A Journey Through Time and Space

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The Boosh is on the verge of breaking up for good, but an unexpected and impossible journey to the Zooniverse may teach Julian and Noel how to better appreciate their creations.

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Chapter 6

Contents

Chapter 6

Notes: Thanks for waiting patiently, and thanks especially for all the lovely reviews—they really do keep me in this!

If I ever get my chance to tell this story, which I won’t cos I’m just ink to paper, I’d have you know that it weren’t my idea to run out of that club like a tweaked hare. Do I look like someone who was made to run? Being chased by something deadly don’t count, right. Basically I’m like Jagger—I amble, I dance, I glide. And if I ran just this once it was only to push the thoughts away, they were thickening like custard till me head was like to burst. But if this were my story there wouldn’t just be running, there’d be music, something with a shattering beat to keep my feet going, and my boots wouldn’t cut blisters into my heels and mini-cabs wouldn’t blast their horns when I tripped and flailed off the kerb. Except I wouldn’t trip and flail, either. Wherever I walked, I would have your hands to hold me up. Your hands, which are perfect cos they made me and made me so.

To walk these familiar streets ought to have been relief. There was the Spar that Julian went round to at night for cigarettes and beer. Virendra was behind the register, bright as life in the fluorescent lighting, a newspaper spread between his hands. Shop fronts dwindled away into period conversions that loomed right up over the pavement, their windows filled with the moving shadows of people who were content to tick out the minutes of their lives. A nearby church let out a chorus of ringing bells to signal the hour, as it always did. When he’d first moved to this neighbourhood, Julian had worried that the bells would bother him, but then later came to see them as saving him the trouble of wearing a watch. He’d always meant to figure out just which church the bells came from—there were a few around these parts—but he’d never got round to it. It seemed sad that he’d never got round to it.

Familiar as these things may be, they rang false to him now. The buildings were budged up together chummily, stately conspirators that were too perfect, even in all their many imperfections. He felt like he could reach right into them and rip them away, then rip away what was behind them, and on and on. Just one mask after another. Even the bells rang false, falling sour and flat in his ears.

Then he turned the corner onto his street and saw the one thing in this place that he could count on being real. And it was horrible that it should be real, this silhouette hammered out by streetlight and slouched against his front steps, its hair gone weird and witchy in the night’s humidity. Real, but an impostor. Real, but not belonging at all. It was bent over as if panting or struggling to stand, then Julian’s heels grated on gravel and the head shot up, quick as a cornered creature’s.

“How did you get here?” Julian asked.

“What’re you doing here?” Vince asked at the same time.

“I live here.” Julian looked around again to confirm it.

“Here?!” Vince said it as if ‘here’ were furthest Egypt.

“Yeah.” Julian studied him, walking closer. “What, you mean you didn’t know that?” He could tell from Vince’s expression that he did not, and Julian felt himself go cold and fearful of whatever power or weird twist of fate on this earth could have led Vince to his street out of all others. “It’s a long walk from Camden,” he finally said, not bothering to tell Vince that he’d taken the last train at the Goodge Street station.

“I ran,” Vince said, massaging his side.

“I know. I sort of saw you go.”

Vince straightened up, wincing as he did so. “When I saw you come round that corner just now, I thought maybe you’d followed me,” he said, his voice still hitching with a trace of breathlessness. “But I guess you just live here, yeah?” His face was expectant in a way that made Julian feel shitty. Shitty like he was the reason Vince was wincing in the first place.

“Ah, yeah, that’s right. But it’s good that you’re here. I wouldn’t have known where to find you, otherwise.” Vince smiled weakly, and his relief was on painful display in the grin that overtook his features.

“No worries, yeah?” Vince said, seeming to forget the distress that had sent him running from the toilets.

Close enough to get a good look at him now, Julian saw that Vince was not at all troubled by the coincidence of their meeting, or if he was he didn’t show it. But then, why would he be troubled? As far as he knew, not even death could keep him and Howard apart. What was an unfamiliar city compared to that?

“Are we going into your house?” Vince asked. Despite the smile he wore, he was pale, dirty, and bleary-eyed. In need of a good rest.

“No. Well, maybe,” Julian hesitated. His plan had in fact been to go around through the garden to the back terrace, and to push one of the bins under his bedroom window. The latch on the window was buggered, and he thought he might be able to force it open from the outside and climb in. Once inside, he was going to… well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Have a drink? Certainly. Then he was going to call someone. He just didn’t know who.

Hey, you’ve got Noel. Tell me your story…

“Do you think we could? I’m sort of cold. And my feet hurt,” Vince admitted, shifting from one scuffed boot to the other.

Julian shook his head, as if hassled by a fly. Why did hearing Vince’s voice make the memory of Noel’s fade out like a radio station losing reception? And yet, a good, hard look at Vince’s face (god, it was so fucking earnest—why couldn’t it look self-important and lost in vanity?) brought it back, strong as ever. Julian’s feelings warred with another, battling over what was right: to shout and bully this impostor out of existence, or to pull him close and coax what was left of Noel out of him. He didn’t know if his confused self could handle having Vince inside his flat, taking up all the Noel-shaped space.

“Oh. Well, I guess it’s worth trying. We’ll have to break in, though.”

“Really?” Vince looked intrigued. “With a crowbar?”

“Um, no. With a window.” Julian hesitated, then pointed out the ramshackle garden gate that was half-hidden by foliage that was not yet fully revived by Springs return. “It’s round back.”

“Okay!”

Vince didn’t make a move, and, feeling rather stupid, Julian realised he was waiting for him to lead the way. So he did, forcing the rusty gate open and moving gingerly through the narrow, ill-tended garden. Here were towering shrubs that crowded him right up against the side of the house, and a path made of broken bricks that were slippery with moss. He took his steps slowly, unsure if he should stick to being quiet and sneaky or simply strut about like he owned the place. He did own the place, but at the moment it didn’t feel as if he did. The dark was thick enough to swim in. He wouldn’t have recognised himself in it. Looking up to catch a snatch of light, he found none, but was nevertheless relieved to see that the windows on the top floor of the building were dark, indicating that the neighbours were either out or asleep for the night. It wouldn’t do well to be reported for tramping about in his own garden.

“Why’s it so dark back here?” Vince asked, his voice closer than Julian expected. The other man was right at his heels, and a tug alerted him to the fact that Vince was clutching at the back of his jacket.

