Trying To Endure

Chapter Twenty-One

SONG: Phantogram - Black Out Days

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Derek Matthews

The beginning of your era.

The curtains flutter apart to the hovering, spellbinding illumination. I entwine my tremors as the salutation of jostling squeals, whoops and applause bedims. The blood rushes to my face, hot, ragged and apprehensive as my expires, and for a second, I am disorientated as if lacking iron.

The grand walls are as grey as the marble ground, sizzling of air-conditioned nippiness. To the left, rows of seats are tilted. The cameramen, a few producers and directors sit before a row of computers, the show's caps on, mumbling into headsets as their safety is frozen at the doorways.

A camera robotically sails a track as I approach Andrew O'Doyle. We clout hands. The celebrity merges with the euphoric audience, clapping and clapping. I raise a greeting hand and the praise pitches higher.

The polyphony of extols is undeserving. These people are no different to me. Regardless of the system, regardless of the progressing and evolving chaos, we are equal nevertheless. I hope they realise that. I suppose some do, yet as I analyse the congregation, I see no glister of it. Why does society have labels? Why can't society understand that luxuries and reputation doesn't make you a god? When you die, those exact luxuries disappear into nonexistence. Time is the greatest power — it is a sin to take it for granted.

My earpiece, as big as the concha, zizzes as Simko, a Hungarian man who worked for Rendőrség, announces: "We found a man. Sniper. At All Saints Circus."

Ignoring the declaration, I sit on the grey sofa diagonal to Andrew O'Doyle's desk. The audience gradually tranquils.

Andrew O'Doyle, one of the most successful talk show hosts in history, sits and flaps his blazer. He is in his 60s. Grandma marvelled at how handsome he was back in the day. He no doubt can woo a woman thanks to his fine genes: growing old as slow as the sun, lines noticeable and invisible in sync, fine-white hair neatly combed to the side. He certainly makes Grant Everston or any old man jaundiced of a lucky gift.

Andrew O'Doyle gapes at me like a child seeing the stars for the very first time.

"Hi," I said.

"Hello," he replied.

The audience laughs and my nerves cool.

"This is your first interview," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"Nervous."

"Aww," the audience coos.

"Despite ... my reality," I say.

"Understandable," says Andrew, smiling.

My earpiece, as big as the concha, zizzes as Simko, a Hungarian man who worked for Rendőrség, announces: "We found a man. Sniper. At All Saints Circus. Working for the Everstons."

I fluctuate into dumbfounded quietness. I am on two Families sonar's ... but my own?

"I have met thousands of people on this show," says the host in awe, recovering me. "Never have I been this excited to meet any of them as I am now to finally meet the Derek Matthews. I am such a fan of your family and you! Who wouldn't be? Your Father was one of the richest men and has bestowed so much compassion. Your Aunt is the richest person in the world. And your Grandmother was one of the first women to serve in the Second World War. Your mother ..."

Sadness elevates into his gaze, reflected in the crowd. "Your mother was the first female mayor of Edgewater. She was ambitious to become the Prime Minister, and she had a superb advantage in accomplishing that. It is a shame she was taken from the earth so quickly. The United Kingdom wanted her as our figurehead."