see them so clearly. It was like their personalities had been splayed out before him. The class studied Shakespeare's tragic heroes, in particular MacBeth as a character violently torn apart from within; then a brief study of Hamlet as a disturbed, young man in agony. They read some Poe, looking at the threat to, and ultimate destruction of, the psyche.
And then they read Salinger's 'The Catcher In The Rye' and it was like the signal had started to come through at last. Mark became absorbed in the text. He read it and re-read it, seeing in it and hearing in it something, a voice, calling to him. He could identify with it in a way that shook him to his roots.
He knew he was on the verge of some discovery. There was something there, something vital, but he still could not get it all. That's how it felt. Like an archaeologist, knowing he was close, but also knowing that he still had not discovered the hidden treasure, which was buried much deeper.
Jessica was concerned that Mark was pouring everything into this part of the course, and neglecting the rest. She could see he was failing: it was obvious. And she couldn't help. He just would not listen, and she had to stand back and watch as he threw himself into his work, ignoring her.
She saw how obsessive he was, how compulsive. When he was on to something, nothing else mattered. Nothing else came close. He wasn't interested in her, not at all. She watched the other students dating, strolling through the College grounds hand in hand, kissing hello, kissing goodbye, but they had nothing like that. Nothing. Mark never touched her. They were just like two kids who'd grown up next door to each other as best friends. There was no love. There was no sex. Not even an attempt by Mark. She would have welcomed it in some way. It would have shown he was normal.
She wanted it out in the open. A row, if that's what it had to come to; anything to shake up this nothing going on. It wasn’t distance, it was just disinterest. And she couldn't make the first move:
Two Spirits Dancing page 73 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon that would really scare him off, though she felt desperate to do something, she wanted to do something. Needed to. If only to put an end to the tension undermining everything they did. She had thought the physical side of the relationship would cause the problems: it was ironic it was the absence of it that was doing the real damage.
Yet Mark was oblivious to all this. He was putting so much into the studies, he was dooming himself to failure. And he just could not, or would not see it.
When they had spent those days together at Fort Chaffee, Mark had been so loving, and it had been great. She really thought they could make it, but then, after spending Christmas and New Year with his precious friend Gary, Mark seemed different. Cooler, quieter, even remote at times, a sort of anxiety in his eyes. Their talk then, of 1976, had been full of hope and enthusiasm: now each day passed with a sense that they were drifting slowly, but inexorably, apart.
When it came, their one big row was over Gary. She had been trying to get Mark to talk about what was going wrong. Trying to see where they had come off the tracks. She took Mark back to October, November last year, to Fort Chaffee. Then they had had a good Christmas, when they were really close. But here they were, March, and it had all crumbled into dust. It didn't make sense.
And then she made an off-the-cuff comment to the effect that Mark seemed happier with Gary, than he was with her. Mark exploded. That's the only way to describe it. He exploded. It was so sudden and so unexpected, she had been utterly shocked by it. Stunned. And she became frightened by this anger coming from him; he was murderous. And then, she was frightened not so much by what he was saying, but by the fact that he was over-reacting to this degree. That was the chilling part. That was what told her she had really touched a red, raw nerve end.
It wasn't meant like that. She didn't mean to imply anything. But, that moment, she saw revealed, an ugly, a different, a terrifying Mark. This wasn't the kind, gentle man she had fallen in love with: this was someone else.
*
"Lord Jesus, my Saviour, please guide me, please show me the way. Come into my life once more, take me by the hand and lead me out of this mess. Everything has gone wrong, Lord, you know that. Everything I hoped for, everything I worked for, seems to be falling apart. I just don't understand, Lord. Show me. Tell me. Help me to see where I've gone astray.
I know I am unworthy, I know I have sinned badly in your sight. You see all things. You see into the heart of all things. You see right into the very heart of me, and you see the anguish, the trouble, that is there. Please, Lord, help me and heal me. Make me whole again, and bring me back into the fold, like the good shepherd you are. Restore me, sweet Jesus.
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Lord, I have tried to serve you. I have tried to follow your teachings. You know. I cannot hide anything from you. You know what I am. You know who I am. You know I took you into my life, I asked you in, when my life was a sick joke and you saved me, O Lord, and I gave my life to you. I rejoiced. I did your bidding, so please don't desert me now. You were my Lord and Saviour, then, be so now, I pray.
Another year, Lord Jesus, is drawing to a close, another year of my life. And looking back, O Lord, I can see I started this year with so much hope, filled with good intentions. I worked hard at my studies. They were not easy, you know, but I tried my best. I tried hard to keep myself worthy of you, too. I tried so hard to resist all temptations. You know how I tried. You saw the pain I went through. You watched me struggle. You watched me lose my way. You saw me getting nowhere. You knew I was in great despair. You knew I was coming apart at the seams, but you had to let me. I see that now.
And, Lord, I worked hard to keep Jessica happy, to keep our relationship strong and good. I thought if I could only stick at something, and build on a firm foundation, things would come right. I thought my faith was strong. I thought my work for you would bring its own reward.
But it was not to be. I told myself I was doing your work, but I was deceiving myself. And I was trying to deceive you. I know that now. I was being selfish. More selfish than I had ever been, thinking you wouldn't notice. Can you believe that, O Lord? I thought I could put one over on you. But Lord, thank you Lord, you showed me that was madness.
Lord Jesus, I thank you. You knew I was simply running away from the truth. Running from everything I am. And so you let me run, let me run myself out, O Lord, because you knew there was nowhere for me to run to. I couldn't run from you, Jesus. I couldn't hide from you. I had nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. And you had to let me discover that for myself, because I wouldn't listen to you. You were telling me clearly, Lord, but I wouldn't listen. Well, Jesus, I have quit running now. I see it now. As this year comes to a close, I thank you, Lord Jesus, for bringing me to the truth.
You were telling me, you were showing me, but I wasn't listening or seeing. But you made me see, Lord: finally forced me to face it. My going back to College was a big mistake. I see that now, O Lord. I was being distracted. I was losing my focus on things. You could see it, but I couldn't. I was slowly drifting away from the path I should have followed. The path you wanted me to follow. But I couldn't see it, Lord.
I was confused. For a while, Lord, everything good looked evil: everything evil looked good. And I was waiting. Waiting for a sign, a message. Waiting for something to come through. All that time you were patient with me, Lord. I was waiting for a message that had already found me. I had closed myself to you. And you waited patiently for me to open up again. Thank you, Lord, from the bottom of my heart and soul. Thank you for showing me the way out of Covenant College. Thank you, Lord, for calling to me in the wilderness. Thank you for showing me the way.
And you showed me other things I didn't want to see. You showed me that Jessica was not for me. That was hard to accept, Lord. It really was. I had thought Jessica and me were tailor-made for each other. We seemed so right. And yet, I can see now that that was self deception. Like before. But you knew it all the time, didn't you? Letting go of Jessica was the hardest thing I've done. The hardest thing you've asked of me.
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And thank you, Lord, for bringing Gary into my life. And with him, joy and peace and an inner calm. Bless him, O Lord, and the relationship we have, a loving, caring, honest relationship. He gave me stability, when everything was in turmoil.
Thank you Lord, for showing me that acceptance is the only true way. You know how I struggled. You know how I fought it. Inside, I was tearing myself in two. You knew. You understood. I was afraid of things. Afraid of failing, afraid of fouling up again, and afraid of letting everybody down. Afraid of the relationship with Gary. Afraid of where it might lead. Afraid that it might lead nowhere. Another failure. You see, Lord; so much fear inside of me. Afraid to make a move. Any move. Afraid not to make a move.
Thank you, Lord Jesus, for sticking by me. I thought I was full of sin. I thought I was betraying myself and betraying you. That's why I fought it. I didn't know what to do. I didn't understand what was going on. I still don't, O Lord. I ran from Fort Chaffee because I was afraid for myself. I thought the course would straighten me out. I thought some time with Jessica, would kind of sort things out. But I was cracking up, O Lord. And they couldn't see it because they were doing it to me.
And you answered my prayers. You showed me the way out. You see, I think I was afraid of myself, Lord. I know that sounds crazy, but its true. I couldn't see who I was. I didn't know. I felt like I was the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I thought quitting College was another failure. You, Lord, showed me it wasn't.
Thank you, O Lord.
Thank you, too, for giving me the strength to get through all this. At times it was a nightmare. The trouble at the South De Kalb summer camp was the worst. It really tore me up. I almost went to pieces then, but you kept me together. Yes, you saw me through.
You know what happened. You know there was nothing in it, my Lord. You know that the boy was a friend, that the friendship was innocent. Lord, you wanted me to work with children, to care for them, to protect them, to give them succour. I know that is the work you want me to do, Lord. And you know I would never harm them. They need protecting all the time. There's so much evil in the world, Lord. I have to be so vigilant.
There are those with evil in their minds: and they're everywhere. They see evil in everything. Even in something innocent and beautiful. They see it as sick, because they are sick. Sick with sin. And they tried to drag me down into their mire. But you gave me the strength to resist. Thank you, Lord. You saved me from their nightmare.
That was my darkest hour. That was when I was at my lowest. And you were there to save me. Thank you, Lord Jesus. You did not desert me. My family, Lord, did not want to know me. My friends did not want to see me. Jessica had gone. I had Gary, and I had you. Gary gave me comfort: you gave me strength. Gary took me in like a big brother. He looked after me, when I couldn't be bothered to eat properly, when everything seemed hopeless, he provided for me. I thank you, Lord Jesus.
And Gary stuck with me, when the YMCA turned their back on me. He saw to it that I was OK. And you, Lord, made sure I was OK. For that, Lord, I thank you.
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But you know, my Lord, because you can see into my very heart of hearts, that I am unhappy in my work. It just is not me. It doesn't satisfy my needs. You have seen that, and you have chosen another route for me to travel.
Lord, you know the frustrations I feel. You know the struggle inside of me. You have witnessed the violence of my heart, the searing white heat of pain. You know the torment I feel. And you have seen the hurt I have caused others: my family, my closest friends. And you have not judged me sinful. You have not condemned me for my sins. You are my Saviour. I know you forgive me. I know you love me.
Lord Jesus Christ, my Saviour, I feel you have other plans for me. I know it for sure. I live in the conviction that I will do your work. And, Lord, I am, and always will be, your humble servant, to do whatever you require of me. I believe you have called me to begin a new life. A life of prayer and service. Lord, you have called me, and I believe in you. Guide me in what you want me to do. Show me clearly, the path you want me to take.
Yours is the Kingdom, the power and the glory.
Forever and ever. Amen."
*
He remembered Dave Moore used to talk about Hawaii, used to say it was like a Paradise isle, so far away from everywhere else, it was its own little world. Mark thought that sounded wonderful.
Dave had stopped off at Honolulu to "de-compress" after getting out of Saigon just before everything there collapsed in on itself. He'd talked about the nightmare of Vietnam, shaking his head all the time, as if trying to deny that any of it could have happened the way it did. It was unbelievable, the traumatic hangover from that war. The only way he could make sense of Vietnam, was to regard it as a kind of collective madness on a national scale. He'd only been there a short time, but that was enough. And at least he got out alive and almost whole. But he had needed some mighty powerful antidote. The Hawaiian Islands were perfect.
There, Dave had been able to cleanse himself in a way. Get his head together, and straighten himself out. It was something to do with the 'other world' atmosphere of Hawaii, perhaps something to do with the sea, or something to do with its position where East meets West. A kind of still point of a turning world, that's how he spoke of it.
The idea intrigued Mark. It grew and grew till he could think of nothing else. Dave had said it was a kind of Garden of Eden. A tropical Paradise, warm, beautiful. Relaxed and serene; a brave new world. A place where you could find yourself, where you could be yourself, an antidote to this old sick world where children were orphans and cried themselves to sleep.
Mark knew he needed to start anew. Everything in his life had so far been temporary, short-term. That was no good. He always made great starts, but couldn't keep it going. It was all O.K. for a while, but then....that was the story of his life.
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And he could see, over the last few months, a new twist to the tale. He was changing, and for the worse. It was worrying him more and more. This last year had been one thing after another. He just couldn't settle to anything. He felt secure with Gary, but there was something eating away at him, something inside him. He just seemed to be getting more edgy, more violent. He couldn't put a finger on anything in particular, but he'd noticed himself living on a short fuse. Everything seemed to bug him. Everything seemed to wind him a little tighter, and a little tighter, until he'd explode in rage. That wasn't him. He'd never been like that before. He just had so much on his mind, these days. Too much.
He had trouble holding on to things: there were times he felt he was losing hold on himself. He tried so hard to hold it together, tried so much to do the right thing, but it all came to nothing. He'd split from his family. He'd split from his friends. He'd split from the Y. And he'd split from Jessica. Perhaps the real problem was that he needed to split from himself, but couldn't. And sometimes he felt that was exactly what he was doing - splitting from himself - and he didn't know how to keep himself together.
He was holding on to God, still. His faith would not betray him. He was sure of that. But it was harder than ever. Cutting loose from the YMCA was a shattering blow. For a couple of days, Mark thought he had cut himself off from God. He couldn't pray. He couldn't find the words to talk to Jesus, like the friend he knew He was. That had scared Mark. Really scared him. What would he do without God? What would he be? Who would he be?
Here he was, twenty two years old, going nowhere. Drifting away from everything he'd ever aimed for, and perhaps, into a different kind of relationship with Gary. It scared him to death. Was he gay? Was he? He could hardly face the question, let alone give the answer. Was this what it was all about? Was this what he had to come to terms with? But, he hated the idea. It made him sick. He'd had terrible nightmares about it. He was sure it was sinful. And yet...and yet, perhaps it was him. Maybe. Maybe. Whatever the truth, he knew one thing for sure: this whole damned thing was tearing him apart. There was a part of him that could live with it: there was another part that wanted to run from it.
He had always regarded Gary as a really good buddy, the very best. The kind of guy who'd stick by you no matter what. In fact, when he broke up with Jessica, and then with the Y, Gary had been a tower of strength. He was like a big brother. Or sometimes, Mark regarded him as a kind of father. That was all he wanted: someone to turn to, someone to lean on, someone to count on, someone to hold onto when the world shrugged you away.
But Gary was now leading him towards the kind of relationship he didn't feel right about. It was a pressure that was beginning to break him.
He hadn't felt right about the Dave Moore thing: this was more clear-cut, and for that reason, was somehow worse.
He wasn't sure Gary would understand. They were very close, but in some respects Mark was afraid of Gary. He didn't know how to bring up the subject. He was holding off for the time being, but Mark knew he had to do something soon. Gary might be really hostile to the idea of him quitting his job, and running off half-way round the world. There would be a Hell of a row, and when Gary was mad, Mark felt like a naughty little child. It was something Mark was dreading, because he did everything he could to please Gary.
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Gary had helped him get the job as security guard. He had trained him to shoot. On the Area Technical School course, Mark had scored above average, thanks to the practice he had put in with Gary, in the backwoods. And he liked his job. The gun, the uniform, the responsibility: it all made Mark feel really important, but he knew it wasn't the real Mark.
And when it came to it, Gary knew it wasn't him. There was no big row, no hysterics, no reaction at all. Sure, he was sad to lose a close friend, but he understood. But Hawaii? Man! Hawaii was something else. Why not head off to Dallas? Or New York, even? Hawaii! Far out!
They had had a couple of beers, Mark had tried to explain how he felt about everything, the restlessness and all, the feeling that there was something he would be called upon to do. He couldn't explain it, really. He didn't understand it himself, so how could he tell his best friend what was going on? Gary was good about it all. He listened, nodded, said very little.
And so, they talked through the night, about the last year. How it had all turned sour for Mark. It was their second Christmas together: this time last year, Gary had rescued him from Fort Chaffee, and Mark was building up hopes of a degree course, and a stable relationship with Jessica. And from there, who knew ? Jesus, how things change!
1976 was going to be Mark's new start. It had been a disaster. It left only bitter memories. They raised their glasses to better things in the New Year. Mark was going to make the biggest break of his life. It had to come off. And it would: they were both certain it would. It was going to be painful, there were close and tight bonds to cut, but Mark was determined to open a new chapter in his life, to start a whole new life. And, this time, get it together. And, this time, hold it together. 1977 was going to be different.
*
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Los Angeles, July 1974
The pressures were enormous, by now, although they had been building up for years. And when the split came, it took neither of them by surprise, it simply confirmed what they had been hiding from each other. As if there could have been anything they kept hidden, as if there had been one moment even, when they were not side by side, in each other's shadow, in each other's mind, and that was part of the problem, even, perhaps the whole problem. They had been together ever since their meeting and probably together too much. Like two parts of a single personality: complementary parts, mutually dependent, but together too much.
He began to realise it early 1973, began to actually notice the pressure building within. That was what shook him at first; the fact that while they were clinging to each other against the whole world, against the vitriolic cartoons and columnists, against the dismissive laughter, against all of that, their being together was causing them to drift apart. Realisation had been slow, because he was too close to it to see. That was what made it so hard.
They had been absorbed, together, in resisting the pressures outside their relationship, and they were inseparable. They had deliberately chosen to show the world that. United, equal, defending each other from everything else.
He'd been fighting all his life, one fight or another. Mostly, it was just lashing out blindly, wildly, because he never really knew what he was fighting. But this time they were together and they thought they knew, they thought all the pressure was coming from outside, and so they'd closed together to fight together. Not to fight each other. This struggle within their relationship was something completely unexpected, and when he saw it, too late, it cut him to the core.
It was all one giant struggle, battle, fight for identity. He knew that only too well. He hadn't needed Arthur Janov to tell him that. It was his life story: a search for who he really was. He had to fight all the way. Had to be tough. Hide your love away, turn your face to the wall. Those years had taught hard lessons he would never forget.
And he was still fighting: it wasn't over yet. Probably would never be over, till he was six feet under. Then they chiselled who you were. Cheats. Here he was, famous the world over, richer than he could calculate, and he was still fighting for his life: famous for being the Beatle he wasn't, rich from royalties from songs he now disowned.
The fight to kill off the Beatles had been a hard, prolonged one. A fight to break free of all that Beatle bullshit, a fight to be John Lennon. To be himself. Not one of four. To be with Yoko. A fight to break from the life he once had, from Cyn, the wife he once had, from Julian, the son he once had - but never knew, and just be himself. Then there was Yoko's fight for Kyoko, and her fight to be an artist in her own right, not because she hung on his arm: in her own right; like ‘in his own write’. He fought those battles with her, not against.
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And the fight that had taken it all out of him, that had knocked the stuffing out of him, the fight to hold onto this new life in America. Christ, it'd been so hard. That bloody Green Card. He'd had to get down on his bended knees, and they just would not leave him alone. The surveillance everywhere he went: mail intercepted: phones tapped: the appearances in court and out of court. Too much. It'd taken everything he had, and still they wanted more from him.
What more? Why couldn't they just let him be? Let him live his life the way he wanted? He wasn't going to lead some revolution. He wasn't going to go on breakfast tv and tell them all to drop acid and freak out. It was crazy. What did they want? That Jesus thing had been in 1966, for Christ's sake. Did they still hold that against him?
Those were the pressures. Inside, outside, within, without. Impossible pressures, building and building, and he knew it had to blow one day. Yoko knew it, and he knew it, too, though she was always far more open and honest about her feelings than he could be about his.
And when the split came, it had such terrible ferocity, it was an eruption. Or rather, it was an irruption, a shattering implosion. It propelled him from the East coast to the West, from New York to Los Angeles, as if, the power that had attracted them, that had brought them together and kept them together, that fantastic force, once destroyed, became the terrible power that would repel them forever.
And it took him down as well as out, flung him across and smashed him down. It was a nightmare, and yet worse than any nightmare. It was a letting go of everything that had to be held to, like Mailer's nightmare-dream-vision, or Burroughs, a descent into a private Hell. It had felt unreal because it had been beyond any concept of reality. He had felt like a character in a sensational, minor novel, playing a part, a Stephen Rojack or someone. But this was him. This was the him he had to break.
A lost weekend: a lost weekend that was endless. A weekend that lasted an eternal fifteen months, which had become a mad merry-go-round of booze and bars and drugs and demons. A concerted effort to destroy the man he was, or the man he had become, and start again. First, demolition : then, rebuilding.
After all, hadn't he done it before. Leaving behind the 'Fab Four' image and climbing into white bags and coming out a new John. Metamorphosis. And they thought he was mad.
He had done it before. Leaving behind so many layers of hard, brittle shell, plastered into place during his childhood. The Primal Therapy pared it away, slice by slice. But he had felt naked and exposed: vulnerable. He hadn't felt so wide open since his childhood, when he had trusted his mother, and she had betrayed him. So many years spent constructing the toughest shell he could, making himself one of the untouchables. The therapy had been a special, bitter-sweet agony. But he had slowly cut his way through. It too was like a metamorphosis, a new self emerging from a dead, chrysalis exo-skeleton.
The separation revealed he had to change once more. He ranted, he yelled, he swore his head off. No woman kicked John Lennon out. Hurt pride: the full works, but, deep down inside, he knew Yoko was right. He was impossible to live with. Morose, moody, miserable. Shut away in a room, watching tv with blank eyes. He knew she was right.
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So now he had more dross to cut through. If their closeness were the only problem, then separation from Yoko would have been simple. But this separation had been more like suicide for him. More of a death wish. He had been trying, desperately, to extinguish something inside. He didn't understand it yet. He knew he needed distance and time to work it out: perhaps, as well, the strength to kill it.
Yoko had planted a seed in him. She had nurtured and nourished it in the fertile soil of his mind. Grapefruit. Apples. She was all about making, or letting, things grow. She had shown him the softer, gentler side of himself. That was her unique art: to make you look at things, and therefore yourself, as if you were seeing them for the very first time, experiencing them for the very first time, capturing what they were: their essence. She revealed a John he did not know existed. She took him into bags, she took him into bed, she took him into white, to show him himself.
But she had also been stifling the artist in him. This new life came from the death of something inside. You get nothing for nothing in this world, he knew that. He knew it was a slow retreat, but it was still a retreat to the Dakota. He knew what it was, with its mock-Gothic facade a perfect setting for 'Rosemary's Baby', and the darker aspect of this place was a perfect symbol for him. It was a kind of energy dissipater. It was a kind of battery-store of negative charges.
Splitting to L.A. had been a kick-back, like a giant electric shock. It had charged him with a sizzling, restless energy, impossible to control, but he just had to ride with it. To hang on, and see where it took him. It had been exhilarating, and wonderful. The thrill of letting go. After years of oh- so-bloody-careful control, the bliss of letting go. Like a kid in a fantastic fairground: all the rides to ride, all the fun to have, and for a time, it had been great. But then came the Helter-Skelter ride down, and further down than he had ever been before, into the depths of himself, to confront the self-destructive energy inside. To confront it, challenge it, and beat it.
And he had come through. Down and through, but he made it.
And so, there he was, half way through 1974, and he knew he had to pull himself together and make a start on rebuilding his life. Make it back, all the way back to New York, and all the way back to Yoko. 'Walls And Bridges' would soon be released, but he was far from happy with the album. He had tried some re-construction, but these tracks were just not solid enough. He had had the idea to continue where the Plastic Ono Band album had left off, but the formula had worn thin. Apart from 'Dream #9' the tracks were instantly forgettable. 'Dream #9' was haunting. It was something else, something he couldn’t explain.
The cover, too, was haunting. He had punctuated his songs with paintings from his days at Dovedale Primary School, and used three fold-over strips to give multiple images, like you might find in any good 'Bumper Activity Album for Children'. The strips meant you could have the eyes and specs of Mr. Bolt, the Headmaster, staring out from John Lennon's face, or you could have John wearing umpteen pairs of specs, all over his forehead, in some crazy punning image of seeing too much. Or seeing too little.
But the internal sleeve was scary. The three-fold, strip-composition face was drained of colour, void of expression. Inhuman, unseeing eyes. A frozen smile, like it was a death mask.
And on the back of the booklet of lyrics, was a kind of obituary to the surname of Lennon. Only the dead could protest so much.
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He knew he had to do more.
And he knew enough about it to know that he had to get back to the foundations, the roots, the Rock 'n' Roll. That was where he started; that was where he needed to start again.
He chose Phil Spector to produce the album, not feeling confident in his own ability, but the whole thing had nose-dived in a bitter, drunken fracas, and the tapes had nearly been lost forever. When he finally retrieved them, he poured everything into a desperate attempt to complete the album. By then, it was clear they were not going to let him release his 'Roots' album, so this was going to have to be it. Four days and nights of frenzied activity did it.
And at the end, it had turned out to be a farewell performance. As he announced his 'Goodnight and goodbye from Dr. Winston O'Boogie', he knew it was a retirement. This was it, the end of the line, a signing off with a collection of reworked classic Rock 'n' Roll tracks. Thank you very much and goodnight.
When he looked at the cover for the album, he saw the hard rocker lounging in a Hamburg doorway. Neither going in or coming out. Relaxed. Still. While, in the street, others rushed past. One in particular, casting a glance at him, hurrying by, just a blur: a phantom, slowly dancing into view, or disappearing. John Lennon, tough guy. Mean, lounging in the doorway in black leather gear, the hard man he once was. Goodbye to all that. That was how he started, but now he was saying it was over. Kaput und aufwiedersehen.
There they were, two albums to prove that he hadn't lost it; that the creative spark was not gone: a deathmask and an obituary on the one, a fond farewell on the other.
*
John knew you could never break free of your past, not ever. However much you try, it's always there, and you drag it round behind you, like a ball and chain. He knew it, because everywhere he went, people would ask about the Beatles getting back together. One last farewell concert, hey? A massive moneyspinner to help the Vietnamese Boat People, to help the starving children of Africa, to fund Mother Teresa's work in India, to line a million pockets of a million hangers-on. That's what the world wanted, not this Peace and Love rubbish, not these crazy Bag-ins and Bed-ins. Beatles, Beatles, Beatles.
And it went on and on, till all he wanted to do was scream "The Beatles are dead! The Beatles are dead! The bloody Beatles are dead, dead, dead!"
But even then they wouldn’t let it be.
Sometimes it was as if he were invisible, as if he were a ghost. They couldn't see John Lennon at all, or they didn't see him in the present, only as an image from the past. They saw a Beatle. Despite what he now was, and despite what he told them, and despite how loud he shouted it. He wasted no opportunity; everywhere he went, he sang it, he lived it. No longer a Beatle, no longer a Walrus, no
Two Spirits Dancing page 83 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon longer half of a songwriting team. But no, all they wanted to hear was a Beatle telling the world how the Beatles changed the world, and how they would all be together again soon. All they ever saw was a mop-haired John in that bloody awful Beatle suit.
He wanted to step away from that once and for all, leave it behind, where it belonged. He wanted to break on through to a future where he could be John Lennon. He wanted to be back with Yoko. He needed her so bad; he called her every day. Sometimes they talked for hours, sometimes he got it wrong and she hung up after a couple of words. Sometimes he lost his nerve and slammed down the phone as soon as she answered. And at its worst, it was as though he had to make more savage cuts yet.
Christmas was the worst time. Every day was bad, but the run in to Christmas was unbearable. He felt so far away: there was a whole continent between them, yet they felt closer than ever. Half the world celebrating the birth of baby Jesus and he ached for a child by Yoko. They ached for it. That was one of the pressures tearing them apart. They had tried so hard, only to suffer miscarriage after miscarriage, and the world was singing about a virgin birth. God, what they'd been through!
Sometimes he felt he and Yoko would never be a family, and he blamed himself. He'd punished his body so much: pills and pot and heroin and acid and booze and fags and God knows what. God knows. He knew he was to blame.
And then came the call from Cynthia. Merry Christmas and all that, and long time no see, and they'd talked about Julian, now ten, missing his dad, asking for him. He hadn't seen his son for several months, since Julian had stayed with him in New York, and had played drums on a track on 'Walls and Bridges'. Julian kept asking when would he see daddy again. It got to John. She knew. She knew how guilty he felt, but he wondered was that what she was after, him feeling guilty? He listened to Cyn, with a sense of chill spreading to his heart.
Christ, he realised he was doing it to his own boy. Like father like son. Was he? Was that how it was? Was he running out on his boy, just like his dad had done? He realised he too had a family he'd turned his back on, a family in his past, that was denying him any future family. Like a punishment. Like someone was saying 'You can't have both, you've got to choose.' This was his past, denying his future.
Everything was going wrong. He could see it all turning sour: he'd left Cyn, or lost her, he was losing Julian, he was losing Yoko. He was losing himself. He didn't know what to do. He felt so unsure, so insecure, stuck in the middle of some terrible dream, some nightmare recurring dream. And while he was trying to sort out his thoughts, Cynthia, good-old-sensible-steady Cynthia, thought he should spend some time with Julian. For the boy's sake, and for Christmas and the New Year. She'd fly over to L.A. for the New Year, if that was O.K.
It was May Pang who suggested Disneyland. The kid would love it. John had panicked when he realised Julian would be staying with him for several days. What could they do? Where could they go? He didn't know L.A. like he knew New York. And Cyn, too! How would that go? What did she want?
May tried to calm him down. She'd been his minder and companion and everything else, since he left Yoko. He didn't know where he'd be without her. In shit, probably. Here he was, desperate to get back to New York and Yoko, that's all: but he was going to be in L.A. for the start of 1975, a
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And then, when Cynthia and Julian arrived, things were worse than John had imagined. It was terrible because they were strangers, complete and total. Here was this woman who used to share his bed, who had borne his child: a stranger. The silence between them. Wastelands. Frozen wastelands.
It was little better with Julian. The boy just didn't understand what was going on, but he could feel the tension. When John announced he was taking Julian to Disneyland, Julian's eyes shot a look of fear towards his mum. He picked up the intention way before Cynthia, and when she learned that a shopping trip had been arranged for her, she knew Julian just would not have it. He screamed. He kicked out. He sobbed. He would not let go of Cynthia.
John saw Blackpool. His father. The Pleasure Beach. The tug of love. Vivid. Bright colours. The smell of the sea, the murmur of the waves. And above that, heard the sobbing. His. Running back to his mum. Felt the pain. Like a knife.
The day out was murder. Grim, wintry, grey, cold, and there was nothing to say, because there was nothing between them, nothing but tension. And for John, that was fine, because he was comfortable in that distance: he wanted it that way.
Julian warmed a little to May Pang, even to his dad, after a Big Mac and a Shake, but John froze Cynthia out of the picture. It was cold and calculating.
He knew he was, in some bizarre way, echoing his own torn and tormented childhood, even down to the scene at the funfair. It was like some sick re-run of an old home movie, but he knew he had to do it, knew there was no other way. Cynthia was his past, Julian was too, and he had to move on. He hoped Julian could be part of his future: there was a place in his life for him: but not Cynthia.
And she knew she was being cut out. There was always that blunt and brutal side to John, always, from the very early days when they met at College. As they wandered round Disneyland, she tried to keep up, tried to get in, but it was like there was a barrier keeping her back. She dragged along at the back of the party, realising there was no space for her. John wouldn't talk to her: he hardly glanced at her all day. She trailed several paces behind, squeezed out.
But he felt he was dragging her round, like she was his ball and chain. Or one of them. And this was all about being free. He didn't like doing this to her, but he felt it was a matter of life and death to him; he just had to break free. Had to. It had to be now, or he'd never do it. Had to put it all behind him and walk away from it. Cynthia should never have come in to his present; she belonged back home in England, not here. She belonged in his past, not his future.
John caught her look over lunch, or perhaps she forced him to meet her eye to eye, willed him to meet her half way. And that was what he had waited for. He knew he would have to face her, and he knew when he did, he had to get it right: he had to wither her, turn her to stone. He had to give a
Two Spirits Dancing page 85 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon look that killed her stone dead. It was a sort of murder, but there was nothing else for it, and he knew she would understand. Their love had died years ago, or it had been killed off in the mad days of Beatlemania. It depended how you looked at things, but it now had to be buried once and for all.
He had to go through with it, telling himself there was no other way to be free. It had to be cold- blooded murder of whatever was left of their relationship, whatever was left of their past. And this had to be the break, this moment that echoed his own childhood recovery of a lost father: a kind of symmetry, and a kind of reverse parallel. This had to be the split. It had to be cold and clean and clinical and it had to be now. The new year was a day or two away. In broad daylight, in full view of the great American public, in a place built as a monument to fun, he was going to kill off his ex- wife, and cut her out of his life forever.
Mickey Mouse and Goofy would be witnesses. Alice would learn that there is a place for death and hate in Wonderland, but then, Snow White knew it anyway.
He knew he could hurt her so much he could break her, and this fantasy world of plastic smiles and painted laughter was the perfect setting.
*
January 1975 brought life and death: the conception of the child they had longed for, the dissolution of the Beatles.
John had phoned Yoko to say he was now ready to come home, and that it would be a new start. Cynthia and Julian had gone. He felt bad about how he had treated her, and he resolved to make it up to Julian, somehow, in the near future, but he told himself it was the only thing he could have done, and now he had to put it all out of his mind and get on with rebuilding his new life. He knew the time was right, just felt it somewhere inside, and so, when Yoko agreed he could fly back, it was one of the greatest moments in his life.
They had afternoon tea in the Plaza Hotel. There was no awkwardness, no tension. They slipped easily into conversation, as if John had been on an errand to buy some cigarettes, and got lost. It was as simple as that. They had plans to make and a life together to put back together.
John moved back into the Dakota: he was home at last.
When Yoko whispered, one evening, that she was pregnant, John rushed around the apartment excitedly. This was what they had been waiting for: a kind of unbreakable bond between them, or rather, living proof of their re-union.
Dr. Hong had been right. That amazing, ancient herbalist and acupuncturist, had told John to clean up his life. "No drugs. No booze. You be good boy. Eat good things. You have baby soon." That was back in 1972, but, he'd ignored that advice for two years and more, and gone to the other extreme, with a real binge on drugs and booze, until he had finally got it out of his system. He
Two Spirits Dancing page 86 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon regarded it as his death throes: the killing off of Beatle John. And for over six months, now, he had been as clean as a whistle. Clean up time.
He was getting back into good shape: he could think clearly and sharply. He felt the old energy returning and he felt creative once again. Now this. They had created a child. Yoko said she felt this time it was going to be O.K. No more miscarriages: her body rejecting what her heart and soul wanted.
It felt like spring and they were like teenagers in love for the very first time. They glided: they danced.
But the news also brought new concerns for John. He wanted to pamper her, protect her. Take no risks; get her to put her feet up and relax. That sort of thing. He worried about her age. Was Yoko too old for this? She'd been through a lot, and this pregnancy would put more strain on her. They both knew it would not be easy, but they both knew it was their last chance. If this went wrong, they would have to give up: foster, maybe, or adopt.
But fate could not be so cruel as to frustrate them now.
This child of theirs would be their greatest creation: a true masterpiece. It was a shot at immortality, too, to have part of yourself perpetuated as another. Your child outliving you, having children of its own, on and on, time out of time. Immortality.
He had been working with Bowie, on 'Across the Universe', but there were other ideas floating around his head, ideas of what he and Yoko had created, what they had achieved, even what he had achieved as a Beatle. It was beginning to fit into place, he could put things into perspective at last. This Beatle trip, that had made him perhaps the most famous person in the world, was nothing. It was hollow. It gave you everything, but nothing of value. It opened every door, but you had to lock yourself away.
Fame: puts you there where things are hollow. Fame: what you get is no tomorrow.
His fame was all yesterday. Yesterday. It played endlessly on the countless radio stations of the world. He'd be remembered for a song he hated, a song that wasn't his. And songs too, were a sort of immortality, but they gave you an immortality of time past. Remembered in times to come for his yesterdays.
Their child would be their future. Their child would be beautiful, their child would have everything: all the love they could give it, all the time they had.
But first, look after Mother. Chocolate cake in bed every morning. New clothes for the mum-to-be. Books to read, magazines, music to listen to. Everything Mother could wish for, and more. John went on shopping sprees in Lady Madonna's and Macy's. This was their baby. Theirs. They were together and they had a baby. They were in this together, and John was going to be the father he should have been to Julian.
He didn't want to go through those guilt feelings again. Disneyland had shown just what sort of distance there was between them.
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This time John was going to be the father he should have had. They were going to be the best parents they could be. No running away, no turning their backs, no being too busy. No, this was going to be different. They'd already decided on natural childbirth and John would be there through it all and Yoko would glow with the beauty of their child.