“No one left a light on.”

“I can’t see anything!” Vince’s voice edged into panic and his hold on the back of Julian’s jacket tightened. “What’s that noise?”

“Nothing! It’s just some frogs, I think.” Julian reached around and tried to give Vince a false, reassuring pat and disentangle himself at the same time. “The people behind us keep a pond in their garden.” He found Vince’s fingers bunched at the waistband of his jacket, tighter than a sprung mouse-trap, and tried, gently, to pry them away. Vince let go, then clamped his fingers together again. They clamped right around Julian’s hand, which Vince drew to his chest and gripped in a way that brought the phrase “for dear life” to mind.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Julian thought that his hijacked hand actually could feel the chilly fear that roiled beneath Vince’s chest. Or maybe it was just something he heard in Vince’s voice, which trembled out the words “I’ve never heard frogs sound like that before.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you hear them singing an upbeat tune most of the time, don’t you? Something about rainbows or how it’s not easy being green, maybe?” Julian said, ducking under a low-hanging limb.

“No, they’re dreadful singers, but not usually this dreadful.” Vince relaxed his hold on Julian’s hand, but made no move to let go completely. “And the moon doesn’t usually hide.”

Julian stopped. Vince walked into his back with a grunt. “What do you mean, hide?” he asked, his voice sounding strained to his own ears as he turned around to face the other man.

“Well, where’s it gone off to? I don’t see it, do you?”

“So what? It could be a new moon.”

“New moon?” Vince was oblivious.

“Or it just hasn’t risen yet.”

It was too dark for Julian to make out Vince’s expression, but he heard the other man sigh. “Waiting for the moon to rise,” he said, then squeezed Julian’s hand between his own smaller ones. He dropped his head in a kind of sympathy, and either his mouth or the breath that came from it brushed the curve of Julian’s thumb.

“What?” Julian jerked away with his whole body.

“What?” Vince echoed, sounding hurt. “What’s wrong?”

“Listen,” Julian said, swooping towards what he could make out of Vince’s shape, all points and frothy hair. “Don’t—listen, do you know everything that’s happened to me? To us? Are you in on this mindfuck?” He reached blindly and felt his knuckles collide against Vince’s sternum, then he moved his hands up higher and gripped the other man’s shoulders.

“I dunno what you mean!” Vince said, the words so close to panic that Julian relaxed his hold at once.

“I…” he trailed off, then tried, lamely and far too late, to make his hands comforting rather than rough. “What you said about the moon just startled me, all right? Sorry.”

“Okay,” Vince said. He did not reach for Julian’s hand again.

Turning around and resuming his hunt for the rubbish bins, Julian tried not to consider the possibility that Vince was somehow… well, what? Malevolent? Duplicitous? No. More Old Gregg than Vince, underneath all the innocent posturing. Maybe more than he had anticipated altogether… not that he had ever anticipated this scenario at all: him and his fictional counterpart’s counterpart, about to break into his own house to find refuge from the scenario.

As much as he might want to trust Vince just for having Noel’s face—and a particularly helpless version of Noel’s face, at that—Julian wasn’t sure that it was a wise idea to do so. And yet he was so fucking tired of being on his guard, so tired of waiting for the other horrible shoe to drop. He just wanted to get into his flat and to surround himself with all that was certain and familiar.

Grimacing, Julian yanked the rubbish bin from its little alcove with more force than was necessary. Slamming it against the wall beneath his bedroom window, he turned and regarded Vince, who was watching him from a respectful distance.

“Can you hold the bin steady? I’ll have to climb up top of it and try to get the window open.”

“Yeah, okay.” Vince crouched down slightly and obliged as best he could, holding the bin with narrow arms.

Mounting the bin, Julian felt the plastic lid give under his weight. He hoped to hell that it didn’t snap. Unsteadily, he stood at full height and pushed the window up and open, relieved when it did so easily and without complaint. Because Julian didn’t have much furniture, there was no dresser or plant-stand beneath the window, and he was able to swing his leg over and manipulate his large body through the casement. Once inside, he poked his head back out the window and looked down at Vince. “Climb the bin and I’ll pull you in.”

Getting the other man inside was easy, he didn’t weigh much and was light on his feet. Still, once Vince was safely inside Julian collapsed on the foot of his bed in profound bodily exhaustion. He closed his eyes and wanted nothing more than to let the room’s silence fill him and take him away in sleep, but he couldn’t—not when he sensed Vince’s expectant eyes on him.

“I’ll get up in a minute,” he muttered, rubbing his face and blanching yet again at its startling smoothness. Lucky his whiskers would be back by morning.

“Don’t rush,” Vince said. “Can I take my boots off?”

“They’re Noel’s.” Julian rubbed his eyes now, making them sting. “Noel’s boots. Just put them anywhere.” He heard Vince shift around and kick the boots off.

“You don’t have a lot of stuff, do you?” Noel asked, his bare feet padding against the floorboards as he took in the room. “Sort of empty in here. Those walls… it’s like they’re screaming or starving, they’re so bare.”

Julian swallowed, but his throat still felt unnaturally thick, clogged up with some emotion he couldn’t identify. “There’s a painting in the lounge.”

“Oh, yeah? I paint, you know. Did a series of portraits on the animals at the zoo… Mr Rogers the mighty cobra, Bollo the wise old ape, that headless chicken that dances on a hot plate…”

“Yeah, I know what you’ve painted.” Julian sat up, his head spinning with the sudden movement. “I know everything you’ve ever done, ever. Think you can try to remember that?”

Vince’s mouth hung open dumbly for a moment. “I don’t think you can know everything,” he finally said, glowering a little beneath his muss of hair.

“Yeah, I do. There’s no ‘can’ about it. And we’re not going to play some kind of game where you try to find something I don’t know, all right?” Julian tried hard to sound more no-nonsense than angry as he came to his feet and marched with purpose through his flat, snapping on lamps here and there. The flat had a stale, closed-up smell, and the air was damp, verging on chilly. The light from his paltry collection of lamps did little to cheer the place. His home might be sparse, but there were usually signs of life: music on the turn-table, a clutter of Heineken bottles and teacups on the kitchen counter, or a rumpled shirt left in this or that corner. Desperate to warm up the morgue-like atmosphere of the flat, and to ward away the chill that was lodged somewhere in his chest, like something swallowed wrong, Julian ran the kettle under the kitchen tap and plugged it in.

