John lay still. His eyes had stayed open. He could see his contact lens on the floor in front of him. A drop of sweat from his forehead dropped onto it and John watched it clean it and make a little prism, refracting the stage lights into a tiny rainbow. Red, green, violet.

He was glad he couldn’t see his wife. Glad she hadn’t made it. He thought, on this occasion, she wouldn’t feel inclined to clap.

He remembered hearing of a man who’d hanged himself in his bedroom and had stuck a note on the door saying, “Happy birthday, darling. Wait till you see this!”

The gun was still in John’s limp and clammy hand. Emma’s gun. She’d been given it by her father. He was old now. He’d been in the war. It had once killed someone. A German, Emma assumed, but it had been an English soldier. Friendly fire. Her father had kept that quiet.

785

Michael Davies pulled over and was sick in a rest area.

784

Edward the Fireman walked out of Central Park with a stone and threw it through the window of a company that made painkillers. Then he ran away. Not as destructive as a bomb but a protest all the same. He disappeared into the subway, breathing heavily, thinking he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

783

John put out a finger and touched the tiny rainbow and let his contact lens curl around his fingertip.

Then he slowly rose to his feet.

Again the chaos died and silence rippled through the room. John felt in control of a highly disciplined orchestra, well drilled and responsive, capable of moving effortlessly from fortissimo to pianissimo.

Now, in the hush, he brushed himself down and straightened his bow tie. He took his handkerchief and dabbed the corners of his mouth as one would after eating a messy pear. He approached the microphone.

He coughed.

782

To Miles, the amplified sound was so otherworldly that he thought God himself had paused creation to speak to him directly.

Miles mouthed, “Yes, Lord?”

781

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Unfunny John. “My name’s John Heron. You’ve been a wonderful audience. Remember, comedy nights are here every Friday at the Wellington Arms. Good night and enjoy the next act.”

John left the stage.

“You’re on,” he said to the big bearded comic.

780

Cody ran out of the Wellington Arms and onto the street, where she breathed the air. She stopped a stranger and asked him for a cigarette. She smoked it and let the night dry the sweat from her face. Though she was trembling, she felt more relieved than she had in months.

779

Beth let Michael Davies into the house because his shaking hands wouldn’t let him get the key into the lock.

Oikophobia, she thought. Fear of the home.

778