Face (15 page)

             
“True!”

The invisible man is
lying back in his seat, his eyes inaccessible under the rim of the hat.

             
“Where were you off to?”

             
“You’ve got my ticket, how was I supposed to find you?”

             
“Sorry. I’m no good at queues.”

Because of the
high visibility, I assume. In here, everybody gets entertained by something other than his lack of a face. Cliff pats my seat, quickly withdrawing his hand. I sit down, my bag is digging in. I lay it across my lap, rock back and click into place, offering myself up towards the array of products on offer. A woman closes her eyes at the sensation of biting into pizza, holds out a slice, the cheese spirals down towards me.

             
“You got any food in there?” Cliff eyes my bag.

             
“No.”

             
“I have to have popcorn. I was hoping you’d get popcorn. Sorry to keep you waiting by the way- an unavoidable hold up. At least we missed most of the queue.”

Apology not accepted I tell him
, with my face. Add in the body language as back-up.

             
“I’m getting popcorn.” Cliff says

He
springs out of his chair, this time heading against the flow, pausing only to suffer a strange dance with another girl as face-on, they both lunge one way, then the other. She stares at the scarf; he does not offer his eyes for reassurance. He’s like a fish, always moving, never touching. The girl dips her head to whisper to a boy, after Cliff has gone.

The
stragglers are still dispersing around the door. I see them blinking into the glare, paralyzed by the moving image. Did they never see the inside of a cinema? Come on people, get those bums on seats, Dollar is waiting. Show some respect.

I watch an advert for Ultiface Professionals.
The teacher’s face radiates encouragement, but flips in an instant to crowd-control mode. Those kids are crap actors, they’re hero-worshipping the teacher as if he were Dollar in the flesh and I know why. It’s because they don’t sell so well, the Ultiface Professionals. Who wants to look like their job? There is no Maverick advert today. I guess nobody wants to look like me, either.

A box o
f popcorn on Cliff’s body materialises over me.

             
“Take this.”

             
“You’re like a popcorn advert. No thanks.”

             
“No thanks? After all that?”

             
“You didn’t ask if I wanted popcorn.”

             
“Everybody wants popcorn. Don’t they?”

The last bit comes
out sounding genuinely tragic. His shoulders deflate like some key part of the plan has failed.

             
“I don’t like it. You didn’t even show up at the agreed time.”

             
“I would never stand you up, True.”

A
politician’s promise, every syllable dripping like the cheese on that pizza. Funny thing is, he means it. I feel a smile nudging so I stop and summon the message my face needs to be giving right now, and lay it on thick.

             
“I’ve been looking forward to this. Haven’t you?” he says.

             
“Uh...”

At least his gaze is modified in the shadows.
So long as I don’t try to fill in the gaps with my mind. He keeps rearranging himself in the chair and it’s infectious. I’m acutely aware of my pressure points, my lower back prickles. I spear my ribs against the armrest furthest from Cliff.

             
“Seeing the man you ‘probably love’ in action?” Cliff prompts.

             
“Oh, we’re never apart for long. I get his Celebsite daily messages.”

             
“Detective Rex Rayne though- what a man!” Cliff sighs. “I want to be him when I grow up.”

             
“People trying to kill you all the time?”

             
“You’d be surprised. I’m a fast runner.”

             
“I saw you running. On Friday.”

             
“I know.”

Thi
s conversation has taken a wrong turn.

             
“I told you, I’m Rex Rayne in training.” Cliff says.

             
“Leaving a trail of fascinated women behind you.”

             
“I am fascinating, actually.”

H
is covered face is approaching the edge of my armrest, an invisible line is about to be violated. His face stops. Why does it feel like a test? Like he wants to coax a reaction from me.

             
“I’m not like all the others. Did you notice?” he says

His voice is
mocking. I imagine myself swiping the fedora off in revenge, but a touch could be misread. I need to see his eyes (he was right about that) and I can’t.

             
“Rex Rayne is beyond fascinating.” I inform him. “It’s impossible to take your eyes off his face when he is onscreen.”

“Next you’re going to tell me you bought the album.”
             

I return his
unbroken stare. He gets the message; I get dark fabric and shadows. Should I shut up about movie star faces? I can’t have him interrupting me during the film. That part must be clear.

Cliff is different today
, and I’m hoping it’s not all based on wrong assumptions about my reasons for coming. I could never be that cocky with people pitying me all the time and only me knowing what’s underneath. How many people have seen his face, I wonder? How many girls?

At last he settles back so I re-angle to maximise my personal space and try to relax
, because there’s another hour and fifty minutes of this. I chose my outfit with care to enhance my intended facial message: neutral jeans and a high-necked sweater, nothing to get his hopes up. I glance at Cliff’s baggy jeans and away again because it’s like I’m checking out his crotch or something. Outfit wise, it’s hard to tell who’s trying less. This grates, I won’t lie.