“Cup of tea?” Vince asked. Now that he wasn’t wearing those clattery boots, Julian hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen.

“Yeah, coming up in a bit here.”

“All right. I take mine with a lot of sugar.”

Julian looked over his shoulder at him. “Sorry, I don’t have any.” Having never used it much himself, he’d stopped keeping sugar around when Noel had gone on that GI diet a while back. It seemed silly that something as trivial as a difference in tea preference should make Julian feel more at ease, but it did. Vince was a sugar-junkie, as always, whereas Noel had weaned himself off his own sweet tooth some time ago.

“Oh.” Vince’s face fell in disappointment.

“You could try it without?” Julian suggested. “Sometimes you just get used to something one way, but… it might not be so bad the other?” he trailed off, not expecting Vince to buy this lame proposal. He wasn’t sure if he bought it himself.

“Yeah, I might do,” Vince said, agreeably enough.

They spoke little while waiting for the water to boil. Vince glided around the tile floor in his stocking feet, seeming to delight in the act of almost falling down. He stopped monkeying around only long enough to stare at the refrigerator, his eyes taking in the things Julian had pinned to it.

“What’s this?” He asked, his finger tracing over something.

Julian looked. Amidst the unpaid bills and old fliers for jazz gigs, there was a photograph of him and Noel, anchored to the refrigerator with a magnet. The photograph wasn’t a press shot or anything remarkable, just an everyday candid photograph taken by a fan at some signing or event Julian couldn’t even remember now. It had come in the mail without a note or return address, and Noel had been the one to find it amongst Julian’s un-opened mail. Julian hated opening mail. Mail itself felt like an enormous intrusion on his life and time. He let it pile up on the table just inside the entrance to his flat, and every few weeks or so he let Noel open it, not because he wanted to know what he’d gotten in the mail but because it was a small task that gave Noel an enormous amount of pleasure. Noel didn’t seem to look through the mail for anything in particular—certainly nothing that Julian could see—and coming across a fan letter was rare, since all the fan mail was forwarded to his agent’s office. So when Noel had opened an envelope containing a photograph and nothing else, it had given Julian the creeps and he’d asked him to throw it out.

He’d been sure that Noel had thrown it out. So why was it here, suddenly on his refrigerator? Julian came closer, inspecting it. In the photograph, he wasn’t looking into the lens, but slightly off at Noel, and there was a smile on his face, albeit a hazy one. Noel, in contrast, gave the camera the full treatment, the flirty eyes and a teasing bite of smile. The photograph looked slightly battered. Had Noel throw the picture away, only to dig it out of the bin again and pin it up?

“It’s just… a photograph,” Julian said, stammering slightly. He turned quickly and set about fetching mugs from the cabinet, feeling Vince’s eyes on his back all the while.

Water was poured, tea was steeped, and by the time Julian had his hands wrapped around a warm mug he felt a little bit better. But he still had no idea what to do with himself. He paced from one end of the kitchen to the other, then finally leaned against the counter and took in Vince’s unkempt and sleepy appearance.

“What happened to you today?”

“What do you mean?” Vince blew on his tea and sipped at it politely, though it was clear he didn’t care much for the sugar-free taste of it.

“It might be important. It might help me, I don’t know, figure out what’s gone wrong.”

“Oh. Well, let me think.” Vince screwed up his face and looked as if he were thinking very hard indeed. “I woke up this morning, didn’t I?”

Julian sighed. “Yeah, I could have guessed that. Got anything more significant?”

“I woke up with Howard in a hotel room, but we didn’t really know it was a hotel room just then, did we? Me an’ Howard had a bit of a row cos he thought I redecorated the place in my sleep,” Vince giggled once, then continued. “And then someone knocked on the door and it was Fossil, except he didn’t act much like Fossil. He liked us! Wanted to meet somewhere for breakfast, even. But me an’ Howard, we knew there was some shady business afoot and I took care of him with a face full of hairspray and then we found something we could use to tie him to the radiator and—”

“What’s that?” Julian burst out. “You took care of Rich? Tied him to a radiator?” Julian looked Vince over to see if he was joking, but how was he supposed to determine that in a face that never really looked serious t being with? “Oh, shit. Shit.” He put his mug down hard on the table, then took the sort of dangerous, decisive step towards Vince that would have driven Noel to a hasty exit.

Vince, however, only looked proud of himself. “Sure. We’re quick thinkers in a crisis. Minds sharper than a drawer full of knives. Hey, who’s Rich?”

Julian paused, caught unawares by the question. “Rich is… he’s…” he floundered, reaching for his mug again in an addled way, annoyed that his fury was being interrupted. “It’s not important that you know, is it?”

Vince shrugged. “Anyway, don’t worry because he just thought we were having a lark. Taking the piss, you know? That’s what the Naboo-bloke told us later, anyway.”

Naboo?

Julian’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. The mug in his hand tipped this way and that, tea sloshing over the edge and pattering to the floor, the whole thing threatening to drop at any second. Amazingly, it was Vince who reached out and steadied it just in time.

“Watch it, jigglefingers. Maybe we’d better get you into more of a sit-down position,” Vince advised. “There’s loads more where that came from.”

Vince was right, as it turned out. Julian really didn’t know everything that Vince had ever done, ever.

Noel was doing penance.

He wasn’t a religious person. He was so not religious that he regularly forgot that other people were. Because of this, he sometimes cheerfully described god as a kiddie-diddling paedophile while in the presence of hell-fearing grannies. As for Hell, Noel had always imagined that it was a bit like Studio 54, with Grace Jones snorting cocame off Divine’s huge arse and short, greasy Steve Rubell trying to indiscreetly finger young men’s balls. So Hell was a bit of good and bad, then. Just like anything else worth his time.

Now, he had discovered that doing penance was also worth his time. Though really, it wasn’t so calculated as all that. He simply found himself apologising under his breath, over and over again, his contrition so profound that he was actually brought to his knees. He was in a kind of hysterical trance, panic and dread enveloping him so fully that he was incapable of rational thought.

Is this really necessary? Jenny huffed, tossed to and fro by his hectic rocking. You knew this was coming. You created this whole situation.

