Stay

Stay

It was the day his father died that he first appeared. Owen felt as though he had known him all his life, but only through his music. They had never met, not until that first time. He always came when least expected, when they were alone. At first it disturbed Owen, but he got used to it, found it comforting. Owen never told anyone, not even Anna. He was sure they would have thought it strange. After all it isn’t every day you are visited by a dead rock star.

Owen gazed over the edge of the cliff and out to sea. Cruel winds churned the water and the waves battered the shore below. He looked at the clock on the car, struggled to recall how long he had been here. Owen realised he was there, in the passenger seat next to him. His hero was dressed in a blue tailored suit and yellow shirt with a long pointed collar. The unmistakable face was white, skeletal, skin translucent. The star’s hair was a fiery red and swept back behind his ears. Then there were the eyes, distinctive, mesmerising, one blue, the other brown, the same, but different. Bowie stared out of the window, and took out a packet of cigarettes. They were French, Gitanes, his favourites. Bowie chain smoked, and Owen hated smoking, but didn’t mind in this case. This was Bowie, his hero. You don’t tell your hero to quit anything. Bowie sucked on the clean, fresh white cigarette and blew smoke rings into the car. Smiling at Owen he spoke, his voice soft and delicate, almost a whisper. Owen would know that voice anywhere, had heard it a million times, both spoken and in song. It was the voice of his youth, the soundtrack to countless milestones, the voice that had been with him all his life. It had comforted and scared him, thrilled and wooed him. The voice of a thousand faces, always changing yet still the same, with a characteristic hint of home. The London boy.

‘How are you today?’

Owen was transfixed by his beauty. Bowie never looked anything less than a perfect picture. Owen had never seen a bad photo of him. If only life could be that beautiful.

‘I’ve felt better.’

There was a silence, then the fizz of the cigarette as Bowie took a long drag.

‘You came here with your dad, didn’t you?’

‘I did. The whole family used to come here. We came quite a lot actually. We’d pick my mum up from work at night, get some fish and chips and then he’d drive us here. My grandad was from this village. Well, they say it’s a village, but it’s nothing more than a few houses. We’d sit here, stare at the sea, and he’d tell us stories. The same ones over and over again. I think he missed my grandad. He never said it, but I know he did. My grandad died young and I think there were things left unsaid.’

Owen’s voice cracked and tailed off. Bowie touched his shoulder and smiled, warm, gentle.

‘It’s a beautiful part of the world. But maybe not this place.’

They both laughed. Bowie ran his fingers through his longish, wispy hair, and finished the cigarette. He wound the window down and flicked the remains through the gap, as a blast of cold wind pushed through into the car.

‘It’s strange. I’ve been all round the world, yet I don’t know this place at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the space between Newcastle and Edinburgh. Then again maybe I have. On a bus or a train when I was touring. Maybe I was too tired or out of it to notice. What a waste. I’ve travelled so far and there’s so much I missed. Only later I realised, when it was too late. There’s so much I don’t remember about the early days. You’re lucky to live here, to be alive to see this.’

There was a long pause, with only the sound of the howling wind and crashing waves. Owen replied.

‘I guess I am. I don’t really appreciate it enough.’

‘None of us appreciate what we have, what’s around us. We see what we want. It’s so easy to see the dirt and grime, but look beyond that. I always had to look beyond, the space between reality.’

Bowie took a moment, then continued.

‘You don’t see me do you? Not the real me. You see a character. Ziggy, or the Thin White Duke, or the Man Who Fell to Earth. I mean that’s who I am to you, aren’t I?’

Bowie stared at Owen whose eyes remained transfixed on the sea.

‘Who am I now? Thomas Newton. Not David Bowie, or David Jones. Who am I to you? Who am I to anyone?’

Owen lowered his head, gazing into his lap, still averting the glare of his hero. Owen spoke.

‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve only ever known you through the characters.’

‘I know, and that’s all you ever will.’

Bowie reached for another cigarette.

‘Why do you always see me as Thomas Newton? Why only that one character?’

Owen shuffled in his seat, and began to play with the key ring dangling from the ignition.

‘It’s my favourite period. Diamond Dogs, Young Americans, Station to Station. I love all the 70s stuff, but whenever I wanted to be like you, whenever I imagined myself up on stage and performing that’s how I always saw myself.’

‘Interesting. That was a very dark and painful time for me. I was pretty fucked up.’

‘I know. Maybe that’s the appeal.’

Bowie frowned and took another long drag. He played with the cigarette, rolling it between his fingers, studying it.

‘Things will get better you know. It might not feel like it now, but it gets easier believe me.’

Owen continued to play with the key ring, a figure made of Lego. It was a character from Harry Potter, he wasn’t sure who. Owen spoke.

‘Part of me knows you’re right, but then there’s this black cloud, and a voice inside my head that keeps nagging me. Sometimes I can’t see a way out of this, sometimes I think it would be better if I wasn’t around.’

Bowie threw the cigarette out of the window. This time leaving the window ajar, as the smoke crept out through the opening and disappeared into the wind.

‘Is that why we’re here?’

Owen twirled the plastic figure between his fingertips. They were silent, as the wind and the waves played on. After a while Owen pulled the door handle and stepped out of the car. Bowie remained, puffing on yet another cigarette, lost in a fresh thick fog of smoke. The star gazed out of the window, eyes locked on Owen. Those eyes, those gorgeous eyes, those strange alien eyes. Owen stared out at the waves, heard them calling him. The waves and the voice inside his head. The whispering voice within, urging him to reach out, and embrace the thunderous, rolling water. Owen took a few steps forward, stopped, looked back into the car. Bowie stared back at him, frowning, alien eyes still locked and glistening. Owen lowered his head and wept. The whisper in his head faded, the waves dissolved in silence. All that remained was darkness. Silent tears and darkness.