When James Cameron was a young man, this happened to him. After his eighteenth birthday party had come to an end and the guests had disappeared wearing colourful hats and clutching cubes of Battenburg cake wrapped in paper napkins, Jame’s mother sat him down at the breakfast bar. The smell of snuffed candles and discharged party poppers floated in the air. “James, I’m not your mother,” she told him. “What?” he managed to croak. “I work for the government and my contract comes to an end today.” “Does Dad know?” asked the bewildered James. “He’s not your father. Don’t be cross with us, we’re only doing our job.” James felt like a gold tooth sent flying throug the air in a fist fight. “What about my brother, Peter, and all the family?” “Actors.” she said, very matter-of-factly. “I don’t believe you. Not auntie Madge.” “Especially her. She went to drama school. She was always a tad Shakespearian for my taste but some people like that approach.” The small tear in James’ eye, like a baby snail, finally emerged from its shell. “Will you leave me?” he asked. She said, “There’s a taxi coming in half an hour. I’ve left a chilli con carne in the fridge and there’s a stack of pizzas in the freezer. Pepperoni- the ones you like. We’re opening a bed and breakfast place on the east coast. Actually it’s a safe-house for political prisoners- I can tell you that because I know you won’t repeat it.” Suddenly she looked like the meanest woman who ever lived, thought of course he loved her very being.
James went outside. his best friend, Snoobie, and Carla, his girlfriend, were leaning on the wall with suitcases in their hands. Carla was wearing sunglasses and passing piece of chewing gum from one side of her mouth to the other. “Not you two as well?” said James, despairingly. “‘Fraid so,” said Snoobie. “Anyway, take care. I’ve been offered a small part in a play at the Palace Theatre in Watford and there’s a read through tomorrow morning. She’s off to Los Angeles, aren’t you, Carla?” “Hollywood,” she said, still chewing gum.James said, “Didn’t it mean anything to you, Carla? Not even the time behind the taxi rank after the Microdisney concert?” “Dunno,” she shrugged. “I’d have to check the file.” James could have punched a hole in her chest and ripped out the poisonous blowfish of her heart. He walked heavily up to the paddock. If he’s been a smoker who’d quit, now would have been the time to start again. If he’d been carrying a loaded firearm in his pocket he might have put that to his lips as well. Then a bird fell out of the sky and landed just a yard or so from his feet. A cuckoo. It flapped a few times and died. However tormented or shabby you’re feeling, however low your spirits, thought James, there’s always someone worse off. His mother had taught him that. It was just then he noticed the tiny electric motor inside the bird’s belly, and the wires under its wings, and the broken spring sticking out of its mouth.