The part of Noel that was actually listening curdled at the impact of the chameleon’s words, which were as true as those she’d offered him only minutes earlier: “You’re Vince now. Everything you’ve always wanted will be yours.” At the memory of them, he blanched and shivered.

This is ridiculous, Jenny said, thwacking his ear with her tail. Get a hold of yourself.

Noel flailed lamely, trying to drive the chameleon away. “Leave me alone, you fucking foul reptile,” he groused. “Go back to your garden and harass Eve.”

Jenny ran down the length of his thigh to escape his slapping hands. I’m not tempting you, she said, calm in a way that only served to madden Noel further. You already tempted yourself. I’m just here to move things along a little faster.

“Move your things into the ocelot pit and die, then!” Noel shouted, aware that he sounded foolish but not caring. Who was listening that he cared about, anyway?

Jenny made a tsking sound, and looked as if she would have narrowed her beady eyes, had it been possible. The ocelot pit’s likely gone by now, anyway.

Noel slumped over, pulling his hair over his eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?” he mumbled, his voice simply weary now.

I’m not doing anything to you. The chameleon tilted her head in a way that seemed sympathetic. I just want to ease your transition.

“I don’t want to transition into Vince! Why does everyone think I want to be Vince? I want to be me, I want to—”

And who are you, really? Jenny pressed. Do you actually think anyone can tell the difference? Do you think he can?

Noel froze. He didn’t have to ask who he was.

“That’s where the real Vince is now, isn’t he?” Noel asked, more to himself than to the chameleon. “He’s with Julian.” This realisation left him colder than before, too empty to even care about penance.

For now, Jenny said, riddlesome as a sphinx.

“What are they doing?” Noel demanded. “What’s going to happen? How do you—”

“Vince!”

The voice came bursting from the hut and Noel’s head darted right around at the sound of it. Howard sounded so very much like Julian, after all. Jenny’s claws left a brief sting in Noel’s shoulders as she leaped from her perch and ran away, disappearing into the bushes with a rustle.

“Vince!” Howard repeated, his face flushed and hectic. “Bollo has a meat head! I mean, a man head!”

“What?” Noel blinked erratically. He was utterly dumbstruck by this announcement, and a little disoriented at Howard’s presence. It seemed laughably impossible, but Noel had been so wrapped up in his own personal crisis that he had actually forgotten that the other man was nearby. Realising this now, Noel felt his panic erupt anew; having forgotten Howard at this particular moment seemed like a tragic oversight, and justification for everything that was happening to him.

Howard pointed in the direction of the hut. “Bollo! He was just in there, only he looked like that jazz-appreciating gentleman from the pub. He had greasepaint eyes! He was the stuff of nightmares, if you want to be honest.”

Noel shook his head, both mystified by Howard’s words and his appearance, so emphatic and animated. It was hard to believe he’d seen Julian adopt this act hundreds of times before and had only thought to laugh. “Jazz-appreciating gentleman?” he finally asked. “I don’t know who you mean.”

Howard balked in frustration. “The man in the pub! Naboo’s friend… Dave, I think his name was. Remember?”

At mention of Dave’s name Noel bounded to his feet and, without comment, made a dash for the keeper’s hut. He threw the door open and took in the untidy room. No Bollo, no Dave. There was an ache in his gut that he dimly registered as the dashing of hopes.

“He’s gone,” Noel said flatly.

“He was just here,” Howard said, pointing at the tent. “Talking a bunch of malarkey that stunk to the heavens, yes sir. You believe me, don’t you Vince?”

Noel turned to look at Howard, then managed a weary smile, void of feeling. “What me, not believe you? What’s not to believe now, after the day we’ve had?”

Howard’s brow rumpled in visible concern. “What’s wrong with you, Vince? You look like you swallowed a bee hive and got none of the honey.” He put a hand to Noel’s forehead, searching out a fever.

“Don’t,” Noel said at once, shrugging away. “Sorry.”

Howard’s face twisted in a mocking way. “Oooh, mustn’t muss the precious hair of Noir, passed on through generations of delicate dandies and glam rockers.”

Noel let out a sigh that was almost a whine, then pressed his face into his hands, breathing in the grimy scent of them. “Please stop,” he said, his voice wobbly. “I can’t take much more of this.”

“What’s been done to you, Vince?” Howard pressed. He pulled a chair out from under the table and gently pushed Noel into it. “Was it all that jazz by Polar Bear? Is it…” at this his voice dropped “… is it me? Is it because my moustache is back? I swear I had nothing to do with it. I’ll even get rid of it again, if you want.” He retreated two steps into the kitchenette and started flinging drawers open.

The clatter and ruckus prompted Noel to remove his face from his hands. He watched as Howard made an aha! noise and retrieved a pair of scissors from a jar that was crammed with pencils and drinking straws. The other man’s eagerness to help tore at Noel; it was so puppyish. It was so not Julian.

“You don’t have to do that, Howard,” he said quietly.

“You want to be the one to do it again?” Howard looked more worried at this. “I mean, if it will bring the bounce back to your boots, haha, then go right ahead.” He extended the scissors in Noel’s direction.

Noel glanced at them, then looked away. “This is a fitting punishment for me, I suppose,” he said, following it with a noise that was half sniffle, half laugh. “Trapped inside the death of me and Julian’s creation, and with Howard along for it.” He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to—the absent Jenny, maybe, or perhaps just himself—but he didn’t much care. Exhausted, he slumped further into the chair.

“What’s that?” Howard set the scissors on the table, then stared at him. “Just what do you mean by that, ‘me and Julian’s creation’?”

Noel didn’t answer. It would have been easy enough to move away from this dangerous territory—the right smile, the right joke—but he said nothing and looked at nothing. Even while attempting to look at nothing, Noel couldn’t escape the sight of Howard cocking his head in question.

“When Bollo… I mean, man-Bollo, was here, he told me I couldn’t trust you. He said you weren’t the Vince I knew,” Howard said, licking the ends of his moustache ever-so-slightly.

Noel felt the words fall, but didn’t react. When he was younger, he was always the best at playing hide and seek. He was inventive and small, managing to squeeze himself into places his playmates never found: the bottom-most shelf of a cupboard, behind the stacks of towels and sheets; an over-turned wine crate, the box cradling his body so snugly that it seemed one good breath would make it burst open. They always expected him to be somewhere obvious, out in the open where he was easily seen. They only ever looked up, expecting that he’d be somewhere far, far above them, swinging from a comet. He’d hear them calling his name, calling him home, and feel his heart race down to his toes, waiting, waiting…

“But never you fear, little man. I know I can trust you.”

