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Just this one concert, then my tour will finally be over for now. I've signed up to appear as a guest on a few television programmes. A couple of talk shows, maybe I'll appear as a judge on a few talent competitions, spread some Cobra charm. Sit at home on the sofa and write a few new songs. I'll definitely take it easy for the rest of the year. After this concert, I would finally go home. I would visit my cousin and hug the little one. He would surely come toddling towards me on his little legs when I walked into the living room, where he would probably be sitting on the carpet, draw something with coloured pencils. He would recognise me immediately, as always, and maybe my little Spencer would cry again because he didn't know what to do with his feelings. But that would be okay; I would just pick him up and hold him until he calmed down again. No matter how long that took. I would probably have a coffee with Jane and Hugh. Spencer would sit on my lap and either draw or eat some fruit or vegetables while his father talked to the other adults. Hugh would ask me about the tour and I would say it was good, everything had gone well, no problems with the pyrotechnics, full halls, good atmosphere. Jane would tell me what Spencer had been up to, She would tell me that he recognised my voice on the radio and television and when they had watched recordings of my tour together.
That Spencer pointed at the television and said, "Daddy."
Perhaps she would show me her new artwork and I would smile, even though I wouldn't know what it was supposed to be. In the meantime, Hugh would surely fetch something he wanted to show me and would probably bring along the pictures Spencer had painted and whatever else he had been doing. I would recognise myself in some of the pictures, even if I was just a stick figure. But over time, one had practised how to recognise children's drawings.
Last time, he had drawn us both running away from a horde of zombies. The child psychologist told me there was no need to worry, that children just had different interests. As long as he didn't start biting people, it was just another interest, like children who liked horses.
I heard the fans outside getting louder and louder. "Cobra, are you ready? It's about to start."said my agent, standing in front of me with a clipboard. I got up from my chair and opened my leather wallet again, glancing at the picture of Spencer sitting on the floor, holding a teddy bear in his arms and smiling at the camera when I took the photo. He found the camera so interesting. He was so cute.
I put the wallet in my jacket, which I was wearing because of the cool air backstage. Then I handed it to someone who took it to my dressing room, and I did a quick check of my clothes and make-up. No mistakes, just be perfect and charming. Win over the mostly female fans and then go home to my son, watch the bank accounts grow.
I can't wait to hold Spencer in my arms. Let that little thing bounce on my knees, then he always laughed. The next evening, I would put my son to bed myself again. Lie down next to him and, completely exhausted myself, try to tell him a bedtime story. I had often fallen asleep myself while trying to do so and woken up in the morning with the child in my arms. Perhaps I could prevent the jet lag problem by letting Spencer sleep in my bed as a fun sleepover or something, then it wouldn't be so bad when the combined stress of the tour and jet lag knocked me out. Then we could both lie peacefully under the covers in a bed that was big enough for me, rather than in the racing car bed my son slept in. Yes, that was a good idea, that's what I should do. If my throat and vocal cords allowed it, I would gladly sing the little one a lullaby. Maybe I should record a little CD of it, just for the two of us. Then he could listen to it if I couldn't get him to bed myself.
I want to do so much with him once I'm back home. Have breakfast with him, play the piano with him, I would play and he would happily press any keys at random. When the weather was nice, I would gear him up with swimming rings and water wings and go into the pool with him. If it rained, we would build a pillow fort together and hide from dragons or zombies.
I ran my fingers through my dark hair again and went on stage. The screeching got even louder, but luckily I had earplugs in, invisible to the fans, of course.
Some singers always said that live concerts were exciting, but personally, I haven't found them exciting for years. Maybe it's because I've been on stage for so many years, but it's just part of my job, like submitting paperwork to rent concert halls. It's always the same, I go on stage, greet the fans, play a few notes, tell them how happy I am to be there. Then I play through my concert programme. Maybe I pick up a few flowers and things that have been thrown onto the stage. I say goodbye, they shout, I come back on stage and play the song we've planned for the encore. Only then is it over and I go to the dressing room. Just like always. Today was no different.