He was certain it would be a boy. He felt it inside and Yoko said she knew it. They selected the name Sean to reflect John's Irish ancestry, to be a continuation of John. And Taro, because he was half Japanese. He would be a citizen of the world. Dual British and American nationality: Irish, English, American, Japanese. This child would be a bridge between East and West. John had experienced the sick racism of what others called their 'mixed marriage'. It made him burn with rage, and burn also with a determination that it would be different for their child. Sean Taro Ono Lennon would stride the world like a colossus. There would be no boundaries, no barriers. His neighbourhood would be international. He would travel the world as easily as most children go round the block. This was their child. He might change the world.
As if to signal their approval and their blessing, the gods gave John a kind of triple birthday. It was October, Yoko was full term, and John was getting very, very nervous about it all. And then it all happened: Yoko was taken into the New York Hospital to be induced. At the same moment, John got a call to say his long, long battle with immigration was over. He had been granted his Green Card. He was legal at last. He had arrived: and it was like being born again.
He sat by Yoko's bed all night. At 2 a.m., on October 9th, John's thirty-fifth birthday, Sean Taro Ono Lennon was born.
He was born in blood. The Caesarian Section almost cost Yoko her own life, but the special significance wasn't lost on John. This kid would rule the world. He would be a star, a superstar. Nothing would stand in his way. There was something cosmic and wonderful in Sean and he sharing the same birthday, something magical and perfect and symmetrical, like there really was a God or something in control. Something pulling the strings, something keeping everything together. Fate. Destiny. Karma. Whatever. This was a magic, magic time, and when he held Sean he wept, and when he hugged Yoko, they wept together. It was just fantastic. Just fantastic and nothing would break the spell.
And the gods were smiling down on them. Yoko was going to be O.K., Sean was perfect, John was a father. What a birthday ! 9th October. Number nine. His number, and now Sean's number. Their number.
Even before he met Yoko, John had known that numbers were special, and his was number nine. And he met her on the ninth of November.
Number nine: the intersection of three triangles; three times three; signifying the most spiritual, the most visionary of all. Artists and seers had nine for their number.
Ruled by Mars and Neptune: Mars denoting an aggressive curiosity, a taking things to their limit, testing things to the point of destruction, even self destruction. And Neptune, denoting ocean depths, the hidden, secret and mysterious forces of the Universe; to be in tune with the Universe, that was what number nine meant.
John's number: Sean's number.
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*
John had a wicked sense of humour. Not that he was into practical jokes, as such, not even pranks, really, rather he twisted words and punned with sardonic venom, made to be biting and cruel. There was ever a sharp, cutting edge to him. He recalled a series of hilarious stories he used to tell, all about spastics and cripples, people with speech impediments: that sort of thing. What fascinated him, was the hostile reaction they drew from his fellow students, even the Lecturers - John didn't mind - at College. He upset them. His jokes and stories were designed to upset: they caused violent rows and arguments, but that was just the point. It was like he was the only one strong enough and hard enough to tell them. It was his party piece: his hard-nut act.
And he remembered some great April 1st stunts he'd pulled. April 1st was a few hours when he could inflict real embarrassment and pain. Great. Sick little notes pinned on their backs:'Kick Me Hard', 'Fuck Me', 'I've shit myself'. Locker handles spread with glue; chewing gum on their chairs, that sort of thing. You had to catch people before twelve o'clock noon, or it didn't count. And you had to be wary about being caught yourself. Check out everything anyone said. Nothing spontaneous. You had to go through the morning thinking carefully about your every reaction. It was a real battle of wits. Everyone trying to catch you, and trying not to be caught themselves.
And then your dad does it.
To die on April 1st. What a sick, sick joke ! Dead funny. Ha Ha. Fred really came up trumps on that one. Sixty three. 6 and 3. His number 9 was up.
When Mimi phoned through with the news, John was stunned. Just speechless. He just did not know what to say. He thought it was a joke, he sort of half chuckled, or got himself ready to smile, or something: he couldn't remember now, but he didn't believe it. Mimi kept on asking if he was still there, but it was as though, suddenly, he'd been cut off. He wanted to reassure her, wanted to tell her he was fine, but the words wouldn't come.
And then he tried to come to terms with it. Fred was dead. It was some sick rhyming joke song. Fred is dead. Daddy is dead. Daddy Freddy is deady. Dead, dead Fred.
He'd been dead before, hadn't he? Dead and drowned and then he'd come back, once gone and then come back and then gone again. Lost and found and lost again, and even then back once more. Not dead or alive, but dead and alive. And he'd left John for dead, left him lost and dead and all alone. Left him a lost and lonely homeless ghost. Fred had come back to haunt them, and then he was gone: but he was haunting them still.
Was this another episode in his death-defying history Or was this it? For real this time?
And then came the sense of loss. For John there was no last minute farewells, no deathbed scene, like in the movies, and no family gathered around, son holding hand. No time to redress the wrongs, heal the wounds, ease the pain. No reconciliation, no words, no explanations. No
Two Spirits Dancing page 89 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon questions. No answers. No goodbyes. It was all much too late. Just a lonely, dying figure in a hospital bed and a son thousands of miles away, neither given any time to say what either of them wanted to say. Too late. All too late, and much too late for goodbye.
A sick joke in terrible bad taste. Who was the April Fool, now? Who was the joke on?
He told himself he should be used to death by now; after all, it was like an old friend, or an old enemy. Perhaps both, like a distant relative, you met from time to time. Familiar.
John was fourteen when Death came for Uncle George. Took him away before John ever knew it. He had been on holiday in Durness, Scotland, at his Aunt Elizabeth's. When he came home, George had gone. Just like that, so he thought that was how people went.
Julia was next. Just when he was seeing more of her than ever, Death took her from him. He was seventeen and his world was shattered. His mum was dead. Julia. Beautiful, gorgeous Julia. Gone. Right outside Mimi's house, a car came round the corner and she couldn't have heard it, or seen it. And she was gone for ever.
Just over six months later, Death paid another call. Again John was devastated. This time it was Buddy Holly. He was a star, distant: but in some ways he was closer to John's heart than anyone. Buddy Holly. Gone, taken, destroyed. The music was born, but the man was dead. John went into College that day, shaken, ashen. It was one of the worst moments of his life.
Then Stu. He'd really been close to Stu. He was like a brother; they were like brothers. They'd send each other long and loving letters. They shared painting, drawing. They shared everything, but Death had to have him. It took him in the back of a taxi, speeding through the Hamburg night. Kicked Stu's head in. He was in such agony. Poor sod. His brain just sort of exploded. Twenty one, brilliant artist, but suddenly gone. That had knocked John into black silence, and left him feeling for a time that was the end of this Beatles thing, as far as he was concerned. It was like the music had been killed, and he hated Hamburg and all this club shit after that.
But it wasn't the end. But it just wasn't the same. The Beatles grew bigger and bigger, but John felt they had sold out. Somehow. He wasn't sure, wasn't even aware of the way he felt until much later: he was carried along by the tidal wave of Beatlemania, like they all were. But it was there in the work. A sell out. Beatles for sale. Never mind losing your soul, sell and be sold, that's what it was all about. After all, you had a rubber soul. You could bounce back from anything.
Everyone thought the Beatles were just beginning: John saw they were already dead. It was all just one death after another. Just a joke.
That's how John had always got through. This was the same. Treat it as a joke. Don't show your pain. Hide it away from everyone, including yourself: hide it behind a smile, or bury it in a joke. Lay it to rest with a pun and twist the word like a knife to ease the pain. Even hurt someone else to make yourself feel good. Kill them, crease them, with a joke you crack. The bigger the pain, the greater the joke had to be. Death was the Joker in the pack, and this bastard Death was some cruel joker, some sick psychopathic killer. It picked you off in the middle of the song. Next please!
But you had to treat it as a joke. There was nothing else for it.
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And it was a joke. Being a Beatle was a joke. Being famous was a joke, being seen as some great writer, poet, lyricist, was a joke, an almighty joke. He remembered in 1964, being interviewed by Death. Really. Face to face with Death. It was for a radio programme, 'World of Books' or something, for the BBC. Interviewer: Wilfred De'ath. John had cracked up at that one: it killed him laughing.
And there were rumours flying around that Paul was dead, that he'd been killed in a car crash, and that they'd found a lookalike to replace him, before the world found out. What a sick joke that was!
And then, Brian was dead. It was like a shot from a pistol being held to your temple. Again it was there, though they were too blind, or too close to see it. Revolver. They were players in some sick game of Russian Roulette. And Brian had had enough, and just when everything was coming up roses, everything turned to wreaths. Drugs. Booze. Overdose. Who cared? They were now without a manager, and out came the knives. They were finished: the Beatles bubble had burst, which was simply another death. It made no difference if they were real or imagined, the joke went on and on and it grew in the telling.
It had been John's idea to have them at Paul's graveside on Sergeant Pepper. It was John's idea of a joke, to play along with the madness and make the lie grow so that half the world is taken in. Join in the game, and make it your own. He always ran towards things, not away from them, and if the world wanted to play deadly jokes, John would play it better than anyone else. Make the game his: make the rules his. He couldn't lose then. People said Paul was dead: let him be dead. Show them the snapshot of the burial. There they all were, paying their last respects, a hand of blessing raised above Paul's head, floral tribute, in the form of his guitar, there on the freshly turned earth. Give them the clues they want. Paul had passed on to the other side, he was now on the other side of the looking glass. It was hilarious. Have Paul officially pronounced dead: OPD. That would make them all happy.
And declare the Beatles were dead, because that was what Pepper was really saying.
But Brian wasn't meant to use it as his own signing off.
That was like a bad joke backfiring. But sometimes that happened: just when things were getting interesting, something would go wrong. This time it was their manager who quit. It didn't make sense, yet John understood, because you couldn't play with Death, and expect to win all the time. The Joker turned up at some stage in the game: had to. You could get away with so much, and then, wham! you got hammered. That's life. You have to accept it. Nobody wins all the time, you should know that, especially if you play, and you know how to play the percentage. Brian had had enough. He wanted to be the Ring Master of the biggest Circus ever, but just as the show opened, he realised he'd lost it.
The others took it badly. It threatened them, it left them stranded in this strange wonderland that could turn so ugly. But John felt distant, detached; it hardly touched him at all.
They had been planning Magical Mystery Tour, and having a great time, throwing in the black rose and the 'I WAS' to confirm Paul's death, and now, here they were, mourning a Manager they resented, four Beatles on the road to nowhere. What now? Where do they go from here? That was the real mystery tour. Where the bloody hell do they go from here?
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John didn't care either way. The others were for going on, whatever that meant, so John shrugged and went with it. Why not? Might as well. They couldn't go back and going on was better than going away. So there was the public sorrow and grief, and there was the private indifference, even morbid fascination. But John had learnt his lesson, he’d learnt a new, sharper respect for Death. It took you young, it took you beautiful, it took you talented, it took you when you were nothing, it took you when you were king. It was the greatest joke of all.
John's response was typical. With Yoko's help, he ran headlong into confrontation, headlong into the conceit. He was smoking more and more pot, and the acid trips were taking him all round the Universe on voyages of exploration and discovery, and yet it was the coming back, the return to being Beatle John Lennon, when he was aware of the stifling emptiness. Columbus must have felt the same, on his return to that stale, sterile Europe, and Gagarin too, never got over the boredom of coming back. So every coming back, proved to John he needed another trip. He needed new things, he needed to drive himself on, constantly.
He wanted, desperately, to show he was in control, as if going haywire was being in control of losing control. The Maharishi thing, getting into films: they helped, but still he felt there was something more he had to do. He felt he was going through the motions: and it was so aimless, so pointless.
He wondered whether he were bent on self destruction. Perhaps some sort of guilt trip, that he had let his mum be killed, that he should have protected her better; that he, not Stu, who was fantastically talented, should have died in Hamburg. That his letting go of the Beatles was really his struggle to control them, and that was why Brian had killed himself.
He wondered about his own death. When would his number be up?
At the time, Yoko was teaching him so much, she was opening his mind, opening his eyes to everything. She would not let him turn aside or shut his eyes tight. Face it. Laugh in its face and then go towards it. Never run from it, but meet it, and absorb its power, to use its power against itself.
So, he ran not into mourning, not into black, but into white. Death isn't blackness. The whole point of the conceit, is that Death is brilliant, blinding white. White light. White heat. Death is nothing, it is absence. It is nothing there, but that is not black: it is the void. Death is annihilation: being made nothing. There is a white shroud waiting for us all.
Yoko's art used the power of white. She knew its virginal, bridal, spinstral, funereal power. It was the volcanic white heat of creativity and it was the terrible denial, betrayal and refusal. It was a veil to be rent. It was energy and it was passive. It was the blank page waiting, it was the canvas inviting. It was potential. Her art was all about controlling response, engineering a reaction. That was one of the things about her that so fascinated John.
And she knew too, that all colour is false. Colour is illusion and absence of colour is truth. Light is white and pure and simple and you must break it, and destroy it, to make the illusion of colour and complexity. All art that uses colour is fake: the only true art is the virgin canvas.
And so, together, they went into white. John left behind his Hippie jasmines and scarlets and purples and greens, and his flower-power swirls and intricacies. Yoko took him on a trip into white, pure and simple. White clothes, white decor, white bags, the white album.
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And so, in the late sixties, they thought they had put death in its place, put it into perspective.
But now this. His father was no more. Death had got its own back. The father he'd never had was no more, and now he was missing for ever.
*
With the award of his Green Card, in July 1976, John could begin to relax. He was legal again, and after all the prolonged legal battles, he knew it was the most important step to becoming an American citizen, perhaps by early 1981, but more than that, it marked the beginning of the end of the nightmare.
He had been in limbo too long. Like earlier immigrants, locked away on Staten Island, he had been waiting for his new identity, his entry to the new world.
Though for five years he had been a non-person, like a ghost lost between worlds, he had been under surveillance all that time. He could not understand it. He felt as if he did not officially exist, yet his every move was being monitored. It was madness, like something straight out of Kafka. He knew his phone was tapped, and his mail had been intercepted. Friends had been photographed and followed, because they knew him. And this was the Land of the Free, home of the brave. Well maybe some were free, but not if your name was John Lennon. Then, you were an enemy of the State, you were a threat to Democracy, and an alien. Guilty until you could prove your innocence.
He should have hated the USA. This secret surveillance crap was everything he couldn't stand; men in macs on street corners, spying on your every move. Or huddled in some damp basement, headphones tight on, tape recorder running. Some of it was weird. Funny, or just crazy, and so bloody stupid. He had to laugh at some of it. But the phone tapping was something else: that got to him.
It unnerved him to think some CIA creep was listening to his conversations, listening to every word he and Yoko shared, recording his friends' calls, his business arrangements. He had become a private person, he had retreated a long way from the up-front publicity of the Beatle days, or from the media circus of Bag-ins and Bed-ins. He could never accept his private conversations not being private. He needed a protective shell around his fragile identity: he needed his privacy, but it was denied.
He should have hated the USA, but he loved it. It was the land of television, and he loved television. America had made the medium its own, and John always had several tv sets turned on. He would wander from room to room and glance from screen to screen. Not that he really watched what was on: they were just background images and sound.
What really fascinated John was the way America had made a nonsense out of death. On its tv screens there was an endless playing and replaying of death. Cowboys and Indians. Cops and
Two Spirits Dancing page 93 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon robbers. Gangsters. Mobsters. Murders and killings galore. Bang. Bang. You're dead. It was a death culture. Death everywhere. And yet it was the deathless society. It gave Death everything he wanted, and in doing so, it denied Death his power. Give Death so much death that death becomes meaningless: it simply gives new life to everything.
And it had always been so. As far back as the Aztecs, perhaps further back still. The People Of The Sun, who slaughtered thousands, sacrificed thousands, to provide the sun its blood nourishment. Their duty was to wage cosmic war to keep the Universe turning. Keep the wheels turning. Keep the Carousel spinning. The Merry-Go-Round of death that gave life to the world and all in it.
America was the land of the ever young, the land of renewal. That's why millions had come across the black Atlantic, to find the new life. That's why he had come, to find a new life, a new identity. And now, at last, he had a chance.
Perhaps with this victory in gaining his Green card, the surveillance teams would be called off, perhaps even the phone freaks would give him a break. Perhaps he could have the time and space to be himself, his new self.
There had been freaks on the phone ever since he settled in New York. There were times he thought this city had more freaks per block than any other city in the world, freaks wanting to kill Yoko for breaking up the Beatles; freaks wanting to kill him for breaking up the Beatles; freaks wanting to kill him for some of his lyrics, freaks wanting to castigate him for not leading the revolution. Freaks wanting to know if Paul was dead; freaks wanting to know when the Beatles were getting back together.
He should have hated New York, but he loved it. It had a spark, a charge, that actually sort of singed the atmosphere; he could almost smell it on occasions. And since the birth of Sean, the birth of his son, he had felt really charged up: the whole city seemed to crackle with energy.
Sean was growing fast and John, true to his word, was the devoted father. He fed him, rocked him to sleep, changed him, bathed him, hugged him, held him. John controlled every facet of that child's life: what he wore, what he ate, who he met. Yoko called it over-compensation, but he had decided to go further. With Sean one year old, John became a full time house husband. Yoko would run the business, John would retire from the music world, withdraw from interviews and the media, and just concentrate on raising his son. It was to be as simple as that.
It should have been a time of perfect happiness. Everything was going well. They were a happy family.
And yet there was a darkness. John was troubled by his father's death. Not by the death as such; Fred had never meant much to him, and he could almost shrug it off. But there was something about it all, though he wasn't sure, but he felt there was something, some significance. He couldn't really explain it: he didn't really understand it. Something had been broken, disturbed. It was as if God or whatever had realised there were one Lennon too many. As if the birth of Sean had upset some sort of well balanced order. It was crazy, he knew that. But the idea persisted. Something had been upset, some rhythm of the Universe had been disrupted, some symmetry disturbed. That was how he felt.
Perhaps it was the sense of guilt at not having been there. But then Fred was never there, when John needed him. And so a sort of poetic justice. You left me to live: I left you to die. But wasn't
Two Spirits Dancing page 94 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon that it? Was what he was feeling, call it guilt, anxiety, whatever, triggered by the fact that their relationship had died a long long time ago? That he had mourned a dead father for so long, there was now no feeling left?
Whatever it was, John couldn't escape thoughts of death. He felt haunted, troubled, and a prisoner. Not just death, either, it was the past, generally. Things gone, time past. Images of the dead and dying, and memories of his childhood and family, seemed to crowd his mind. He found himself thinking of Aunt Mimi and Uncle George; images of Julia, smiling and crying. He remembered holidays in Scotland, staying with Aunt Elizabeth. Schoolfriends. A camping holiday on the Isle of Man, on the beach at Port Erin, and a visit to the Wheel at Laxey: enormous red spokes turning, turning, turning.
And from all of this, he felt strangely detached, as if these memories were nothing to do with him. They belonged to someone else.
They were crazy little scraps of memory: old Mrs. Corkish, the day she died, and all the neighbours walking behind the hearse. Mimi's black outfit for his mum's funeral. The front room filled with flowers. Stu, very drunk one night, talking very soberly about dying young. The blackness that spread through his paintings. He imagined he remembered the scream of brakes as the car smashed into Julia. Astrid's scream, holding Stu in the back of the taxi. Mimi's scream when George turned rigid before her. Brian's slow slide into death. Friends from the rock world: Jimi, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison. All tumbling into oblivion and the wheel turning, turning, turning. The memories tumbling through his mind. Death. Their death. And his own.
Most disturbing was Dream # 9. It played through his mind endlessly, and he heard the music slightly off key, as if from a great distance. The lyrics had become a mantra, but it was all at a remove. A dream of a dream. "Two spirits dancing so strange. I thought I could hear somebody call out my name." It was a faint whisper, but so distinct. " John. Magic in the air. Was magic in the air? Through the mirror go round. The spirit dance was unfolding."
The music and lyrics had come to him, originally, from out there. Had come almost complete, like he'd eavesdropped somebody else's song, or tuned into a far off radio station. For a moment, he thought he had left the radio on, like those tapes at the end of "Walrus". Then, it wasn't outside, it was inside. Just the same as "Strawberry Fields" in the same way that that had been a signal, and he'd acknowledged that in the promo, with the tree wired to the baby grand, making it some giant aerial.
But this was different. Special. He felt it was his song, his dream, and his number. He had plucked it from the air but now it would not leave him.
It was more than a song. Of that he was sure: it was a sign. The two spirits were he and his father. Fred calling for him, calling for his son.
Or perhaps it was Sean's spirit calling out for his father? Sort of generation calling to generation: the dance through the years. Sean and John, their dance unfolding.
Or was it Julian calling for the father he was missing? Calling across the distance, calling across the great sea of guilt. " Music touching my soul, something warm, sudden cold. "
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Perhaps it was the John he was and the John he should have been. It was who he saw through the mirror and who he hoped to see. Reality and image and the unbridgeable distance between.
Whatever it was, it would not leave him alone. It was like a wasp he couldn't wave away. It teased him, it pestered him, it depressed him. He saw himself as a nobody going nowhere. The original Nowhere man. His life was a merry-go-round, but all the fun of the fair had turned sour.
Yoko saw it, too, but she saw it for what it was. John was no longer sure who he was. The wounds from his childhood abandonment were very deep, and he had a gaping, bleeding hole inside. Primal therapy had helped, but he was not fully healed, perhaps he never would be. There would always be a vulnerable and lost little child at the heart of him.
She knew he needed help. She knew they had to kick back and put up a fight: that was what John was good at. She could see John was troubled about the death of his artistic talent: that was partly why he had turned his back on the rock world. But there was more: he had killed off John Lennon, Beatle and he was no longer John Lennon, wild man of rock. He had outgrown John Lennon, peace and love freak, and now he was experiencing a sort of dying of John Lennon, musician.
He was nearly forty. Could he be a rock star at forty? He had always vowed he would never be wheeled out on some Saturday Night Superstar Extravaganza, to croon his way through 'Imagine' or 'Yesterday'. That was living death. But how to end it? Like this? Baking bread? Taking snapshots of Sean in the high chair? That was the problem. John felt he was dying and he still didn’t know who he was. What was he? Artist? Rock star? Musician? Father? He was a father of a fantastic, beautiful boy, but he had been a father before, though it hadn't been like this. The euphoria had died, leaving a sense of emptiness, a sense of the void. Perhaps all new babies remind their parents they are dying. Perhaps all parents are reminded they have created their successors.
John felt he was dying.
Yoko knew she had to be strong enough to pull him out of it and into something else. There had to be something positive in their life: not just Sean, they were not going to live just for Sean, they needed something for themselves. So she pitched them both headlong into healthy eating. And John took it. They went into it with real passion, and it became an obsession: a defiant scream. They dieted aggressively. They fasted for forty days. They both knew it was a symbolic act, because John was in the wilderness.
And Yoko suggested they get away. Why not? What was the point in having countless millions, if they were confined to the Dakota? She hadn't seen her parents for ages: and John thought Japan was all carbon monoxide fumes and neon billboards. She could show him the other side of the world. They could take a long holiday in the beautiful mountains around Karuizawa, in central Honshu, where her family owned a home. They could breathe the purest, freshest air; they could walk and cycle, and just be together. Get New York out of their system. Take a break. Take time to be together. Take time off.
And so it was, in June 1977, they left their business empire and their beloved Dakota apartment, for an indefinite stay in Japan: John, Yoko and Sean. They stayed at the fairytale Mampei Hotel, set amidst the most beautiful mountains John had ever seen. The hillsides were covered in every kind of tree and shrub. The whole locality throbbed with green. Fragrant and delicate blossoms, seemed to grow everywhere. There were clear streams running beneath ancient bridges, the Sengataki Falls, and dusty tracks winding their way towards a distant temple or a shrine or the next village. It was a
Two Spirits Dancing page 96 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon magical place. They could look up to Asama, an active volcano, looming above them. John called it the Magic Mountain.
There were no cars, no tourists, no Westerners. It was an idyllic retreat. They went walking. They cycled, John perching Sean on the handlebars and freewheeling down the steep slopes. They swam. They found peace and time for yoga. John, in particular, found it wonderful. He felt so alive: he was renewed. The light was so perfect, the air so intoxicating, so energising. And he was most marvellously at ease. They were a family on holiday.
John loved this ancient new world he had discovered. He loved its tranquillity, loved its sense of being old and wise and unconcerned. He loved its detachment, its sense of permanence: that paradox at the heart of things. He loved its celebration of beauty: its religious devotion to inner peace.
But even here, where the Western world did not exist, death had to intrude. Et in Arcadia ego. Just eight weeks into the holiday, Elliott Mintz phoned to tell them Elvis was dead. This man, five years his senior, had changed John's life with his songs. But always, Rock 'n' Roll had to have its sacrificial victim. It was a tribal rite. Kill the king. Crucify your god. John understood. Outwardly he seemed untouched by it, the death of his idol, but deep inside he knew the holiday was over.
The pace of the holiday slowed. John wouldn't show it, but the news of Elvis' death seemed to confirm his own anxiety that you could not be a Rock star in your forties. If the King couldn't do it, nobody could.
They made excursions further and further afield, Yoko keen to show John as many facets of Japan as she could. They visited Kyoto, the former capital, where John stood agog at the ancient temples on all sides. They took in The Golden Pavilion, like any tourist would, but John was deeply affected by the sanctity of the place. It was the most holy atmosphere he had ever experienced. He wanted to see more. Were they all like this? So serene, so simple, so powerful.
They visited the ancient Higashi Honganji temple complex, and John stood, hands clasped in prayer, for the first time in his life. He was moved almost to tears by the overwhelming sense of something religious. Not even on the Maharishi trips had he felt such power. Then, it had all been a laugh. George had been serious for a while, but he had always taken up a stance from where he could see right through the whole thing. But this was something else, this was the genuine thing: it had to be. He had never felt like this before. It was like a coming home, like a finding, like a founding. It stirred something inside: a need to contact something beyond.
Everywhere there were shrines and temples. The spirit world was all around, not separate from, but part of the every day world of the Japanese. They sensed the spirits, they talked of them, they spoke to them. The spirits were part of their lives. No sense of embarrassment, no feeling awkward, just a simple faith that the spirit world was as real and as natural as this world. They co-existed. Side by side, or inside each other, within each other. The spirits of your ancestors were with you, beside you, as you went through the day. Not judging, not snooping, just there, because that is where they exist. And all around are the spirits of place, the spirits of woods and streams and rivers and mountains.
John got into Buddhism, and deeper and deeper. Because he found it reflected what he was going through.
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Deeper: and he discovered the Three modes of Being; tri-kaya. The threefold truth: the three forms of existence; there is the void, which is unthinkable non-existence, without reality; there is the temporary, where things appear to be real; there is the middle, where things exist absolutely, where the thingness of things is revealed.
The three modes are inter-connected and inter-related. They exist together as a whole. If the three are isolated, then their relationships are destroyed and unthinkable non-existence results.
But if the significance of each of the three is realised, then Enlightenment is achieved.
If.
And here he was, this pathetic little kid from Liverpool, once abandoned, unwanted, now a world- famous superstar. It was incredible: unreal, totally unreal. 'I heard something about my ma and my pa, they didn't want me so they made me a star.' How had it come about? Who was he, for this to happen to him ? John Lennon the Superstar? Or was he just John Lennon, father and house- husband? Or perhaps he was John Lennon the has-been, the nobody anymore. Who was he? Was he all three? All through his life, he had felt this big question mark hanging over him. Will the real John Lennon stand up now? This question of identity; he'd been through the agonies of Primal Therapy to peel away the protective layers, but what was there, buried deep inside? Who was he?
He'd turned his pain into song, trying, trying to work it out and find the answer. He'd left his wife and child, changed his life, crossed the ocean to take up a new life in a new world, but who the hell was he now? Superstar. Father. Has-been. The threefold truth. But which was the middle?
Deeper: and he discovered the diamond vehicle of Tantrism: the cutting away the dross, the cutting through to the heart, revealing the true stone. We all shine on. The dynamic male, the yab, and the passive female, the yum, and their union which is Enlightenment. Their union is yab-yum, Father- Mother. And it is the passive yum, the Mother, that holds the indestructible quality of the diamond. Enduring, shining and enlightenment.
Father-Mother. John-Yoko. Fred-Julia. Union. Enlightenment. We all shine on.
Deeper: and he discovered Zen. Its opposites and paradoxes fascinated him. The direct pointing to the heart of things. The seeing into the true nature of things. The knowing your self by knowing there is no self. There is no self. There is no I, no mine, no me. He saw it now in his work, so personal, so full of self, so full of his own pain, but also full of the emptiness that he was. It was there in his music, there in his lyrics, even there in his album covers. The 'Rock 'n' Roll' cover, with one of his dead selves; he knew there was something cosmic about it, but at the time he just hadn't seen the true nature of what it was saying.
And there was 'Imagine', with his image fading into view or fading away, he wasn't sure which, but either way, it showed his identity was just not strong enough. It was like a signal, a weak signal, that wasn't quite getting through. Too much interference.
And there was 'Walls and Bridges', with its three strips, its threefold composite identity. No individual identity. He saw it now: he had been saying it all along. Life is a stream, a never-ending stream of becoming, in which there can be no individuality without a coming together of all the parts.
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Come together.
Come together. Come together, right now, over me. One and one and one is three. He had been singing that as far back as 1969. And before that, the Walrus sang it, and that was 1967, as if, even that far back, he had known it, but not been able to identify it. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. It was a matter of coming together to find your self. There can be no individuality without a coming together. A coming together of component parts. There was still the question of which parts, but he felt he was getting closer to an answer. After all, he had been singing it for years. Mouthing it all his life, without realising what he was saying. But now he was beginning to understand.
*
Back in New York, John once again settled into his house-husband role, and Yoko concentrated on their business enterprises, putting together big property and land deals, and investing in livestock, especially the rare Regis Holstein breed. It was all a long way from the music world, but John didn't mind, he trusted Yoko's judgement in everything, and this wheeling and dealing just did not interest him.
Back in New York, and the city seemed so colourless and sterile after the greens and the blossoms of Japan. And it was so soul-less, even though there was life everywhere, bustling, hustling, no- time-to give-a-damn haste that got you nowhere. But no soul, no sense of place. It was a city going headlong into it didn't care where. It was impersonal, indifferent, even aggressively so. It was millions of people getting through their lives the best way they could. Cold and impersonal, and yet an emotional place, a place full of anger and frustration, but the emotion didn't matter. That was the problem: people yelled and screamed their way through the day, they fought and cursed and glared, they snarled and spat in some sort of ritual display of raw emotion, but it was ritual, and unreal. In many ways it was all an act; a city of millions of actors performing their parts before empty houses: everybody wanted to be centre stage and there was nobody in the audience. That was what was so fascinating, and so tragically comic about New York. The whole city was auditioning for a show that would never go on.
And John felt the threat, the menace of the place. There was something psychopathic about the city. He knew he was safe, that wasn't what this was about, he was probably safer on the streets of New York, than strolling the suburban lanes of Surrey. No, he was safe here, but there was a realisation that he could become a recluse, that somehow the city was pushing him into a corner, making it harder and harder for him to break out again.
He was comfortable and cosy, perhaps too much so, cushioned from almost everything. Inside the Dakota, within his apartments, with a score of servants and aids to meet his every whim, safe and snug with Sean and Yoko, he was becoming the archetypal paranoid rock star, fearful of everything.
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He and Yoko knew it. Yoko wanted him to be more independent, more fearless, like he used to be. She remembered the John who would challenge and confront, whose acid wit and sarcasm had outraged and offended, but here was a man who had withdrawn from himself and was withdrawing further still. The five months or so in Japan had revived something of that old John, he had been sharper, in better mental shape, and better physical condition: but here in New York, the insecurity was once more apparent. They talked about John making trips abroad, travelling by himself, in a way, regaining contact with a world he had lost touch with. His world had shrunk to the Dakota, to a few close friends, Aunt Mimi, whom he phoned daily, Yoko and Sean. It was all closing in too tightly. Yoko wanted him out, not shut in.
But if the Dakota was his prison, it was also his sanctuary.
Sean was his salvation, and Sean and he did everything together, and John never ceased to be surprised and delighted at each new thing his son did, whether it was colouring or drawing or playing with the scores of electronic gadgets John had bought him. John watched his every move, saw the looks of puzzlement and concentration and determination in his eyes, as he encountered new and challenging experiences. Sometimes John felt like a child again, he shared so closely in the growth and development of Sean.
The development of his son: the growth of his family. This was the new, the next generation.
They loved playing together at bath time. John would run a few inches of warm water in a washbasin and Sean would stand there and splash away for all he was worth. It had become a sort of ritual end to the day. John stood well back, pretending to cower away from the deluge, much to Sean's delight, then John caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked thinner in the face than he expected, paler, older. It was a bit of a shock to him. He had to look more closely, as if, in a crazy way, as if in doubt that it was his reflection. Sean had stopped splashing and shrieking, and stood watching his father, peering into the glass. He wandered over beside him. Without a word, John gathered his son in his arms, swung him up, and held him so that their two faces were framed in the mirror. Father and son. Nearly forty, nearly five. A face that looked tired and drawn, a face that was new and fresh. Yoko's eyes, but his nose and mouth, and he remembered Mimi had always said he took his looks from his dad. Father to son. There was a line, a continuity, a connection. This was who he was, this is who he is. It wasn't all isolation and broken bits and pieces and lost identity, it was Sean being part of him, and he being part of Fred, and Fred being part of his father John Lennon from Dublin, and so on, and so on.
It was a magic moment, all the more magic because he sensed that Sean had an inkling of what it all meant. They were looking into that mirror at themselves, at who they were, at their past, their history; and they were looking into that mirror at their future.
John had returned from Japan with a new desire to explore his own roots, celebrate his family. It was the Japanese love of family life that had inspired him, that, and the Japanese belief in and worship of their ancestors, and in their faith in presence of the spirit world. The holiday had allowed him to look at himself, and he had come to realise he had spent much of his adult life running away from, and turning his back on, not only his own identity, but also his family and their background: his background. Perhaps because there was so much pain there. But running from it wasn't the answer: he knew that. He had dealt with the pain, or at least he felt he could now deal with it, because he was strong enough now.
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He had researched, with intense fascination, some of the darker moments in Liverpool's history, especially with regard to the countless hordes of destitute Irish, and those thousands of displaced, nameless and hopeless black slaves, stolen from Africa, who had passed into and through that city on their journey to Hell and the New World. John collected scores of books on the subject, and turned one of the rooms in his suite into the Reading Room of his Club Dakota.
This was a re-creation of a typical English Gentleman's Private Club. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson would have felt at home within its confines, but this was an exclusive Club: the only members were himself and Elliott Mintz. John would wear his old school tie, Quarry Bank High, and they would desport themselves like Victorian or Edwardian gentlemen.
It was all part of a growing fascination for the past, his past. He knew it was sentimental, knew it was false, but he needed to find himself in as many different ways as possible and though this Club thing was a pose, it helped.
He was intent on looking back, rather than forward. At least the past had a certain certainty. It had happened, perhaps not quite the way it was remembered, but it had actually happened: the future was the unknown. Time is being, and being is time, and the yet to be is yet to be. Perhaps never.
He had reason to be proud of his past achievements, but he wanted to put it all behind himself and get on with the present, and move on into a future. But the past was always there, mainly because people never let him forget it, and he couldn’t cut all the threads.
He didn't want to diminish it: he had been a throwaway kid, now he was a superstar. The four of them had changed the world: no doubt about that. The youth culture had exploded and carried them on the crest of an unstoppable wave, a blast wave, that had swept everything away, and when the dust and debris had settled, they had built a new order. They had made history. They had been more influential than any politician, and in the end, they had more real power than any government. Sure, he knew all that. But that happened to another John Lennon, a John Lennon of twenty years ago. He had changed the world, but, as well, he had changed.
And when changes so profound happen so suddenly, they take time to come to terms with. Perhaps that was what his semi-retirement was all about.
His past haunted him, and was his cross. People expected so much of him. They expected to meet a genius and see him perform miracles. Christ, you know it ain't easy. Every word had to be an utterance of cosmic truth, every action had to be godlike. It was crap. The Beatles were never gods: he was never a genius. This whole thing just happened to them, because they sang the right things at the right time. Looking back, he wished it had been different. There was just so much pressure on him to re-live the past all the time. Every interview was going to be about the bloody Beatles: he knew it before it began. He could never escape. Haunted and hunted by the past. It wouldn't let go of him.
Since returning from Japan, he was more meditative, more at ease with himself. He saw things differently, more clearly for what they were. He had decided the only way to break free of the past, was to break on through into the future. It was no good sitting back; he must go forward and make his own future.