Howard’s hand fell onto Noel’s shoulder, and for a split-second, Noel thought he heard someone shout found you!

But then Howard spoke again. “It’s okay, Vince. It’s been a confusing day, that’s all. I feel all mixed up, too. My head’s like a card catalogue after a hurricane’s made a visit to the local library.”

“No,” Noel said, wincing all over.

Howard politely moved his hand away, mis-interpreting Noel’s distress entirely.

“I’m not Vince! Bollo—Dave—he was telling you the truth. I’m Noel. I’m NOEL.” Noel came to his feet, his voice rising with him. “I’m Noel and I don’t belong here. I don’t, I don’t…” the words mushed together, losing sense and shape as fear barreled through him. Noel’s eyes darted to Howard’s frightened ones, then around the room, desperate to latch on to something, anything. The table was covered in odds an ends: a plastic wreath of flowers; a matchbook—FIND YOURSELF, it advised; a Jacobean ruff, the pair of scissors…

He spotted the scissors. They’d jumped into his hand, somehow, and he zipped them back and forth, snipping the air, then without pause or fanfare he closed them down on a clump of his own hair, just above his shoulders. The clump fell to the floor like a small, felled animal. “Ha!” he said, spinning around in a circle and yelling not at Howard, but to something else. “Would Vince do something like that?”

“Whoa there, GI Jane,” Howard said, taking a step backwards. “What’d you do that for?”

Noel thoughtlessly threw the scissors across the room and then looked down at himself in disgust: revolting neon tee-shirt, jeans so tight they were squeezing the life out of him. He peeled the tee-shirt off and tossed it aside, then began the struggle with his jeans.

“Uh.” Howard watched this display, doubt etching its way across his already-concerned features. “That’s a bit… yeah—” the jeans flew past his head “—naked.”

“Look,” Noel said, holding his arms out. “Look. I’ll get rid of everything. I’ll give it all up. I’ll change.”

Howard frowned. “They’re going to lock you up with the drama llama, you know.”

Noel opened his mouth to let out an incomprehensible roar of frustration, but Howard stepped forward unexpectedly, cutting it off. Then he reached out and took hold of Noel’s flailing hands: first one, then the other.

“Let it go,” he said mildly. “Release it right out there, like a flock of diseased pigeons. Doesn’t really matter who you are, or who you think you are. I still trust you.”

Noel gasped harshly, the wind sucked right out of him. Howard let go of his hands, but it seemed he could still feel them tingling in his open palms. Noel stared at the other man. “How?” he croaked. He wasn’t about to fucking cry. “I just don’t know how you could.”

Howard shifted in discomfort, his face clearly indicating how close he was to being disturbed, and how hard he was trying to not to be. “Who else have I got around here?” he said. “Jack Cooper hates me and Graham’s a tit.”

With Howard, it was just that easy. Noel almost had to sit down, undone by such unwavering understanding. He blinked hard and held himself up as best he could, wondering what he’d done to earn Howard’s loyalty when Julian‘s was so hard to come by.

And to think… somewhere under it all, they’re the same person. The thought was careless and light, gone in a blip. Just like everything else.

“All right? Erm, want a dressing gown, or something? I think I saw a poloneck?” Howard reached out tentatively and took hold of Noel’s elbow.

“No,” said Noel, and it was like finally spitting out something sour and awful. He paused then, but not for long, and not out of hesitation; there just wasn’t much to hold back anymore.

“But do you think you could hold me?” he asked, unafraid to meet Howard’s eyes. “Just for a minute?” He made the request without planning on it, but he didn’t feel embarrassed. He was naked and never going home again.

Howard shuddered and Noel felt it through his fingertips, which were still clutching his elbow. “Su-ure,” Howard said, his voice thick with unease. “You do know that you’re naked, right?”

“Yes,” Noel said, though he wasn’t talking about clothes. He chased down Howard’s eyes again. How could he ever have thought they were small? They seemed huge to him now, brown and squinting in a way that echoed familiarity. “Please?” Noel added.

Howard opened his arms and Noel stepped into their circle. Very slowly, and very reluctantly, Howard’s arms closed around him, coming down with firm and carefully-indifferent pressure. Noel pressed his cheek to Howard’s chest and breathed in, feeling his body relax even as Howard’s began to tremble. Then Noel wrapped his own arms around Howard’s torso, his hands splayed against the taller man’s shoulder blades and pulling him even closer.

This is where he wanted the nightmare to end. Exactly here.

Julian massaged his temples. He’d been doing that a lot, especially since learning that Vince and Howard had run around London all day, acting exactly the way Vince and Howard would if set loose upon London. He would have been on the phone to Pamela in two seconds if Vince weren’t still here, sat on his sofa nursing a mug of tea that Julian had topped off with a bit of scotch. Julian was tired, physically and mentally aching with fatigue, his mind surely frayed and ready to snap, but he sure as fuck wasn’t about to go to sleep. What sort of shit could he expect to wake up to?

“Can I turn on the telly?” Vince asked, fingering the remote control from his spot on the sofa. “I’m bored and you ain’t exactly a chatterbox.”

It was true that Julian hadn’t said much since Vince had owned up to everything: the fans who’d pulled Vince’s hair; Howard’s swan-dive in Top-Shop; their drinks in the hotel pub with Mike and Dave. All that trouble only amplified the all-together more worrying one: he still didn’t have Noel. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do to get him back. And when Julian didn’t know what to do, he sat and retreated into himself, letting the bruises fall as they may.

Not one to challenge Vince’s impression of him with unnecessary words, Julian nodded curtly. He knew he’d be able to think more clearly if he went to the bedroom to be by himself, but he was reluctant to let Vince out of his sight. Not because he was enjoying Vince’s company—it was tolerable, at best, and highly uncomfortable, in general—but because he didn’t know what the fuck he’d do if Vince suddenly up and vanished, whisked back into the comedy soup he’d been strained from. Whatever else Julian did, he had to keep Vince safe; he had to keep him tidy and well-cared for, all ready for Noel’s eventual return.