Cliff’s
elbows rise up and form triangles at the screen. Cliff is fumbling behind his head- oh god is he going to take that thing off because of the dark?! I will pretend not to notice. My neck locks into position just as the opening bars of the theme tune envelop us, and Detective Rex Rayne is sleeping attractively, in the dawn light. There is a drawn-out crunching sound. Cliff is eating popcorn, passing his fist under the bunched up layers of fabric where the scarf meets his upper chest. I glimpse the whole of his neck, the underside of his jaw is exposed. He’s chewing slowly, trying to keep the volume down but actually drawing out the crunch and making the disruption worse. He tilts the box towards me, I shake my head on my rigid neck. Now I’ve missed vital seconds. Detective Rex Rayne is falling backwards into his swimming pool because there’s a woman in his house, she’s at the back door, pointing a gun at his chest. Rex Rayne comes up all sleek and glistening and the woman is smirking at him. Her gun is lowered.

             
“We need to talk.” she says. “Let’s find you a towel.”

She disappears into his house.
Rex Rayne looks me in the eye, unsure.

             
“What d’ya think, talk or run?”

I press the green button straight away,
because the faster I react the more control I get. Get in there. Everybody knows Rex falls in love in this one. She acts tough enough to be the side-kick, but they’re not giving a close-up of her face. That would be too easy.

             
“Shouldn’t I be the one issuing orders?” Rex whispers. “She just broke into my house. I got a bad feelin’ about this...”

Rex
Rayne functions on instinct. It’s up to us, his team, to pick up on the details.

             
“Good choice,” he gets that creeping smile. “I’m going in.”

Seconds later he emerg
es at a sprint, pursued by four women, guns blazing. It’s like we’re in the swimming pool and they all jump, legs scissoring over our heads. I’m now gambling on the one on the far left, because they’re chasing in slow motion and she’s the eye-catcher. During that split second first impression, I started to warm to her.

......................................................................................................................
....................

A chunk of burning fuselage spins towards us and I blink it away. Howls from the seats at the back, they had taken to the sky with Rex’s plane and now they must plummet in random. Those are the rules. Cliff and I studiously ignore it- the moving seats a gimmick for the kids. I prefer to confront my fate in my own quiet way. Blood-curdling screams- Cliff even halts the munching and crunching- and I press the back of my head into the headrest as our plane smashes to the ground and fake black smoke pours into the cinema, curling across the screen. There is an explosion- naturally- but the encroaching 3D fireball still gets my forearms up, as if I could bat it away. Rex crawls from the ashes symmetrically streaked with grime and I can tell we’re in for a proper telling off.

             
“You and your bad decisions.” Rex growls, in unison with Cliff to my right and half of the audience. (I myself would never take his lines.)

The camera zooms in on his face,
mesmerizing in a halo of flames. The crowd erupts into whoops and applause and the credits roll.

             
“...up that time.”

I can’t hear my own voice ov
er the whirr of the air filters frantically clearing the smoke for the next screening. Cliff leans closer, his soft earlobe is pinched under the edge of the scarf.

             
“Wha...?”

I
try to imagine the word shapes his lips make underneath.

             
“I said:
we really messed him up that time!
”

             
“Yeah- result!” Cliff says

He
does an adrenaline laugh. I level out to a satisfied buzz and glance around at all our fellow survivors. Animated voices, snatches of questions bounce off the sound-magnifying walls:
Did we accidently kill the girl? Who was it that screamed at the end?
The vivid world of Rex Rayne has been withdrawn and now we’re sitting together in the half-dark as the credits roll. Cliff stretches his legs alarmingly and they fill the space between us. I stand and indicate a readiness to join the masses shuffling to the exit. I love it when Dollar tells us off. He pitches his failure back at us to perfection, a hero’s acceptance packaged as an invitation to return- we’re his back-up team, after all.

             
Daylight is such a wrench that I completely forget to check for people I recognise from school. Cliff walks like he’s striding off into a different windy landscape, hunched forward. He’s too tall.

             
“I feel like your Mum. Ten paces behind.” I call to his back.

My voice comes out louder than I meant it to
, away from the aftermath of the plane crash. Because this is not going to end how it began: me standing on my own. Cliff stops like he hit a wall.

             
“I’m walking you home.” His hands are jammed into his pockets. Less cocky in open spaces.

             
“No need.”

Cliff hovers, his efficiency in freefall.

              “I’ll walk you.” I say. My arms swing free. “Since I’m Mum.”

Did his eyebrows used to be like that?
The rim of his hat is fractionally raised, not at its usual angle. He gets to watch people on the quiet, I see that now. His eyes are a faded hue (I still can’t name their colour) and he’s about to act, I see that in his limbs.

With a great sweeping bow
, Cliff removes his fedora.

I can totally
see the whole of his exposed head and quite honestly, it’s like being presented with a naked man. I spy messy blond hair. It’s hat-compressed , a fact of which he seems self-conscious. He quickly ruffles it all over, tilting his head both ways, missing a bit. His forehead is now this massive expanse of triumphantly flushed pink skin. My face is like, off the radar.

             
“Let’s get me home, safely.” Cliff says in a frankly delighted voice. (How did I become the entertainment here?) His voice slows to a caution: “I warn you, My Dad will probably invite you in.”

             
“I can’t.”

             
“People don’t usually say no to Dad...” Cliff pauses, waiting for me to catch up. “Contrary to first impressions, he won’t bite.”