He was entering middle age, and the world had moved on. Well, he could move on too. The only future he could see involved writing new songs and composing new music. He had been out for
Two Spirits Dancing page 101 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon five years. Looking back, living in the past, for five years. Perhaps even hiding away from the past all that time, afraid of its ghosts. That was enough, more than enough. Now, the time seemed right to get back, or rather move on. He wanted to record one more album, and then, perhaps, he would turn to writing, serious writing. One idea was for a 'Forsyte Saga' type history of his family, of the Lennons of Ireland: an idea he had toyed with on the back cover of the Walls & Bridges album.
But there was more music in him yet. Lyrics and ideas for songs had begun to form in his mind: the old creative process was at work again, but the music was coming softer, more ballad in style, more sentimental, even mawkish, in tone. It felt like the end of his career, and, well, perhaps it had to be. It felt like he was signing off: well, perhaps he was. He was both looking ahead to growing old with Yoko, and aware that he was living on borrowed time. Strange phrase: 'borrowed time'. But that's how it felt. The slushy lyrics, the gentle melodies, were signs of a certain tiredness, a resignation. He could see it so clearly, he could hear it in the music in his head.
Borrowed time. Autumn 1980 would bring John's fortieth birthday: Spring 1980 would be John and Yoko's eleventh wedding anniversary. Eleven years marriage, and they'd all said it would never last. They just never understood; anything to do with Yoko and they never even tried to understand.
For the anniversary, John knew exactly what he would buy her, even though she had no interest in jewellery, either to wear or to collect; he had picked out a beautiful diamond heart. Diamonds are for ever. His heart was hers for ever. Their love was for ever. She was the mother, indestructible as the diamond, eternal and everlasting diamond, fragments of sparkling immortality: that was to be his gift to her and he knew she would understand.
And Mimi: he needed to square things with her. She had been more than a mother to him, especially lately, when they talked most evenings on the phone. He never went anywhere without telling Mimi of his whereabouts, but he had never really been able to tell her how much he loved her, and he had never been able to say he was sorry.
That was really the last, and the most troublesome ghost that haunted him: the pain and anguish he knew he had caused Mimi: he needed to do something to lay it.
He phoned Mimi at the beginning of 1980, and asked her to send him every single photograph of her she could lay her hands on. He asked for china plates he recalled hanging in the dining room at Menlove Avenue; he asked her to send a watercolour that Uncle George had painted when he was a young lad; he asked her for old cups and saucers, and cutlery. She was to pack it all into cases that would be collected and shipped out to New York.
John's last request in this pillaging of his past, was for Mimi to part with the antique grandfather clock that had been passed down through Uncle George's family. John could still recall its strong, masculine tick, and he now wanted it to stand, familiar, in the kitchen of his Dakota apartment. His Uncle George had taught him to tell the time on that clock, on that face. He wanted that clock more than anything because it held so much of his past. It had measured out his life, it had stood there, in the hall, as John came and went, sort of watching his time pass, counting his days. There was something about it: like in that nursery song on one of Sean's cassettes, that song about 'my grandfather's clock', and how it was connected to the old man's life, how it stopped on the day that he died, and it never would go again. John knew it was foolish and sentimental, but he also felt there was some sort of truth in it. There was something odd about calling a clock 'grandfather' and giving it a face and hands: giving it a personality.
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This clock was special: he knew that, just because it held a very special place in John's mind: it was not only his past, it was his family's past, and it was also his time yet to be. It had a very special significance. He wanted that clock near him. He wanted it by him, so he could keep an eye on it, sort of look after it, sort of get it under his control, for in some crazy way, he felt afraid of that clock.
He felt his time was running out.
*
Honolulu, June 1977
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Mark sat uncomfortably on the moulded chair: the office was stuffy and over hot, and for the last few minutes he had been staring at the palms in the corner. He thought they looked sick, sad and drooping. He was tense, edgy. Rubbing his hands together, tugging at his lower lip, running his fingers through his hair, not finding this easy. A long silence: too long, and he felt the pressure for an answer, but he didn't know whether he was ready. Across the desk, leaning back slightly in her chair, Dr. Sarah Mitchell of the Waikiki Mental Health Clinic, was prepared to wait.
"It's OK. Really, Mark. Just take your time, and tell me when you're ready." She smiled. "These things are never easy to talk about."
Mark turned slightly, raising his eyes to look at her for a briefest moment, and then settled, almost shuffled, into his chair once more.
"I just want you to tell me in your own way. In the way it makes most sense. OK, Mark?" She tried to put as much gentleness as possible into her voice. This was delicate. The interview had not been going very well. Looking at him, she could see he had been pushed enough. Too much pressure now, and she would lose him. Nice and easy and he would come round.
The red second hand made its silent, smooth sweep around the clock. Mark seemed to hunch even more into himself.
"I...er...I can't say. I just don't know. I mean, yeah, sure I meant it, I mean I went through with it...you know, I wanted to do it. Then that stupid fisherman. I didn't plan on being found. Not until..."
"So you went there to do it?"
Mark nodded. She waited, but he wasn't going to say any more. She thought she had lost him, thought she had been too direct, too fast, with that last question. She had to get him back.
"Just tell me in your own way, Mark. No hurry. I've got all day. Just tell me. I'd like to try to understand. I'm sure you would, wouldn't you?"
He nodded. He looked up again. Held his gaze longer this time: she was getting somewhere.
"I don't know where to start. I mean, you know, I just don't know."
"Well, tell me about coming to live in Hawaii. Start there. You must have had your reasons for coming out here from....er..Atlanta, wasn't it?"
"Yeah….well, I don't know. I thought I could, like, make a new start. You know? Things weren't working out. I was just fouling up all the time. Story of my life. I guess I screw up everything, like I had these big problems with my folks, when I was back in High School. I just couldn't fit in. Couldn't do anything right. I know you must hear that all the time, but that's how it was. My old man was ex-USAF, you know, one of those strong on discipline types, always either bawling at me about something or just freezing me out. I couldn't do anything right. Really. It just got worse and worse. And I thought well, I'm not gonna take this from him. You know, like there was no love or
Two Spirits Dancing page 104 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon affection ever, it was just run your life this way, you know, because I tell you to. Don't answer back. Don't talk to me like that. You know. You've heard all this a million times over.”
She smiled in acknowledgement.
“Well, I wasn't gonna take it from him. I didn't respect him, I suppose. You know, he meant nothing to me. I remember thinking that. It shocked me, kind of. I mean, you're supposed to respect your parents, aren't you? And one day I realised I didn't. I was like a stranger to them. Ma was a dead loss. You know, not being unkind or anything, but she was just too weak. She wouldn't stand up to him, and she took all kinds of crap from him. And she just took it. You know, they wanted me to be the perfect son. Sing in the choir. Bible class. That kind of thing. But I wasn't like that. I tried to be. But that wasn't me. "
There was a pause, but Dr. Mitchell could see they had made the breakthrough and there was more to come.
"So what were you like? Mark? Tell me."
He smiled at her.
"I was a real Asshole. I was. Everyone called me 'Garbage head'. Yeah, I was into pot and speed and all that crap. Anything. It was those times, you know. My hair was down here, I wore one of those Greatcoat things, and these flared jeans, and I just shuffled around. A real Hippie dude. And I got thrown out of High School. Well, I was dropping out, anyway, and I couldn't see the point, so I just split. Bummed around a bit. That sent my old man wild. I mean, he was really mad at me. And.."
"Was that the idea? Was that what you wanted, to hurt your father?"
"Yeah, I suppose so. Yeah, it was. I mean, I'm not proud of it, or anything, it's just the way it was. It was my way of getting back at him. Well, them, I guess, 'cause I know I hurt my ma too. And I was getting into all kind of stuff. You know, just wasting, just doin' nothing. But then, you know, it sounds corny, but Jesus came in to my life and saved me. Really. Just like that.”
He shook his head, as if in disbelief.
“It was fantastic. I felt really changed. Kind of cleansed and new. It's hard to explain, but I came off the drugs and got myself together. Or rather Jesus got me together. He takes the credit, or should do. And that's when I met Jessica, and we started, you know, getting into dates and stuff like that. It got serious."
Another pause, and he lowered his gaze. She waited, sure at first that Mark would continue, but then she could feel the hurt there. Jessica. There was a block there. He had to get over that.
"But it didn't work out. Is that it? The relationship didn't work out?"
"I don't know, it just got complicated. I suppose I wasn't ready for it. Neither of us were, really."
"Go on Mark. You're doing really well."
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"Nothing I do ever works out. I mean, I try my hardest to make things work, and all that happens is things just kind of crumble in front of me. I mean, I try so Goddamn hard. I really tried to make it work. I did. But it's like everything in my life, it just turned sour. Like the camps.”
“The camps?”
“Yeah. I was working in the summer camps, with the kids, you know, and doing real fine. And then, all of a sudden, it's turning sour on me. Those kids loved me, they did. And I was doing a great job: everyone thought so. But things just go wrong. I don't know why. God, I loved the camp work. It wasn't just that I was good at it, it was like that was what I was cut out for. Like I'd found my vocation. I used to look at those kids, some of them had never been loved, and I used to think God, if only I could do something like this and really help change this shitty world. You know, change it for the kids because they're the future, aren't they? And I could give them so much. They'd be singing and laughing, telling me stories, playing, you know, all day long. Incredible energy, they have. And yet they were so fragile and vulnerable. Know what I mean? Just needing someone to love them, take an interest in them. Protect them. That's all. Not much to ask, is it? I knew I could make a difference.
But then it all started going wrong again. It's me, I guess. It's nothing in particular I do or don't do: it doesn't work like that, just things run out of steam and start to slow down. Then problems get in the way....I don't know. Just know that's the way it goes, with me. Like I was doing so well with the YMCA, on their ICCP thing, it's an international camp thing, and I went out to Beirut. Soon as I was there, the place erupts in civil war. Like I'm jinxed. Yeah, and I had to get out of there pretty quick. I mean, it was scary, but great, if you know, kind of, what I mean. Exciting. Made me feel really alive. But that whole ICCP thing fell through. So I'm back in the States, and I try to go back through College to gain my degree, so's I can stay on with the Y and really make it my career, and me and Jessica are gonna go through it together and settle down. And what happens?"
"You tell me, Mark. Go on, you're doing so well, now."
"I don't know, the whole thing just kind of folds up."
"What? You mean the relationship, or the attempt to go through College together?"
"Me and Jessica, we just seemed to have so many problems. You know, she thought I was pushing her into things. Before she was ready. And the studies were a disaster. I couldn't go through with it."
"Go back to the problems with Jessica, Mark. Take it slowly. I know it's difficult, but we need to get to this."
He nodded.
"Well, there were kind of differences. You know, personal differences. Like she wasn't sure I loved her. I think she wanted a more, you know, kind of a physical relationship. She thought I was kind of cold. That kind of thing. But she also thought I was like taking over and using her, kind of. I didn't really get what she meant. Seemed to think I was dominating every thing she did. That's what she said. It was nonsense."
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"So was there a sexual side to the relationship? You can tell me, Mark. I want to try to understand, you know I do."
"I wasn't ready for that. I don't know why, but I wasn't. Maybe I should have been. I don't know. Anyway, we split. You see, I foul up on everything."
"And is that when you came to Hawaii? Is that why? A kind of new start? Or maybe, a kind of running away, Mark?"
"I don't know whether I'm running away from something, or not. Sometimes I feel I'm running towards something."
"Can you explain that?"
"No. Not really. I mean, I came here to make a new start, yeah. I wanted a clean break. Start again. You know, that kind of stuff. Thought that Hawaii might be some sort of Paradise. I could make a new start and settle down, maybe. You know, there's this restlessness about me. Jessica used to tease me about it. And she's right. I always want to move on, kind of be free. Anyway, I guess I came here to sort myself out, or get the problems sorted out.”
“Sounds like the right thing to do, Mark.”
“And I was fine at first. I was staying at the Moanna, and I did all the touristy things, you know, really enjoyed going up to Sunset Beach, and seeing Diamond Head Mountain. That kind of stuff. It was great. I felt fantastic. Felt the magic of the place. You know, it is like Paradise.
Then I had to move out of the Hotel and into the Y. I mean, Paradise costs money, you know. And I couldn't fix myself up with a decent job. And it was then, I guess things started going wrong. I mean, I started wondering just what the Hell I was doing here, thousands of miles from anywhere, stuck in the middle of the ocean. Like an Ancient Mariner. And I started realising I was in a kind of exile. I was in exile from myself. Or it was a prison. I was a prisoner. I mean if I came here to run away, how do you run on an island forty miles long? You know, an island is a prison. Alcatraz. A prisoner to myself. A displaced person. You know, crazy thoughts like that, going round and round my head all the time. God, I'd spend whole afternoons, evenings going crazy with stuff like that. Kind of always looking in on myself.
And I got so lonely. I felt I was at the end of the Earth, and nowhere to go. All the people who cared about me, and who could help me, were so far away. So I went back to Atlanta. I phoned Jessica first, and we talked and she said I was crazy to just split like that, and I should come back home where I belong. And I thought about it, ‘cos she always knows what's best for me: always did understand me. So I flew back. And we met up. And. And..... nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there was nothing there anymore. Nothing between us. She felt sorry for me, and she couldn't understand why I'd gone off to Hawaii, but there was nothing there. And I knew I couldn't stay there. I mean, in some ways it was good to see her again, but there was this gap between us. Perhaps it had been there all the time, but I never noticed it before. I couldn't tell her about me and Gary. Just couldn't tell her. I don't think she would have understood. And I thought 'There's no
Two Spirits Dancing page 107 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon point staying here. I can't go back to Gary. You know, I'm not gay. And I can't pick up with Jessica'. So I stayed a couple of days and then flew back here."
"Mark, what's this about Gary. Mark, tell me about him."
He took a deep breath: a long pause.
"Gary is this friend from High School days. I mean, we go way back. And he kind of turned up when things were going badly at the camp, and took me in. Well, no, I mean, he had a big place and I needed a place to stay till I could get myself back together, and so I, kind of moved in with him. Sharing. And I mean, he was great. You know, he was like a big brother to me. Really looked after me. Got me a job, and all. But, well, I guess I just didn't feel comfortable there. The job wasn't me. Armed security guard. Can you see me as an armed guard?”
He raised his eyebrows in enquiry, a delightful smile on his lips.
“No, I just didn't feel right. And, I just got the feeling that Gary wanted more from me. You know. I mean he never tried anything. No. But there was this sort of tension, at times. Like he was easing me into something. Kind of expecting me to be something. I don't know. I just didn't feel right about staying there."
"But you couldn't tell Jessica about it?"
"She wouldn't have understood. No, I couldn't tell her."
"And is Gary, well, do you think he’s gay?”
At first there was no response.
“Mark, would you say? Or you're not sure?"
"I really don't know." Mark sat and shook his head slowly, deliberately.
"Did you visit your folks when you were back in Atlanta?"
"No."
Dr. Mitchell decided to give up on Mark's parents, and Gary. There was an obvious anger and frustration there.
"Why not tell Jessica? Wouldn't that have brought you closer?"
"Look, I tried my best to please Jessica. I loved her. I made her laugh: she was always laughing when she was with me. I loved her, OK? But it wasn't enough. My best wasn't enough. It's hard to explain. I think we were kind of pushed apart by things. That's how it seemed."
"Things? Such as?"
"I don't know, something in me, I guess. Or in us both. I'm not taking all the blame. We just drifted apart. Split up. It happens all the time. But we're still friends."
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"Good. And Gary?"
"Gary was just a friend. Is a friend. Like I said, he was like a big brother. There when I needed him. But he was kind of pulling me one way..."
"And Jessica was pulling you the other? Is that how it felt?"
"Yeah. I guess so. I was caught in the middle. Kind of being pulled apart."
"And who won? Who pulled the stronger?"
"I guess Gary. But I'd already split from Jessica. Or she from me. No, Gary kind of pulled me away from myself. Does that sound crazy? Kind of pulled me off course."
"From what?"
"From me. From being me. All the time with Gary, I just didn't feel like it was me. It was like it was happening to someone else."
"But you broke away, didn't you? You were strong enough to do that."
"Yeah. I got kind of catapulted here. A long way away from them both. Safe."
"But it isn't the answer, is it?"
"No. I know that now."
"So tell me about the events that led up to the thing up on Sunset Beach. Was that an answer, Mark?"
"No."
"Tell me about it."
"I don't know, it just kind of built up. You know, slowly, slowly. Then, it just hit me. Like I ran smack into something. I just felt this tremendous loneliness. You know, really scary loneliness. Like you're the only one there. Ever felt like that? It kind of swept through me. I'd been down for a few days, I guess. I didn't like the Y, I was running short of bread. And things suddenly seemed very black, you know. Perhaps being here made it worse. Summer. Sea and sand and palm trees et cetera. People on holiday. Everyone having fun. Except me. That's how it felt. Like I was the only one not having a great time."
"But Mark, there are plenty of unhappy people here. They don't go committing suicide."
"Yeah, but I just saw it, I don't know, as if the place had let me down. I came looking for Paradise, and maybe it is on the surface, but underneath it's just the same as anywhere else. Behind the main streets it's like Atlanta or Chicago or anywhere. I know. And I guess I felt trapped by it. Well, deceived by it. Betrayed. Kind of out of place. You know, like I was in totally the wrong place. This wasn't where I was meant to be.
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But I'd gone back home and felt out of place there too. So I had nowhere to go. I came back here and it was terrible. You know, I prayed and prayed. But I didn't get any kind of comeback. You see, I felt I'd turned my back on Jesus and God, and they'd turned away from me. Like they too had deserted me. Marooned. God, I'd never felt so alone. And empty. I just didn't know what to do. It was really scary. It was like being on a bad, bad trip. No getting off. Like 'now is the time to scream', if you know that song. And I thought, 'There's no end to this. This is gonna be it for the rest of my life. Screwing up things. Not being able to hold down jobs. No real relationships.' I got real scared."
"So you called for help."
"Yeah. You see, Jessica and me, we'd been through problems with a counsellor at College, and I remembered him saying, you know, if we were in trouble again, get in touch with someone. Anyone. Helpline. Something. Call someone. And I knew I needed help. I was really desperate. I knew I couldn't get through this by myself.
And I called and told them I thought I was going to kill myself."
"And were you serious at the time?"
"I sure was. I mean, yeah, I felt I had nothing to lose. It was a way out. A kind of final solution."
"But you hadn't tried anything at that stage?"
"No. And I went in for counselling, which really helped for a while. Got me kind of straightened out. Got me over the crisis, anyhow. And for a while, things got a bit better. I was more together. More myself."
"But what went wrong then?"
"I don't know. The same, I guess. I mean for a time there was all this support and help and I felt great. Then it kind of dried up. The support wasn't there anymore, and I was back on my own. All alone again: totally alone. That's how it felt. And there was something ripping me apart. Tearing me in two."
"What do you mean, tearing you in two? What was?"
"I can't explain. Just crazy things. Like I didn't feel like me. Like everything was going on around me but I was separate from it all. Like my head was full of thoughts that weren't mine. Like I expected to see myself every time I turned a corner. Like I was afraid of looking in a mirror. Afraid of who I might see. Crazy stuff like that. Just crazy stuff."
"And is that when you went up to Sunset? Tell me, Mark."
"What's to tell? I wanted to kill myself. I'd had enough. I felt my life was of absolutely no worth. I hated what I was; hated who I was. I was coming apart at the seams and I wanted to end it all. I'd messed up everything. I'd nowhere to go. And I thought the cleaner hose would do it. But, you see, I can't even kill myself."
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He was shaking his head, slowly. The words were now little more than a mumble.
"Know what?"
"What was that, Mark?"
"Know what I did in the car?" Mark glanced up and held her gaze.
Dr. Mitchell thought there was something different in his voice. More hollow. But somehow, at the same time, brighter.
There was the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. And a gleam in his eyes.
"I listened to 'The Last Ride'."
"What's that, Mark?"
"A song. One of my favourites. By Todd Rundgren. A fantastic song. Perfect to die to. Never heard it ?"
"No. I don't think so."
"It goes something like....
'It's the last ride My little game is over It's the last ride It's time to take me home And I can't cry Because I seen it coming No use running Take it slow.'
Well? Like it?"
There was a spark, a bright spark in his eyes.
"Mm..sounds good. And you wanted it to be your last ride, Mark? Tell me how you felt when you were listening to it."
"I was singing along to it. Always do."
"But were you sad, or depressed, or happy, or relieved, or what?"
"I felt kind of relaxed. Warm. Like I was slipping gently into something warm and soothing. I don't know....it's hard...You know, I was drifting away."
"And?"
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"And, well, it felt like I was beginning some wonderful dream. But like I knew it wasn't really happening. Or not to me; but to someone else. But it was me. I don't know. That doesn't make much sense, does it? But it really felt like a dream, but kind of different. You know, when you dream and you know it's a dream, that it's not real, and you know it's gonna go on, because you're kind of in control of it? It was like that.' Our dreams are magic.' That's from another Todd song. And they are. I'm sure of it. I felt I was easing into a magical dream. It was .....I don't know, it just...I just knew it was like truth. It was some kind of inner truth being revealed. That's how it felt."
"And did this dream actually take you anywhere? I mean, how far did you get into it?"
"I was into it the whole way."
"Tell me about it, Mark. Please."
"Well, there was music, I remember that. Can't say what kind of, but, you know, in the background. And there were children. Hundreds of kids, like, all really excited. Faces all beaming with excitement. And laughing. All crowding round, like I was their friend. You know how kids cram round you ? Well, it was like I was their hero. And we were turning, kind of. I don't know.....Maybe it was a fairground or something. Disneyland, something like that. Like we were all on a ride together. You know, going round and round on a ride: that's how it felt.
And then some of the kids started screaming, you know, how kids do. And I guessed they were playing being chased, you know, it was a game or something. Not serious. Not running for their lives, just playing, just screaming in fun. And me too. I was playing with them, joining in. Enjoying it. And it was hot, the sun was so warm, and we were all having a great time.
And then I think I was kind of growling and screaming, and all of a sudden the kids around me kind of took off, and started running away from me, and I remember wondering what they were running from, and I tried to look back over my shoulder but I couldn't. And it was different now: there was panic in their voices. I wanted to look behind me, see what it was. I wanted to protect them from whatever. But somehow I just couldn't turn to look back. And I ran with the kids, and they were screaming and running for crazy now, and I still couldn't turn round but I knew I had to see what we were running from, but all I could do was run and shout like all the kids.
And then it all changed. Very suddenly. Like pow! Stop. It was like everything had stopped. The world. The planets. Everything. Time had stopped. It all just froze. It was like statues. And the screams just died. Dead silence. I mean, total dead silence. And I felt cold. Just like that.
And then I knew what they had been screaming about. I knew why they had been running. I knew what they had been running from. And me too, what I had been running from. It wasn't a game. It was for real. It was deadly real.
It was me. They were running from me. And I was running from myself.
Or maybe they could see something at the back of me. I don't know. It sounds kind of crazy, don't it? But it wasn't a game. They thought I was after them. I was the monster.
And then the silence kind of cleared and all I could hear was a kind of heartbeat rhythm. You know? Maybe it was my own pulse, I don't know. It was something like that though.
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A crazy, mixed-up, magical dream. Eh? What do you think? Can you work it out?"
"How do you work it out, Mark? What do you think it means?"
"I don't know."
"Come on, Mark. It's not that hard is it?"
He met her gaze again.
"Well. I guess the kids are the Camp kids I worked with. It was kind of exciting and fun: that's the fairground. Good time. But then it all goes sour. Because of me. Maybe the kids see the real me. And the real me is a bit scary, 'cause I can't keep it going, and they can't take that in an adult. Kids see through you so easily. They suss you out, no trouble. They suss me out. And they panic, and I don't know what to do, and it's all fouled up. That's how I see it. Right?"
"That's good, Mark. But maybe you're too harsh on yourself. Maybe it's not about your failure, or your past. Maybe it's about your future. Maybe it's a dream about what you think is your potential. About what you could be. But you're not sure about it, you're not sure about yourself. You're not confident within yourself, and so you think your true potential might never be realised. That's what you're most anxious about, and that's why in the dream, things go wrong.
Can you see it that way?"
For a moment, when he looked into her face, Mark looked like a little child, a child who had done something terrible, and was desperately seeking some kind of forgiveness.
"I don't know. I really don't know. I wish to God I did."
She smiled at him.
"And is that how the dream ended?"
Mark looked hard at her. There was a sharpness that had not been there a moment ago. Just a flicker, but it was there. Enough to make her feel uneasy, for the first time in the interview.
"But dreams don't end. They can't. The dream goes on forever."
His smile widened.
“Todd Rundgren again.”
*
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By the end of 1978, things were falling into place. It was as though something was taking shape, a kind of pattern was emerging. Of that, Mark was sure. He was beginning to make connections: see how one thing slotted into another, like some gigantic jigsaw, except you never had all the pieces. Nobody did. You never saw the whole thing: you were lucky, or cursed, or super-perceptive, or something, if you could make anything of it at all. Most people didn't bother to try. After all, why waste time looking for something that was probably not there? But Mark began to notice there was a sense of something, a shape, a signal coming through. Perhaps this was the message he had been waiting for.
And he was sure the signal was gaining power, perhaps this time, because it was being beamed directly at him. It still wasn't clear, but he was definitely picking up something. He had never really thought about Fate or Destiny before; they were kind of too abstract to get hold of, and yet he knew there was a mystical, spiritual side of life. Something gave shape to everything. Some force gave control, or took shape or took control. He had strong religious faith, but Jesus had always seemed kind of a living individual, who came in to your life, met you person to person, and you had a real relationship with Him. He'd never really thought of Jesus as some kind of cosmic power, shaping the Universe. He didn't regard God like that either. God, if anything, was more distant, like a father, but still met you on a personal level. And yet, here he was, beginning to feel, beginning to know, that there was an emerging order to everything.
Thank God, he had reached a period of calm, almost a period of real stability. Perhaps because he was now able to stand back, with a sense of being kind of detached from it all, and just observe, and see more: he was seeing so much more. Not only that, he felt stronger as a person, and safer too. More at ease with himself: he had been through wild, violent swings that had made a Hell of his life for over a year.
It had begun badly, when his parents had come out for Christmas. They hadn't seen Mark for a while and had a lot to catch up on, and Mark wanted to show them he had settled down, wanted to prove to them he was doing well. After the difficulties of the previous summer, Mark had moved out of Honolulu, across the island, to the calmer, quieter Aikahi Gardens Estate in Kailua. The problems, the attempted suicide, all that was now well and truly behind him and he had settled into a good job, working at the hospital where he'd been a patient: the Castle Memorial. He loved it, working at the Castle. In a way, it was everything he hoped for, because there he felt like he did at the summer camps; so good to be helping people.
He talked about the Castle a lot. Of course, it looked nothing like a castle, but Mark was proud to tell everyone he met, that he worked there: he loved using the name. The Castle. It had a magical ring to it. At his most fanciful, Mark saw himself as some kind of shining white knight on a quest. He was, in his way, slaying dragons and rescuing damsels in distress, and he just enjoyed the idea that he was doing good. And there was more to it than that: it was also a kind of refuge for him. He had gone there when at his most vulnerable, when he was breaking up, when his whole life was falling apart, but once inside the Castle, he had felt safe, protected, secure. It was a place of calm, it was his fortress, his citadel. It afforded him time and space in which to find himself, or at least recover himself. He knew, some of the dragons he was slaying were his own.
He had started as a maintenance man, which meant he was working around the wards, and he knew he was really helping the patients. He would always have a friendly word to say, or he'd stop and chat a while, or just be there smiling and happy. When he moved to the Customer Relations
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Department, he was in his element. He was so proud, he felt he was doing a really worthwhile and rewarding job.
He had dated a couple of nurses at the hospital, too, and a young girl, Vikki, in the Catering section, but nothing came of it. She said he was too intense and that hurt. He wasn't sure what she meant by it and was afraid to ask her more. Too intense. He just wanted the relationship to work, wanted the dates to be fun, and wanted her to want to see him again. That wasn't being too intense. But what she said worried him, made him feel uneasy. He just couldn't figure out what women really wanted from him.
His parents had loved the island. They could see Mark was relaxed, contented and settled. And Mark wasted no opportunity to impress them: he knew he was kind of showing off, like a prodigal son made good. There was a sense of guilt at what he had put his folks through and in a very real sense, he was trying to make up for it all.
Together, they had a great time. And yet. And yet, there was still a slight tension there, even when they were laughing. Perhaps even more so, when they were laughing, and having a good time, Mark could feel something behind it all, something there in the background. As if there were things they all knew they couldn't talk about, things they stayed away from, skirted round, and the laughter was phoney and it was just to cover over the cracks. Mark could feel it. And he knew his father could feel it, too, but it was no more than Mark had expected.
What did surprise Mark, was to see the rift between his parents. He could see it plainly: they were splitting up. At first, Mark told himself he was wrong, but the signs were too obvious to ignore. Then he wondered whether he was just finally noticing what had been there a long time, and perhaps they had never been close, perhaps the distance had always been there. But Mark saw it now, clearly for the very first time. And somehow it scared him.
When they returned to Atlanta, it wasn't long before his mother called with the news, and even though he knew it was coming, it still hurt like Hell. Mark thought he was somehow to blame: that they were splitting on account of him. They were splitting for him. They had taken it upon themselves to separate, to save Mark.
It threw him back on himself. Into himself. And he was sure he was to blame. Though he hadn't mentioned his problems, he was sure they knew. Jessica must have told them: that's why they wanted to visit, to check up on him. Mark saw it now.
As he took the phone call, standing there, listening to his mother, who was tearful, yet resigned, Mark felt a cold numbness creep up inside him. He gazed down at the framed photograph of his parents on their wedding day: his father in uniform, smiling in the sunlight, his mother in white, gleaming white. His mother sounded so far away, so, so far away, like he was hearing her from the distance of that day in the past, rather than hearing her from the distance of Atlanta. Distant and fading, fainter and fainter. He wondered if his mother would fade into nothingness, because she was nothing now. Nobody. No one. She had only ever been his father's wife, or his mother: she never seemed to have an identity of her own. She was nothing in her own right, and now she had lost those tags, those identity tags. She was fading, fading, and he could do nothing to get her back.
Mark stared at the photograph. Eyes were blank, seeing only the whiteness of her dress.
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That whiteness. That false, pure whiteness; that true, deceitful whiteness. Nothing and everything. Virgin and bride. That intactness broken into. That white sacrifice, that ghostseed. Dressed in that shroud-dress. That was the moment of her ceasing to be her self, when his father took her for himself. He hated his father.
And suddenly he knew how fragile and vulnerable everything was, how finely balanced, delicately tuned. Like the most intricate mechanism, the jewelled movement of the finest watch, ever so minutely out, imperceptibly out, but given time, and the watch was useless. Two people living together for twenty three years, but all that time living apart. Living a lie all that time. But truth will out, and growing apart, slowly, inexorably, over twenty three years: in the end there’s no hiding that. And he was to blame, he was sure of it.
And he felt that vulnerability pressing on him. Things had been going well, really well, but now this. He felt unsure again. Anxious. Guilty, he supposed. And there seemed nowhere to go. The island had shrunk, suddenly. Alarmingly. It had collapsed in on itself, snapped shut like a trap. It had closed in on him and was still growing smaller and smaller. It was trapping him. He was conscious of the coasts and the sea all around him. It had never bothered him before, but now he almost panicked whenever he saw the horizon. And he seemed to see it at every turn.
Mark knew he had to get away. This island would drive him mad.
Each day, on his way into work at the Castle, he passed the offices of Waters World Travel Agency. It was through them he had arranged his parents' visit, and their return. The girls in the office had been particularly helpful. One especially, Japanese looking, maybe Phillipino, had been fantastic. There was another little piece of the jigsaw. It was so obvious to him now. And so the idea of travel was born. Out of that old restlessness and anxiety he thought he had tamed. And it became an obsession. He had to get away. If he stayed here he would be crushed. Pressed like a wrecked car. He had to get away. Not just back to the States, but really away. A long way away.
He had no-one else, so once again he turned to the YMCA for help. From the Honolulu Y he learned that his old buddy, Dave Moore, was now in Geneva. Mark's idea was to travel the world, seeing as many places as he could, staying at the YMCA hostels. It would be great. If he could get a letter of recommendation from Dave, it would be like a passport to anywhere.
He would need a fair bit of money, but that could be borrowed. And with a controlled desperation, that's what Mark did. The letter from Dave arrived, the loan was arranged. The world trip was on.
And as if to give it his blessing, Todd Rundgren issued a new LP: The Hermit Of Mink Hollow. It nearly blew Mark's mind. It was all there. Everything Mark had ever felt. Everything he was feeling now.
Wonderful lyrics. Incredible, wonderful words. It was exactly as though Todd were making a personal broadcast to Mark. Every line of every track seemed to speak to Mark. They were much more than songs. They were part of a message. Mark played it over and over. He loved that LP, and he feared it.
There were lyrics about the joy of Judgement Day, when everything comes to an end. 'The Galaxy is null and void.' And 'the Universe explodes apart, all the children sing'. Because Todd was also singing about the children. Mark recalled how the kids at Fort Chaffee used to sing. they had so much life and happiness to give to the world. Kids always understand more than adults: they know
Two Spirits Dancing page 116 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon the end of the world will be a cause for celebration. Children always see things for what they were. They see right through any phoniness. Suffer the little children to come to me. All the children sing. Lyrics of song and dance and wine flowing. Lyrics of celebration and joy. And destruction, the end of everything. Collision and explosion and tearing apart as a cause for great happiness. Because it brings revelation. Because everything has its time, and when time stops, that's when the party will begin. The end of the world. This world. And everything in it. And Jesus Christ will establish His kingdom on Earth. Sing with joy. Just wait for the time to come: and you'll know when the time has come. Because 'A bell in your head will ring, all the children sing'. Just bide your time, and you'll be transformed. And Mark knew Todd was right. It will be like that.
There were lyrics about the problems of holding on to a relationship: his splitting with Jessica, but their staying friends: their love had died, but they learned how to get through the changes. 'It's time for the wheel to turn.' Like it always has to. Nothing stays forever. Forever changes. Love can change to hate, or it can change to friendship. And love can be Hell. Todd understood that. 'We've been through hell together, but can we still be friends ?'
Lyrics about his distance from his family, the rift with his parents. And his failure. Chicago, the summer camps, Bierut. His hopes had come to nothing. He had achieved nothing. And now it was all too late.
'Why don't you write your mother? Why don't you call your family? They’re expecting an answer, Spare them your strange behaviour... What of your expectations? Weren’t you going to show us all Some new kind of dancer This season's singing Saviour?’
But it was no good: he was too far-gone. And he had left that life behind, complete with all the hopes and disappointments. He had moved on. And he must move on again, and keep moving on. No going back. No looking back on life's changes: go on, because you're too far gone.
Lyrics about this sick, sick world, where children and sad old ladies starve to death because of our indifference. And the world never changes. Because we never change. We like to think we do, we like to think we're changing all the time, but really we're just finding different ways to stay the same. And this song, too, reminded Mark of Chicago.
Reminded him too, of being moved to tears by the last line of 'An Elpee Worth Of Toons' :'I want to change the world !'That beautiful, full throated scream, cry, shout, lament, full of operatic grandeur and comic hopelessness. That ludicrous Popeye voice, "What's the problem, sonny?" and that gorgeous last line. "I want to change the world!” Change the world. Yes. I want to change the world.
That's what he set out to do. And he knew that was still what he wanted to do. Because it was such a sick, sick mess. He wanted to change the world. That was it. As simple as that. That's what he had always dreamed of doing. But how? Wasn't it just a ridiculous dream?
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And lyrics about breakdown. His breakdown. 'I think I'm gonna explode.' And 'I think I'm going out of control.' Exactly how he felt. Exactly. But also, Todd was singing about facing it, seeing it through. Showing guts and determination. 'Don't you break down on me!’
And lyrics about the lucky guys who are beyond all this. Those guys who are 'unafraid of any mountain, sure that the gods won't let them fall.' Everything they do comes off. They never have to try. It's all so easy for them. They have everything they want. Unreal. 'Some people don't seem real at all.' Mark loved that line. He wished he were that lucky guy.