And Noel would return. He would. Whatever other possibilities there were, Julian barred them from his mind.

Vince turned on the television and clicked through the channels at rapid-fire speed, leaving his seat to sit cross-legged right in front of the screen, like a child hell-bent on giving himself a vision problem. He muttered aloud about having missed Colobus the Crab, then stopped on a movie that was full of gunfire and explosions. Car-tires screeched and a thumping bass soundtrack shook the floor, setting Julian’s teeth on edge.

“Okay, no. No,” Julian said, raising his voice. “Mute it.”

Vince turned around and looked at him, unconvinced.

“I’ll talk, all right?” Julian sat up straighter, then drained the last of his tea-tainted scotch. “About whatever you want. Just mute that fucking thing, please?”

The thumping bass cut off abruptly and Vince tossed the remote control aside, jumping to his feet and eagerly situating himself on the end of the sofa that was nearest Julian’s armchair. He leaned forward, a grin pasted across his face, his bulbous eyes swallowing Julian up like a glittering camera lens.

Julian tugged on an errant strand of his hair and shifted in discomfort. He’d never been good at interviews, and that’s what this felt like. “Just sit back now, Tony Wilson,” he cautioned. “I was agreeing to conversation, not interrogation.”

“Conversation, that’s what I’m doin’,” Vince said, scooting away a mere inch or two. “Like two mates, yeah? One bushy of hair, the other bushy of brows.”

Julian tensed, squeezing his hand into a fist and both hearing and feeling the knuckles go pop. His gut told him this was a bad idea, that it was going to take him to bad places—places even worse than this one. His head, on the other hand, was too tired see what the big deal was; it was just a bit of idle talk between two, well, familiar strangers. He leaned forward slightly and grabbed the bottle of scotch from his coffee table, pouring another hefty amount into his mug and bringing the liquor to his lips. When in doubt, drown everything out. He held out the bottle to Vince, and the other man added a modest amount to his own cup, then took a tiny, shuddering sip.

“It burns,” he gasped, smacking his lips with distaste. “From my ears to my toes.” He made another sour face, then seemed to resign himself to poking his finger into the mug and licking it clean. “You and your matey Noel must drink a lot,” he observed. “Seems I’ve drunk loads more than usual since I’ve been here.”

“When occasion calls for it,” Julian mumbled.

“I reckon I can see why,” Noel said slowly, stirring his tea with a finger again. “This world is confusing.”

“Why do you think we created yours?” Julian grunted shortly. It came carelessly from his lips, with no thought to his audience. And no thought to the truth, either, since until this very moment Julian hadn’t considered the Mighty Boosh a retreat from his real life. What did he have to retreat from? It was just a bit of fun, just some splashing about in the comedy paddling pool. He frowned into his drink.

Vince had no response, at any rate; he simply scratched at the back of his neck, then stretched out his bare feet (the socks were gone) to rest them on the surface of the coffee table. It was the sort of tandem gesture Noel himself made often, sometimes knocking over beer bottles in the process, and it made Julian immediately avert his eyes. Not in pain or discomfort this time, but with a curious sort of awkwardness that very nearly bordered respect, as if Vince had suddenly decided to change his clothes in front of Julian without first announcing it.

Even so, Julian’s gaze couldn’t help but return to Vince, acclimating himself to the other man’s presence and mannerisms—all those sudden and unbidden Noel-echoes that went far beyond a shared taste for hairspray and electroclash.

“Created it?” Vince shrugged. “So you say. Far as I’m concerned, you’re just a pair of blokes lucky enough to glimpse it in dreams and slap it on paper.”

Julian said nothing to this. He didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to contemplate the possibility that what Vince said might be true. “This world wasn’t so confusing yesterday,” he finally said, sighing.

“Yeah?” Vince lifted his head, his nostrils flaring briefly, as if he’d caught wind of something. “What were you doing this time yesterday?”

Julian’s memories rewound at an uneasy jitter. Yesterday seemed much longer ago than it ought to have been. “Drinking at an after party,” he finally dug up.

“Drinking… ‘course,” Vince snorted, not much impressed. “After party for what?”

Julian hesitated, then decided that there was no use in lying or swaddling the truth. “Our live show. Noel and I have been on tour.”

Vince rocked forward abruptly. “So, you are in a band?” he asked, his tone greedy and demanding.

“No… no, not that. We go on stage as Howard and Vince. We act out… ah, an episode in their—your lives.”

“No way.“ It was hard to tell if Vince was delighted or upset, his features simply geared into wild-eyed animation. “And people pay to see it? Instead of watching it on their tellies for nothin’?”

“Yeah,” Julian said, then considered all the encounters he’d had back stage and at the after parties. “Some have even seen it four or five times.”

Vince gawped at Julian, with a new respect, it seemed. “It’s like…” He chewed around for the right words. “We’re properly famous!”

Julian slouched in his chair and considered the wet, amber eye of his scotch. He didn’t know who Vince meant. Noel and Julian? Vince and Howard? Any combination in between? Did it matter?

“I guess so,” he said reluctantly, taking another drink. “Famous at the moment, anyway.”

Vince reflected on this for all of two seconds.

“What’s Noel like?” he asked, as if now considering his creator in a new and more favourable light. “He a quiet, thoughtful bloke, like you?”

Julian nearly spat out his liquor, but choked on it instead, coughing roughly. “Quiet?” he rasped, eyes watering. “No, he’s not.”

“Yeah? What’s his story, then?”

“Look,” Julian began. Second thoughts were beginning to creep up over him, even as the loose-lipped, hazy sensation of approaching inebriation fell over him like a warm and heavy scarf. “I’m not sure this is a good path for us to go down. This world is confusing—like you said—do you really want to make it worse?”

Vince crinkled his brow, smiling a little. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“What?”

“You don’t like me much.”

“No, I heard you.” Julian frowned. “I—we just met, right?”

“You’re the one who says you know everything about me, that you helped create me,” Vince pointed out.. “So what is it, then? You like me or not?”

“You can’t ask that!” Julian protested, hands tightening around his mug again. “You were abstract before and, and now you’re sitting in front of me…”—he looked Vince over “… and Noel’s not. I like Noel. I like him a lot.” His words were hurried now, fishing for explanation. “He’s my best friend, and when I look at you it feels wrong, it’s—”

“Didn’t we go through this earlier?” Vince said lightly, sipping his scotch again. “Think I really wouldn’t rather have Howard than you?” He sniffed and pushed his hair out of his eyes.