It was uneventful, which meant it was good. Nothing unplanned, everything just went smoothly. "Fantastic work, BJC, the fans were absolutely thrilled." my agent told me as I came out of the shower in my dressing room. After a concert, I always smell of sweat and the sulphur from the pyrotechnics. Of course it was good, I was discovered before I was ten and had been doing it ever since. Not yet 25, and already an old fox on the scene. But I was also just good. People loved me and my wonderful face, and over the years I got better and better at music, even in film acting, hardly anyone could fool me, the only thing that could challenge me was being a father. Only very few people knew about that. All that the press picked up on was that I had become quieter, but they put it down to my electrical accident or the severe bee allergy that had sent me to ER not long ago, in the middle of a concert. It hurt and scared me for a moment, but it had been fantastic PR. My album went gold in less than two days. I mean, it would have done that anyway, it was a fantastic album: ‘Nobody loves me as much as I do’ was truly a masterpiece on my part.
But whatever I came up with later would surely be even better.
I said a quick goodbye to the crew and got into my private taxi to the airport. One more flight, then a short bus ride. Everything back in the house, and then I was finally ready to pick up Spencer.
On the plane, I was able to relax a little and wondered what Spencer was doing at that moment. Given the time difference, it was probably bedtime for him. Which was quite often, as small children really do sleep a lot. Maybe I just didn't sleep much, but I was a pop star and an unhealthy sleep-wake cycle was somehow part of the job. Parties that lasted long into the night, concerts in other time zones. Film shoots that sometimes took place in the middle of the night or early in the morning, depending on the scene. That kind of thing simply ruined your sleep cycle, even though it got a little better with the child, especially since he started sleeping through the night. When he was still a small baby, he cried every few hours to be fed. Luckily, I found a discreet babysitter who also looked after the children overnight. It turned out that I wasn't the only star in Hollywood who needed a babysitter, even though he had no children in public. Sometimes I wondered who else secretly had children.
When I took the bus for the short journey, it was already late morning, which meant I would probably arrive at my cousin's house around four o'clock. I was sure there would be cake with the coffee. I would call her right away to let her know about my plans.
I heard the bang before I saw the holes in my door. I saw the blood before I even felt the pain. Dark blood stained my clothes. More shots rang out outside. Two cars raced past me, one of them failed to make the turn and crashed into a house wall. A gun fell onto the pavement.
Was that it? Just like that? Not even anything personal? Alone in my little tour bus, on my way to bring my guitar home. Even if some people think so, I'm not an idiot. I can see how quickly the blood is flowing from various wounds on my body, and that it should probably stay inside my body. I also know that any help will come too late for me, and that the world will weep for me. My child will grow up without me. I always thought that if it ever got me, it would be because I did something stupid or because a stalker got me, or an angry partner of someone. But not like this.
Spencer, I wanted to see Spencer, hold him, tell him that I would always love him. And apologise for not being able to pick him up.
I took the phone out of my jacket with my uninjured arm and pressed speed dial 4 for Jane Wright. It rang twice, then she picked up: "Hello, Jane here, how can I help you?"
"Jane, can you give me Spencer, please?" I asked, already hearing my voice break.
"Spencer darling, come here, your dad's on the phone," I heard her call.
"Dad." He sounded lively and cheerful, as he almost always did. "Hey, baby, are you okay?" I wanted to know. "Yes, I pulled an appe from tree today." He still had trouble with some letters, but he still had so many years to grow.
"Spencer, Daddy will always love you very much," I managed to say. In the distance, I heard screams and sirens. "Dada, are you allrit?", he asked. So small and already more empathetic than I ever was. "I love you very much, I will .... always take care of you, baby." In between, I couldn't breathe. Had a bullet hit my lung?
"Tell me what you've been up to, okay?" I asked, and my son told me what he had been doing. Someone bursts open my door, the noise gets louder and louder, but all I can hear is Spencer's voice coming from the phone I'm clutching. Until the pain disappears and the world goes quiet.