Here was Todd speaking straight to Mark. Putting it all into perspective. Slotting all the pieces into place. The Hermit of Mink Hollow. And Mark was the hermit. And the songs were about separation and distance and failed relationships and indifference and breakdowns. And about how you have to take the world for what it is. You cannot change the world. You can only change yourself. Perhaps. If you're lucky. But no-one can change the world. You can turn your back on it, run away from it, shut yourself away, become a hermit, a recluse if you want, but none of that changes the world. It only changes your self. And that's what people are so afraid of: change. We love things to stay the same. Safe. Cosy. Comfortable. Change throws us off course. Not that we're on course to anywhere, or anything, but we tell ourselves we are. We all think we're on course to somewhere. In reality, we're all going nowhere.
But here was Todd telling Mark how you have to face it and see it through. It's never easy, sometimes it's hell, but if you can change yourself, then maybe you can change the world. Maybe. Perhaps there's a chance. But you've got to face up to change. Accept it. See it through. Don't run from it. Take it and make something of it. Just be ready to take it when it happens. Listen for that bell to ring. Show determination. Patience. The wheel will turn. It has to.
But sometimes you lose heart. It's like a fly batters itself against the window. Time and again and again it senselessly blunders. Mark could dig that. You get nowhere. And sometimes it seems the more you change, the more you stay the same. Because your life doesn't matter that much, and if you're a nobody, you can change yourself to anybody, but it all means nothing in the end. It's all the same. We cling to who we think we are, but we don't mean a thing, and we do nothing with our lives. We are nothing. We are all misfits and blacksheep and nothing is worth the bother. There is no yesterday and no tomorrow. There's only now and that hardly matters.
A bleak picture from Todd, and it was troubling, confusing Mark. He just couldn't grasp it all. The harder he listened, the less clear the message seemed to be. But not really less clear, just more confusing, as if there was a problem in reception. It was so simple, yet just beyond his grasp. He couldn't really explain it. Like there was something he had to remember, but it wouldn't come. Like there was something he had to do, but he'd forgotten quite what. He was looking for answers and all he ever found were questions. He just wanted to change the world, but first he had to change himself. Was that it ? And how to change himself ? There didn't seem to be a clear answer. At least, he couldn't see it yet.
But Mark knew Todd was right. He knew there was an answer in there somewhere. Todd could see it: Mark knew Todd was right. Just knew it. He was so Christ Almighty right. Life was all a big nothing, and you kept going through change after change just to con yourself that it was a big deal. Well, Mark was beginning to see right through it. And this whole album was telling Mark, OK, you've been through some tough times, through some difficult changes, but hang on, there's more to come. The big changes are yet to come. You're a failure and a nobody: something else is on its way. Yes. Todd was telling him straight.
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And staring straight at Mark from a tv screen.
It wasn't just the lyrics, it was the whole album. But most of all it was the cover, that fantastic cover: that horrific cover.
Mark began to make the connections. Things dovetailed. Todd's face: it was Todd's face. Mark was only now getting the message, but it had been coming through for years. Todd had been speaking to him for years. There had been that postcard in 'A Wizard A True Star', reply-paid, and Mark had filled in his name and sent it in. There was a promise that all the names would be listed on the next album. And when 'Todd' came out, Mark had rushed to buy it. It was this great poster, a kind of computer-print-out poster using all the names, and making up an image of Todd's face. In places bold, in other places so faint, but it was as though this face image was being beamed or projected from some immense distance. Mark had scanned it for his name. Down the columns, across, straining his eyes to make it out. But it wasn't there. It wasn't there. It was missing.
And he could still remember how he felt at the time: puzzled, angry, conned, as if he didn't count, as if he didn't exist. He'd sent in his name, but he wasn't there.
He saw the point of it now. Todd was telling him, all those years ago: the whole thing was telling him. It was a faint signal, a fading image. A weak identity. Unsure of itself, anxious and waning, telling him to hold on. Hold on if he could. Hold on to who he was. And if he couldn't, then go all the way with the change.
And this time it was different. This time was different because it was like a special announcement. Like when they interrupt a programme to make some special newscast. Grab your attention. Get through to you. And here was Todd trying to tell him, trying to get through to him, more clearly than ever before, more directly than ever before. The image was sharp and distinct. The signal was so strong. If he wasn't receiving the message, then it was because Mark was confused inside. Muddled. Uncertain of anything. He kept listening to the album, kept studying the cover. There was no mistake. Todd's face staring at him from a tv screen. Grey blue and chilling. Drawing Mark's eyes to it, to the eyes. Eyes to eyes. Contact. Message coming through loud and clear.
A haunted face, a haunting face. Staring out from the screen. This was the message. This was what had been trying to get through to him. This was it. Or part of it. God, that face scared Mark. It was kind of dead. Spooky. It was Todd's face, but it was also Mark's father's face, and it was Gary's and it was those junkies from way back and it was the audiences in Chicago and it was stern and grim, like it was the face of everyone giving Mark hell for something he had done. In some ways it was like looking into a mirror.
*
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With all the arrangements made, with the finance in place, with a letter of recommendation from Dave Moore, Mark was ready for the trip of his life. There was a basic itinerary of Far East, Middle East and Europe, but the day to day fine detail would be filled in according to circumstance and whim, and that suited Mark. He had learned not to make too many plans, but just see how things go. Stay put if things were going well, move on if not. It would not be too difficult getting into the various YMCAs, and the travel would be a case of grabbing a seat when one was available. Mark could not see too many problems. It would be a Grand Tour, a great adventure, and a spectacular achievement.
He was excited by it all. The weeks of thinking about it, the slow build up of anxiety, and the anticipated thrill of such an enterprise, all served to strain Mark's nerves to the limit. He was strung out very, very tightly. So much depended on this tour being the success he wanted.
He had come to see the trip as a way out of the trap he had fallen into. He now thought that coming to Hawaii had been a mistake, a short-sighted, ill-planned moment of madness. At best, a rather over-hasty escape, or retreat. He could see it now. He had been there eighteen months, and now knew he had to get away. It was a question of his sanity, as much as anything. This world trip would be a way of finding himself. It wasn't as crazy as it sounded. He realised he was wrong in thinking he needed some kind of cosy, comfortable stability: that was perhaps another reason he had come to Hawaii. He thought the islands would be peaceful and calm and kind or restorative, but they just threw him back on himself. Through the counselling after his attempted suicide, Mark had come to realise he was not strong enough to cut himself off from everything. He wasn't some kind of hero, who could just turn his back on things and ride off into the sunset, he needed to put himself on the edge, needed to push himself to some kind of limit and see what he was made of. Find out who he was.
There was too much going on inside his head, too many crazy ideas, too much turmoil. All sorts of crazy thoughts just swirling around like mad, round and round, kind of chasing each other; so much so, that there were evenings and nights when he felt his head would explode.
He wasn't sleeping too well. He just couldn't get away from his own thoughts. He was thinking all the time and there didn't seem to be any way he could turn off. He just kept looking inside himself, that's all he ever did. It was as though he was trapped inside himself, a prisoner inside himself: crazy ideas like that, like he was constantly having to look at himself through a microscope; like he was a specimen, the specimen, and yet he was leading the examination. Like he was standing beside himself and listening in on everything he said, and was scrutinising everything he did, and going over and over it. And he didn't like who he was. The Mark Chapman he had become was not the Mark Chapman he longed to be. It was crazy, just crazy, he knew it. And he prayed to Jesus Christ and God Almighty this world trip would be a way of getting out of himself. Travel was supposed to take you out of yourself. Well, that's what he needed more than anything. Some kind of release.
The slightest thing seemed to unsettle him. He would walk into the convenience store and he just knew people were talking about him, he knew they were observing him, and he felt something was directing his every move. He knew he was being pointed at, and yet also pointed in a particular direction. Like he was being guided, directed towards something special, something big. He was trying to read the messages loud and clear, trying to pick up the signal, but it was still fuzzy.
All he could do was hold on. Hold on tight. Establish himself for who he was, where he was, at this particular moment.
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But at the same time there was this overpowering sense of restlessness. This feeling that he would never really settle, that he could never settle. He was twenty three, and still it seemed his life was going nowhere. He had come to this tiny speck of land in the middle of a gigantic ocean, and from here, there was just nowhere to go. His hopes of starting a new life had proved to be idle dreams and now he felt stuck, not settled.
But he could see that there had to be more to it than this. This wasn't going to be the rest of his life. He had to make some kind of move, and soon. There was something waiting for him, that there was something he had to do, he was certain, something he had to get out of his system. It was there and it was blocking everything else at the moment, that’s as close as he could come to it. At times he felt the only way he would ever be still and at peace, would be strapped in a strait-jacket, locked inside a padded cell, shut away behind bars. Pinned down.
It frightened him. And yet he went towards those ideas with a growing calmness.
And so Mark decided he would work this restlessness out of himself. He would force it out and force himself through it. If it was like an obstacle in his way and he had to get over it, or round it, or through it, then so be it; he would just do it, whatever. That was the real motive for this tour. He was going to get a lifetime's travel into a couple of months, because he had a feeling it was his last chance. He just knew he had to do it. The time was right and if he didn't go now he knew he would never get another opportunity.
*
It was a truly fantastic trip, full of wonderful experiences that were exhilarating and mind-blowing. For two months Mark was a free agent, two months of a kind of freedom he had never tasted before. It was like a drug, like manna or ambrosia, and it made him feel like a god. He seemed to learn so much, about the world and about himself, and as the trip went on, Mark began to see he was not just another insignificant individual in a world bursting at the seams with nobodies. He felt special. He knew he was doing something most people only dream of, he knew he was achieving what most would never even dare to think of. That made him special. And he felt he was on a kind of special mission, a kind of journey into himself, a journey of true discovery.
But also there was finality about it all. He didn't really know what to make of the feeling that once this trip came to an end, something inside of him would be over, finished. Or perhaps it was just the sense that it would close one chapter of his life, and another would open.
He managed to stop trying to analyse everything he did or thought or felt. He knew that was madness, and he desperately needed to find some sanity. In many ways, this trip was like some fantastic dream: he just had to ride it. You can't control a dream, no matter how hard you try.
The whole thing was unreal, even surreal. There was just too much to take in. He had to let it wash over him. He found it very difficult at first, he tried to keep a diary of his trip, tried to make a note of every slide he took, so he could make sense of it all when he got back. But it was impossible.
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There was just too much. The colours, the sounds, the energy of alien cultures, were overwhelming. Mark knew he had set out, years ago, to change the world, but here he was, and the world was changing him. It was a terrible, sick, dangerous, diseased world; no question about that, but it was also marvellously beautiful and bright and full of life and a sense of triumph. How to take it all in? How to make anything of it? How to constantly shift your perspective and know that you're seeing it for what it is? Mark felt like a Martian: he'd crash-landed on Earth with no hope of return, and he was struggling to make sense of everything. Maybe that's how Dorothy must have felt, when she'd been dumped in the Land of Oz. Or Alice, or Captain Nemo. Perhaps the kids at the camp had sussed out that Mark was embarking on a voyage of discovery. After all, isn't everyone on it? Toby Tyler too. Isn't it all an endless journey into yourself? A fantastic journey into a strange and wonderful world in order to find yourself.
And he did come to terms with it, slowly. And he realised that as he came to terms with the new experiences, so he was coming to terms with himself.
He met up with Dave Moore in Geneva. He stayed at Dave's apartment overlooking Lac Leman: a spectacular sight on a clear August evening. They talked over old times, had a few glasses of wine, and enjoyed each other's company until the early hours.
And Mark felt comfortable enough to talk about his attempted suicide, about his emotional problems, about the difficulties with Jessica and Gary. Dave listened with the air of a man practised in recognising when someone had gone through a crisis. He was surprised, but it was not entirely unexpected. Mark had always taken things so seriously: perhaps too seriously. He was always desperate that people thought well of him. He had to be seen to be doing his best. Had to be noticed. Had to be right, all the time, and never allowed to fail. That was a pretty tall order, and of course Mark fell short. And then, when things went wrong, he over-reacted: in a way, he kind of over-compensated.
And the moment they met, he could see Mark had changed. Gone was the carefree young man of those Fort Chaffee days. In his place was a disillusioned, a rejected and rather fragile young man. Quieter, more subdued. Listening to Mark talk, Dave could tell he was looking for something. Something he hadn't yet found, something that would give him a firm foundation. Stability, perhaps, was what Mark was searching for; except he seemed to be waiting for it, rather than searching for it; expecting it to come when this trip was over. He was kind of passive and not fully himself. Kind of half focussed. So that Dave Moore got the distinct impression this world trip thing wasn't to find security or stability, it was to try to discover something else. Or maybe it was just a diversion. Two months off. A sort of last ditch chance to escape whatever.
Dave could detect the turmoil inside Mark, the emotional uncertainty over Jessica, the fearful attraction Mark seemed to feel for his friend Gary. When Mark spoke about Gary, there was a note of respect, even awe, in his voice. They were obviously very close, closer than Mark and Jessica.
But Mark talked too, about the travel agent, Gloria, who had been so helpful in arranging this world trip. He was really taken by her, and when he was back in Hawaii, he was going to see a lot more of her. He was planning for the future, and he was really going to settle down. He had a great job at the Castle: he could make something of that. There was every chance of promotion and he felt he was at last getting the recognition he deserved. He was helping others less fortunate than himself. He was doing well in a responsible position, and, moreover, he was through his own problems.
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It had been difficult to adjust to life in Hawaii, difficult to leave family and friends back in the States, and he had had trouble coping with the loneliness, but that was all behind him now. In a kind of crazy way, it had been a tremendous experience. Like coming face to face with yourself. And the attempted suicide was like coming face to face with death. A traumatic experience in every sense of the word. Trying to kill yourself shifted everything into a sharper focus. It was like you turned the lens and everything became crisp and clear. Alright, it didn't necessarily give you any answers, but it gave you a better picture of your situation.
Dave Moore listened. This was a Mark Chapman who sounded slightly, just ever so slightly adrift. Sort of floundering around, like a swimmer thrashing too much, putting too much into every stroke, and getting nowhere.
*
The last stop before Honolulu was Atlanta.
As he flew into Hartsfield Airport, he knew he was going to see Gary, but not Jessica. And not his mum, nor his dad. He told himself he would see how it went, see if there was time to call on anyone else, he would keep an open mind, look them up if the opportunity arose. But he knew he was fooling himself.
He needed to see Gary. It had been a year and a half and he badly wanted to make contact again. Mark felt his quitting Atlanta had been too sudden, a kind of impulsive thing that now seemed wrong. It hadn't been fair on his buddy, and he wanted to know, needed to know they were still friends. He had called Gary a couple of times from Honolulu, just to let him know he was fine and settling down OK, but he hadn't shared any of his problems with Gary. And besides, the last call was over six months ago.
When he rang the bell and waited for Gary to open the door, Mark felt himself tight as a tourniquet. All kind of anxieties: he wondered whether he was doing the right thin; what if Gary was with someone? And what if Gary didn't want to see him?
But the door opened and Gary stood there with a huge grin on his face and Mark knew it was OK. Everything was fine. They shook hands, they hugged each other, Gary slapping him on the back, like he was the prodigal son returned. And over a few beers they talked and talked. They quickly closed the distance of separation and within an hour felt as close as ever. He stayed with Gary that night, and the next two nights, and he could have stayed longer, but knowing their relationship was still good was enough for Mark. That's all he wanted at this stage. He didn't want to get involved with Gary, he wanted to stick to his plan to see more of Gloria.
And so, for the second time, Gary let him go. For the second time, Gary knew Mark would be back one day.
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*
Back in Honolulu, in September 1978, Mark kept to what he had told Dave Moore. He set out to see much more of Gloria, calling into the travel agent's the day after he'd landed from Atlanta, to tell her he was back and that all the arrangements had worked out fine. He knew the Gary thing was behind him now, and so he could move forward: Gary had understood his desire to settle down; he said he could see Mark was more mellow - that was his word - calmer in himself. The world trip had obviously done him good.
He wanted to thank Gloria for everything. He would never have made it without her, and he wanted to share some of it with her now. Mark invited her to see some of the hundreds of slides he had taken. It would be a kind of date, and it would give him a chance to really start getting to know her better.
Gloria Abe, half Hawaiian, half Japanese, was hardworking, shy and demure, and very flattered that this charming young man should think so much of her. She was the perfect partner for Mark: quiet, submissive and undemanding. Almost the stereotype Eastern girl.
From the very beginning, Mark began to shape their relationship: she seemed so much the little girl, and he was the worldly wise young man, completely at ease with her. It was like being back at Fort Chaffee, but this time he could devote all his attention on one person. He saw he could exert real influence, and began to dominate in the relationship. He decided what they did, where they went: that kind of thing. He would comment on her appearance, her dress, and she would make changes to please him. Mark began to take her under his control. He felt older and wiser than her: she knew and understood so little, whereas he had so much to tell her, so much experience to share with her, so many ideas to test on her.
And things went well. He and Gloria saw each other at every opportunity, and they got on really well together. Mark would wait outside the travel agent's till she had finished work, then walk her home. Sometimes he was impatient as hell, when she was tied up on some travel arrangements, and she could see him pacing outside, checking his watch every few minutes, glaring at her to finish work. He resented every second the job kept her from him: he relished every second they were together.
But then something happened that jolted Mark backwards. It was like an electric shock to him.
It was November 1978. Mark had been suggesting that his mum come out to Hawaii to live. Join him. There was nothing left for her in Atlanta, and she was considering the idea, and seriously.
But then came news of Jonestown. Jim Jones and The People's Temple, the Thousand Templars. The news came out of the Guyana jungle that over nine hundred had killed themselves, nine hundred and thirteen suicides. A nightmare nine hundred and thirteen times over. And Mark listened to the tv coverage with morbid fascination, almost hypnotised by it.
And as the details came out, with each new report, the fascination grew. Jim Jones, self proclaimed Messiah, performer of miracles and healer, had ordered the mass suicide of his followers. He demanded total obedience: he exerted ruthless and brutal punishment on man, woman or child, and
Two Spirits Dancing page 124 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon for over two years he had prophesied the time would come when they would have to flee persecution. Flee into death. The great escape. And they had rehearsed in elaborate ritual, with Coca Cola laced with cyanide. The signal was given over the tannoy, and the Thousand Templars had begun the end they had planned. It was their White Night. Knight Templars, White Knights, going into their White Night.
It stunned Mark. Shocked him: not the deaths, not the scale of it, but the power of White; this chilling beautiful purity of it all.
And it triggered off too, earlier recollections, disturbing memories that he had never come to terms with, because he had not understood them at the time, but now it was beginning to make sense. Again, things were fitting into place, coming together.
Mark had been thirteen at the time. It was the late Sixties, and another Messiah, another Son of Man, was on a divine mission of death. Charles Manson: Manson and his Family. They had butchered six or seven people at Polanski's home, and, on the walls, daubed, in their victim's blood, the slogans: "Piggies" and "Helter Skelter", inspired, Manson claimed, by the songs from the White Album. Beatle lyrics that were a call to arms, a message of murder. Songs of turning the world upside down and inside out and having a corkscrew ride into the power of White, into the White void. The White Album. It had been Lennon's idea. And Yoko's. They were into that minimalist art, that blank canvas thing. Bagism: climbing into white bags to con everyone they were having an orgy, and wearing white as a statement of their innocence and purity. Everything white and innocent: two virgins. Except they were playing with it, pretending it was all a joke and they didn't really know the significance of it all. The terrible power of White.
Well, Mark knew about White: it had its own power. And he understood the force of lyrics, the power of words. In the beginning was the word. And the word was with God. And the word was God. John the disciple knew: he knew and felt the power. And the words played inside your head over and over and over, telling you what to do. Telling you exactly what to do, till you did it.
*
The wedding went like a dream. A beautiful June day, and the grounds of the United Methodist Church were heavy with scent, brilliant with blossom. The whole thing was like a fairy tale. Gloria was in white, a frail little girl, a fairy princess, virginal and vulnerable. She looked lost, looked as though this wasn't really happening to her, with the photographer putting her into position, she was smiling when told to smile, moving when moved, like a manikin. And throughout the proceedings, Mark was in control, directing, like it was his show, and he was the director and he was loving the theatre of the ceremony.
He had proposed in January, writing the question in the sand as they strolled along the beach at Kailua Bay, and Gloria had written her answer alongside. Corny. Romantic. Written in sand and written against the tides, like it was in defiance of everything that said their relationship would not last.
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And then, there was so much to organise, so much to think of. Mark got caught up in the excitement of it all. Lists to make, details to finalise, arrangements and plans, everything had to be agreed by Mark. He wanted to leave nothing to chance, nothing was to go wrong.
Back of it all, was this problem of the dress. The moment Gloria had accepted his proposal, Mark knew he had to face the problem of the dress: the white dress he knew Gloria wanted to wear. It was kind of crazy, Mark knew, but it was the only thing that really bugged him. This was the biggest step he would ever take, the greatest day of his life, and he was concerned about the colour of a dress. Crazy. Except Mark knew it wasn't crazy. He knew it was vitally important, because such significant details determine the success or failure of every thing we do. They talked it through carefully, though he was sure Gloria felt he was making too much of it. To her, it was her wedding day, the day she would give herself to the man she loved, the most meaningful moment of her life, and she had always dreamed of a white wedding, but Mark had to get it straight in his mind. Mark had to think this through and decide.
This whiteness was the problem. He didn't want it to seem that there was something fake about it all, something phoney, like John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Two fucking virgins! Or like you go to a white wedding, and everyone is nodding and winking that the bride is pregnant or something. Mark couldn't face that. He couldn't go through with that, and he didn't want it to seem like Gloria was some little sacrificial lamb. That's how some people saw marriage: the virgin child is sacrificed on the wedding altar. But then Mark became angry with himself for thinking such thoughts. It seemed he couldn't see anything simply any more. He had to look for some deeper meaning in everything. His mind just worked overtime, all the time, and it scared him. He didn't know he had such ideas in his head. He didn't know where the hell they came from. He loved Gloria, she loved him: it was as simple as that. But no; he had to complicate it.
He went back to the Good Book, back to the Lord Jesus Christ at the wedding at Cana in Galilee, back to his faith. He read and re-read the opening of John Chapter 2, until it seemed that Christ was the bridegroom, turning water into wine at his own wedding. That was crazy. Why did he have to foul everything up? Jesus was a guest at the wedding: why did he have to read it so differently? Why did he twist everything? Why was everything so mixed up in his head? Why did he have to doubt everything? Question everything? Why not just accept things for what they were? Why try to see what wasn't there? Where did it get him?
And he read Mark Chapter 10, "And they twain shall be one flesh: so then they are no more twain, but one flesh." That was better. At least that was straightforward: two people becoming one. Till death us do part, because marriage was forever, love was forever. To the death. Like a fight, like a struggle to the death. Till death us do part. But death also joins. Or joining also kills. You kill something inside yourself when you join with another. You make room. Becoming one means killing the many selves you are. Two people becoming one is just too simple. We're all many people inside. And Mark knew we all have to murder aspects of ourselves to accommodate others. Love and death, bride and groom. Perhaps that's why we marry in white: it is the marriage shroud.
Again, Mark was horrified at those crazy, crazy ideas. Was he sick or something? Was he mad? What was going on inside his mind? Loony, loco ideas, sick and mad ideas. His head seemed to be bursting with them, he was full of this madness. He prayed for guidance, prayed he was not going mad. It really scared him.
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To Mark, there was clearly an evil face of white: it was an absence of everything, a void. Avoid the void, the nothingness, the vacancy, the emptiness that brought so much despair. But surely there was another face too, surely white was holy and pure, white was every picture of Jesus he had ever seen. White was a new start, a blank page, a carte blanche. White was innocence, chastity, passive surrender; and white was love. That was its power. And he must find a way to use its goodness and its virtue, to defeat the evil that seemed everywhere. That was it: Mark felt he had to use white to exorcise the evil in the world. He had to face it. With the power of love, with the Lord Jesus by his side, with Gloria, he would get through this madness, this sickness, whatever it was.
And so, Mark approved Gloria should wear white, and he decided he would too. He ordered a new suit in a plain white cotton. They would stand side by side in white. They were in this together, they would see it through together, man and wife.
And once the whole thing was over, Mark felt wonderful as a married man. He had begun to doubt he would ever find the right girl; and now, here he was, just turned twenty four, with a beautiful wife, and every chance of settling down to a normal life. It meant so much to him. Nobody knew how much, nobody could even begin to imagine how much. He felt like a new man, he felt as if the wedding had redeemed him, healed him and restored him. He felt as if the wedding ceremony, and those wonderful, powerful, magic words, had been a kind of purification, a cleansing, almost a baptism. He was a new Mark Chapman and Gloria was a new woman: she was now Gloria Chapman. His wife. His.
*
The shadows were there on that hot June day, deep black shadows at the edge of everything, but it was the brilliant sunshine they noticed. June now, but come December, and lean years on their way. The marriage was under strain, almost from the moment the guests departed, and they were alone with each other. For a while, for a few short days, they were as happy as the handsome prince and the beautiful princess could ever be. They had found each other against the odds, and they were going to live happily ever after.
Except Mark soon discovered he couldn't trust his wife. It was a boiling hot Saturday in August, and Gloria was sunbathing in the garden, wearing a rather revealing bikini. Mark had teased her about it when she first put it on, but later, when he noticed the next door neighbour paying her somewhat too much attention, Mark no longer thought it funny. He blew his top. Really flipped. Shouted at his wife to get herself covered up, threatened the man, stood there screaming over the fence at him, while a tearful Gloria ran indoors. It was like a storm had burst.
Mark realised he had to move quickly, or his marriage would slip away from him. He had to take firmer control. Had to be strict: he didn't blame Gloria, but he couldn't take chances. She had to be protected from the dangers, had to be protected from herself, if necessary.
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Providence played a hand. There was a vacancy in the Accounts Department at the Castle, and Mark arranged an interview for his wife. Mark insisted she change job to be closer to him. It would be like working together, side by side. They could travel to and from work together, eat lunch together, work shifts together. It was perfect, and more than all that, Gloria would be safe inside the Castle.
But if there were going to be problems at home at the weekends, then Mark had to take more drastic steps. Anyway, he was concerned at the influence her family had over Gloria. Before she did anything, Gloria seemed to check it out with her mother, and her father was always offering advice: they should buy this brand of fridge, they should save so much each month for a particular car. That kind of stuff. They lived nearby, and Mark saw that was going to cause difficulties. Gloria was his wife, not their daughter. He was responsible for her, not they. Things had changed: they had given their Gloria to Mark, but they still wanted to hold on to her.
There were always these complications: and yet it really was very simple; Gloria was his. That's all there was to it.
Mark decided they would move back to Honolulu. It was only a short journey across the mountains, but it was the distance he needed to make himself secure against their interference.
He spent a couple of weeks looking around for the right place, in the right area, at the right price, but eventually he found it, tucked away just off the main streets, but still in a respectable neighbourhood, and a few blocks from Honolulu's Chinatown, he took a twenty-first floor apartment: 55 Kakui Plaza. It was a new apartment building of razor sharp modern lines, large picture windows, patio doors leading onto a small balcony, the walls matt and flat and magnolia, the carpets cream and expansive. It was over $400 a month, but it gave Mark the high tower he needed. Here he could shut away his Rapunzel. Keep her safe and secure.
The job at the Castle gave him plenty of time to think. There were dull and dead times when he sat in his tiny office and let the thoughts chase themselves round his head. Really, he had too much time to think. He was understandably preoccupied with his marriage, wanted it to succeed so desperately. It just had to be good, had to be. He knew he had to work at it, knew he had to do the right thing all the time, and it was on his mind all the time. He'd go over and over situations and conversations, replaying them in his mind, trying to analyse what was going on, or he practised what he might say, rehearsed his lines till he thought he was word-perfect, scripting imaginary scenes in his head. Looking back, anticipating: he had to make this marriage work. If he fouled this up, he would kill himself.
But maybe he was trying too hard. Sometimes if you tried too hard at something, it died on you. That's how it seemed. He knew the marriage wasn't going well and perhaps he was to blame: trying too much, or not trying enough.
He had known it wouldn't be easy, known it all along: he had always known there were going to be problems with the physical side. They were both inexperienced, and he hoped they would learn together. Gloria couldn't expect him to be an expert lover on the first night. That wouldn't be fair. But it was a proving ground, a stern test, no doubt about it. And there was all that uncertainty and anxiety in their love-making.
But even on the Honeymoon, he felt wrong. He couldn't really work it out, but he just felt kind of in the wrong place, as if it wasn't even him, sometimes. He wanted everything to be so, so good.
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Wanted it to be great. He wanted to feel everything, take it slow and not miss a thing, and really enjoy loving her. He wanted it to be like that for Gloria too. He wanted it to work, and prayed and prayed, pleaded hard with God and Christ to bless his marriage with joy. But it was not to be. He just knew it wasn't right. He couldn't really work out what was going wrong, but he felt like it was all happening in the next room. It was crazy, as if it was happening to someone else: that was as close as he could get to what he felt.
He knew he had been afraid of sleeping with her. He knew it had to be right in bed, because that was where marriages worked or failed. And he knew all newly-weds were anxious about sex, but this was something more than that. She was a virgin: of that he was certain: that was one of the things that had attracted him to her: he was absolutely sure she had no sexual experience. And so too was he: though he and Jessica had had some heavy sessions, they had never gone too far. Mark had enjoyed those times on the back seat of his 65 Chevrolet. The sex had been fine: it was where it was leading to that scared him. It scared him then and it scared him now, because it was a kind of letting go, a kind of being out of control, abandonment even, and Mark knew he had to keep a really tight grip on everything. If he lost it, he knew he risked going to pieces. He didn't want to end up once again a patient at the Castle. Jesus, no way.
He didn't dislike sex, he didn't feel any distaste for it. Except he knew it was dangerous and the fear kind of froze him. It threw him sideways or got kicked backwards from it, like it was some kind of electric shock. His instinct told him to shrink back. That's how it felt. That was the problem. Or part of it. During sex he felt somewhere else, or someone else. He felt distant. Detached even. Like it was happening on a screen, one of those porn movies, or something, or it was a page from one of the mags he bought from time to time. There was something unreal about it all as if it wasn't really happening, at least not to him, but it was fantasy, it was fiction. Or like he was a fictional character. Like someone was writing his part. Or he was reading somebody else's part. Jesus Christ, it was one of those crazy things that he couldn't fathom.
Those movies and mags were something else! He thought about them sometimes: except it was pure lies. In those movies and mags it was shit, it was always hot and fast and wanting each other so bad; it was hurried and frantic but never clumsy, always just right and go for it the second you see it and nobody says no and nobody ever turns away and you take it to the limit because she wants you to screw her like she's only dared dream and hope she'd be screwed. And she wants you because you want her and there are no barriers and no second thoughts and you just steam on ahead and she's panting and moaning and wanting more and more and you're giving her everything and she's taking it and giving it back and giving it back and giving it back and you've got more to give because you feel you're dancing like a bomb abroad and you just keep exploding onto each other. And the timing is perfect and you move together and she knows just what you want her to do and you do just what she wants you to do and you wait for her to come like she's never come before and she screams with ecstasy and she's wide wide open and she's yelling you to come and you've got no more to give and she starts to come and you start to come and you come together, come together, come together.
Mark loved reading them: they were fantastic and exciting. But he hated them too, hated the fantasy they spun. Sex was not like that.
Sex was his nightmare. His demon: there, right there, and waiting to torment. It was risk and rejection, it was anxiety and anti-climax, it was messy and sordid and stupid. It was miserable as sin.
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He could never tell. He could never suss out whether Gloria wanted him to make a move or not. That was what he hated most, lying there, next to her, trying to hear her breathing, trying to quieten down his own breathing so he could hear her, wondering if tonight she wanted him. Next to her, sometimes actually touching her, but between them, a million miles of not knowing. That's what scared him. Really freaked him out. That not knowing, that never knowing. His head splitting with the not knowing, full of questions and questions, but never an answer.
Should he pull her towards himself? Was it time to try something? Take the risk? There was always the risk, always the crippling uncertainty. He sometimes felt sick inside, sick with tension. Did she want him? He just couldn't seem to pick up the signal: surely there should be some clear signal from her. Should he wait? Should he try it now, or try it later? Or give up? Just what did she expect from him? Did she expect him to try sex every night? He hated and dreaded the doubt. So many uncertainties, so many opportunities for rejection.
She never made the first move, never started things off. Always lay there waiting, waiting for him to start, or waiting for him to turn over and fall asleep. He never could tell. Sometimes he knew he had to make a move, had to try something.
Start nice and slow and easy. Don't rush it. Don't push her too far too soon. Warm up slowly. Gradually. Give her time, don't scare her away, don't give her a chance to reject him. Easy does it. Just cuddle her, just hold her tight, just stroke her gently. See how it goes, see if she responds. If she closes up, ride the anger and the frustration and the hurt inside. If she opens up: fantastic.
But even that wasn't true. If the kissing and the cuddling was OK, what next? That was just like getting over the first barrier. You knew there was another and then another, on and on. Did she really want him? Was she just putting up with it, like it was her duty? How the hell did you tell? Please, Jesus, how the Hell do you tell?
There seemed to be no way of knowing if she was enjoying it, no way to tell if she was faking it. He hated it. It was terrifyingly awful. He came too soon and she never complained, and she never came. She said she didn't mind, but he knew she would say that. He came too soon: they were totally out of synch.
It was like his body betraying him, like it wasn't his body, it wouldn't do what he wanted. He was detached and mechanical, but he just wasn't in control. He just couldn't get into it. It was like his head was somewhere else, and while his body was betraying him, he thought all sorts of crazy, crazy things. It was like his body was trying to make love, and his mind was somewhere else, doing something else, being someone else. There was no passion, no real energy. It was hollow, empty, a blankness, terrible and terrifying. It was more like he and her were moving in different time, moving to different strokes. It was like two strangers going through some phoney ritual of deceit. Lying to each other, cheating each other. Lying and cheating inside each other, right inside, and still not being true to each other, or to themselves. Like they were both acting parts, sham and shallow parts written for them by some third rate author. And it was already written: they were simply acting it out.
Mark wished desperately that he could make her happy. He knew there was no satisfaction for either of them like this. And she never Goddamn complaining, like the good little Oriental wife he had chosen. It made him so mad. He wanted her to shout and scream her frustration, like he wanted to his. Wanted her to face it the way he wanted to face it, out in the open, talk it through and yell it through and get it straightened out if they could. He didn't want it like this: petrified silence,
Two Spirits Dancing page 130 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon pretending to be asleep, afraid to make a move, boiling with inner rage at himself and her, because this was his problem and hers and she just didn't want to know, because she didn't know what the problem was and she didn't know what the answer was and neither did he. God Almighty it was driving him mad. It was the rage of love failing.
He could feel himself being like jacked up higher and higher and tighter and tighter, the longer it went on. No release and no outlet. So much frustration building and building.
They couldn't talk about it: Mark just didn't know the words, and Gloria would have said anything she thought might defuse the situation. And up another few notches, and up again, all the time being jacked higher and higher. He could feel the breaking point, feel the strain in his whole body, feel the tremor and tremble in his mind. His marriage was failing, and he knew what it meant. Jesus, he knew what it meant.
Amidst all that were his memories of Jessica, and how their relationship had failed. And there were memories of Gary, and the anxiety his friendship had roused. And there were his feelings for Dave. And the more Mark tried to sort it all out, the more muddled it all seemed, the more complex and inter-connected everything was. It just went round and round in his head, endlessly, relentlessly tormenting him; round and round like he was on some nightmare ride he couldn't get off and he couldn't stop, because it had all gone too far. He began to know this marriage was a mistake. Yet another, in a long string of mistakes and miserable failures. It seemed he just couldn't handle a long-term relationship. Something had to go wrong. He just seemed to foul up on everything.
The wedding had been a calculated gamble: a kind of public announcement. A big show and a big occasion. All dressed up and putting on a show, to show he was a regular guy. That's what it was all about. For Mark Chapman to announce to the world he was a going to be a happily married, respectable, down to earth, regular guy. And he really thought, in the quiet and submissive Gloria, he had found the kind of woman he had been looking for, the kind of woman who would give him the calm and the space and the time he needed to find himself, or prove himself, or be himself. He thought marriage, this kind of marriage, undemanding and safe, would slowly but surely stifle those uncertainties he had about his sexuality.
And so, though he could see things going wrong, he felt he could not force it, must not force it. There was too much at stake. He had to give it time, knowing all the time, there was this gnawing and nagging emptiness at the heart of their marriage, that was tearing them apart, and was tearing him apart. He wished and prayed he could tear the old Mark Chapman out of himself and start again. Tear away the failure and be someone new, cut away what you don't want. Maybe he was trying that back in 1977, and he hadn’t moved on at all, and he knew that a failed marriage would put him right back there, with towels blocking the gaps and a cleaner-hose from the exhaust.