Julian couldn’t be hurt at this—hadn’t he just admitted the same? “What are we supposed to do then?” he asked, shaking his head.

Vince licked his lips, considering. “Tell me about yourself. You don’t want to tell me about him, so what about you?” He snorted lightly, then pointed at the bottle of scotch. “You’re clearly from Leeds, but what else?”

“I… like what?”

Vince looked as if he were thinking hard for a challenging question. It ended up being: “What’s your favourite colour?”

“I don’t know… black? Brown? Olive?”

“Favourite band or musician?”

It was turning into an interview, but Julian suddenly didn’t mind. It was much easier to be interrogated that to volunteer information.

“Miles Davis,” he said, then wavered. “No, Charlie Parker.”

“You are Howard!” Vince burst out. “Except grumpier and possibly just a wee bit less embarrassing.”

Julian shrugged wordlessly.

Vince looked at him suspiciously. “Howard would have said ‘how dare you’ if I called him embarrassing to his face. You’re not so easily ruffled.”

It sounded half-complimentary, and Julian tipped his mug at Vince in response. “Howard is frustrated when the world doesn’t appreciate him, but I don’t expect appreciation in the first place,” he said, then made a face as soon as the words were out. He sounded like a cock, like someone using cynicism to hide what was actually arrogance. Was this how he usually sounded?

“But the jazz and the wretched colours, that’s all Howard. Hey, have you two ever crimped?”

“Have we ever… what?”

“Crimped,” Vince repeated, making a ‘come on’ motion with his hand. “You know, stayed up late into the dark of the night and made up an alluring little song. Something about jacket potatoes or wellies or sad-faced rainclouds.”

Julian was silent for a moment. He and Noel had never given a name to the silly a capella tunes that Vince and Howard sang. It was the only thing that Vince and Howard were equally good at, though, and now he knew that that thing was called crimping. “No,” he told Vince. “We don’t do that.” His and Noel’s silly little songs were not called crimping.

“Then what about…” Vince reached out and rubbed his hand up and down Julian’s arm.

The touch was unexpected, just surprising enough to give Julian the tiniest start. Then he relaxed and just watched the hand run over his arm, wondering what Vince was doing.

“You don’t mind that?” Vince asked, still rubbing Julian’s arm as if a genie would appear.

It felt good, actually—comforting. Of course, it was becoming a bit weird now that it was clear Vince was expecting some kind of reaction.

“No?” Julian said, and Vince finally pulled away. “Should I?”

Vince took him in again, as if seeing something new. “Well why does Howard have that thing about never being touched? You don’t seem to care.”

Oh, that.

“If you’re friends with Noel, you learn not to care.” At Vince’s blank look, Julian went on: “He’s a toucher, Noel is. Got his paws on everyone.”

“Girls, too?” Vince’s smile was lascivious.

“Yeah girls, and one in particular,” Julian said, nearly smirking. “Don’t think you’re ready to make her acquaintance just yet.”

“Wow, girls! Imagine that. I mean, I’ve had my fair share too, went for the gothic threeway once,” Vince said, leaning back into a cushion, his odd, bulging cheekbones catching the light.

“Mmm right,” Julian said. “I remember.”

Vince sat up. “Don’t tell me that was in your telly show?”

Julian met the other man’s eyes. “All right, I won’t tell you.”

“Get lost!” Vince protested. “That was a private moment, that was. If those two goth birds find out there’s a sex tape of us three floating around, they’ll snatch me bald-headed and prise out my eyeteeth.”

“There’s not a sex tape,” Julian said, his patience discarded so easily it might well have been a peanut shell or a bit of lint. “You didn’t have sex with the goth girls, they mocked you and Howard’s lack of sorcery and had it off with Bollo and Naboo instead.”

Vince’s face screwed up, and he sputtered for a moment before finding words. “You’d know that, wouldn’t you? You’re some kind of sorcerer yourself, are you? A weaver of black magic and the funky voodoo? Maybe that’s how you brought me and Howard here in the first place, with some kind of jazzy-cadabra.”

“Would you stop thinking that way?” Julian stood up at the same moment Vince did, and fought the urge to push the other man back down into his seat. Luckily, his height advantage made that urge largely unnecessary. “Start thinking like a… like a fucking person, okay? There’s no sorcery or voodoo. There’s no Bollo and Naboo. There’s only you and me and no one’s gonna help us!” His hair fell into his eyes and his cheeks went hot. Let Vince be scared—he should be. “No one,” he repeated.

For a moment, Vince looked so stricken, so very nearly wounded, that Julian almost said Sorry, Noel. He looked away, instead.

“Heyyyy,” Vince said, recovering in a blink and giving Julian a light shrug to the shoulder. “None of that grim nonsense. We can work it out, you and me, we’ve just got to get synchronised!”

“That’s for wrist-watches,” Julian said without emotion.

“We’ve got to get on the same page, get into the beat, get going on the same step.” Vince gave him a quick eye up and down. “That could be hard if you’ve got Howard’s short-leg problem, but I’ll sort it, I’ll just wear one platform instead of two, haha.”

Julian closed his eyes. He was achingly, painfully tired. “What are you talking about now?”

“Your telly show ‘bout me and Howard. Got it on dvd?” Vince was already heading in the direction of the television set.

“No,” Julian lied.

“I reckon I need to see how you two see us, you know? See how your mind’s been making up mine.” He crouched down and started to look through the built-in shelves that lined the wall behind the television set, where dvds, vhs tapes, and books were all stacked together in a disorganized ménage à trois.

“There’s no dvd there,” Julian piped up, his heartbeat swelling in his throat. He found himself hoping that Vince couldn’t read—had the show ever said either way? Sure, he’d written those Charlie books, but that didn’t have to mean anything. Even blind people were known to paint with watercolours and play the piano beautifully.

“Is this it?” Vince held up a black boxed-set of dvds, still wrapped in the manufacturer’s plastic. “That’s our logo—the zoo’s logo, I mean. I came up with it meself.”

“No,” Julian said, coming closer and removing the dvds from Vince’s hand, then placing them on a much higher shelf. “That’s not it.”

