Famous people are very often traumatized individuals with a deep-seated sense of unworthiness…They believe that fame will mean an end to pain, and access to love.
—Pamela Helen Connolly
Brenda in a white gown. Brenda in a white light. Brenda in front of a large white screen with the single word “Disaster” behind her. She is talking to us or, as she puts it, “speaking with each and every one of us.” An organ plays gently behind her honeyed words of wisdom.
“Love is the answer. Love is the key. Love will heal everything. With the power of love…Shit. Yes?”
“With the power of love the healing can begin.”
A suntanned, overweight, roly-poly man in a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt steps forward, prompting her. He is Brenda’s creator of special material. What used to be called a writer.
“‘Let it begin now the healing,’” he continues. “‘Let it begin inside each and every one of us.’ And then the choir goes ‘A-men’ and they start the hand clap and we’re into the Gospel Chorus.”
“Brilliant, Raymond. I love it.”
“Can you see the prompter?”
“I can now. Thank you, Nora.”
“All right, everyone, we’re ready to go live,” says a man in headphones. “And going live in ten seconds. Five, four, three, two…”
“Hello everybody, I’m Brenda Woolley. The H9 disaster has hit us all pretty hard here on the Princess Di. As we continue the heartrending job of search-and-rescue, looking for the many hundreds of poor people still lost out there, we remember and thank God for the larger humanity of which we form a part.”
“She’s finally flipped,” said Boo. “She thinks she’s the pope.” He was watching on a monitor in the stateroom that had become Rogers’s temporary HQ. Currently, Boo’s hair was bright orange. Beside him the Amazing Keith, pale-faced, his skinny body squeezed into a lime jumpsuit, was staring off into space.
Rogers had stepped outside for a second. He was conferring with Kyle, who had brought him the initial damage report. “This says the destruction came from inside?”
“Looks that way, man.”
“But that’s crazy.”
“Insane, ain’t it,” agreed Kyle. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Something got out of control.”
“Out of control? They couldn’t have caused more devastation if they’d tried.”
He glanced back inside the stateroom at the screen. “Love is the answer,” Brenda Woolley was saying. “Get me anything you can. List of dissidents. Throw me something, Kyle.”
Kyle nodded and moved off in that loose, easy way of his.
Rogers leaned against the wall and thought for a moment. Someone planned this. The thought was too horrendous.
Inside, Brenda Woolley preached on.
“It’s all too easy for us to say, ‘I can’t cope, Brenda.’ ‘This thing is too big for me, Brenda.’ ‘What difference can I make, Brenda?’ But we can all make a difference. I’m here to help you all make a difference. It is time to stand up and be counted. Together we can make a difference.”
“Hallelujah!”
She glanced at Pastor Abraham, a tubby man with curly white hair. He beamed at her through rows of gleaming teeth and added in a deep voice, “Praise the Lord!” One or two of the choir were tempted to join in, but Brenda froze them with a smile. Brenda did not care for unscripted hallelujahs.
“Tune in to the Brenda Woolley Disaster Relief Experience and together let’s make a difference.”
The choir began to tap their tambourines, Pastor Abraham to shake his booty. She would have to have a word with him about taste, thought Brenda, then launched herself into a gospel version of her theme song.
I’d cross the Universe for you, my darling
I’d sail across the Galax-sea…
“Turn that shit off,” said Rogers, returning.
“That’s not shit,” said Boo. “That’s Brenda Woolley. That’s cream of shit.”
“Shut up,” said Kyle.
“Yes, boss,” said Boo cheekily. He flicked the control. Brenda Woolley’s image reluctantly faded.
“They’re working on it,” said Kyle in response to Rogers’s unspoken question.
A florid gentleman in an eccentric tweed suit hurried in, mopping his brow with a red silk handkerchief. “Forgive my tardiness, gentlemen, I was consulting upon another matter.”
“Who the fuck’s this?” asked Rogers.
“I, sir, am Charles Jay Brown. I have the honor to represent this strangely gifted young man and I hope soon”—and here he bowed in the direction of the Amazing Keith—“to represent the dangerous talent of this very explosive young man.”
“Fuck you,” said Keith not unpleasantly.
“He has, as you can see, suffered from mismanagement hitherto,” said Charles Jay Brown, not in the least fazed by outright rejection.
“This is a police matter—we don’t need agents.”
“Ah, agents, I quite agree with you, but I am management, sir. I intrude into every corner of my artists’ lives. There is no detail that escapes me. I represent the entire man.”
“Worse than a lawyer, ain’t he?” said Boo with a tolerant smile.
Kyle scowled at him.
“Sorry,” said Boo. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“You’re a comedian,” said Kyle. “Right?”
“That’s what they say,” said Boo modestly.
“And this is the explosives guy?” said Rogers.
Keith nodded.
“So where were you when H9 went up?”
“What, are you crazy? You think I blew up H9? You think I’m an idiot?”
“Scratch that,” said Boo. “They know you’re an idiot.”
“Shut up,” said Rogers. “This isn’t funny.”
“How often have I heard that,” said Boo sadly.
Rogers nodded to Kyle, who tapped Boo lightly over the head. Half a pat, half a warning.
“Okay. I get it,” said Boo. “Humor is inappropriate.”
“Well?” said Rogers to Keith.
“I was here on the Di.”
“Are any of your stores unaccounted for?”
“You mean did someone steal my stuff?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Did you sell or lend any explosives to anyone?”
“You think I’m nuts?”
“They’re not questioning your sanity, Keith,” said Boo nicely. “It’s your housekeeping they’re interested in.”
“Nothing’s gone missing. I’d know.”
“Will you check again?”
“Sure.”
“And we’re going to have to lock up the rest of your stock.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want any civilians getting their hands on explosives. Okay?”
Keith shrugged. “If you say so.”
“What about you?” said Rogers to the waiting Boo.
“Me? Hey, I haven’t left the ship. I bin here too.”
Charles Jay Brown confirmed it with a barely perceptible nod to Rogers.
“Okay, you can go.”
Boo looked disappointed.
As they left the stateroom, they were watched from the far end of the deck by a tall dark man with a heavy mustache. A red-haired boy handed him a message. He scanned it and nodded.
“Better let them know right away,” said McTurk.