The big public wedding was one thing, but the real marriage went on in private, and not just private in their apartment, but private inside their heads, private in their thoughts. That was where it really was a struggle, when the sex was lousy it was Mark's own private torment, when the rage boiled inside him it was his private Hell. When he came too soon, it was his shame. When he lay there afraid to make a move, it was his fever.
He masturbated more and more. And all the time, he hated it, but he had to. It was his only release, and though brief, it did bring him some kind of satisfaction. But it also brought him tremendous guilt and anguish. It was another admission of failure. He knew it was a terrible indictment, but he just couldn't help himself. It was cheating: he knew that. Cheating Gloria and cheating himself. But
Two Spirits Dancing page 131 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon at least it was private: a wonderful, beautiful act of sex where he could be alone and private. And it was better than sex: it wasn't just a poor substitute. It was better because he was in control of it, from beginning to end, total control. He controlled the situation, positioned the girl, speeded it up or slowed it right down. Total control. And it was the best thing in his life. When it was good, Mark felt fantastic. Free. Like something released in the back of his head, some trap sprung.
And it was sinful, he knew. He had been brought up to regard it as an evil sin, for which he would be sorely punished. But he had left all that way behind, and though he felt guilty, yeah, it was not because he was sinning, more because he knew it was a sign his marriage was folding. Anyhow, he wasn't bothered if it was sin or not. He had stopped praying by now. God had deserted him, so what the Hell. He faced a crisis in his life, and he could no longer pray for guidance. He felt so God Almighty alone. So alone, so alone. Gloria didn't understand. He had nobody he could turn to. He didn't even understand himself. He had himself. That was it. He was alone and trapped.
He was under siege, alone in his fairy castle tower, alone with a wife who didn't know him. Strangers together. Locked away in their turret, safe and sound, but slowly and surely destroying each other and being destroyed by each other, from the inside.
*
And it was inside where the real problem was. Inside Mark and inside Gloria and Mark inside Gloria. That was the hardest thing to come to terms with, the cause of most tension, the cause of most anxiety. It was the cause of most self analysis, the most frightening and nauseating and exciting thing in their relationship: getting inside her.
For Mark, it was a battle, sex was some stylised battle. Slow stalemate or fast and furious attack. Whichever way he looked at it, Mark saw the underlying, the ever present, controlled violence of sex. That was what scared him most. It was a struggle, a life or death ballet, that decided who would win and who would lose.
You each had your role, clearly formulated and cunningly cast, your scripted part in this ritualised drama, that ran and ran and never stopped. He was the knight, she the maiden shut away in her tower. And he must take her, must storm the castle, hold it to siege until victory was his.
Until he was inside her. Inside the castle walls. Penetration. Invasion. It sickened him: it thrilled him: it threatened him.
And though he was the invader, though he was the attacker, Mark really felt as if he was being drawn, forced, tricked into it. Every time.
That was the crazy thing about it all. He felt the pressure on him to start, to commence the attack. The breeze was up, the pennants flying, the field ready, the assault must begin. But he felt lured into her trap, even though he was making all the moves, she was in control. It just didn't make sense. But the more he thought about it, the more he was sure he was right. She played the waiting
Two Spirits Dancing page 132 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon game, the passive, patient waiting game. She was the one who would absorb his approach, his charge. Take him in so easy, lure him in. Play him in, like Judo, absorbing the force of your attacker, turning their power back on them, using their aggression to defeat them. That's what she did. She drew him on, tempted him into attack so she could destroy him. She took him, took him in, but it was all deceit and trickery.
Mark knew that's what all women do. Take you in to destroy you. Take you inside themselves and let you think you are taking them, but it's the other way round. And they know it and they're so damn good at it.
And that's exactly how they win. They undermine your attack, because they've seen right through it. They know your every move before you make it, they read the game so much better. They know all your secret little shimmies, they infiltrate you, penetrate you. You think you're getting inside them, but it's all the other way round. They've already got to your very core. And they dictate the pace and the style of the struggle. They control the game. And it's a game of winning and losing, of taking and giving. And they make so light of it. As if it's of no real importance. Just a game. That's their deceit. Because in reality, it's a game of deadly earnest, of victory and defeat, even of life and death. Because you die a little each time, you die inside them : they take a little more of you and a little more, and kill you a little more. Women.
And you can't stop it, you can't stop giving yourself because they demand it and they draw you in and they are in complete control and you go along with it.
And Mark knew she could get right inside him, right inside him any time she wanted. Right inside his soul, right inside his head. As easy as anything. She knew him better than he knew himself. So who was the attacker and who the attacked? Who was the penetrated and who the penetrator?
It was a question of who held the power. Except Mark knew there was no question about it. None at all. Women always had the power: they opened up or stayed closed, but they chose, they held the power to choose: that was their power. Even though they were the penetrated, in reality they were the penetrator. They work from within.
Jesus, that scared Mark.
Penetrator or pene-traitor. Yeah, traitor, because sex was betrayal, and she was the traitor, the faker. The trickster: mocking and teasing and pulling him inside out, breaking him open, spilling him, until he was empty and spent and finished and nothing left. Like a sucked egg. Hollow. That's how he felt afterwards, drained and sucked dry and nothing left. Everything taken. Every last drop that was him.
Dead. Because, yeah, he knew it was a kind of death, too. A kind of killing. A coup de grace at the end of the struggle. Yield to the sword. Come. Die. Give sacrifice. Accept this slaughter, this murder, because underneath it all, there was the aggression, the murderous violence in that act of love.
Except it has nothing to do with love. There is no love in sex, Mark knew that. Perhaps that was what Mark had known all along, perhaps that was what he had been so afraid of, not afraid of sex, but of the terrible, tender violence it involved, afraid of giving it expression, of letting it out. Opening Pandora's box.
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There's beauty and gentleness in love: but in sex, there's hurting and hatred and murder and you want to fucking kill her. No love, no tenderness, just grinding and thrusting and battering-ramming. And we call it love because we're not honest enough to face what it is, but women know and Mark knew. He'd never been as sure of anything in his life. That's their deceit, that's their trick, their secret. They pretend it's all sweet and soppy and romantic, but that's the fantasy. And everyone plays along because the truth is too appalling, so we accept the fantasy. We play the drama so well. We learn the lies, learn the lines, we fall in love and live happily ever after.
But Mark knew the other side of things: the reality. He knew it was a battle to the death, a trap from which there was no escape. Draw you on. Take you in. That's what they did. That's what they want, because they win every time. That's the buzz. Win every time. Like some fairground game. The merry go round of love. And the winnings, the spoils, what are they?
Quite simple. That marvellous, magic, murderous power in sex. That's what they take from you, and they feed on it. They bleed you dry of it, your life force. It's you. They take you and take you and take you till there's nothing left. They break you, they break into your innermost soul and steal it away. They force you open and lay you waste.
Sex terrified him. It was like sharing himself with his executioner and murderer. She was his lover and his destroyer, and yet he needed this destruction, needed this defeat. This torment, this love, this murder.
Pandora's box was empty and all the evil flown. Demons gathering themselves around him. Mark knew his life was coming apart. He knew he was breaking up, and everything around him was breaking up.
And the craziest thing, amidst all this madness, was that it felt just like things were coming together.
*
It was Gloria's father who suggested the place needed some modern art. Mark knew he meant it as a joke, or a snub, a kind of put down, because there was no way they could afford anything other than the usual Department store prints. It hurt Mark: he really resented the interference. Why couldn't they just leave him alone. They criticised everything he did, or everything he didn't do, as if he had to lavish treasures on their precious daughter. And if he didn't or if he couldn't, then he was cheap and he was nothing and he had dishonoured them. Crap.
But her father was right in so far as the apartment did need something to break up the plain walls. Mark felt stung into action, feeling there was a lot more behind the suggestion, and determined to prove them wrong. He knew it was so important to show they had a wonderful marriage, that he was doing well, that he was on the up and really going somewhere at last. This art idea was a challenge. Her father had thrown down the gauntlet and Mark picked it up with a vengeance. He
Two Spirits Dancing page 134 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon confronted the old man, went behind Gloria's back and fixed it, took up the challenge and borrowed the money he thought he might need: a couple hundred bucks.
The father suggested Mark pick up a cheap Japanese print at one of the auction houses on the island: Mark duly obliged. Meet the challenge. Show him what he's made of.
So Mark bought a Yamagata print for $300, a scene of Paris that reminded him of his world trip: his first work of art. For all kinds of reasons Mark was thrilled with it. It was just right for the apartment, it hung in pride of place in their bedroom, and it was an investment, something that was for the future and their future financial status. It said he'd had enough of the past, now he was looking ahead. It made him feel great, and Gloria loved it. She didn't appreciate what it meant to Mark, but she saw her parents were pleased.
And Mark thought he was on to something here. He felt like a real big-shot, with a genuine work of art on his wall. The folks at the Castle had nothing like it, so Mark was one up on them all. He felt like at last, at long last, he was that lucky guy Todd was singing about. And he knew he had to score again. He was on a high and he was not going to come down: nothing was going to bring him down. He wanted to go higher, raise the stakes, increase the risk, and reap the reward.
And so, he started visiting the art galleries every spare moment he could manage, and buying art magazines, and borrowing books on art from the Library. He knew he had to start looking seriously, like he was on a search and he had to do this thing properly. He searched as if he had to find something, it felt like that. He knew he could get the money whenever he needed it: what he had to do was find the right picture. Had to. It was that signal thing coming through again.
Dali was his man, Salvador Dali. Brilliantly gifted. Pure genius, with something unreal and disturbing about his work. Something that just held you, drew you right in. Mark became fascinated by his work, even obsessed with it. Those dream desert landscapes, those limbs and bones and elongated, crippled bodies, more insect than human. Nightmares and visions. Terrifying and wonderful and beautiful and repulsive. Things fusing into something else. Everything on its way to becoming something else. Not what it is, but everything changing, mutating. Metamorphosis.
He marvelled at the full page print of 'Metamorphosis of Narcissus'. The young man lost forever gazing at his own image. Petrified, or at least turning to bone. Drowning in the pool for your own image, chasing an illusion even to the death. All water and desert and stone and bone, and in such a barren landscape, you could fall in love with your other self, that other you just out of reach. the other you in the mirror. Narcissus lost in love for the self he could never be: his despairing figure reflected as a hand holding a cracked egg. And from the egg sprang the Narcissus, strange and wonderful. Mark could see so much in that work. It meant so much to him: wherever he looked on that canvas, Dali seemed to be showing Mark the way. He wanted it desperately. But he knew it would be forever out of reach, financially.
Mark read the legend, how it was predicted that Narcissus would live to a ripe old age, provided he never knows himself. How he was loved by all, his beauty attracting young boys and girls, but he was cold and unfeeling, unable to return their love. And Echo fell in love with him. And Narcissus was wandering through the forest, lost, separated from his friends, and he called, "Is anyone here ?" "Here." "Come." "Come." "Why do you avoid me?"
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"Avoid me?" "Let us come together." "Come together." And how he came to the pool, and fell in love with his own reflection, because he knew his other self would be true to him. Always.
It was a poignant tale. And it lent a special beauty to Dali's painting. And it held a special significance to Mark. He wanted it, but knew it was not for him.
And then he saw it. A Dali he could have. And it was perfect.
It was a gilded print of 'Lincoln in Dalivision'. $5000 but just perfect. Mark was shocked when he first saw it, like he was seeing a ghost from the past. Like something he had tried to bury forever, something he thought would never surface again, was suddenly there. Face to face again.
So it wasn't just Todd trying to get a message through. Now it was Dali too. And the same message. The same trigger.
Dalivision, television. The Hermit of Mink Hollow. Staring from the screen. But no longer Todd; this was Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln. Or rather it was just enough of him to know, to recognise, as if the signal was getting distorted with strong interference, though there was still enough of it getting through: the heavy brow was there, the square-cut bearded jaw, the long, thin face that every American knew so well. It was his essence, like you could strip away the surface features, and get down to the essence of who you are, like Narcissus was trying to do, trying to get beneath the surface of the pool. Get at the you on the other side of the mirror.
As he stood there, Mark had the illusion he had just switched on the tv and seen himself on the screen. A newscast, a photo-fit face, a fleeting, fragment of a moment, then it was gone, and there was Abraham. Good Old Abe. Honest Abe. That's what he had been taught at High School. He was Father Abe. Father of his nation, Father of his people. The man History chose to unite his country.
Except Mark never really swallowed that. He was a Southern boy, and to him, Abraham Lincoln was the man who split his nation in two. The man who led his nation into war with itself, and the man who spoke of union and caused a tearing apart. Preserver of the Union: sunderer of the nation.
Mark recalled other High School lessons, about how Lincoln knew he was an instrument of Providence, knew he was chosen by God for this special task. Called and chosen, another Abraham, another Father to his people. How he knew he had no choice about it, knew you had no control over some things, but you were called to action, or stood down, by some power, and you had no say in what happened. And Mark remembered how Lincoln believed fervently in dreams and omens and signs and signals, and how he knew they shaped your life, and could shape the life of a nation. A deeply religious man, but he had to keep the mumbo jumbo too. Because it's true.
And there was that famous 'House divided' speech. Using Mark's own Gospel: "A house divided against itself cannot stand."
Except he divided the house, and caused war within, the war that tore apart his nation. War with yourself, in which you ended up tearing yourself apart.
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It all made sense. It was like a blinding bolt of inspiration. Like one almighty, atomic bomb flash of total illumination, flooding his mind. Everything poured in: he felt like his mind had been torn open and he now understood. Mark really understood. For the first time in ages things really made sense. This was why Dali had chosen Lincoln. Dali knew.
He'd taken the most famous face in the world, stripped it of its features, to get to the true identity. Turned it inside out, obscured the familiar face to reveal the reality. It was Dali saying the one is the mask, the other the true self: one is the part you play, the other is the real you.
Jesus, even the murder fitted. The supreme dramatic end of the theatrical climax, shot in Ford's Theatre, ringing with laughter at the line about turning you inside out. Mark could laugh now. Yeah, he was being turned inside out. Bang! Bang! Turn you inside out. Not suicide, but murder.
And all on Good Friday, Crucifixion Day. The day of the cross. The day when life defeats death, forever, and the tables are turned. The moment of cross-over, because that's why Christ was hung on the cross, god and man, man and beast, angel and devil: because we're all a cross of those. Because we're always at cross purposes with ourselves, because deep inside there is that terrible contradiction: love, love, love or destroy, destroy, destroy. Because there is the old self we want to cease to be, and the new self we want to become. That is the cross we all bear.
Mark knew he was being called and he couldn't ignore these signs. The signal had overwhelming strength.
It was $5000 but he had to have it. He insisted Gloria's father put up the money, and the print was Mark's.
*
And now that the signal was strong and clear, it changed. Sudden. Abrupt. But it didn't seem to matter, it was like a change of station. You point the remote control and press, and you're into something else.
Mark was on a high, and he wanted more. Wanted to score again. he couldn't believe how good this art stuff made him feel. How important, and respectable. As if he was really somebody now. And if he could get more, then why not?
It was four days later, and he was back at the studio where he bought the Dali, when he knew the signal and the station had changed. As soon as he walked in, he knew he was tuned to a different channel. Without warning.
But it didn't throw him: he stood and stared for a moment, but he was so sure this time, there was no sense of shock like with the Dali, so he marched up to the lithograph he knew would have to be his because it was hanging there for him. It was his. It was for him. That was the whole point of this signal, it was aimed at Mark David Chapman.
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What he knew he had to buy was 'Triple Self-Portrait' by Norman Rockwell. It was magic. It drew Mark closer, spellbinding him.
Mark just had to have it: it said it all. He stood transfixed, taking in the whole thing as it quietly screamed at him.
It was about looking back and looking ahead: your past and your future. Sitting in your present and looking in both directions, as if puzzling which way to go. It was about who you are and who you were once and who you might be one day. It was about writing your own history and shaping your own future. It was about making sense of the present you find yourself in. There was the artist, brush in hand, mid-painting, checking in the mirror, before working on the next brush-stroke of his self portrait.
There were these other self portraits, postcards, cuttings, like clipped to the top corner of the canvas; Rembrandt, Van Gogh and so on, like they were lending inspiration. And Rockwell himself was striking a comical pose, his backside sticking out right at you, kind of peering around the edge of the canvas. Pipe hanging from mouth. Hiram Holliday: everybody's clown.
But there were hints at another side: a sculptured eagle spreading its wings on the mirror frame; a magnificent helmet perched above the easel. The noble warrior, the glory of battle, the struggle again. Whether within or without, it didn't matter, here was Rockwell painting about the struggle we all have to make. And Mark knew it now, understood it now.
That we aren't just one single personality all our lives, that we are multiple, and sometimes contradictory personalities. And we have to keep control. Keep our selves under control. That's the struggle. We have to fight for who we are. And if we don't know who we are or we're not too sure who we are, then there's like a war raging within. Sometimes we're able to choose who we are, sometimes the choice is made for us and we are told who to be, made to be who we don't want to be. Hell.
Or sometimes we might try on different personalities, to see if they fit. Slipping from one to another, like you might get a new outfit. And that's what's hard to control, because whichever way it is, there's an Almighty struggle inside. And it's going on all the time. Because we live and we grow and have new experiences and change and that's what life is all about. And the changes count. They really mean something, because they change you, change your personality in ways you never even notice. So you think you're just the same, but you've changed. That's what life does. And all the time, we have to face up to the fight, because it's serious and there’s no other way. It's a battle to the death, like Jekyll and Hyde. Winner and loser. Victor and vanquished. And it's hard: it's the hardest thing we ever have to do, but we have to face who we are, who we were and who we are to be.
And the waste-bin was there for the failures. Waiting, bottom of the canvas, for the inevitable failures. Throw the failures away if you can.
Mark heard the voice clearly. It was like a teacher, like some holy man, speaking calmly and in resonant tones, speaking to him, opening him, showing him, and all the while Mark could feel the burden lifting from him. All that pain going, all those anxieties going, all those agonies going.
And then Mark's eyes were drawn to the hollow, blank circles of the artist's spectacles. Dead eyes, vacant space. Empty eyes staring at him, challenging him. Fixing him with their cold, dead stare.
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And the challenge was to change himself, to look at was he was, to look at what he is and to look at what he could be. But it would mean changing. Getting rid of the Mark Chapman he was and is and being someone new.
Rockwell knew.
And Mark heard it and saw it. The Mark Chapman he was, had had twenty-four years to make good, and he had failed. And now there were no more excuses, no more islands to run to, no more world trips, no more failures, because he knew he was breaking up, losing control. This was the end of the line. And this was where Mark Chapman got off, and the new Mark took over.
Triple Self-Portrait : Mark knew he had to have it, even if it meant trading in the Dali, which Gloria said she liked, but he knew she didn't; even if it meant borrowing more money, Mark had to have it.
*
It was coming up to Christmas, and Mark was in crisis. He was on a Helter-Skelter ride down and down: sliding down and no way up. Everything had crashed down and he was buried in the avalanche.
He had thrown himself into his work at the Castle. It was the only way he had to forget his problems for a while: at least that was the idea. And for a time it worked; Mark took extra shifts, filled in for absent colleagues, asked for overtime. He played the newly-wed struggling to get a home together, telling everyone they needed the bread: they did, but Gloria wasn't fooled.
And Mark knew he was being noticed. Keeping a high profile: that was exactly what he wanted and it was doing him no harm whatever, and he began to be optimistic about promotion. They all knew he was a trustworthy and reliable employee, they knew he was keen to get on. It was another reason he gave Gloria for the heavy workload.
Then came rejection.
He was overlooked. He was devastated. Demolished.
Jesus Christ, he just could not believe it. It did not make sense; it was crazy. They saw all the effort he was putting in, saw all the hard work he did. They saw he was ready for more responsibility: they saw all that, but they ignored him, completely overlooked him, as if he wasn’t there. Looked right through him as if he didn't count. As if he was of no account, as if he was nothing. The bastards. Fucking bastards.
When he found out, when he saw it posted on the notice board, he was kind of numbed at first. He stood reading the notice like some zombie, then slowly, very slowly, the numbness became pain. It was like blunt teeth sawing his head in two. Excruciating pain in the back of the eyes, throbbing
Two Spirits Dancing page 139 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon with every pulse beat and the pain deepening, slowly spreading like spilling tar. A black pain. A hole gaping wider and wider, deepening and widening. His head slowly sliced. And he was tensing with the pain, trying to ride it, trying to control it but he knew it was too much for him, trying to close that hole somehow, through sheer effort of will, but knowing somewhere inside, knowing not with his mind but with some shrunken centre of himself, that he was losing everything. It was all slipping away. Jesus, everything was slipping away from him.
He didn't know until later, that he had been screaming inside. A shrill, silent, hideous scream. Didn't know, because he didn't realise anyone could scream like that within themselves.
He raged into the Personnel Department and yelled and spat obscenities. Swept papers from a desk. Sent a typewriter toppling to the floor, stunned everyone.
And then he quit. It was like a storm blowing itself out. Suddenly the fury was spent, and he turned and quietly walked out.
So there he was, six days before Christmas, and he was back where he had been some three years ago, back where he started, having come full circle. Talk about getting nowhere: a circle is the perfect trap. Draw the magic circle and trap the evil spirits inside. Get out of that! Ha! Can't! There's no going anywhere once you're in the circle, once you're in the ring, once you're riding the Carousel, The Wheel of Death, The Corkscrew, The Helter-Skelter, The Magic Roundabout.
And he knew he was trapped on a tightly turning roundabout. It was like being a little kid on a playground, riding the roundabout, and along come the big kids, and they grab the bars and run it faster and faster, and you want to get off because you're scared stiff, but you're trapped and they're laughing at the tears streaming down your face. And you feel sick with fear and with hurt and with being the little child and you're helpless and you can't do anything or say anything to stop them, and you know your tears mean nothing to them, and your screams only drive them faster, and you don't understand what's going on, and you only know you mean nothing to them and nothing to anyone.
Mark felt he had spent three years getting nowhere, and once the rage had died down, and he knew he wasn't going to kill himself or anybody else, he realised he had to dig himself out of this avalanche. It was a time of great lucidity. Everything was so crystal clear. He was cool and completely calm, and able to think things through with tremendous clarity. He hadn't fallen apart. He hadn't had a breakdown. O.K., he was bruised and sore, but he knew this was something he could and would get over.
Mark began to think of it as another sign, another part of the signal, another little piece of the jigsaw. He mustn't fight against it, but go with it. Ride it.
If the signal was saying go back, then that's what he had to do. It was like one of those board games, where you get close to the jackpot, and then you have to draw the card that sends you all the way back to the beginning. He had been climbing the Ladder, now he had to slide down the Snake. They were the rules of the game and he couldn't just stop playing because he felt like it, because of a bad card. No, you had to grit your teeth and press on. Start the climb all over again.
It was three years since he quit the security guard job with Gary. If the card was sending him back three years, then he would go all the way back, not to Atlanta, but to the same kind of work. After all, he was O.K. at it and it paid well. If they needed any kind of testimonial, he knew Gary would oblige.
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With the Christmas vacation in full swing, Mark took a job as Security guard at a Waikiki apartment complex at 444 Nahua Street. As it happened, he didn't need to contact Gary or anybody else, the firm were short of staff and very busy, and Mark's previous experience was good enough.
Mark was relieved to get the job so easily. He and Gloria were heavily into debt because of his sorties into the art market. They couldn't live on Gloria's income alone, so this job was a real God- send. It meant their worries about money were not so acute, but still he was apprehensive. Although he felt he was being guided in a particular direction, he couldn't really see where it might lead. It was a case of trusting to this feeling. And he wasn't sure whether he was confident enough to do that. Not yet. But then, why not? He had tried so hard all his life, tried so consciously to make each and every step count, and look where that had gotten him. Perhaps it was time to freewheel a little, and go along with this vague but insistent feeling he had. See where it took him.
Mark took more than his usual care over getting ready for the first day. He was determined to make a good impression, and Gloria made an unusual fuss, pressing sharp creases down the sleeves of his shirt, adjusting the length of the trousers just so, and sending him off like a proud mum sending her child to its first day at school. That made Mark feel a little better about it all. It was a small firm with a pretty stable workforce. He had liked the set up, liked the friendly atmosphere of the team he would be working with. The only thing he didn't like was going on duty unarmed. It was ironic, because three years ago he had never felt comfortable with the gun he had to carry: now he patted his right hip, wanting to feel the re-assuring mass of a firearm and holster, but there was nothing there. It was missing. He felt not properly dressed. He felt incomplete. He felt exposed and vulnerable, like he was a security guard but he wasn't a real security guard. Like he was just playing another part, and this was just another scene to fill in. It wasn't important: it wasn't real.
He had just assumed the job meant being armed. He hadn't even bothered to check. And even now, on his way to the Nahua Street complex, he wondered whether the firearms were supplied on site. Issued each day, and handed in at the end of the shift: that kind of thing. He knew Waikiki could be a dangerous place for tourists, especially rich tourists, who might be expected to relax just a little. He couldn't believe he wouldn't have some access to a gun.
When he reported for duty, he was shown the ropes by Fue Liva, chief security officer. There wasn't much to pick up; it was a case of routine patrols around the vacation apartments, maintaining a high profile, a friendly show of strength, and taking a shift on the desk. That meant keeping an eye on the six closed-circuit screens, and occasionally switching camera shot, to cover the complex's main entrance and corridors.
It brought a wry smile to his face, to find himself in command of a bank of tv screens. And able to call the camera shots. It was perfect. Things do work out for the best after all. From being a nobody at the Castle, he was now Director, and Editor. He was in control of the screens, and if and when the next signal was broadcast, he would be on duty to receive it.
*
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Late February brought a new album from Todd, or rather from the group he fronted, 'Utopia', and Mark had hurried through the crowded streets one lunch-break to buy it, as soon as it was in the store. He'd been looking forward to this day for several weeks. He was counting on Todd. The job was not going particularly well, and Mark was getting more and more bored and depressed. He felt he was getting nowhere, and he never would get anywhere. It was just one long undemanding and mundane routine. Sometimes he felt he was sinking, that he was a man sinking into quicksand. Sometimes, between his marriage and his job, he felt he was being drained of life, drained of himself. But he knew Todd could make a difference. And waiting at the counter to pay for the album, he felt electric and alive. He could have taken his time and bought the album at the weekend, but he wanted the excitement that the one hour dash would give him, and the expectations the album held for him.
And at the end of his shift, he was off duty and away much quicker than usual, walking back to his apartment as quickly as he could. This album could be it.
But Mark was disappointed by the 'Adventures in Utopia' album when he first listened to it: disappointed and puzzled. Its sound was not as sharp as a solo album from Todd, and the lyrics didn't seem to have a clear message. It was muddled, bitty, and ambiguous, or so Mark had thought at the time. Perhaps he was expecting too much. Perhaps he was looking for another part of the signal he'd been waiting for, or even the complete message. He studied the album closely for clues: they were there, but they were not what he had expected.
The album opened with a kind of code signal from outer space, a series of bleeps and pulses that could only be deciphered by the receiver tuned to that signal. A kind of key or a security code. And it was his key, it was a message from outer, or maybe inner space, beamed directly at him. In fact, the whole cover concept was of some kind of capsule, or sarcophagus, or mummy thing drifting through space. A dead body; a dead body waiting for the resurrection. Or a Cryogenic pod. An ark, maybe, carrying the seed of new life to Utopia. A shining planet in the distance, that was where it was bound. The old life is dead, let the new life be born. The old corrupt life must be left behind, let the new perfect life begin.
The same as the Rockwell print. It seemed to be saying exactly the same: there has to come a time when you reach out for the stars, reach out for the future, reach out for your destiny. And that's when you have to leave the old life behind, launch yourself into the great unknown, and trust to fate.
Utopia. The name of the group, the title of the album. There was even a 'Utopia Foundation', which just had to be Todd's idea. He was always searching for Utopia, always looking for ways to change the world. Make it better, make it perfect. I want to change the world, which was always Todd's anthem. But perhaps the album was saying it's too late to save the world, things have gone too far, got too bad. The only hope now is to start again on a new world. Start all over again. Somewhere out there, is a brave new world that could be Utopia.
The back cover and the inner sleeve continued the television idea that Todd had been using for years. In fact the whole concept was a video and television package. Really, there was no getting away from it: Todd could not have made it simpler. Here was the Test Card: the whole inner sleeve was a Test Card, a television Test Card of coloured strips, geometric grids, symmetrical designs, and rays kind of radiating from the centre: a television Test Card to help you adjust the tuning precisely.
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Mark liked the lyrics he knew were aimed at him, lyrics like 'Something's taken hold of me somehow,' and ' Seems like it's been a long time since I felt that one.' They were from a song 'Second Nature' and Mark knew what Todd was getting at. Knew exactly, because, as always, Todd was spot on. For some time, Mark had felt he was losing himself, that something was taking over, a kind of second personality, a second identity. A new Mark emerging. Or the old self splitting. And so he had to be careful, had to get back to being one. One and whole, but which one?
And in 'Set Me Free' Todd was singing as plainly as he could 'I got a right to who I am If I don't fit your plan then set me free.' Because Mark had a right to be who he was, had a right to be free. Free of the old Mark he no longer was, free to be the new person he wanted to become. I got a right to who I am.
And 'Rock Love' began with ' you got to choose your heroes, choose them well they could be leading you straight into hell.' And the refrain was 'Get thee behind me Satan'. Yeah, Mark had been there. Up to the mountain top and shown the sights, promised the earth, only to see through it all, see it for the con it was.
There was even 'Love Alone', an 'All you need is Love' type song, mimicking the Beatles' television spectacular when they had broadcast to the whole world. Kind of mocking; Todd hating Lennon and the crazy circus that was Beatlemania.
Mark wasn't expecting this holding signal. That's what the album was, a message to hold on, wait. O.K., it was also to help him tune in precisely and get perfect reception, kind of fine adjustment, so there could be absolutely no mistake. But it was still telling him to wait: if you're watching the Test Card, then you're waiting for the programme to begin. The programme has not yet begun. That was the point: this wasn't the broadcast, this was just another command to be ready to receive. It was Todd telling him it's coming, but it's not now, not yet; soon, but not yet. But be ready. Watch and wait, wait and watch.
*
As the summer dragged on, Mark began to feel crushed with boredom. The job gave him so much time, too much time, and too little to do. It drove him crazy, endlessly pacing the same corridors, sitting in the same tiny office, staring at the same tv monitors : it was all so incredibly tedious. He felt as if he were waiting for something to happen, but he didn't know what. Or when.
It might happen suddenly, it might take years, and all he could do was wait. And there was so much waiting to do. Mark still worked extra shifts when he could, or volunteered for overtime if it was available, despite the boredom: Gloria didn't seem to mind. Mark thought she understood.
And the time was both a curse and a blessing. He had too much time to think too many thoughts. Too many crazy ideas, too many things to try to sort out. Impossible to hold it all together, but he
Two Spirits Dancing page 143 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon knew he needed to try. The therapy at the Castle had shown him he had to try to analyse what was going on, at least as far as he could. He had to try to rationalise it all.
There were still these emotional difficulties he had to sort out, still these problems in his marriage. There had to be reasons for them, and there had to answers; had to be. He had to sift through everything looking for the answers, like picking up stitches that had been dropped. He used to watch his mother making alterations in a sweater, playing some mysterious game of cat's cradle, magic and mending.
Whenever he could, Mark chatted to the tenants, the holiday-makers and their families, most of them from the States. He would do little extras for the frail old couples seeing Hawaii in their retirement, or for the kids staying there for a couple of weeks, and enjoying the sun and sea. He had almost forgotten how good he was with kids. The Castle was virtually an all adult world. Here, there were always one or two apartments with young kids, and Mark made a big deal of it. He'd clown around, tell them some funny stories, that kind of thing. It helped pass the shift, it kept the customers happy and it stopped him, if only briefly, turning in on himself.
He wasn't supposed to, but he started taking his personal hi-fi to work, listening to the radio or tapes, anything to pass the time. Magazines and books, too. The other men did it; that was the kind of operation it was, and as long as you did your job, nobody minded if you bent a few rules.
Except when there was trouble. And Mark found himself slap bang in the middle of it, a series of break-ins, five in all, over a short period of time. Credit cards, wallets, cameras, that kind of stuff, taken from apartments Mark was supposed to be keeping secure. It was obviously someone staying in the complex, an opportunist, who noticed when people went out and when they left their room unlocked for a moment. And they did it all the time. People relax on holiday.
But Mark found himself under suspicion. Suddenly, they wanted a whole load of answers! Where was he? What was he doing? When did he last check that apartment? Why hadn't he been more thorough? Why hadn't he noticed anything peculiar? Why hadn't he seen anything? Why hadn't he heard anything? They wanted him to account for everything he did, and everything he didn't do but should have done. They checked his locker and found his hi-fi. They went up the wall then. Found his magazines too, and Mark felt terribly embarrassed about them. Hurt. Enraged. Humiliated. Embarrassed. They didn't trust him.
Not only that, but he felt it was all very unfair, because he was being made the scapegoat. They had to be seen to be clamping down hard, and he was the one they had picked to get it in the neck. They checked his background with the Castle, and Mark could see it in their eyes, they looked at him differently once they knew he had been a patient as well as an employee. Those bastards at the Castle, they really had it in for him. Bastards.
And what about the other men? He knew some of them met up on shifts and played cards. Or they nipped out to the bar across the way, or to the bank when they needed cash; that kind of thing. Nobody questioned them, nobody checked their movements. No. Mark was clean on those counts, but Mark was the one who got cross-examined. Treated like some sneak thief.
But it didn't look good for him. He could see that. It was so unfair. Anyone would think he spent all his time playing tapes and listening to the radio and flicking through his soft-porn mags.
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He had wanted to do so well at this job. He had been trying so hard and now this. He'd let them down, he could see that; destroyed their trust in him and fouled up once more.
It was knowing he had lost their trust, that hurt Mark most. He felt it as a crippling body blow, for without trust there was nothing. It was everything, and without trust it was hopeless. He'd always been a simple, honest and open guy. Straightforward. Nothing hidden up his sleeves, innocent, to some extent. Trusting and trustworthy, that's how he saw himself, and that's how he hoped others saw him. To know they no longer trusted him, destroyed all the relationships he'd built up over nearly six months. And it was those relationships that made the job what it was.
The point was driven home hard, when, a couple of days after the break-ins, one family, the Peterssens, checked out early because their kids had nightmares. Mark had got to know the kids pretty well, they were both smart and fun to be with, and Mark had had been a big favourite with them. He was really upset to learn they had left. And why.
He felt responsible. Those kids, waking up in the middle of the night, screaming and afraid, imagining all kinds of horrors, and Mark felt it was his fault. He was supposed to be the security guard, providing security, protecting them from harm. Guarding them. Making it all safe and sound so they could sleep tight, but he'd let them down. He couldn't protect them from some petty thief, couldn't work it so they could rest easy. It was his failure, his foul up, his fault. He'd let those kids down badly. He wanted to make them laugh, make them happy, wanted to tell them crazy stories that would make their imaginations soar sky high, wanted to show them that the world can be a beautiful and wonderful and lovely place, wanted to give them the childhood every kid should have. Safe from harm. Loved. Happy. But he had failed them, like he failed at Fort Chaffee. Failed them. Failed everybody. Failed himself.
He felt everyone was pointing the finger at him and whispering behind his back. Once or twice, Mark would check into reception, and conversation would stop, or there was an awkward moment and the topic would be changed rapidly. Mark knew what was going on and he hated it. He squirmed under that kind of attention, feeling like he was some insect under scrutiny. Like they were looking into the furthest reaches of his self with an electron microscope. All would be revealed, and he would be the fairground freak. Roll up. Roll up. See right through The Incredible Transparent Man. All his secrets revealed. Roll up. Roll up. Step this way, ladies and gentlemen, see for yourself his innermost desires, see the doubt. See the inadequacy. See the failure.
Jesus, he knew he couldn't take that. It was worse than his worst nightmare.
So Mark requested a transfer to the maintenance section of the operation. He insisted on it, because he wanted to drop back out of sight, spend some time in the background, fixing the windows that jammed, the air-conditioning regulators, that kind of stuff. He could cope with that. But not this up front patrolling the corridors where he'd failed once already. No. He needed to retreat for a while, take a back seat. He told himself it would only be for a while, then perhaps he could work his way back on the security team once more. When he felt more confident, when he'd got his confidence back.