“This, then?” Vince plucked out another dvd with astonishing speed—one that Julian had honestly forgotten he’d ever owned. It was a free promotional copy, just like the box-set “And you can’t say no this time, I know my own face when I see it. And Howard’s, even when it’s all covered in frosty old man winter.”

“Give that to me.” Julian snatched the series 1 dvd from Vince’s hand, but Vince was quick and grabbed hold of his arm before he could throw it up on the top-most shelf like he had with the other.

“I wanna see!” he complained, using all his body weight to draw Julian’s arm down. “What’s the big deal?”

“Nothing!” Julian said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “I’ve just got a bad feeling about this, okay?”

“Yeah? Who are you now, Bollo?”

“We can’t go mucking about, making things more confusing and mixed up than they already are. We’ve got to just—” Julian broke off as Vince twisted his arm in a more painful way. “Stop!”

Vince gave him a fierce look, and Julian suddenly felt like he was fighting over the last ball in the play yard, where such scraps were more about rivalry and one-upmanship than the actual ball.

“Why won’t you let me see it?” Vince demanded, his liquory-breath warming Julian’s neck.

“You only want to see it because I won’t let you!”

They scuffled wordlessly for a few moments, not in anything resembling violence, but both trying to exert their own will over the other, lamely and with little effect. Vince continued to cling to Julian’s arm like a barnacle, and Julian was too drunk, to fearful of the situation, to shake him loose completely. Instead, he pulled away just enough to keep Vince from getting what he wanted, and hoped that eventually, the other man would tire and give up.

“Come on,” Vince breathed, his fingers scrabbling over the plastic dvd case. “Let me…”

His head bowed low enough for his hair to brush against Julian’s bare arm, and his hip pressed sharply into Julian’s thigh, like he was trying to budge a stubborn door open. Julian tried to move away, but he was already backed into the corner of the room, and too large to tuck himself any further into it. Vince shifted and reached again; the weight pressing against Julian ought to have been insubstantial, but it wasn’t. It seared through his body and everything seemed to slow down except for his heart, which beat a painful path up to his throat.

“Let go,” he croaked. His face felt like a cooked sausage, hot and near to burst. Everything seemed as if it were near to bursting.

“No,” Vince countered. “You let go.”

Even though he was breathing—quite normally, at that, despite a little old-man pant here and there—Julian felt like he was running out of air. “I can’t,” he said, and it was nearly a wheeze.

“Give it,” Vince said, hassled but not completely without cheer. For him, this was a good bit of fun. “I wanna see how you’ve made us look, Julian.”

It was the first time Vince had called him by name. And he was Julian—Julian only, trembling with sick fear and divine happiness at the very first claps that preceded a rousing round of applause. He was Julian and Howard, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he lay back in his armchair with trumpets wailing from the speakers. He was Howard but mostly Julian, waiting behind the curtain with Noel. He was Noel, who knew that there would be ten seconds that would belong to them alone, just before the curtain rose. Noel only, who was supposed to wait for Julian to bend down and pretend to kiss him, but who instead wrapped his arms low around Julian’s waist, and pulled the taller man close, stealing his moment when he could, and was content with stolen moments alone. Moments so wrapped up in giddiness and champagne toasts that there would be no questions afterwards, only a tolerance that was the next best thing to reciprocation.

He was Julian, and Julian wanted to touch Vince and find Noel.

“Why does Howard have that thing about never being touched?”

Vince pivoted and came at the dvd from another angle, his breath slightly laboured as his elbow pried into Julian’s side. “Come on,” he repeated, the plee edged with a tiny, oblivious giggle. “Oi, you’re strong.”

Because the more I’m touched, the more I realise that I’m all alone here in this body. That you’re alone in yours. That there’s only one way for us to be known.

Julian’s cock stiffened in his trousers. He was Julian with Vince, and he wanted to turn just enough, so that his erection would be pressed fully against Vince’s side. He wanted to beg Vince to touch it, to stroke it with the circle of his thumb and forefinger. He wanted to feel Vince’s mouth against his own, to taste his tongue and feel teeth nip at his lips. He wanted to see how his come looked against the pallor of Vince’s skin. He wanted Vince’s fingers—one, two, three or more of them—inside him, reaching past all the lies that he had made both of them believe. He wanted so many things, but he knew acutely that he didn’t really want them with Vince. As Julian only, he wanted them with Noel.

But what he really wanted was to be Julian without denial and fears, and he didn’t know how to be that person when he was with Noel. But maybe with Vince, he would learn how.

He whispered a word, and Vince closed the slight distance between them to catch it. What that word was, neither of them heard, because just then the church bells sounded. Twelve deep, mournful chimes that sounded like someone calling here, here, here.

Vince lifted his head and looked around the room. “What’s that?” he asked, in the voice of someone who’d just woken up.

Julian looked down at the bulge in his trousers, but Vince wasn’t talking about that.

“Bells?” Vince took another step from Julian and moved toward a window. “Church bells.”

Slowly, Julian slid down the wall he was pressed against, nearly laughing when he felt a trickle of sweat escape his hairline and wet his temple. Relief and profound disappointment filled him with a derelict intensity. His chance had turned into a pumpkin.

“You live by a church?” Vince asked, spinning around to face him. His expression indicated that he thought churches ranked up there with Atlantis in terms of rarity. Julian studied him through watery eyes and thought of how little Vince knew, and how little he would be able to ever learn. Even less, maybe, than him.

“I live by a church,” he said. “A church I’ve never walked by. I hear the bells from it every day and I’ve still never walked by it.”

Vince stared at him. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Julian said, then swallowed. “I’ve been putting it off. For some reason.” He looked away, frowning at a thought that wouldn’t quite come.

“I reckon we ought to do that now, then,” Vince said, grinning. Even in the dimly-lit room, the bright blue of his eyes showed—Julian thought that they must see the world differently than his own. He even wondered what they saw, then realised that he would never know.

“Okay,” Julian said, then sniffed hard and snorted out a laugh. “Okay.” He took Vince’s extended hand, clambering to his feet inelegantly.

It was only when he had straightened up that he dropped the hand, and even then it was only because Vince made a strange noise—something that could have been a weird laugh or a yelp—then folded at the waist and fell to his knees, like someone who had just taken a punch to the gut. Then he made a noise again, and it wasn’t a laugh or even a yelp, it was just a scream.