Page 5 of Don't Point at the Moon

“What’s he like?” asked Mark. “Your nephew?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t really know him. He was born and raised in New Zealand until the age of ten. They moved back to England around the time of the London Olympics, and I’d already been working here for a couple of years by then.”

“You must have met him, though? On your trips back home?”

“A few times, but only enough to say hello. We’ve never spent time together.” As he spoke, the realisation hit him hard. While he had pursued his career across the other side of the world, he’d missed out on the lives of his niece and nephews. “On most trips back, I’m rushing to meetings in London, or between family and friends. I’m exhausted by the time I board the plane back here. I mean, he’s a good kid by all accounts, but he doesn’t seem to have any close friends. My sister said he’s intelligent but shy and not particularly sociable, if you know what I mean?”

“On the spectrum,” said William.

“Not necessarily. And, for the record, I dislike that expression. If anybody’s different these days, they get written off as being on the spectrum, as though they’re borderline clinically dysfunctional or have a personality disorder. Not only is it a lazy way to explain away somebody’s nonconformist behaviour, but it’s often wrong and can be hurtful to the person in question. More importantly, it undermines those dealing with real issues of that nature.”

“Excuse me, Mary,” said William, holding his palms up. “What is with you tonight?”

“What kind of things does he like?” asked Mark.

“Again—and this is only what my sister tells me—he spends a lot of time playing online games like Minecraft or following his favourite internet celebrities on social media. You know,YouTube, TikTok, Snapchat. She’s mentioned a few names in the past but they meant nothing to me.”

“Well, there you are. You have the spare bedroom, don’t you?” said Harold. “With a single bed, air-conditioning and a small desk. Set him up in there, plug him into your Wi-Fi, shut the door and forget about him.”

Mitchell chuckled. Zane would probably be delighted with that arrangement.

“The plan is for me to help bring him out of his shell. I suppose I could drag him around the usual sights, but I wanted to do something that got him more, you know, involved locally with people his own age. Sports, or hiking or arts and crafts. I’m sure my niece told me he helped backstage with theatre productions at school.”

“William,” said Harold, turning to his partner, “you’ve always been an advocate of community theatre, haven’t you? Always trying to cajole me into accompanying you to one amateur production or another.”

“Before the crony-virus.”

“Aren’t the arts worldwide rising from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix? Surely there must be something on the horizon?”

“They’re doingCabaret the Musical. Early June. Started rehearsals in March.”

“There you go, Mitchell, darling. Perfect timing. Find somebody who’s on the production team or in the cast and ask if they need help working behind the scenes, if such is his wont.”

“Actually,” said Mitchell, “that’s not a bad idea. Don’t suppose you know anyone involved?”

“Kate’s friend Shelly,” said William. “She helps run rehearsals. Think she even directed a show once.”

“Problem solved,” said Harold. “Have a word with your friend Kate. Although Beth seems to have recruited her to remindpeople not to lean against walls or touch artwork, and to use coasters and napkins on pain of death. Surprised she isn’t handing out latex gloves. On second thoughts, tonight might not be the best time to get Kate’s attention.”

“I’ll send her a message,” said Mitchell.

“Honestly,” said Harold, peering around the room, “can you believe they’re bringing a child to live in this mausoleum? I am so looking forward to being invited back one day in the near future and finding scribbles in coloured crayon and tiny strawberry jam handprints on their pristine white walls.”

Despite his sullen mood, Mitchell had to suppress his laughter. Harold had a way of articulating what others were thinking. Even with the addition of clusters of pastel pink and pearl balloons framing the windows, Beth and Kate’s apartment exuded all the homely cosiness of a Hollywood Road fine arts gallery. With no music playing, guests spoke in hushed tones. Only the jangle of Beth’s polished glass earrings cut through the low hum of conversations like wind chimes as she ushered two servers across the bamboo flooring to offer around silver platters of colourful, tasteless vegan nibbles.

“Can we leave yet? My arse is going numb,” said William, rising slowly from the bench.

“I'd suggest giving it half an hour after they’ve introduced Angel,” said Mitchell, checking his watch.

“And how long is that going to take?” said Harold. “She told me seven-thirty. If I’d known it was going to be this uncomfortable I’d have brought picnic chairs. I blame you, Mitchell. You could have given us the heads-up.”

“I told you what I knew, that they lived in one of the Repulse Bay luxury apartments, the block with the square hole in the middle. That should have been clue enough.”

“Yeah, what is that about?” asked Mark. “The hole in the building.”

“Feng shui,” said Harold, rubbing one hand over the other. “A local superstition that dragons live in the mountains behind the apartment block. The opening allows them to pass freely through the building to get to the sea. Blocking their way would bring bad luck. Leaving the space open means they can come and go any time they please.”

“Unlike us,” said William. “Hal, I demand hot food after this.”

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