And for a couple of weeks it worked out O.K. In many ways it was like being back at the Castle, except Mark hated the comparison. He had to work slightly longer shifts to take home the same wage, but there was a little less pressure on him, it was a little less stressful. He still got to meet the holiday-makers, when their showers packed in, or when a door lock got jammed, or a waste-
Two Spirits Dancing page 145 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon disposal unit got blocked. And he enjoyed helping them out. He felt he was contributing to their enjoyment of their vacation. Being of service. That pleased him.
Saturdays were the busiest days, because of the change-overs: families checking out, others arriving. The rooms had to be stripped and refurbished in a couple of hours, sometimes even quicker than that. Mark had to check that things were in good working order before the new folks moved in. Light switches, electrical appliances, windows opened, doors closed, that kind of thing.
He was checking out the bathroom in one of the apartments, when he noticed a big, ugly " GO FUCK YOURSELF " scratched into the mirror over the washbasin. Cut in letters about two inches tall, scratched in the glass, cut with a diamond or something. He was stunned. Just shocked. He looked through the words and caught his face, blank with disbelief. For a moment he was framed in the mirror, staring at his own defaced image. It freaked him. Jesus Christ, it didn't make sense. Why? Of all the crazy, stupid, senseless things to do! What the? Jesus. It was like someone had spat in his face. Crazy. And he thought of some family on their way to the apartment. They'll have been travelling all day. They get there dead tired, want to freshen up. First thing they see is that " GO FUCK YOURSELF ". Perhaps it's some little kid who's first to the john. What's he going to think? Or a little girl. A sweet, innocent little girl, seeing that scrawled on the mirror. It made Mark so angry. Mad with anger. Some stupid, crazy bastard had done it to be funny. Mark took a heavy screwdriver, held the point firmly in his fist, and smashed the mirror with the handle. The fixing screws held most of it to the wall, but it had shattered into a spider's web pattern and then Mark tore it down in a shower of splinters.
But it reminded him of something. Something he didn't know had been in his mind for nearly ten years, since College days. It was like that moment in 'The Catcher In The Rye' when, near the end of the book, when Holden is in the school waiting for Phoebe, and he sees the obscenities on the staircase wall. And he thinks he doesn't want his sister seeing that kind of stuff, and he's going to rub it out, but he realises there are millions of Fuck You's written on walls everywhere and it's just impossible to rub them all out. And he knows he can't ever really protect Phoebe or any other little kid from that kind of thing. Nobody can.
Mark knew something special had happened. Knew it. A special moment. An uncanny coincidence. Or more than that; great significance.
He had always liked Salinger's book. He had to read it as one of the classic studies of adolescence. Everybody read it. And he recalled liking the book, but hating the classes on it. Mark had always found it easy to identify with Holden. but he'd never seen the book as anything special. Not until this moment.
And he noticed things seemed to have slowed down. Not just him, but everything going on around him. Kind of running at half speed. Like the batteries in everything were low. Slow and slowing. As if it was all coming to a stop. It was weird. He could hear sounds distorted, like a warped record playing at the wrong speed. He was frightened. What the Hell was happening to him? He clung to the edge of the washbasin. He suddenly felt sick. He thought he was going to throw up. He closed his eyes with all his might. Concentrate. Concentrate. Hang on. Control it. Jesus, it scared him. This wave of nausea swept through him. Up from his thighs, it seemed. Washed right through him and up, leaving him gasping for air, rocking and heaving, like he was at sea, or caught in a massive earthquake.
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And he clung on till it had passed. Keeping as still as he knew how. Eyes shut. Concentrating hard. It was all he could do.
He needed air. When he thought he could, he made his way out of the apartment and along the corridor, feeling the walls like a drunk, telling himself through gritted teeth, that he was going to make it outside. And he did. Just. And he had to slump himself down on the front steps and drag huge lung-fulls of air into his body. He was covered in a cold, clammy sweat that left him shivering in the sunshine. Fue Liva came out to see what was wrong, and stood over Mark. He thought Mark had been overdoing it lately; too many long shifts, not enough fresh air and sunshine. He'd noticed how pale Mark was looking the last couple of days. It was all this break-in nonsense taking its toll. He needed a break. He needed a couple of days to get himself together.
Mark walked home slowly. Carefully. He kept to the shade where he could, and made a point of breathing deeply and steadily. Fue would have called a cab, but Mark wouldn't hear of it. Already embarrassed by the incident, Mark didn't want to give the men any more to talk about than he could help. Besides, he wanted time to think. He had to know what was going on. Was he sick? Or was it something else? Overwork? Stress? Or was it what he'd been waiting for? He couldn't get over the wave that crashed through him. Like an intense signal beam.
And then came the second attack, or the second sweep of the beam. It caught him as he crossed a busy road. He'd waited patiently for the 'WALK' signal, and had just stepped off the kerb, when he felt like he was stepping into space. There was nothing there. He was stepping into nothing. It was like falling into empty space, that's what it felt like. Like the road had gone and he was falling down and down and down, like that one step took an eternity and he was slipping down into nothingness and he'd never be seen again. He was going down and down and under and out and he wanted to shout and scream to the people in the street, for them to save him, and to warn them, too, but there was just this almighty silence and it was the silence that was swallowing him. He was going down unheard and unseen and unknown. And it scared the shit out of him.
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, don't let me disappear! Jesus, sweet Jesus, please don't let me disappear! Jesus, don't let me go down. Jesus, Jesus, don't let me down. Jesus, please! Jesus! Don't let me down! "
Mark was sobbing. He thought he was screaming, but he was standing at the kerb, just mouthing, mumbling, sobbing, snivelling. Holding on to the signpost, holding on for all he was worth.
And yet, amidst the cold panic and pain, amidst the crippling nausea, there was a calm somewhere in the centre of his soul, where he knew what it all meant, he knew this was the signal, the signal, and he knew he was receiving it loud and clear, and he knew he was right. Holden Caulfield: The Catcher In The Rye. The same thing had happened to Holden, the same panic at the kerb, the same feeling he was disappearing down some enormous black nothingness. The same sense of fading and falling, of almost losing himself completely.
It was Holden Caulfield : that was who he was becoming. That was who he had to become. Get rid of the old Mark Chapman, and be the new Holden Caulfield. There was no question about it now, the signal was overwhelming. Holden Caulfield: The Catcher In The Rye.
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*
Mark had to be sure. He had to get a copy of ' Catcher'.
He retained vague memories of some of the incidents in the book, but it was years since he last read it, and he knew now he had to immerse himself in it. That book was the key, he was sure: Holden Caulfield was the key character in all this. He knew it now and he had to know Holden as well as he knew himself: after all, they were linked in some strange way. Destiny or Fate: something had drawn them together. He had to discover what it all meant, what he was meant to do, and now he knew where the answer lie, he could start looking in earnest.
He felt close to it now, close to this something he had been waiting for most of his life: that's how it seemed. Waiting without knowing what he was waiting for, but now it was getting clearer, now it was close. He could feel it, he knew it. And knowing it brought him a tremendous sense of anticipated release, freedom. It was like a date had been fixed.
He would soon be able to confront it and deal with it and walk free of it, this thing he had been a prisoner to, tied down by, waiting and waiting, not knowing when he might be free. A life sentence, but now it was near an end. He was near the end. The cell door had been opened ever so slightly, and a tiny chink of light was shining in so he could peep out at last. Out and along the long dark corridor, and he could see a way out. A way out of this solitary confinement he'd been locked in so long. That's what it had been. This burden, this whatever he had to do or whoever he had to be, had been a life sentence, locked away inside himself, and there had been nobody to tell, nobody to turn to. Alone with his self, and this something else, or alone with this someone else.
Mark felt sick with excitement, and fear. He had waited so long for this moment. But what was on the other side of his cell door? What was waiting for him?
He had been expecting something on tv, or something from Todd. There was the Hermit cover and the print-out poster and the Dali print. And then the Triple Self Portrait; all preparing him for something on tv or something visual, at least. That's why he had been taken so unawares. It had hit him like a sneak attack, caught him completely by surprise. But there was no mistake. It had been like an atom bomb. Kerpoww!
Suddenly there was this new signal: Holden Caulfield. Suddenly there was this new voice: from a book he'd read years ago. Jesus, it was crazy, the way things turn out sometimes. The Catcher was calling him, saying "Follow me. Do exactly what I do. Because you and me are so alike. You and I are the same."
The Triple Self Portrait had told him to leave the old Mark behind and go out and meet the new Mark. But what did that mean? What or who was the new Mark? Well, now he had an answer. Holden was calling to him, saying "Be like me. Be me."
The first bookshop he tried didn't have a copy, and Mark just stood there, couldn't believe it, it was like a special setback; just didn't make sense.
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But in the next shop he bought two copies. He had decided Gloria had to share this with him, she could help him study the text in depth, like Jessica had done at Covenant, with the harder parts of the course. He knew he had been excluding her more and more, shutting her out, because he didn't understand what was happening to him, and he had no way to involve her. Their relationship had been cold and tense for most of the year, since last Christmas in fact, when he knew she thought he was wrong to quit the Castle. It was O.K. for her: she still worked there, and got on well with everyone in her department. Mark resented that. He felt she should have sided with him, after all, she was his wife.
Well now she could help him through this. Whatever it was, this crisis. This breakdown, this breakthrough. She could help hold him together. And it would be a way of re-building their marriage. He knew something frightening and unstoppable lay ahead, just knew it deep down inside, and she could help him through. He knew he was on the brink of some kind of breakdown. Heading for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall. He had certainly never felt so fragile and vulnerable, had never felt less there. He'd started kind of checking himself, his hands, his arms, just to see if he were still there. Afraid that he was going to fade away, be lost, like the signal from a distant radio station breaks up and gets flooded with static. That's how he felt. He didn't really know what was keeping him together. He was banking everything on the 'Catcher' providing the answer, or at least the clue to the answer.
When they started reading the book, Gloria went along with it as just another of Mark's obsessions. She was pleased that they were doing something together, because they didn't seem to have much time together these days, they didn't really talk much, never went out, never took a picnic to a lonely beach: the romance had gone from their marriage. This sharing an interest in a book was something. A kind of new beginning.
For Mark it was more like the beginning of the end; it was like coming home. Or like finding he had a long lost brother, a reunion with a long lost brother, a twin. Each page seemed to confirm the recognition, confirm the identification. He knew exactly what Holden was going through, because Holden said and thought what Mark had been trying to say and think.
It was a coming together: a finding. A discovery that Mark and Holden were identical. The two of them wrapped up together in identical identity. That's how it was. The real and the fictional, and of course, the fictional was more real than the real, and the real was more fictional than the fictional.
Trying to find your self, trying to find the real you, that's what the Catcher was about. When everything and everyone around you is phoney, giving you so much bullshit and you're trying to hold on to who you are or find out who you are. When nothing makes sense. When everything is soiled and spoiled and a mess, when school offers nothing, when your teachers can offer nothing, when your family don't know you, or don't want to know you.
And you try to get back, get back to somewhere, some time before it all went wrong. Going back, that's what Holden is doing all through the book. Saying goodbye and going back. Trying to feel some kind of goodbye. Quitting. Packing up and going home. Back home, back to his first school, back to his childhood, looking for the answers, because that's where he thinks he lost them. When he lost Allie. And when he lost control. And the rest of the time, he's trying to regain control. But it's all so pointless. It's all about losing. The losers, losing and lost.
Lost ideals and lost innocence, and losing your self, but recognising the sense of loss, and the aimless searching, the impulsiveness and the certainty and the sudden loss of conviction.
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Confusion. Embarrassment. Trying to be mature and adult, but it all goes wrong. The sex goes wrong. The booze goes wrong. There's no way back and no way forward. That's what Holden is up against. He's the student adult, caught in the middle, caught in the crossfire and he's miserable and lonely and desperate. Suicidal. And there's perverts everywhere. Because everything is ruined.
And it's about being put off, or pushed off course, because the world is full of phoney people. So you never get where you want to be. And you can't even escape the way you want to, because there's no way out. Holden wants to head out to the backwoods, make his own little world, where he is in command. And his sister wants to go with him, but it's impossible. Because. It's about facing up to responsibilities.
You have to do it yourself. Nobody does it for you, because there isn't a Catcher. That's just it. There isn't anyone to protect the little kid who's walking in the street and the cars are screaming by and the parents take no notice. There isn't anyone to stop the kids going over the edge of the cliff. There isn't anyone who can make sure little kids don't see FUCK YOU everywhere they go. There isn't a Catcher.
But there was Holden, adrift in New York, trying to find his way home. And trying to find himself. Holden, more phoney than all the other phoneys in the book, bullshitting everyone; Holden, so alone, so God Almighty alone, phoning old acquaintances, trying to recapture something he knew he'd lost. And Holden, in the end almost losing himself, almost losing his identity, feeling himself fading and falling and disappearing. Feeling himself breaking up or breaking down or feeling his selves breaking through. Triple Self Portrait. The Me, myself and I. That's how Holden saw it. He was breaking up, falling apart. Splitting.
It scared Mark. And yet there was something beautiful and serene and right about it all. It made sense. That was what was so reassuring. After years of not knowing, years of uncertainty, years of not feeling comfortable, this was an explanation. It put an end to the anxiety. It told Mark who he was. He had been feeling his life scripted for him: he had now found the character he was meant to be. That was it. He was meant to be The Catcher. That was what the whole thing was about. It was as though he'd spent ten years of his life floundering around, just not seeing the truth, until now. And really, it was so obvious. It wasn't like Jekyll and Hyde, it wasn't that kind of struggle. It wasn't horrific. What was happening to him was more like a beautiful transformation. More like Poe's 'Ligeia' coming through to take over the body of the Lady Rowena. Holden was coming through, but not like The Incredible Hulk, erupting in pain and terror.
Mark accepted this new identity as a matter of course; after all, it was only acknowledging the reality of the situation. There was no anguish, no regret. He was The Catcher in fiction and he would be The Catcher in fact, and he was going to change his name to Holden Caulfield. That would clinch it.
*
He knew Gloria thought he was going mad, but so be it. If she couldn't or wouldn't understand, then all he asked of her was that she kept out of it and didn't interfere. He tried to explain it to her, but he
Two Spirits Dancing page 150 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon could see she was out of her depth. He knew what he was doing; perhaps for the first time in his life, he really knew what he was doing. It must be how gays feel when they finally have the strength and the guts to come out. This was something he had been struggling to deny for the last ten years, running away from it all that time, but now he was rushing towards it at full speed.
He was becoming obsessed with the Catcher, obsessed with the character of Holden, drawing parallels between Holden and himself, trying to convince Gloria, though he could see she never understood. He would read a few pages and then know that was exactly how he felt, exactly what he thought. Everything he had ever done or felt or thought, he recognised now in Holden: he knew he was the new Holden, the Holden for his generation. Mark wanted to change his name: had to, because that would complete the thing, and confirm that he certainly felt more Holden than Mark. With each day, and with each reading, the sense of identification grew stronger.
It was as if he were letting go of Mark David Chapman and allowing Holden Caulfield to come through, and it wasn't a struggle, it was slow and gradual and controlled, like a beautiful dream you have when you're kind of half asleep and half awake, and you're in control but you can let it go just enough. This was a magic, marvellous, familiar dream, but it was so much more real than reality. It was fantastic. Yet it just seemed to be so real and so right, as if it had been there all the time.
It made everything make sense. Mark could see how it all fitted, all precisely into place: except one piece. It all slotted into place fine, but there was one piece missing. Right at the heart of this jigsaw, there was still a large hole: what was he meant to do? What did it all mean? What was the point of it all?
O.K., so he was The Catcher, he was Holden, but was that it? Just a change of name, take on a new identity, and hey presto, end of show? Was it that simple? Mark guessed it wasn't: it couldn't be, not after all this build up. If it was just a simple change, it would be a kind of anti-climax, and that wouldn't make sense. No, Mark was sure there was something more. Something he had to do, something that he could only do as Holden Caulfield, something big waiting to be done, and he couldn't do it as Mark David Chapman, but as Holden Caulfield he was perfect.
He felt like a man with a special mission, a man waiting for the call, a man on stand-by. Waiting for the trigger.
And it was lonely waiting, not knowing just what he should be waiting for. He thought at first, he could share it all with Gloria, but as he realised the nature of this rebirth, he knew he was on his own. More on his own than ever before. Alone.
And yet not quite alone, because there was Holden. This secret, secret other, and being the keeper of that secret, meant he was more alone than ever. How do you share a change of identity? How do you tell someone you are not the same person inside? They look at you and see the old you: nothing has changed on the surface, and they can't see how you're different inside, slowly, surely, assuming your new self. Mark knew he couldn't begin to explain, knew Gloria couldn't begin to understand, and so he let it be. There was enough distance between them, without adding this.
He went through the motions of being Mark David Chapman, because he knew he had to allow time for Holden to come through fully. It might take a few weeks, or a couple of months, he had no way of knowing, but he had to be ready, when the final call came, when the final part of the signal came through, ready to go into action. The signal had come through in a kind of code, and he had to
Two Spirits Dancing page 151 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon be smart and alert to read it and work it out. This waiting was a killer, it really strung out his nerves, but he had to stay sharp.
And sure enough, Holden grew stronger and stronger, and before long, 'The Catcher' had replaced The Bible in Mark’s life. He read it all the time, marking passages he found particularly significant, folding down the corners of pages, underlining sentences and paragraphs he would commit to memory. He felt he was being pulled further and further into those pages, drawn inside this fiction in a way he could not resist: he heard a voice when he read it, deep inside his head, and it was his own voice. Holden's words, but his voice, fusing together. This was the pool he was being dragged into, like Narcissus. The mirror, because it was all about recognising your self. It was Rockwell seeing his self in the mirror, it was Narcissus undergoing metamorphosis. He was seeing himself reflected, and changed and it was a fantastic drowning, so slow and wonderful, almost dreamlike, serene and surreal. A fantastic coming together of Holden and Mark.
And then, late September, came the television signal he had been waiting for. It was an adaptation of “Paul’s Case”, a short story written at the beginning of the century. Mark knew this was it. Knew that he was just like Paul, and Paul was just like him. He lived a double life, one of crushing boredom and deadening shallowness with his parents, in their box of a home, and on Cordelia Street, and another, secret life of excitement and vivid reality, in the theatre.
Like Mark, Paul knew there was something inside him, a kind of potent spirit that was hungry for the living world of the imagination.
Mark watched spellbound, as Paul broke free from his dead life and headed for New York and a life of luxury, spending the money he had stolen, to give himself this new life, this new identity. He bought a suit of expensive, exotic clothes and checked into the exclusive Waldorf Hotel; he walked the streets of the city and felt the buzz of real life; he tasted the thrill of New York at night; he wandered through the wonderful stage set winterpiece of Central Park, and for the first time in his life, was at peace with himself.
And then, when they were on his trail, and before they could catch him, he had thrown himself in front of a train.
Mark recognised the synchronicity, and saw in that programme the signs he had been waiting for. He would go to New York, stay in the Waldorf Astoria, live his real identity and get himself together that way.
And then, a few days later, when he had already taken the first tentative steps to book himself a room at the Waldorf, and as if to underline it all, the television gave him one final piece of the jigsaw. He caught the news that John Lennon was making a comeback album. After nearly five years as house-husband, he was back in the studio with new songs. He and Yoko, on a joint venture. To be released November, maybe; before Christmas, anyway, called Double Fantasy.
Something told Mark this was it: Double Fantasy. The title was perfect, so right, and so bang on target. But he also knew there had to be more.
Lennon was back: big deal. A forty year old has been who'd done nothing for years, hadn't produced anything of real worth since the early days of the Beatles. So what was he trying to prove now? More primal screaming? More of Yoko's nasal whining? Big deal. But already the media
Two Spirits Dancing page 152 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon were getting excited, as if it was going to be the media event of the year and there was going to be an almighty welcome back party.
Mark remembered when Lennon made his cheap wisecrack about being more popular than Jesus Christ, and the stacks of Beatle records tossed onto bonfires, the protests at the High Schools, and Lennon really had to squirm to get out of that situation. Then there was the slanging match between Lennon and Todd Rundgren. Back in 74, Todd had cut loose and gone for Lennon for being such an ass- hole, getting drunk and wrecking restaurants on some nightly bender, shouting obscenities, screwing around out of control. Todd asked is that any way for a super-star to behave? And Lennon had hit back in typical fashion, in Melody Maker, in a venomous letter to Sodd Runtlestuntle, like Todd was some evil goblin, an impostor in the court of King Lennon. That had upset Mark.
But if Double Fantasy was the next part of the signal, or if Lennon was somehow involved, Mark had to know for sure, and while he was waiting for the album to be released, he decided to find out what Lennon had been doing for the last five years. He knew he'd been tucked away in his luxury apartment in New York, everyone knew that, and he'd been bringing up their child, but Mark wanted to go deeper than that, he needed to know more. If Lennon was part of this, Mark had to be one hundred percent sure: couldn’t afford to foul up on this, his big moment.
What was this Double Fantasy of Lennon's? Where was the double: he and Yoko? Mark thought he knew what it meant to him, but he had to know what it meant to Lennon.
The staff at the public Library were most helpful. There were several articles and interviews they could track down, if he wouldn't mind waiting a while, covering Lennon's house-husband period, but, they suggested, perhaps the most comprehensive and informative work was Anthony Fawcett's book, ' John Lennon: One Day At A Time ', and that was available.
And as soon as Mark opened the book and flicked through some pages, he could see how the signal was taking shape. The inner title page was really scary: Lennon and Yoko, huge black figures, just floating in the night sky, like giant, evil spirits, like malevolent gods over the city, threatening. And there was Lennon the Beatle, breaking away, led by Yoko, led into that crazy arty avant-garde world where they conned everyone with their Acorn Event, which was meant to be the coming together of East and West, where acorns became works of sculpture; their Alchemical Wedding, Christmas 1968, which was Lennon and Yoko in a white canvas bag; the Bed-ins and the Bag-ins; the changing his name to John Ono Lennon so there would be nine O's, nine lucky O's between them. All crap. All so much crap, and the world paying homage to him as if he were some great artist, some great genius, quoting his every word, following his every move, filming his every interview. Fawcett claiming Lennon's lyrics are so powerful that he can only find parallels in art, in Van Gogh's tortured canvases or Pollack's frenzied expressionist abstracts. And Lennon himself posing as some kind of guru: "There are no good guys and bad guys. The struggle is in the mind. We must bury our own monsters and stop condemning people. We are all Christ and we are all Hitler. We want Christ to win."
And there was Lennon the political activist, coming to New York with his message of 'power to the people' and all that crap. War is over, if you want it. And 'You are here'. Crap like that. Taking in millions of people with his clever publicity stunts.
And there was Lennon on the roof of the Dakota, looking like some freaky flit, or in his apartment at The Dakota, overlooking Central Park. His exclusive luxury apartment with works of art on the walls, expensive furniture, everything he could ever want.
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There was Lennon, the superstar, a virtual recluse. Isolated. Cut off from everything, protected from everything, hiding behind layer upon layer of security, paranoid and pathetic. Safe. The King was in his counting house, counting out his money, flunkeys and lackeys at his bidding. A massive business empire, built up over the years, and then handed over, to be run by Yoko, as if he were above making money, this multi-multi-millionaire, with his ludicrous lifestyle, because money was so cheap, if you had mountains of it. Except Lennon was afraid of it.
And the world at his feet, but he never went anywhere. Afraid to go out, afraid of the fans who had made him; so for five years, afraid to peep outside his ivory tower and even afraid to make music. Preaching love and peace from his castle high in the skyline of New York, above it all, and telling everyone how the world ought to be, how they ought to be. As if he knew.
As if he had any idea what life was like for normal, every day people. Thinking that because he'd helped bring up Sean, he was just like everyone else, but it was just a pose, because Sean was brought up with millions of dollars, with every toy he could wish for, with every detail of his life checked and supervised by the people Lennon employed. Who was he kidding, that he had brought up Sean?
And this crap about baking bread that was just another pose to show he was a regular guy. As if doing something nobody does, proves he's a regular guy. Proves he's a big phoney, just a phoney bastard. Just image: nothing there, nothing real. Not real flesh and blood: just image. All this loving father thing as well. Nobody mentioned the kid he left behind in his first marriage. Now, he was supposed to be the perfect dad. Jesus, what a con, what a phoney!
In reality, he was completely out of touch. He'd climbed into the clouds long ago and there he was looking down at the rest of us and grinning, as if taking the piss out of everyone down below. Just because they are beneath him. In several of the photos, Mark could see him gloating, with that arrogant Lennon grin.
The photo of Lennon at the back, standing before the Statue of Liberty, grinning, v-sign for victory, as if he had won over all of America, as if he had won. That really got to Mark.
And the final chapter, the Heraldic Journey chapter, describing how Lennon has been on a voyage of self discovery, wearing his beloved badges, giving us "hieroglyphic glimpses" of himself, the sensitive artist in a constant state of flux.
It made Mark mad. There was a heat inside, intense heat, so that he knew would have to erupt: that was what it was like: being an active volcano. Gloria noticed he was more tense than ever, but she knew she could not help. She recognised he was closed to her and it frightened her and worried her, and because she didn't understand what was happening to Mark, she blamed herself. And their relationship reached an all time low.
In contrast, in New York, Yoko was celebrating the blossoming of her love for John on his fortieth birthday. And Sean's fifth. She had her message trailed through the sky over the city, so that millions of people would know, and it made the network news, because the world was waiting for 'Double Fantasy', and suddenly anything John and Yoko did was headlines. Mark watched it on tv. He could feel the anger burn inside. Somewhere deep inside where he thought he was calm and cool and complete, but he found there was a pool of acid burning this hole right through him.
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It was Lennon. He was sure of it. Everyone was busy constructing a stage for the man, urging him to make that comeback, like an audience at a concert, impatient for the main attraction. Calling and chanting and everyone's expectations being worked up. Except for Mark. He was not part of it. He was like on the sidelines, but not detached: on the sidelines and biding his time, and intensely interested, because this was significant, so he watched it with heightened awareness, every nerve in his body charged, electric. It was magic. He was supercharged. He had never felt so alive, and he could see what a phoney Lennon was and always had been. He'd fooled everyone before, till they hailed him as a genius, as a guru, some kind of world leader. What a joke! What a sick joke: Lennon a leader. Baking bread in his kitchen, striking poses, everything an image.
He was everywhere. Lennon was everywhere. It seemed to Mark the pace was quickening; the media were falling over themselves to get Lennon's face or Lennon's name to a story. Mark was in a corner store, he needed one of his magazines, and there was Lennon, featured in the October edition of ' Esquire '. Billed as a major scoop, it was an article by Laurence Shames, titled "John Lennon, Where Are You?" Mark had to read it, there and then, and he stood there, in the store, and did just that.
It was marvellous: a scathing attack on Lennon the phoney, a real exposure of the phoniness of the myth; of the past Lennon as was, cocky, unflinching, arrogant and incisive, and the present Lennon as is; a forty year old businessman who watches a lot of television, who's got $150 million, a son whom he dotes on, and a wife who intercepts his phonecalls. He's got good lawyers to squeeze him through tax loopholes, and he's learned the political advantages of silence.
It was all the proof Mark needed, all the evidence. In his solo career, Lennon had conned everyone, fooled the whole world, and betrayed millions of fans. And now he was ready to do it all again.
And two days later, Lennon let it begin. A single was released, featuring two tracks from the long awaited 'Double Fantasy' album, and the radio stations around the world turned up the hype even further. Mark heard the tracks on the radio, feeling a chilling numbness creep over him. It was weird. The station played both songs, and Mark did not move a muscle all through, didn't even blink. He absorbed each and every word, and with each word the ice spread. Cold. Numbing. Deadening.
The first was pure Lennon. It began with three chimes of a bell, and Mark heard those chimes right inside his head, right inside, just like Todd had told him. Just like the Hermit had sung. “And a bell in your head will ring. All the children sing”.
The words from Todd now fell into their rightful place: “And the exploding apart that is a coming together; And you know the time has come: the bell is the signal. All the children sing.”
Mark was stunned by the synchronicity of it all.
Lennon had given it a Fifties treatment, slow and breathy, like Elvis, with a kind of tremble in the rhythm. But this song was about running off, flying away, spreading your wings, taking a trip, somewhere far, far away, and starting over. That was the title. Or rather just like. That was the odd thing, it was going to be just like starting over, not really starting over at all, as if Lennon knew it was phoney, and it was so phoney he had to add the brackets and the 'Just Like'. And the song didn't quite work: it was too bitty, the changes too abrupt. It was Lennon taunting, singing I'm starting over again, and I'm going back, and I'm going away, to renew my love, to recapture the love I had the way it was. But not really.
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The other track was Yoko and it was her song of betrayal. Her song of the kiss, the kiss of betrayal and of new hope destroyed. It was Sleeping Beauty and it was Judas Escariot. The song was about life and death, about bleeding inside, and about the broken mirror. About the White Terror and the Hell inside. About the faint faint sound of the childhood bell. Reverberations.
It was Yoko's song, and she was singing it for Mark. She knew. She was mocking him, taunting him with the end of the song, with her shuddering into orgasm. As if to say that's what it should be like for Gloria. She knew alright. They knew, both of them knew. It was Yoko's song, and it was a negation of Lennon's. The two tracks were meant to cancel each other out: betrayal first, then you run away. Or you run away with your love and then you betray it; it was all the same. They were singing about the new start that was a new betrayal, the new betrayal that was the new start. Phoney as Hell.
Mark couldn't take any more. They knew about him and they knew about Holden. They were singing about him and taunting him and he had to do something. And they were laughing at him because they thought he couldn’t do it, but he felt himself burning inside somewhere, and yet he was cold; there was a pain welling inside that was both fire and ice, and he knew now what he had to do and how he could do it.
He went down the corridor to the Supervisor’s office and told him he wasn't feeling too good, he had some emotional problems to sort out. He looked at Mark with a look between pity and contempt, but Mark didn’t mind. He took up the pen, took the book, and signed himself out. For a moment he hesitated, as if having second thoughts, or as if struck by the name, seeing it clearly for the first time: John Lennon.
And then he scored two heavy black lines through the name.
*
It was dark, and he let the darkness pour into himself, absorbing it piece by piece, until he could feel it running through his veins and thickening his blood and slowing his pulse. He breathed deeply and steadily, controlling it as best he could, steadying himself and luxuriating in the change that was gradually taking over inside him, taking him over. Black treacle blood coursing through him, slow and sticky, and his mind reaching out and opening to the all-embracing blackness.
If he closed his eyes, he could see the darkness too, as well as feel it, and his mind was open to the sounds of the night, the dull hum of traffic outside, the whisper of the back streets and alleyways behind the apartment block. Closer, he could make out, very faintly from the next room, the rise and fall of Gloria’s breathing, deep in sleep.
He was sweating, even though he sat there naked on the floor and the night air was cool on his skin, and when he knew it was time, he put on the earphones with a precision only found in ritual, and let his hand go to the controls on the cassette player.
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For an instant, the sudden shock of sound in his ears stung him, but it was like the prick of the needle, sharp, momentary, and the pain gone in the instant of pain itself, and he knew it would be followed by sweet bliss. The tape hissed and the music started, and he was back there, listening to the voices and guitars he had first heard when he was ten, the melodies part of his childhood, the lyrics part of his substance.
He sang along to the words, silently loudly in his mind, shaking his head and screaming the chorus like McCartney did, rocking back and forth to the rhythm, letting the beat become his heartbeat.
Then he paused the tape and sat still in the silence, absolutely still, holding his breath and his whole body tense and tight. This was the moment he had prepared for, when he must be absolutely void of emotion, a carved Buddha before his people. His face was like a mask, his eyes held no spark of life, his very breathing seemed stopped. He was ready.
And he summoned the Little People, called them out by his will for one last Assembly. They had been there all through his childhood, as far back as he could remember, and they had always shown him absolute respect and total obedience. Now he needed that from them one more time. He called them, in his mind, and heard them gather around him in their thousands, in their millions, murmuring and shuffling uneasily in the darkness, aware that King Mark was angry with them, or perhaps had a dramatic statement to make that would affect their very lives, and so they whispered among themselves as they congregated, hoping that the King would be gentle on them, wondering what they had done, or what they must do.
Mark waited for silence, waited for all eyes to be directed towards him. He was grim-faced, a blank, deadpan expression on his face and in his eyes, staring into the nothingness of the night like a superstar caught in the harshest spotlight, knowing, not seeing, his audience all around him.
“I have an announcement to make, a very important announcement, and I want you to listen very carefully.” He paused: there was a shuffling, a ripple through the crowd.
“Firstly, I must thank you for all your support and help in the past. When it counted, you were there for me. I was there for you, too. And I have to apologise for the times I have had to chastise you, for the mistakes you have made, though I know you never meant to let me down…but I am sorry if I have hurt you. Sometimes little children must be disciplined, you know that.” Mark cleared his throat. “Sometimes, the little children inside us all insist on doing bad things.”
He knew they were nodding in agreement: it was like the sound of a gentle breeze through the branches.
“Tonight though, all that is in the past. What I must tell you now is about the future. I must tell you, sadly, that I am leaving you.”
There was a gasp of amazement and disbelief. Mark enjoyed the moment: he had anticipated that very reaction would come, had known they would be devastated. How could he abandon them? It was touching, their devotion to their King, but he had no room for sentiment. He continued coldly, raising his voice above their objections, “I am leaving you, and going on a long journey to a big city far away.”
The murmur died, and Mark smiled to himself; they were thinking, with relief, that it was going to be another world trip or something similar, and he would be back after six months or so.
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“It will not be like before. This time, I will not be coming back.”
There were shouts, calls from all sides.
“Silence!”
The clamour died. He was keeping it simple and direct, driving the message home. He must not be interrupted, not now, not with so much at stake.
“I am going on a journey, and I will not be coming back.”
He paused for effect.
“I am going to kill someone.”
There was a stunned silent gasp, a huge collective catching of breath.
“I am going to New York ….and I am going to kill John Lennon.”
He raised his hands against the uproar: the wave of utter incredulity. He could hear a hundred thousand voices shouting that he could not mean it, he could not be thinking of such a thing, he just could not, and the words all running into one. Like the low roar of the sea.
“You will be silent!”
His voice thundered and echoed shrilly in the dark, and he could feel them cowering in their multitudes before him, some on their knees, some shaking their heads in dismay.
“Remember, I am your ruler, and you live by my will.”
Silence fell.
“John Lennon will die. John Lennon must die, because he is a phoney. He is a cheat and a fraud and he has to be stopped. And I have been chosen to stop him. It is as simple as that.”
A few lone voices called out in the dark, but Mark waited again, showing the benevolence they adored in him. Soon, the silence settled once more.
“And I have to tell you all…Something that is hard for me to say. But, I do not need you after tonight. We will never meet again, not like this.”
He realised he didn’t know what to say beyond that; he had not thought beyond that, and the stillness now unsettled him. He felt exposed, as if he were dropping his guard and showing himself for the first time in his adult life.
“You can go.”
Nobody moved.
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“You can go.” Louder, irritation in his voice.
Still nobody moved, as if held there by something too terrible to contemplate.
“You are all of you, free. Free to go. Free to get on with your lives, while I must go do this thing.”
He closed his eyes tightly, set his jaw and closed himself completely to the one or two voices still raised against him. He was shutting them all out: he could crush them with one stamp of his foot, but not tonight. He would wait, instead, showing them he was immovable and unreachable. He was their King and their master.
“Go.”
And then they began to depart: he felt them melt slowly away, heard the whisper of their feet on the floors, heard the slamming of countless tiny doors, even the closing of thousands of miniature suitcases, as if they were the ones leaving. And perhaps they were. He had released them form their duty, given them a chance to make their own lives now, and he was alone now, completely on his own.
And he was so calm now, so totally calm. He slipped on the earphones and went back to the cassette, turning the music ever louder, rocking back and forth, singing along to the tracks but also interposing his own words here and there, turning the choruses to chants and letting the chants take over and become his prayer.
“Hear me Satan, and grant me the power I need. Hear me Satan, and give me the power to kill. Hear me Satan, and give me the power of the darkest night, grant me the power to kill John Lennon. Give me his life, O Satan, give me his life. Give me the strength to do it, to do it, to do it.”
Backwards and forwards, chanting this mantra, Mark felt the darkness grow darker and the cool of the night become chill.
“To do it, to do it, to do it.”
*
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New York, Monday November 10th 1980
Tears rolled down his cheeks and he wanted to blow his nose. But they were tears of relief, and of joy, so he just let them flow. He breathed in deeply, the cold air like a knife at the back of his throat, and breathed out slowly, with great control: and again and again until he felt completely calm. He blinked away the last of the tears and gazed into the distance. The grey mists were beginning to gather themselves around the New York office blocks. Jesus, but it was a wonderful sight. There was Manhattan and Brooklyn, and out there, the Atlantic Ocean.
Mark stood at the rails of the observation platform at peace with himself. He had gone to the Statue of Liberty to set himself free. It represented everything new and hopeful. It was the symbol of freedom, and the reassurance he needed. It was over. Jesus Christ, it was over. And the tension, the turmoil, the torment, the nightmare that he had lived for the last few months, drained slowly from his body, slowly from his mind. It was all over. He knew he had won, knew he had won a great victory in this war with himself.
It was November 11th, Armistice Day and the war was over, and won. He thought of the billboards, and “war is over, if you want it”. And he did, and it was. Now came the peace. And he knew, somehow just knew, that Jesus Christ was back in his life; He was beside him now: He had chased away the demons.
Mark said a silent, private prayer of thanksgiving.
In his pocket, the .38 Charter Special he had bought in Honolulu, seemed so ridiculous now. Bought, ironically, from a Mister Ono: just another stupid twist of fate that had made him smile grimly. And the gun, now, just stupid and crazy and useless, a kind of symbol for the whole thing, the whole futile, crazy thing. The dream was over, and he was relieved. That mad nightmare had run its course and he'd woken just in time, or been woken.
Fifteen minutes earlier he had held it to his head and tried to pull the trigger. His hand shook under the strain. He ground his jaws together in an effort of will, but it was no good, no good, and it was then he really knew that the nightmare was coming to an end. He had felt a warm calm flow into him, fill him to the brim.
The whole of the last three weeks had been a terrible, terrible dream. Just totally unreal, days of hallucination and make-believe, nights of surreality. And looking back on those days and nights, Mark could see he hadn't been himself, hadn't been in control at all. It was like someone else was
Two Spirits Dancing page 160 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon running his life, like he was doing things but it wasn't him doing them. It was crazy. Or he was crazy. Either way, he hadn't expected it to come to this.
It had begun so clear and simple. When he quit work, he had been totally, utterly calm. It was an ending, like that chapter was closed, and there was no going back because he was too far gone. He'd burned his bridges, he'd quit that life. Quit as Mark Chapman and that was history. The personality that was Mark Chapman was empty, finished and all Mark's problems were behind him now. All the doubt was behind him, all the uncertainty had evaporated.
He felt confident, more content even, like someone who finally stumbles out of a long dark tunnel, out and into light. He felt incredibly lucid. Everything was mapped out in his mind with a precision and a clarity that amazed him. He would go to New York and kill John Lennon. It was Holden's wish. It was what Holden could never bring himself to do, shoot all the phoney bastards. Sure, he wanted to, but he just couldn't do it. Like he wanted to plug old Maurice; put six shots right through his fat hairy belly. Or he wanted to get the perverty bum who'd crept into the school and smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead and bloody. But Holden couldn’t do it: and Mark could. He wouldn't just think about it, but really do it. The new Catcher would do it: wipe out the biggest phoney in this whole huge city of phoneys. The phoniness had to stop, and Lennon had to be stopped, before he betrayed another generation.
And then Mark would be someone, really: world famous. The Man Who Shot Phoney Lennon. The Catcher For The Eighties: headline news around the world.
He had already sorted out the money. Time had run out for him, as far as money was concerned, because he had to pay off some of the debts he'd run up, and he knew he would need a great deal of cash for the trip to New York. But he was determined to do this thing in real style, he'd already decided that, and so he knew he had to get his hands on a few thousand at least. There was nothing else for it but to sell the Rockwell. It had served its purpose, and he'd miss it, but it had to go. He was surprised by his own lack of emotion about it. He was cool and business-like, committed to the deal, because it brought him one step nearer his goal. It was worth the $7500 he'd paid for it, and he needed that kind of bread to be the Catcher.
So he bought a super little Charter Arms Undercover .38 Special from J&S Enterprises in Honolulu. It was perfect, just over six inches in length, weighing exactly a pound, it would slip into his pocket, fit snugly into his hand, and do the job he had to do. “This little baby, will drop anyone,” Mister Ono had told him, nodding and smiling. Mark had counted out the 169 dollars onto the counter, aware that with each note came another nod of the head, and a smile at the end, as if to confirm there was another satisfied customer.
Next was the airline ticket, one way to Newark, New Jersey, to depart on Wednesday 29th October.
He told Gloria he had to go to New York: there was something he just had to do. Something he had to straighten out. It was personal and he couldn’t tell her more than that. He'd call her when he was through, and though he knew she didn't understand, he knew it had to be this way.
He found it harder to tell his grandmother. She was visiting the island, staying with her daughter, and Mark couldn't find any way to explain why he was heading off for a while. It was funny, because he had always felt very close to her. Time was when he could tell her anything, but now there just didn't seem to be the words. She looked hard at him, kind of right into him, as if he was
Two Spirits Dancing page 161 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon transparent, and he wondered what she could see. Or who. It unnerved him, to think she might be seeing inside him, and what was going on.
He had lunch with his mother, a kind of farewell last meal together. He told her he needed to spend some time sorting himself out. He couldn't tell her the details, but he hoped she'd understand. He needed time to himself, needed to get off the island and have a taste of the big city. He'd been working very hard lately, and he felt exhausted, in need of a real break. It would just be a week or ten days, maybe. He'd stay in one of the Y's for cheapness, and just see the sights. And he'd be back the middle of November. Those were his plans, to get himself sorted out, and he was going to change his name to Holden, because that would give him a new start. He liked the ring of Holden Caulfield, and hoped she would accept it in time.
He checked into the Waldorf-Astoria on Park Avenue, not the cheap YMCA; not at first. He was determined to see New York in style and so he played the tourist for almost a week, taking in the Empire State Building and a boat trip around Manhattan Island, but only because things had started to go wrong. He could only afford a couple of nights at the Waldorf before checking into the Vanderbilt YMCA, and he found that place crawling with gays. They were quite open about it, and Mark was horrified, and fascinated, but he knew he had to get away from there.
And he also discovered he couldn't get hold of the bullets he needed. It was crazy. He hadn't bought them in Honolulu because he thought the pressure in the luggage hold of the aircraft might make them explode or something. He planned to get them in New York, thought it would be easy. But no. He had to have a New York City gun permit, and with no permit, no bullets. He had come six thousand miles with a gun, to kill one of the most famous people in the world, and now, in the gun capital of the world, he couldn't get the ammunition. It was just crazy. The guy in the gun shop had laughed at his Hawaiian permit, and Mark felt like he was going to explode. He felt humiliated and so, so dumb.
All he could think of doing, was to get in touch with Gary. He had access to ammunition: he'd be sure to help. And anyway, it had been on his mind to see Gary one more time, kind of tie up some loose ends. He might even call on Jessica when he was down there.
He flew to Hartsfield, Atlanta Airport on November 7th, and called Gary from the arrivals hall. He was surprised to hear Mark was back in town, and excited at the prospect of their reviving their friendship. Mark played it cool. He wanted to keep his distance: he had fallen under Gary's influence before, and this time he needed to avoid complications.
They talked, and Mark assured Gary his marriage was just fine, that he was in New York to visit some art galleries; he was buying and collecting minor, but important works these days. He really felt good telling Gary that; it was a sign he was doing well, making something of his life. Gary was suitably impressed. And Mark showed him the .38 he'd brought with him, and explained he'd thought he needed a gun if he was walking the streets of New York. But then he couldn't get hold of the ammo. Gary smiled at the same old Mark. There was always something out of place in his life, some detail he'd overlooked, something he'd forgotten to take care of. Same old Mark. Now he needed ammo; a box of hollow points he wanted. That was easy enough. And Gary suggested they go out somewhere quiet and shoot a bit, for practice, get the feel of the gun, make a weekend of it. It'd be great.
But Mark had other plans. He wanted to see Jessica, he'd decided, and asked Gary to drive him round to her parents' house. He'd phoned the previous day and learned she had just had her tonsils
Two Spirits Dancing page 162 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon out and was still in hospital, but expected home tomorrow, so he bought a bunch of flowers and some chocolates. Gary dropped him off and went for a walk.
Mark and Jessica had a lot to say to each other, a lot to catch up on. They looked through old photographs and Mark asked about some old friends, and what had become of them. He still felt very close to Jessica, felt he could talk to her in a way he couldn't talk to anyone else, not even Gloria. But again he kept it cool and kind of formal. Small talk. Like Holden, he was conscious of the need to get these goodbyes right. He had never realised before, just how difficult it was to say goodbye. Properly. Finally. He wanted to feel them and know they were ending relationships that had meant so much to him.
And it was important they didn't notice he had changed. He had to play Mark Chapman better than he had ever played him in his life. A kind of farewell performance; the last night. And nobody must know, because he couldn't let them see Holden, couldn't tell them his special mission, couldn't be the Catcher in Atlanta. Holden had to hide for the time: his time would come. They wouldn't understand because they were from his old life, they knew only the old Mark Chapman. They didn't even suspect he'd been reborn.
Later that Sunday evening, November 9th, Mark flew back to New York. At the airport news-stand, Lennon was there waiting for him: the New York Times had a special feature on him and Yoko, all part of the publicity hype for the release of 'Double Fantasy'. It seemed that everywhere he went, a grinning, confident Lennon had got there ahead of him. It just made Mark more determined. It was late when he arrived, and he got a cab from the Airport and checked into the Hotel Olcott on 27 West 72nd Street. He was about two hundred yards from the Dakota, close enough to make his strike, when the time was right.
The next day he waited outside the Dakota, gun in his pocket, chatting to other tourists and fans who were hopeful of a glimpse of their hero. But there was no sign of John and Yoko, and Mark returned to his hotel that evening disappointed and relieved. This waiting was tough.
And the next day was the same; till, mid afternoon, Mark caught the doorman and asked when the Lennons might be expected to appear.
"They're out of town. Can't say when they'll be back. They don't tell me their comings and goings."
And Mark felt he'd known it all along. Knew this had been a waste of time. He didn't really feel like Holden, not enough like Holden, not yet. New York didn't feel like the New York Holden had drifted around for those three days. Mark now knew he was meant to kind of follow Holden's footsteps, retrace his tracks. This was all wrong, this tourist thing: Empire State building and all that, this wasn't like the Catcher should be.
The time just was not right. He had rushed everything, mistimed it all. He was too early, too ill- prepared, he had been too hasty. He'd come all this way for nothing, had spent a small fortune for nothing. Or rather for every thing. Because that was it. Everything was through at last. Finished. The end. It was over and he was free. Free of the burden, free of having to go through with it. But not totally free. Not free of himself. Not yet.
What remained was a failed Mark Chapman. A failed murderer and a failed Holden Caulfield. Cold and alone and stranded in the middle of an alien New York: no place for failures. And as long as Mark or Holden remained, it would be a freedom that was no freedom, because the Catcher would
Two Spirits Dancing page 163 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon fight on. Mark and Holden would demand it settled, once and for all, because Mark knew the idea would always be there, and Holden knew it too. And you can't kill an idea. This thing had been growing inside him for years, like a tumour, and it had to be cut out. He had to destroy it before it destroyed him. He had to put a stop to it.
He knew exactly what he was doing, what he had to do. Knew how to end it: this torture, this being torn in two.
He had had enough, couldn't take any more, and now he had to take the only option left. He couldn't go through with the revenge, the murder, but he could go through with this last chance to be free of it all. And it wouldn't be like the fiasco in his car: that had been stupid and pointless and kind of selfish. Self indulgent, and so over-dramatic: driving up to a lonely beauty spot for a glorious death, like something out of a Hollywood B movie. And phoney as Hell. No wonder it didn't come off: it never deserved to.
But this time would be different, this time it was a bid for freedom. Freedom from Mark as well as freedom from Holden. He would kill them both. In a sense, Mark was already dead, that personality was burnt out. It was Holden who was the problem.
But the Special had the answer. Very simple. Very neat. With it, he would free himself from Mark and Holden, would free himself from the Catcher. One shot would do it.
One shot for freedom forever.
*
Mark was on a real high, filled with elation, a sense of release, seemed to flood his body. It was the incredible buzz of feeling so free, of being so free, being himself again. He boarded a plane back to Hawaii on Thursday 13th November, vowing he would never again set foot in New York. All that was over. The nightmare was at an end. He knew he had won a great victory and got it out of his system. It was like some evil spirit had been cast out of him. He was free, free of Holden: he could no longer hear that voice. And he was himself again.
But there was the burning embarrassment. Jesus Christ, how could he have been so childish? How could he have been so stupid and immature? He just couldn't understand it. Couldn't understand what had possessed him to commit himself so fully to such a crazy, crazy scheme. To give up his job, and abandon his marriage, all for the madcap idea that he was The Catcher. He couldn't work it out. He was twenty five, an adult, not a kid, though sometimes he still felt like a child trapped inside an adult.
It was crazy. It was like he just didn't understand the big world, like he was the little child playing a dangerous game, and he knew it was risky, but that made it all the more fun. And that's all he wanted to know, all he really cared about: having some fun. Dangerous game. And he'd played it for all he was worth, gave it his best shot. And failed. Lost again. Roll up! Roll up! Try your luck! The most dangerous game on the funfair! And he'd stepped right up, and paid his dime, and taken
Two Spirits Dancing page 164 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon his position….and failed miserably. Yes, once again, in the end, he had failed, or his courage had failed him, or something, and he'd been unable to go through with it, even though he had been so sure about it. Hard luck! Try again! And thanks, but no thanks.
He'd been so sure. That was what he couldn't understand: he had been so Goddamn sure of everything. What had driven him on had been totally irresistible, the whole enterprise had seemed so right: just perfect. Oh yeah, to come away from New York a free man was just great, but it had made a mockery of everything, and made a mockery of him and now he could never be sure of anything again.
But he was free. That was what mattered. Free in a way he hadn't been for years. And not only free, but the evil was cast out and Jesus Christ was back in his heart and in his life. That's the sweetest freedom there is. And that meant he could begin to pick up the pieces of his life, rebuild his marriage, rebuild his career. There was a lot to do, but he felt confident he could at last settle down and do a bit of growing up, and be what everyone wanted him to be.
He tried to see the New York thing for what it was: a long, bad, crazy dream. Or worse: a kind of protracted breakdown that he had come to recognise too late, or rather just in time. Perhaps he needed more help. When he was over his trip, he might get in touch with a counsellor or someone. Perhaps, but he didn't feel ready for that, yet, though he would leave that option open. Perhaps later. In the meantime, waking from such a terrible and troubled nightmare, he felt drained and exhausted. He just had no energy, everything was too much effort. He needed to rest, needed a complete break.
But he also desperately needed to understand what had gone wrong. He was very confused. Really mixed up by it all. He needed to take stock, to go over what he had been feeling and thinking, to try to analyse his motives.
And then he needed to decide what he was going to do with his life. It was like it had been taken away from him, hi-jacked and held years ago, and only now, it had been given back, or he had won it back, or he had been released, and he didn't quite know what to do with it.
He had to have time, real time to sort himself out. Time to think things through. Gloria could see what kind of shape he was in, she could see he had to be left alone to get himself together, and yet she was afraid to leave him on his own: perhaps she had left him too much to himself. But what could she do? She was afraid to let him be; she was more afraid to interfere.
*
So Mark stayed home all the time. He didn't try to look for a job; he hardly went out the door of the apartment. He spent the time watching television and playing records and reading the Bible. And because he knew he had to go back over the events of the last few years and the last few months, he once again went through the messages he had been receiving, and he tried to make sense of it all.
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And he went back to the albums from Todd. Mark knew they would give him one of the starting points in this process of self-analysis. And in playing them over again and again, he realised more clearly than ever before, that Todd had been guiding him all through.
As far back as 1973, when Mark had been eighteen, Todd had fascinated him with 'A Wizard/A True Star', with its amazing mirror image cover, and inside, as you opened it up, Todd was shaving in a mirror-tiled dressing room, that itself was mirrored over again. Multiple images mirrored.
And amidst the mazes and jewels and magic crystals and stars and signs and runic inscriptions that tumbled all over the cover, was the haunting face of the Wizard, eyes glazed, vapour trails entwining him, fragments floating around him. It was Todd, it was the Wizard and it was male, it was female. It was a face splitting in two, and then splitting again. It was disintegration and fragmentation and the magic of splitting into pieces. The children's blocks that spelled Todd Rundgren, were tumbling down and breaking up, to spell Wizard. Everything was in motion, in turmoil, and yet held there in the power of the Wizard. The magic of being multiple. The energy of it all.
And Mark knew it was predicting his future. It was amazing. He just could not put it down.
And there were the lyrics about living on that male/female split, and Todd saying it was O.K. and he won't point the finger, but you don't have to camp around, sweet boy.
And lyrics about the bell ringing in your head. A ringing that keeps you awake at night. Like the bell in 'All The Children Sing', ringing in the changes, telling you the time has come.
And lyrics about the dark figure of the Zen Archer, stepping out of the shadows to claim another victim with his silver shaft. Rivers of blood, oceans of tears, life without death, death without reason. The Zen Archer, a man in parts forgotten.
Then there was the 'Todd' album, with its computer printout image of Todd, like some kind of scanned projection. And lyrics about nightmares and dreams and that heart-rending 'I want to change the world.'
And there was the 'Hermit of Mink Hollow' album, with its TV screen. And the bell in your head will ring. The universe explodes apart. Lyrics about the misery and pain, and the indifference to it all, poverty and starvation, and how we're too far gone. The world crying out for change. The world waiting for the new age; waiting for Utopia, waiting for the time when everything explodes apart and we can begin again, when we can begin to build Utopia.
And there was the 'Adventures in Utopia' album, with its message of voyage and hope and asserting your identity. Something's taken hold of me. But I got a right to who I am. Set me free. If I don't fit your plan then set me free.
And resist. Get thee behind me Satan. Let me be me. Let the new me be the new me. And all of it conceived as some trailer for a forthcoming television broadcast. Kind of "Coming soon, to your screen: a better world; Utopia!" The Test Card on the inner sleeve. Todd telling him to wait, and not be too hasty: the time is not quite right. But soon. Keep watching. Watch and wait, wait and watch.
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So Mark watched television all day long, and he listened to records, read the lyrics, studied the album covers as if looking for something he might have missed before, and the T.V. never went off. He didn't quite know what he was looking for, but he knew he must not miss it this time. He'd fouled up on the first attempt, misread the signal, or something: this time he had to get it right.
And on the third day back, the signal came. Mid-afternoon, on the ninth channel, he suddenly caught a scroll unfurling, and on it, "Thou Shalt Not Kill." It was in the middle of some cartoon, but he hadn't been watching that closely, until that moment of crystal clear reception. Lucid hallucination. It was like an electric shock stunning the backs of his eyes. Thou Shalt Not Kill. The sixth Commandment. But what did it mean? The Commandments weren't even part of Mark's gospel. It was Matthew who told how Jesus taught the Commandments. Mark hardly says a word. Surely he should be reading his very own gospel? Not the others.
He was confused once more. He was trying to make things fit, trying to make sense out of all this, but it was like doing a jigsaw and having too many pieces, or knowing you could make more than one picture with the pieces. It was hopeless. He had waited and watched for three days and nights, and now he was even more confused than before.
He went back to the Bible. The answer must be there. Had to be. Perhaps that was what he was being told: go back to the Good Book. Back to the Word.
And he began with Mark: the Gospel of John Mark. Confirming the Word with signs following, that strange, troubled gospel, full of unclean spirits, full of self doubt and division. So perfectly Mark's own gospel. Where the scribes judged that Jesus was himself possessed, and that was how He was able to cast out devils. He hath Beelzebub, and by the Prince of Devils casteth He out devils. But how can Christ be Satan, and how can Satan cast out Satan? That had been Jesus' defence. That and the kingdom and house divided speech: And if Satan rise up against himself, and be divided, he cannot stand, but hath an end. Mark had always been puzzled over those words. He understood them O.K., but he didn't understand why Christ used such a weak argument in his own defence.
And towards the end, where Jesus was telling of the day Heaven and Earth shall pass away, came the command to wait and watch. And what I say unto you I say unto all, Watch.
Like Todd's vision of the end. The Universe explodes apart. The sun and moon collide and you must watch. It had to be Mark: it had to be that Gospel.
Or John. The Gospel according to John. The Gospel according to John Lennon. That was sick. But John's Gospel was so different. Hardly a devil to be found: but it was all about knowing who you are, and being recognised for who you are. That was Christ's problem, and again and again he tries to prove his identity. Or he is challenged to prove who he is. Who art thou? Who art thou? And He is trying to tell them by showing them who He is, but nobody gets it. Nobody recognises him. He walks on the water, walks right up to the Disciples, and they don't know Him. It is I: be not afraid. Or He tells them He is the bread of life, but they just don't see it. And even when they come to take Him, led by Judas, they don't recognise Him. He has to stand in their way and introduce Himself. Whom seek ye? They answered Him, Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus saith unto them, I am He.
Even his mother doesn't recognise him at the end. And the Disciples know Him not.
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The whole Gospel was about identity, the problem of identity. Who am I? And why can't others see me for who I really am? If it was so hard for Jesus to confirm His identity, what hope is there for the rest of us? He was doing miracles and they still didn't see who He was. He was the son of God, and they thought He was possessed by a devil.
In the whole Gospel, Jesus is alone, kind of locked in an identity He cannot prove. Nobody wants to see Him for who He is. Nobody wants to acknowledge Him. Mark knew how that felt. God, he knew exactly how that felt. And he could appreciate how Jesus would be shaking His head in frustration, tearing out His hair in exasperation, screaming in desperation. Nobody would recognise Him. Ye neither know me, nor my Father.
But the Word must be fulfilled and Judas had to betray his Lord, whether He had a devil or whether He had God inside Him. All Christ and all the Devil: in the end it didn't matter. He was never regarded as the Christ they were all watching and waiting for. Who art thou? Who art thou? Until Jesus has to hide from the people, and spirit Himself away to safety, because that wasn't the time.
And when the time was come, Jesus introduced Himself again, and He was betrayed by the kiss, and taken and nailed to the cross, a nameplate, a title, written in three languages for all to read, nailed up there with Him. Crucified with His name and known at last. Perhaps. Perhaps not, because even Mary didn't recognise Him in the garden. And when He stood on the shore, in the morning light, the Disciples knew not that it was Jesus. Until John whispered to Peter, "It is the Lord."
Mark didn't know, but he felt the two Gospels were in opposition. It was a different Jesus in each. John Mark and John, cousin to Christ, had known a different Jesus. Mark versus John. Which one was true? John or Mark? John Lennon. Mark Chapman.
And the more he read, both the other Gospels and Exodus, and John's other book, the vision of the end, Revelations, Mark knew nothing was clear any more, that perhaps nothing would ever be clear again. He just couldn't pull it all together: there were too many voices, too many standpoints, too many conflicting versions. It was like they were all writing about their own God, or their own devil.
The pieces kind of fitted, but Mark felt he'd lost the picture he was supposed to be working to. Maybe the demons and the unclean spirits were his; maybe the identity crisis was his; maybe everything Todd was singing about was aimed at him; maybe the Catcher In The Rye was written for him; and maybe he really was the new Catcher: but there was still something missing. Something not quite in place, yet. And he didn't know whether he had to make the pieces fit, or they'd kind of fall into place. It all seemed so weird. So crazy. It was like that 'Wizard/True Star' album cover; everything was spinning and tumbling inside and outside Mark's head, everything was out of control. He couldn't get his head straight, couldn't sort it all out.
Sometimes it was so clear, so simple. The screen cleared and the picture was sharp as life, and the next moment came interference, came snow, came distortions and fogged images that made no sense whatever. A tumbling profusion of fragments. That's how it seemed when it was at its worst, just one huge mess of crazy ideas and bits of thoughts that he didn't know what to do with.
And then it cleared.
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'Double Fantasy' was in the shops: it was being played on the radio waves around the world. Mark bought a copy and listened to every track. He sat, eyes closed, in a trance, taking in the horror of the lyrics.
Lennon was posing as the Catcher. That phoney bastard was claiming he was the new Catcher, that was what the world was listening to, and that would be what the world would believe. Lennon the Catcher: Lennon challenging Mark's identity.
It was Lennon, singing of fairy tales and magic and wishes come true, of a beautiful innocent world where children are safe and the sun shines on them all day long, and if there are any problems then he can solve them. It was Lennon who was protecting the little children, frightening away the monsters, making the magic to make everybody safe. Like the perfect father, like a loving god, caring for all the children. Every day in every way it's getting better and better. Beautiful boy. No need to worry, sleep tight, sweet dreams: daddy's made the world a wonderful place. Close your eyes, have no fear. Suffer the little children to come unto me. And it was Lennon who was going to clean up the graffiti, and clean up the world and clean up himself. Because everything has been soiled, and he was announcing 'It's clean up time.'
And then he was going to make a magic escape, and there were no rats aboard the magic ship. Sail away. No friends and yet no enemies, absolutely free, like Holden planned to do, head off to the backwoods and escape all the phoneys. Now here was Lennon singing it. He was starting over again, going to take a trip somewhere far far away. Time to spread our wings and fly. Get away. And like Holden spent the whole book getting back to his family and even back to himself, his childhood, Lennon was into that as well. The little child inside the man. That faint faint sound of the childhood bell ringing in your soul. And it was Lennon who was struggling with Holden's identity crisis. Here in some stranger's room, late in the afternoon, what am I doing here at all? No communication. Feel you slipping away. Losing you. Just like Holden. And just like Holden, heading back home, heading back to the fairground in the park, the image of childhood and innocence and fun: there was Lennon stealing it, sitting watching the wheels go round and round. The merry go round. The Catcher, the protector of children everywhere, was Lennon.
And Yoko painted the darker side. The white terror, the broken mirror. The kiss of death, like the wicked witch Queen. And then she too is moving on, because she knows it's getting phoney. Now you're giving me your window smile. False and phoney. When you were angry you had love in your eyes, when you were sad you had dream in your voice. And everything is cold. Give me something that's not cold. Everything is hard. Give me something that's not hard. And I'll give you my heartbeat and a bit of tear and flesh. Because she is the angel, the fairy, the selfish witch. We make a wish and let it come true for us. I'll give you everything in my magic power. But don't be afraid to go to hell and back. Don't be afraid to be afraid. And she's smiling inside. Smiling inside.
So this was the double fantasy. Lennon and Yoko. A dialogue of songs. A heart play, a script for a special performance of a phoney King and a Wicked Queen. Setting Lennon up as the Catcher, pretending innocence, making dreams come true, for all the little children.
And the cover, dark, stark, striking: a kiss. Like sleeping beauty kissed by the handsome prince, like Jesus kissed by Judas. Bewitchment and betrayal.
Mark saw it now. It was like everything else was blurred, out of focus, and there, centre of the frame, the image was razor sharp.
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Lennon had to be stopped.
Simple as that. The whole thing was just crazy and unfair, but Lennon was the impostor, the phoney. The Catcher? The idea was ludicrous. That was Mark. Mark was Holden Caulfield, Mark was the Catcher, Mark was the one chosen: Lennon was just using the idea to pull another con, make another million. How could the world swallow that? How could they? Jesus, but they would.
They'd been waiting for this album, and now it was out, it was getting massive airplay. Lennon would be the new hero, the new Catcher. Everyone would buy it, and nobody would ever know Mark was the real Catcher, nobody would listen to him, now. Mark who? Nobody would ever know. Not unless, not unless he went through with it this time, like he should have done it last time, when he had the chance, when he had been right all along. He should have trusted to his instincts, trusted to Todd, or the voice inside his head, or whatever it was guiding him. Mark had to do it this time. Lennon had to be stopped, before it went too far.
Lennon was a threat, a threat to his survival. It was like he was half-way there to being Holden, more than half-way, when suddenly there is this other personality in the way, blocking him. Claiming he too is the Catcher. Blocking him and annihilating him. That's what Lennon was doing: annihilating him. It was like they were both trying to become Holden, both in a race to put things right, both sharing the same fantasy, this double fantasy, and Lennon had got there first, and the world was applauding him, but he was the impostor. And it left Mark with nothing, it left Mark nowhere. The loser once again, and this time he had lost everything, he had lost himself. It left him devastated, but he knew he had to fight. He wasn't going to go down so easily: he'd make a fight of it. It was like William Wilson, having to kill off that other personality.
He had been splitting in two, slowly splitting, for the last few years: the old Mark fading, and the new Holden growing stronger all the time. That was O.K. That was under control. Or at least, Mark felt he could handle that. But now there was a third. A three way split. Triple self portrait. Me, myself and I. Like a nightmare spinning out of control, like a curse coming true, and maybe there were more: maybe there were other personalities waiting in line. That was the real nightmare.
Mark knew he couldn't stand it; he knew, just knew he had to end it. It was a question of his sanity and his survival. He had to hold on to the Catcher, had to hold on to himself. If he let go, he knew he would tumble into madness. Headlong into that black nothingness full of screams.
That's what he was facing, a descent into Hell. Right now, he was on the edge with all before him the cold, black void.
He was going mad.
If he listened ever so hard, if he kind of stopped his breathing and slowed himself to a stop, if he closed himself right down, and listened, listened with his whole self, he could hear, he was sure he could hear, very faintly, very softly, but very clearly, the sound of the bell. It was like tuning to a secret station, buried deep deep down, a secret installation, where whispered scraps of meaning were transmitted, floated free, but were never received. There were other sounds too, like voices but not voices, like cries that weren't quite uttered, like stifled, choked, strangled words trying to be spoken. He didn't know what it was. It was like sound had been dammed up. Muffled and held in some giant trap. Some huge dam, only there was this tiny trickle, this leak, this weeping. He couldn't make sense of any of it. It was like a trickle of radio waves washing ever so gently over and through him. It was like the sound of the sea. It was like holding a shell to your ear. It was like
Two Spirits Dancing page 170 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon blood beating and pumping through a vein, a stethoscopic soundtrack, and all he could make out, with any real sense of clarity, was the delicate chime of a bell. Like a wind chime.
And he had all of 'Double Fantasy', all the lyrics, all the thoughts of Holden, all the accumulated madness of the last few months, as well as this feedback hiss, this trickle of sound, this cavernous distortion, all of it inside his head for three days, three days of torment, three days of inner hell. Three days of going mad, pulse beat by pulse beat, breath by breath, thought by thought. He was going to burst, going to explode.
He had to have help, had to have help. Three days and three nights of Hell. He couldn't take any more. Needed help. Not from those bastards at the Castle, though. They could take a jump.
So he called the Makiki Clinic and tried to explain. though he just didn't have the words: didn't know what to say. Muttered. Stumbled over the words, but didn't know what he wanted. Help. Help me. Think I'm going mad. Think I'm mad. Please help me. Please dear God and sweet sweet Jesus help me. But he didn't know if that voice was in his, or if those words were just inside his head or outside. Whispered, or stuck in the silent scream.
When he hung up, he had an appointment for the 26th, five days away. He had to hang on. Hold on. Five days and you'll be O.K. Five days to hold on. Get it straightened out. Soon.
But then, the very next day, one of the floodgates was opened, ever so gently, but opened. It was Todd. He should have known it, should have guessed it would be him. The sound that had been dammed back, suddenly began to flow again. Todd had the last piece of the message for him, the final programme. Deface the music.
'Deface The Music'. Todd's perfectly timed send-up of the Beatles. Deface it. Spoil it. Diminish it. The cover was a kind of negative copy of the 'With The Beatles' album from 1963. It was Utopia, or at least images of the group modelled in marble. Miniature busts, dead, stone faces, blank, unseeing eyes. Statues, commemorative statues, to the dead Beatles, to the dead Utopia. Monuments.
And in the bluey-gray light, like a T.V. screen glow, the drapes of black, flowing around the busts, blue-black silk, lent a funereal air to the whole thing. They had been turned to stone, turned to bone. Ossified, like Narcissus.
And the songs were Beatles' sounds, like echoes of 'Eleanor Rigby' or 'Penny Lane' or 'Getting Better' or 'I Am The Walrus'. Mark heard them like he had never heard anything before in his life, as if he'd been deaf all these years, and now, by some miracle, he could hear.
It was what he'd been told to wait for. To watch for. And now the message was clear, sharp and clear and unequivocal. De-face the Beatles. De-face Lennon and McCartney. De-face Lennon. Take him out. Eliminate him.
Confirmation. And with it, came a feeling that the pressure had lifted.
It was wonderful: his head had been bursting: now there was sweet release, like he had undergone trepanation. That unbearable build-up of pressure just dissipated, like air let out of a balloon. One long, gentle sigh and it was gone.
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Confirmation. At last, real confirmation.
*
New York, Saturday December 6th 1980
This time it felt right, this time he felt like Holden Caulfield and New York felt more like he thought it should: lonely, chilling, menacing. He had flown in on the Saturday morning, checked into the YMCA on 5 West 63rd Street, just nine blocks from the Dakota, but stayed less than a day. The place was cold and damp, and full of gays, crawling with flits. Jesus, it was like some freak show. He'd spent the night wide awake, just trying to think things through, and listening to doors opening and slamming, feet padding down the corridors, johns flushing: all the cheap sounds of a cheap bunk-house. He was fascinated: appalled.
On the Sunday he had booked himself into the Sheraton Center Hotel; it was further from the Dakota, but Mark didn't mind. He set out his display. Things special to him, things that would be found after he was arrested, maybe shot. Things that made a statement about what he was doing.
These things were him, they were his life. They stood for everything of any value in his life. It was like he was saying he had stopped being a person: he was this collection of objects: these things. He had been getting them together over the last two weeks: it just seemed the right way to go about it.
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A few simple things to say it all. He had set up the display, rehearsed coming into the room and seeing how the things looked, and, when satisfied, he had taken one final look, and let himself out, his copy of 'Double Fantasy' tucked under his arm, and his .38 Special sitting snugly in his pocket, in a sleeve of cardboard to hide its shape.
He walked the twenty blocks north to the Dakota apartments.
And then he waited. It was cold and it was boring. There were one or two tourists or fans hanging around, but they didn't stay long: the place was dead. No comings, no goings; it was beginning to feel like a real waste of time.
That was two blanks he'd drawn: yesterday afternoon had been the same. Where the Hell was Lennon? Nobody had seen him, nobody knew where he was. Mark was as ready as he could ever be, everything was set, but no Lennon. He'd gone back to the Y and then decided on seeing some action. See what New York had to offer.
He took a cab to Greenwich Village, to spend Saturday night in Greenwich: that was where the action was. That was the coolest part of town, with its bars and clubs, bright lights and excitement. From the back of the cab, he could feel the energy of the place. It was where New Yorkers could most be themselves. Or where they could most be their other selves. Anything went. It was artists and writers and poets and musicians and everyone on their way to being somebody or something else. That was the fascination of the place, part of its magic.
And Mark couldn't wait. He paid the fare and decided to walk, stroll, experience the action on the street. He stood on the corner of Bleeker and Sixth Avenue, and let the lights draw him slowly, like a moth caught in a beautiful, fatal beam, down the length of Christopher Street.
He had felt like a little child at a fairground. It was bizarre. Like everyone was putting on a show, a real big performance, dressed up to kill. He had never seen such an open and carefree celebration of being gay, of being young, of being whatever you wanted to be. He kind of floated down that street, just staring, kind of in a trance, taking it all in. Everybody indulging their fantasies, and it was the freedom: there was acceptance all around. No sense of threat, no embarrassment, no menace. And not like at the Y: that was kind of cheap and sordid, in the worst possible way: this was beautiful. Just men, and women, expressing themselves. Mark thought it was wonderful, weird and wonderful.
But it didn't really resolve his own doubts. It didn't tell him what he needed to know about himself. He knew he didn't feel a part of that scene: he felt like a tourist caught in the wrong part of town, amazed by what he was seeing, fascinated by it, attracted to it, but not part of it. Strictly an onlooker and not repulsed by it: it was too innocently beautiful for that, but just aware that it was different. As different as it could be. He just couldn't see it in himself. He was sure he was straight. Sure he wasn't fooling himself. If he were gay, he'd have the guts to face up to it. He would. He felt sure he would. But then last night's cruise down Christopher Street should have given him confirmation. Should have told him exactly how he felt. And in a way it did: except at the West Side Y he had been sickened; last night he had been enchanted.
He knew how Holden reacted to gays, but he couldn't be quite so anti. He wasn't like that. Last night had shown him how much he just didn't know, how much he was still hiding about himself. There was still this to sort out. It had been with him most of his life and he had never been able to really come to terms with it, never get it clear, really clear, once and for all. He wanted it to be so
Two Spirits Dancing page 173 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon simple, he needed his reaction to be straight and clear cut, but it wasn't. He couldn't manufacture his feelings like that. He knew how Holden felt, and it would have been so much easier if he felt the same, but he wasn't exactly the same. He wasn't the old Holden, just as he wasn't the old Mark: both those personalities had moved on and he was the new Mark, the new Holden, the new Catcher.
That was Saturday night. And he'd got back to the Y very late and very wide awake. There was so much going through his head. It was like a Freeway, and sleep was impossible.
And here he was, Sunday evening, having spent another four hours outside the Dakota, again cold, again wasting his time. Lennon was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was out of town. Maybe he knew, and was gone.
In the end, Mark gave up. He was tired, hungry and cold. He'd been hopping about from one foot to the other, trying to get warm, but there was ice in his veins that wasn’t to do with the weather, which was mild. Jesus, he was so cold: perhaps feeling the difference between Hawaii and here. He took a cab back to the Sheraton Center, and headed straight for the bar: he needed a stiff drink, needed something to thaw him out.
He didn't feel too good, kind of heavy, tired, lethargic, and he couldn't get warm. He was cold and stiff; maybe the twenty blocks had been too far; maybe this was all too much for him. Last night had taken its toll. He'd felt a million miles from anywhere, like an alien on a strange planet, and terribly, terribly alone.
He knew he couldn't face another night alone. Knew he wouldn't sleep: all those crazy thoughts would be churning around in his head and he just couldn't take it. It was like being stuck in a film loop endlessly replaying. A million questions chasing a million answers and he could never make even the first match. No, he couldn't take being alone again tonight. He had to do something. He needed company, needed a woman. Needed a real hot woman to melt the cold lead he felt inside him.
The idea had come out of the blue: maybe some kind of hangover from yesterday. Some kind of reaction. Maybe he felt he had something to prove to himself.
*
He waited in the hotel lobby: he thought that would be better than her coming up to his room. God, he was so nervous. He kept looking all round, trying to spot her, wondering if he could tell a call girl from any other. He had another drink and it helped, but he was aware he was licking his lips too much. He tried to stop himself but couldn't.
She paused right in the middle of the lobby; she had a quiet, unobtrusive air, kind of relaxed and aloof, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, to come to this hotel to meet a stranger to have sex.
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She was sort of blonde, and very young. Maybe nineteen, twenty. Small, slim, a real nice figure, a pretty face, eyes heavily made-up, and too much lipstick for Mark's liking. But he was pleased and excited: she was alright. They made for the elevator, Mark just kind of guiding her, kind of just touching her elbow. He took in her powerful perfume: Jesus, she smelled good.
The elevator was just about to close, and they quickened their steps and made it. There was an elderly lady already in, so the ride up was in silence, Mark wondering what to say when they got to his room. He was usually so good with girls, never short of a chat-up line. He struck up conversations really easily, made friends really quickly, but he was worried about this: he had never done it like this before. It seemed so cold and artificial, kind of formal, like going into a store and picking up a six-pack. You just did it and it was no big deal.
When they got to his door, Mark was sort of out of breath, breathing all wrong, and still licking his lips for all he was worth, from the nerves. She was looking at him and smiling as if to say 'O.K., calm down. It's alright. Take it easy. Relax.' He knew what she was thinking, but he just felt so unlike himself. He knew then that he was feeling just like Holden: "I don't feel very much like myself tonight." He wondered if he should tell her, wondered if he should tell her to forget it. He didn't know what to say.
Then she took over. Still smiling, she slipped out of the coat she wore. She had this tight and very short green dress on, a real deep green. Mark knew then, that this was right: the synchronicity struck him hard. Just like the whore Holden had. He just stared at her, and she checked herself, as if there was a big stain down her front, or something. Then he smiled: this was another sign.
She had good legs, the dress was low cut, and Mark could see she wasn't wearing a bra.
"O.K., what exactly'd you got in mind?" Mark kind of grinned and tried to stop his tongue flicking along his lips. "It's fifty for a hand job, seventy five a blow, hundred the rest. Hope y' don't mind, but I like to get the business side straight before we start, O.K.?" And she shifted onto the other foot, jutting her hip out, kind of holding a pose he recognised from the mags. He swallowed hard. This was like one of his fantasies coming alive, like one of the mag stories happening right in front of him.
She must have caught his tongue again, flicking over his dry lips, because the next thing, she was licking her lips so, so slowly, mouth poised, an exaggerated look of longing coming onto her face. Mark felt his erection growing, kind of stirring, shifting, and she knew it, too.
"I get ya, honey. You want it nice and slow. And I'm so good, I know just how you like it. Just relax, honey. I'll take care of that. Oh, you want it, don't ya. Yeah, you want it so bad."
She was now so close. Mark still couldn't get his breathing right, and her perfume was washing over him and beginning to drown him, but she had reached forward and was easing down his fly, and rubbing him, rubbing him, and he wanted to slide into her mouth, her warm, warm mouth, and he'd wanted it like that for ever, wanted it so much, but Gloria just didn't want to know, and he couldn't believe this was happening, and he closed his eyes and threw back his head, making the dream come true at last.
But she had stopped, and Mark opened his eyes. She was kneeling before him, and she had slipped off her dress, and her lips were shining and glistening and ready.
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"Y' got a rubber, honey?” Mark shook his head. “It's O.K. I got one. Just take it easy, leave everything to me. I'll fix it."
And she stood up and went across the room to where she had left her bag. Mark watched the sway of her hips and buttocks. Was this for real? Was this happening to him? She turned around and smiled and held up a rubber, showed it, like it was the key, like it was the answer he had been looking for.
Then she came back over to him. "Now where were we?" Oh, my, you were more up than that, weren't y'? Did you think I wasn't coming back? There, there, now don't you worry." And she sounded about ten, just like a little kid. And she reached for him again, she opened her mouth again, and moistened her lips again, but for Mark it was over. Suddenly, he couldn't go through with this. It was wrong, all a dreadful mistake. And it was a sin. Suddenly, he felt so depressed, completely washed out. All those sexy feelings washed out of him, like something inside had been turned on, and suddenly, instantly, they were all gone.
He wanted her out, he wanted her dressed and away. He wanted to be alone. He needed to shut his eyes and mind to all this. It was just too depressing, too miserable. He was crazy.
What the Hell was he thinking of? What the Hell was he doing? Jesus Christ, what was he thinking of? She was a kid, a little kid. So young, so soiled and so innocent.
And he was really Holden Caulfield.
*
There was a total silence, an all-pervading, still silence that seemed to search right into him. It touched him, it spread through him, like a light through darkness, and he drifted on towards the door, drifted because there were no footsteps and no sense of walking, he was just there, and he watched his fingers spread wide and slowly reach for the handle, but before he could touch it, the door swung open, and as the gap grew, wider and wider, suddenly there was sound, there was noise, because the door had been damming it all back, but now it was free. It was a wave of noise as hard as a wall, like a solid concrete block he had walked into, and which smashed into him. There was too much noise; everything flooded with noise, and it was too loud. He tried to put his fists over his ears but it made no différence: it soaked right into him, permeated every fîbre, until he was full, and bursting with noise.
He was fighting it, and aware he was screaming, trying to empty himself of some of this noise, but it was useless: it was inside and outside him. Distortion, discord, broken sounds. Tapes spliced together, the slide controls pushed to maximum, but too much and too strong. A raging river, a torrent, a current sweeping him away. Swirling, spinning, turning round and round.
Then it was shut off, switched off. In an instant: as sudden as that he was plunged into silence again. The tide had ebbed and he had been dropped, dumped, stranded, and was now looking down
Two Spirits Dancing page 176 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon a dimly lit corridor, or tunnel, he couldn't work out which. He thought lie was on his own, but then there was this someone beside him, sort of squeezing past him in a hurry, and he realised he was now slipping further and further down the tunnel, and he wasn't sure if he could stop himself, or whether he dared stretch out his arms and brace against the walls and so anchor himself to something firm, but the stranger wanted, needed to get by and he knew he could not block the tunnel. He was aware of this great urgency, a sense of desperation even. He wanted to know who it was but he couldn't turn his head to get a clear view of this stranger, but had the impression of an animal, though he knew that wasn't right: it was something in white, someone in white, but he couldn’t tell who. A someone, a ghost, Alice's white rabbit, or a someone else.
He squinted hard, trying to re-focus his eyes in the darkness, but the figure was gone into the shadows. And as he steadied himself and looked down the tunnel, there was another awakening of sound, but this time it began as a whisper, a faint, distinct, muffled mixture, building to a slow, steady crescendo, like at the end of A Day In The Life. And underneath it all, like a strong undercurrent, he heard the sounds of running footsteps fading ahead of him, going, going, going; but the sound seemed to wash back on him, and he wondered if it wasn't really all behind him. And he turned and saw a round window where there hadn't been one before, and as he peered closer, it became a mirror, and he smiled, and felt good, knowing it was o.k., that he was in some fluid dreamplace where things changed shape, where one thing flowed into something else and nothing stayed as it was. Everything was trying on new shapes, and though this was strange, it was also familiar: he had been on trips like this before.
Then there was a sharp bend in the tunnel, and before him a table set for tea, with a huge tea-pot, a plate of cakes and tarts. He was chasing the rabbit, but knew, somehow, the one missing was the Madhatter, and that was who he had to find. He looked all around but he was alone. The place seemed totally deserted, like a dark cavern, with this trestle table in the middle, and the white tablecloth shone, and the white china had a translucency that held him spellbound. Crisp creases, and everything neat and in its place.
To his left, a clock ticked loudly. He recognised it instantly and yet it was different ; It was the grandfather clock that George and Mimi carried into the house one day : like a coffin it was. Then he knew it was the wake for Fred, and they were waiting for the guests, watching the second hand slowly sweeping its round, watching Time turning, time running out. It was his mother’s wake, his mother the mourner, his bewitching Julia mother waiting for her rebirth, and still the hand swept round with a dead tick.
And now other things started to turn, revolving at first very slowly, but gathering speed, gathering speed, though hardly noticeable at first, but then, like some giant kaléidoscope scene, with millions of bits and pieces tumbling into place, triangle fitting into triangle, gem into gem, the picture changing all the time. And he picked up one of the tea cups and peered inside, like he was reading the leaves, but this one was clean and empty, waiting for its time, its future. Or his past.
But he had been inside a giant tea cup once, at a funfair once, slowly riding round and round on the merry-go-round, and he had shared the ride with another boy, someone lie didn't know at all, but that didn't matter. He stared across the cup at another child, watching the enjoyment brighten that child's face, and seeing a dull shadow of something like terror in his eyes. But there was someone else too. And all the time, he had really been concerned about whoever it was over there, behind him, across, on the other side of the roundabout, because he knew there was somebody there, but every time he turned to look, the spinning of the cups, the turning of the roundabout, the tumbling of it all, hid that somebody from view.
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So many merry-go-rounds, so many rides nowhere. Standing on stage at the London Palladium, waving goodbye, the end of the show, and the circus it all was. The music of the Magic Roundabout churning out for Mr. Kite, a mad, manic merry-go-round. Lights and mirrors, cameras and flash, glitter and glass, but all meaningless. You couldn't even hear the music you played: and they screamed and screamed for more. Hysteria. And the records spinning and spinning, forty fives, forty fives, spinning endlessly.
He stood and watched the kaleidoscope tumble it all together again, shift the perspective, turn out a new image. He wondered if he was turning the whole thing, if he was doing all this somehow, but it all seemed beyond him, outside of him, and yet, he knew it was going on inside him. Happening to him and within him, so the sounds were muffled, muddled, just a mess of tracks badly overlain, everything fuzzy and too thick, like one of those old jukeboxes had stacked up a dozen records and was trying to play them all at the same time. And yet, through it all, clear, there was a D.J. urging everyone to dance, his voice warm and mellow, relaxed and inviting, and there was one of those globes spinning in the black void of the ceiling, reflecting a million stars of light chasing round the ballroom. A universe of stars orbiting endlessly, and on the other side, across the floor, through the dark shapes of bodies dancing, there was that someone else again, just standing there, gazing into the centre, looking for something, for the turning point, the disappearing point, or looking for him. And while it all rotated slowly, other figures, shadows, peeled themselves off at the edges, slipped away unnoticed, as if answering a call that they could hear above or beneath the music. Dancing to another tune : strange fairy music drawing them on, not Pan pipes, but Rock 'n'Roll, because that was what the real Pied Piper played: it took everyone away, a long, long line of people following the music, a Conga that wrapped around the world and never lost its rhythm, never missed a beat, because the rhythm is inside, its in the beat of the pulse, carried in the blood through the opening and closing of valves, and it stops only when the heart has had enough.
He knew he had to get nine records to the D.J., nine black circles of vinyl, nine black holes to fill the Albert Hall, to plug the universe that was leaking, leaking away. That was what he could hear, the ebbing of the universe. It had something to do with the records having no centres, but he didn't understand. Nine black wholes, and all he knew was that he had to get those nine O's in place.
It was like a saga of the golden rings, or a game of Hoopla at the fairground. Roll up and play the game, roll up, roll right up. A brightly decorated stall, red and white stripes, like a knights tent at the Joust, or one of those changing cubicles at the seaside, and there was the showman, the Pied Piper drawing them in, and the prize was one of the little children hanging there, all down the side of the stall, children hanging, hooked at the back of the neck. You won the child you wanted, the child you want to be, the child you were : that was the aim of the game, he knew, though he had no idea how he knew. You had to win the child who was inside you. There was Fred, grinning that crooked-tooth grin of his, eyes sparkling, hand outstretched, touting for business. Roll up, roll up.
But there was static too, great, gritty bursts of static that came from beyond the distant stars and drowned the music, came in enormous waves and washed away the signals. It was inertia, it was negative energy, and the signal was always breaking up, just when a clean sound was almost getting through, just when a melody keyed itself in, that was when it grew weak and vulnerable. That was precisely when he knew he had to climb up higher, scale the ladder, climb the tree, get himself up to the rooftops, and open himself to the sky. Apple in London, Dakota in New York, up there among the wires and the aerials, open to the signal.
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It was Morrison hanging on the telegraph pole, crucified to the signal, because the cross was just an aerial. Christ you know it ain't easy. Christ the Pied Piper who lost the beat, lost the music : another, stepping from the shadows in the garden, pouting his lips for the kiss. Always someone in the shadows, someone else there.
He thought he could hear someone call out his name. Thought he could feel heat and cold, thought he could feel sweet music touching his soul, and he had to dance, couldn't help but dance, and then there was that someone else, coming to him, coming for him, and the whole room shrinking, sort-of pulling itself in, and turning, turning with the dance, so that everything was blurred, imprecise: just the two of them, floating on the music, drifting into the dance. Two spirits dancing, like the most beautiful love affair, but there was something dreadfully wrong : the room was too hot, there was no air, no space and everything was closing in, everything was too close, and he felt faint, felt sick, felt as if he were fading to nothing ......
He woke.
He was in a feverish sweat and lay there several minutes catching his breath, catching his breath, making sure of his hold on life. He had been having bad, bad dreams lately, and hardly sleeping, and waking early after restless nights. These dreams were troubling him, they made him aware of his own anxiety, his own insecurity at getting back on stage, into the spotlights again. That was what was behind them, he was sure.
He felt he was again heading into something that was exciting, and terrifying, something that was old hat, but also totally unknown, something he was looking forward to, and he felt ready for, but something that was waiting for him, and that would catch him cold. Out there, in the darkness, waiting for him : success, satisfaction, a sense of achievement. A way to prove himself one more time.
It was a way to confound all those bastard critics who had written him off, putting himself on the edge again, exposing himself, stepping into the limelight again, into their ambush one more time.
He was too keyed up and it was telling. Since the Bermuda holiday, and the decision to get back, he had thrown himself into songwriting, burying himself in The Hit Factory studio. And the world was waiting; already there was great media interest in the comeback album, and the interviews were beginning to stack up ; Playboy were first, but other deals were being negotiated because these were busy times, strange days indeed.
He was too restless: he just had to get up. There was enough light to see by, and he quietly slipped out of bed and padded across to the door. Yoko stirred, sensing a space opening beside her, her arm stretched above her head, and then she settled again.
He wandered through to the next room, where the air felt cooler and where he could feel calmer, over to a window overlooking Central Park. He leant heavily against the pane, pressing his forehead to the cold, cold glass, and gazing out on a dark grey distance that seemed to reach out beyond; there was nothing to measure against, nothing to give perspective. The lights he could just pick out on the far edge could have been stars in an unreachable galaxy. He loved this scene, loved looking out on it all. Even now, in these early hours, this city wasn't asleep, but it was deceptibly peaceful. It was comforting and calm. The Park slept below, hidden beneath a black cloak, like a huge battery, an enormous storehouse of energy, and come the dawn, come colour and light, everything would come to life once more, and draw on the battery for another day, though it would
Two Spirits Dancing page 179 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon never drain it. You could count on it: it never failed, and that reassurance gave him a kind of strength.
*
The night was too humid and Mark was too hot. He had given up trying to sleep and had thrown open the window, hooked back the shutters, and now stood looking out, looking into a very black sky, lit by diamond bright stars. It was a night like this that had inspired him to paint Diamond Head Mountain, and, he was quite pleased with the outcome: the rocky outline dark and brooding, a brilliant crescent moon hanging there, its creamy light reflecting off a deep blue midnight sea, blazing stars set in a swirling sky. It was like a Van Gogh canvas, and perhaps that was the point. He loved that style, where the paint was alive, where it moved and heaved and twisted with the pain of being, with the energy of all creation. He felt alive when he was working on it, alive in a special way, felt he was somehow involved in the spiralling whirls of paint, felt he knew the very texture of that Hawaiian sky, he had breathed it, felt it on his face and in his eyes, as if he had free-fallen through he stratosphere. And perhaps he had.
He stood recalling the details of a vivid dream. More real than reality, it had set his nerves tingling with fear and exhilaration and energy. He had woken feeling charged, electrified and alive. Gloria was still asleep, heavily asleep beside him, and he lay there like Frankenstein's creation, feeling a living charge flowing, pulsing through him : it was amazing, mind-blowing.
He recalled the dream : he was falling, twisting and turning and falling through a great black sky. He was James Castle falling, leaping out that Pencey window, arms and legs flapping, falling down and down towards the stone steps below, and twisting as he fell, like some diver: degree of difficulty. And as he fell, he knew he was fading, kind of thinning out, losing himself, losing his very substance. That's what it felt like, fading and thinning: breaking up. Startrek, where they try to beam up, but the signal is too weak, or they come through as another, because the signal gets scrambled.
Or he was a falling angel, spinning and tumbling into blackness, the cold black silk of space, that vast black desert of empty space. And he was the silver-suited astronaut turning somersaults in the void, held only by the thin cord of his life-line, anchored to nothing, and perfectly weightless, just floating. That must be what death is like. He knew death would be like that.
And as he feathered down and down, there were others falling too ; Allie wearing that old baseball mitt ; Allie with the very red hair, toppling into the great black nothing. And he recognised him. Jesus Christ, Allie. He called out to him a silent scream, just mouthing, like a drowning fish, but Allie couldn’t hear him.
And above him, the stars in this black sky were millions of fragments of glass, in a slow motion spinning fall, the broken garage windows exploding, or showerdrops of silver blood, or the de- materialised body beaming up to the Enterprise, dissipated, sparkling, like an effervescence, like a soul stripped of flesh and blood. And the windows were smashed, so now the soul could get through, could continue its journey in peace.
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Except he wasn't getting anywhere because he was stuck. Although he was trying and trying to get somewhere, it felt as if he was slowly sinking into quicksand, sinking into slowsand quickly.
And the harder he tried pumping his legs, the less resistance the sand gave, but at the same time, the more difficult it became to make any movement. He couldn't even look down to check, but now he thought it was concrete, it was hardening around his feet, and the wet feel of it all was creeping on and up, and a sudden panic grabbed him that he was being turned to stone.
But within the panic, he was cool, he was calm, and he knew it would all be o.k., and he would come through and out of this, and as the heaviness grew around him, he felt light, as if he could rise up any moment now, as if he could soar and fly and leave it all behind; not be dragged down, not be sucked in and swallowed up, but free at last. He felt as if it wasn't really happening to him, as if he was watching someone else going down, someone he knew but didn't know, someone he couldn't quite make out. And he kept trying to turn round, but he couldn't, trying to see who it was, but it was like he was stuck in the centre and everything was turning round him.
It was as if he was at the heart of a giant Carousel, where everything was encrusted with tiny mirrors, millions and millions, and fossilised rhinestones, and countless fragments of light trapped, images broken and splitting as the whole thing turned; but fixed, frozen, just like he was, a figure carved to the central pillar, and he could only look out on a narrow angle of vision, and there, just beyond the rim, were all the anxious parents, the grandmas, the faces in the crowd. And each time it came full circle, the faces changed, and yet there was that one figure standing there, that one face, indistinct, a blurred image, no matter how hard he looked, still blurred, and always there. And he just knew that figure had always been there, would always be there, just beyond the prancing horses, pitching and rearing, just beyond the dragon horses, in their garish reds and golds and blues, their nostrils flaring, just standing there, watching, looking in, while the dragon monsters danced by. And he was fixed looking out, like a damsel tied to the stake, screaming for her knight in armour to slay the monster dragon. He was earthbound, gazing to the zodiac revolving above and outside and beyond him, all the while, dreaming of freedom, screaming for it, dying for it.
And then the floating was like his soul was free, on its journey back to its source. Back. Getting back. To be reborn and remade and reformed, to become a someone else, to jump through the golden hoop, and dance through the music again. At first he saw the ring was too small, or he was too big, but it didn't stop him, because he knew he had to go through, and so he squeezed his way through, forced his way, and it was really easy, and he was surprised, because it wasn't a squeeze at all, and he was amazed that the ring was expanding, opening wider and wider to let him through so easily. There was jukebox music, a swelling circus, a fairground sound, and he knew everything was being distorted, twisted, stretched and wrung out of true: it was like a fantastic trip, and he was breaking through to somewhere else, and he was someone else, being reborn as someone else.
Then the golden ring was small enough to hold in his palm, and he picked it up, held it between finger and thumb and stared at its dull shine. A magic ring, a wedding ring; and he was ready. Who gives this bride? Who takes this woman? Voices speaking to him, and he looked at the ring and knew it would make him new. A magic ring of magic power, a magician's ring meant for a mighty wizard, and the tune rolled round and round, and he held the ring and he had the power.
And at last he could make that shadowy, ghostly figure go away. It was still there, but he knew he could make it go away, make it go away whenever he wanted to. Or any number of others who came out of the gloom ; he knew how to do it. He had the power, had the ring, held it there, right in
Two Spirits Dancing page 181 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon his hand ; it had a weight, and it felt right. He could slip on the ring, turn on the music, play the tune and make the monsters fade away, any time.
He was the Pied Piper, he was telling the children to hold on, hold on, hold on. No matter he was all alone, all on his tod, because that just didn't matter: he could save the kids from all those strangers with sweets in their pockets, with soft seats in their cars, with whispered promises on their breath. All those dark shadows in grey coats, hands hidden deep in bottomless pockets, opening those coats as if they were the doors of hell. All those lonely grey strangers who played on, who preyed on children, who haunted playgrounds, who ghosted through every child's nightmare, those shadowy figures waiting on the edge of the crowd, waiting for the Carousel to stop.
Waiting. Waiting for the stop.
And when it did, when it slowed and when it stopped, then he would step down, free from the Totem pole, free from the stake, free from that still point, to face them. But only when the time was right, when he was needed, when he knew it was the time for him to make his move. Then he would come forward, quietly, past the grinning horses, silently, like a ghost, like Christ coming down from the cross, His torn, wounded hands outstretched wide.
*
Lennon bounced into the room, his stride long and loping, a wide grin on his face. Yoko was a step behind, barefoot, in a loose blouse. "Here I am!" Dave Sholin had waited all his career for this moment. It was his big break, an exclusive interview that he could network worldwide. He smiled nervously and reached out his hand in greeting.
*
"...With 'Double Fantasy' I went right back to my roots. It's not going back to being Beatle John in the Sixties, it's being John Lennon, whose life was changed completely by hearing American Rock 'n' Roll on the radio as a child, and that's the part of me that's coming out again and that's why I'm enjoying it..."
"We feel like this is just a start now, you see, 'Double Fantasy' - this is our first album. I know we've worked together before, but this is our first album, we feel..."
"...Because I've always considered my work one piece, whether it be with Beatles, David Bowie, Elton John, Yoko Ono, and I consider that my work won't be finished until I'm dead and buried, and I hope that's a long, long time: so to me it's part of one whole piece of work from the time I became public to now, and that's the connecting point..."
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"...These things that, that are changing, changing the world - it all takes time, y' see. I think the bit about, y' know, the Sixties, we're all full of hope, and then everybody got depressed, and the Seventies were terrible. That attitude that everybody has that the Sixties were negated, for being naive and dumb, and the Seventies is really where it's at, which means, y' know, putting make-up on and dancing in the disco, which was fine for the Seventies. But I don't negate the Sixties. The seeds that were planted in the Sixties, and possibly they were planted generations before, but the seed that, whatever happened in the Sixties, the flowering of that is in the feminist, feminisation of society, the meditation, the positive learning that people are doing in all walks of life. That is a direct result of the opening up of the Sixties..."
"...Crying for it wasn't enough. The thing the Sixties did was to show us the possibility, and the responsibility we all had. It wasn't the answer, it just gave us a glimpse of the possibility - and in the Seventies everybody's going 'Na, na, na' and possibly in the Eighties everyone will say, ' O.K., let's project the positive side of life again'..."
"...What we were doing, you can call it magic, meditation, projection of goal: which business people do, they have courses on it, the footballers do it: they pray, they meditate before the game. What we were doing, we were early pioneers of that movement. Which is, to project the future, which we can - have goals which we can reach. Right ? People project their own future..."
"...One cannot be absolutely oneself in public, because the fact that you're in public makes you - you have to have some kind of defence or whatever it is. Tried to get as near to the uncensored, as it were, for what we are, not to project an image of something that we're not. It was most uncomfortable when I didn't feel I was being myself..."
*
Mark knew, on the Monday morning, that this was where it came to an end. There had to be a stop and, quite simply, this was it. He couldn't go on any more. Since arriving in New York on Friday, he had been in Hell. Three days of Hell, like Jonah, three days in the belly of Hell. Like Holden, three days drifting through Hell, trying to get back home. They were all, all three of them, reluctant prophets. They had been called, they had been given a mission and they had to see it through.
Getting himself ready was like preparing to face a hostile audience in a flea-pit theatre, way back of Broadway. It reminded him of Chicago, all those lifetimes ago. But this was the big show, this was his big moment. He was on the brink of achieving his destiny.
And he put on his costume like the leading player he was. But Jesus, he was still so Goddamn cold, even though it was warm in the room, he could not stop shivering. He pulled on his thermal underwear, a thick shirt, sweater, heavy trousers and jacket. On top of those he wore his green military Great-coat, with a scarf wrapped around his neck and a fake fur hat on his head. But he was freezing. Jesus Christ, he just could not get warm. He hunched himself inside his coat, and thrust his hands into the pockets, and he was like that when he caught himself in the mirror: but, Jesus, it just wasn't him. Shit, it really shook him, briefly, but then the moment was gone, and he was back.
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He checked his props: everything in his display was in place. That would be how the cops would find them, after it was all over. Let them puzzle it out for themselves.
He knew he should be feeling nervous, but he couldn’t feel anything. He unloaded the gun, stood the five hollow-point bullets on the edge of the table, like chess pieces, and gently blew through the chambers of the .38 Special, as if cleaning it, or breathing life into it. Such an odd gesture, like he was already outside of himself and watching it all. Then he slowly re-loaded, pressing each bullet firmly home into its chamber. Finally, he folded the cardboard sleeve over the gun and slipped it snugly into his coat pocket.
And he was ready.
Mark picked up the copy of 'Double Fantasy' he'd bought in New York: that would get him close to his target. He looked at the cover: the light striking Yoko's forehead and Lennon's hand, back of her neck, but the rest was darkness, black and menacing. Blackness closing in and that kiss of love, that kiss of betrayal, that kiss of death. A farewell kiss, bye bye.
*
Once on the street, Mark felt better. He had been faint, sick, in the hotel room, feeling the tension. Maybe the last few days were taking their toll, but he knew he just had to hang on, just a little while longer. It'd be over soon enough. He took some deep breaths: the air was sharp and fresh, the wintry sun was shining. He could breathe easier, and now he was walking, he began to warm up a little.
Cradled in his right hand, inside his pocket, he held the red paperback copy of “Catcher” he bought yesterday; it had been the last one on the shelves, blazing red, with the lettering in crisp gold: Mark saw it as another sign.
He had written on the title page,
" To Holden Caulfield from Holden Caulfield " " This is my statement. "
After all, it said it all. To the phoney, from the real: to Lennon from Mark. To the new Holden, from the old; to the old Holden, from the new Holden Caulfield of this generation. This is my statement. It was his book, his voice, and so it was his statement, already written, there for anyone to read. Written ahead of the crime, and waiting, like a suicide note gets written and left, like a script that has to be acted out, like a dream turning to reality, which is what it was.
The singer must die for the lie in his voice. That had come to mind yesterday. From a Leonard Cohen song, from way back. The song was kind of operatic, like some of Todd's: maybe that was why he'd liked it, and Mark was amazed he could remember it, but then, everything was so crystal
Two Spirits Dancing page 184 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon clear now. Everything was focussed perfectly, everything tuned in, spot on. No interference whatsoever.
There was a hush inside his head now. A calm, a total stillness. A kind of expectancy, not exactly nervousness, not tension, just a waiting for things to fulfil themselves. A waiting for the circle to be completed. For the merry-go-round to stop.
*
Outside the Dakota, there was a small crowd of fans waiting for a sight of John and Yoko, and Mark joined them, chatting amiably with a couple of the teenage girls who were hoping for an autograph. He was still so cold, but he felt part of this scene, felt this was where he belonged. It was a long journey he had been on, longer in many ways than his trip round the world, but Mark knew he had at last arrived at his destination. He felt tired, and he was ready to stop right there.
Mid-afternoon, a station wagon pulled up, and the crowd pressed forward ever so slightly. It was Sean: just five years old and full of life. He beamed at the onlookers as he took a giant step out of the car, and the girls Mark had been standing by waved and called Sean and his nanny over. Mark reached out and shook the boy's hand.
Mark thought it was like he was meeting the last five years. That's what Sean stood for, Sean's first five years, Lennon's last five years. Mark's too. The child meeting the man, the man meeting the child, the little child inside the man. Had Mark been like that? Five years old and so innocent? Untouched by the world, clean and bright with innocence.
Mark knew how Holden felt about Phoebe. Jesus, suffer the little children. We are all children, all of us. A little part of us is the child, but we bury it deeper and deeper, we push it down further and further, deeper and deeper, until it's gone and gone for good. That's the lie we tell ourselves, but it's not for good at all, it's for evil. We murder the child inside us. We suffocate it, drown it. Shut it up and shut it away forever, and never let it out.
And when Sean went in, hand in hand with his nanny, Mark watched him go with blank, emotionless eyes: eyes like big glass beads. And then he pulled out his 'Catcher' and started reading the bit about the swell little kid of six, walking in the street.
"I got up closer so I could hear what he was singing. He was singing that song, 'If a body catch a body coming through the rye'. He had a pretty little voice too. He was just singing for the Hell of it, you could tell. The cars zoomed by, brakes screeched all over the place, his parents paid no attention to him, and he kept on walking next to the kerb and singing 'If a body catch a body coming through the rye.'
And then the other bit about the Catcher: "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I
Two Spirits Dancing page 185 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all."
It calmed him because it put everything into perspective. It restored the hush inside his head.
There was just this very far off sound, so faint he could hardly hear it, this beautiful sound of a little choirboy singing; that's what it sounded like, a beautiful solo. An angel singing. A hymn of praise. So far away and so gentle, harmonious sounds soothing into a hushed whisper.
And then out they came: Lennon and Yoko Ono. One or two of the fans squealed with delight and pressed forward. The couple stood around waiting for their limo and the fans gathered around, for a word, for an autograph, just to be close. A big moment in their lives.
Mark edged forward too. Shoulder to shoulder, face to face, and now hand to hand: Mark and Holden and Lennon and The Catcher. Come together. I know you. You know me. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. Two spirits. Double fantasy come true. Two spirits dancing so strange.
His copy of 'Double Fantasy' went forward and it was signed, and there was a flash of light from a camera, or something.
And then they got into Dave Sholin's car and off they went.
And Mark stood and wondered why he hadn't done it. Why he hadn't pulled out the gun and done it, why he hadn't pulled out the gun and pumped the trigger and emptied the chambers into Lennon and done it. That was what the small part of him wanted to do, the part that wanted to kill, to do evil. The small part wanted it done. But the big part won. The part that was good, the part that was kind, that was what won the fight. He was outside and watching it, the small part against the big part: still this fight going on inside him.
But it wasn't over. Not like this: this was no ending. There had to be an end, had to be, and not this. Not this going their own ways and that was it. No. There had to be an end to it, because this was where it had to stop, one way or another. It would stop right here. And there was no going away till it was over. He knew that. No way out, not till it finished.
So he waited, knowing they'd be back. Whenever. They'd be back, and he'd be there waiting, because it had to be: it just had to be done, because it was already written, already done.
Mark didn't mind waiting: he'd been waiting all his life, except he didn't really know what he was waiting for, not until Todd had spelled it out, not until Holden had taken charge. And then the waiting made sense, because everything has its time, every event has its time, and you can't rush it, you can't push it when it's not ready, you just have to accept that the time isn't right, and you have to wait. And when the time is right, then you know it, like the apple knows when to fall from the tree, like the ice knows when to melt.
It wasn't time that was the problem, because Mark knew this kind of waiting wasn't about time ticking away, it wasn't about wristwatches and clocks at all, hours and seconds and minutes: it was about judging that moment in your life when something has to be done. But even moment wasn't the right word; it was more like coming to a place, arriving at a destination, occupying a place, a
Two Spirits Dancing page 186 twospiritsdancing.com Two Spirits Dancing dwpryke The Murder of John Lennon space, rather than a time. Mark knew he had come to the right place, that this was his space. This was the space he must occupy, and two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. That was a law. A law of the Universe.
Two Catchers could not co-exist in the same time in the same space.
Hours passed, or moments, and Mark had long since stopped feeling cold, but he now stood there like a statue carved in black marble. Absolutely dead still, absolutely calm. Feeling nothing at all, as if he was turned off.
Then, at last, the big black limousine stopped outside the Dakota. Yoko got out, glanced around and walked towards the archway entrance. John followed a few paces behind, holding some tapes from their recording session. He turned to look left, vaguely aware someone had called out his name, very, very faintly; almost a whisper, though not even that.
" Mr. Lennon. "
They looked hard at each other, and through each other. Their eyes met in that dark, brittle blackness that acts as the last mirror, and throws back a reflection of our selves: that great dense darkness there on the other side of the mirror go round, through the looking glass and the emptiness beyond, where there is no time at all, no space, nothing, but only the two coming together, two spirits dancing.
Frozen, locked together, either side of the mirror, either side of the divide, but come together at last. No emotion, no rage, no anger. No sense of vengeance, nothing. Just a cold, dead silence in his head, cold and dead, like distant deepest space. A dead quiet, everything else turned off, all sound muted, all the noise of the night cancelled, or dammed up somewhere, like the whole world was dry of sound, because it had all been held, trapped for this.
Pure dead, perfect, total silence inside his head.
And then, slowly at first, from the bottom of somewhere inside his spine, inside his bones, came the murmured beginnings of a hushed, harsh whisper struggling free, like some deep underground spring struggling to the surface, and it was growing, and it grew rapidly. All in an instant, in no time at all, louder and louder and louder it grew, till it was a voice, a hoarse, insistent voice, saying, and then shouting, louder and louder, screaming inside him, screaming to him, "Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it."
Over and over and over and over.
"Do it. Do it. Do it."
And then the dam burst. Five explosions split the silence and the flood of sound was free at last.
" On a river of sound Through the mirror go round, round I thought I could feel (feel, feel, feel) Music touching my soul, Something warm, sudden cold The spirit dance was unfolding..."
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The End
With special thanks to Cheryl for all her support And to Robert, for making it happen.
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