My Name Is Never Was

Prologue

A television studio.

Or real life?

Or both?

I couldn’t tell by that point.

What was for certain was that I was being broadcast live, to an audience of millions, and I was holding a knife in my hand as the camera glared pitilessly at me.

The knife wasn’t a problem in itself, you see, it was more the dead woman lying on the floor where the viewing nation could clearly see her, vivid pools of scarlet staining the white halterneck dress with full circle pleated skirt, that she had worn to look like Marilyn Monroe in that movie that nobody had ever seen. But everybody had seen the photo, and the dress, that dress.

And here was me, holding the knife, streaked bloody along its length, dead woman a few feet away. I couldn’t call that a good thing, and I couldn’t really call it anything that had been in my plans for the evening.

What I hoped was that nobody would be calling it evidence, because if they did, there would be ten million witnesses.

Chapter 1 – Another Fine Mess I’ve Got Myself Into

I never planned to be on TV; Justin de Malbec was to blame for that.

And Manny Singh.

And, yes okay, me.

Money made me do it, like it does most things, for most people.

This thing hadn’t started in a TV studio, no, it started in a nightclub called Le Moulin Vert, on Hope Street, directly across from Central Station. A club where nobody seemed to care that the flashing green neon of the club sign that blinked over and down at the station actually read "La Moulin Vert". At least the neon was intact, no popped tubes leaving an awkward incomplete crossword stuttering at the night.

Inside, in the pulsing dark of a stifling club, a smaller version of the same sign (correctly Frenched) above and to the left of the stage glowed without blinking and without repeating the error. On stage, below its emerald radiance, a glistening man in a bulging white suit stood in the spotlight and glazed at the audience, his attempted smile a creepy leer. He looked like an ice-dancer who had lost his skates but kept the jacket. Now, he was building up to the climax of his magic act, all too close and human in his panting anxiety and from my front-row table, I could hardly avoid straining along with him.

"A wise man once said, ladies and gentlemen, that what we do not understand, we must love or fear. And you will not have understood much of what you have seen tonight, but what you have witnessed on this stage is illusion, nothing more than misdirection and trickery. But, I guarantee you, you have nothing to fear, so only love remains… There may be mystery in what you have seen…."

The club sign winked into darkness and the spotlight on stage began strobing, while the man’s hands began to describe flickering, intertwining motions –

"….there may even be – whisper it quietly – there may even be magic..."

the strobing continued to dart across the room and a thrumming bass note began to pulse as his hands crabbed and flexed as if he was conducting a particularly intense orchestra –

…let us concentrate, feel the sound, focus on the energy… do you believe? Do you believe in magic? Do you?....

a rushing sound, now, distant waves from some alien ocean –

… focus your minds, let yourself be taken by the sounds and the lights that spin around you!....

he chopped his hands back and forward in the light, grimacing and straining, white gloves spinning like pale moths in a frantic dance –

…do you feel it? Do you feel what is all around us? Do you feel the presence of something….immense?...

- the strobing became more intense, the hissing waves and thundering bass built to a crescendo -

… feel the presence….give ourselves to the spirit and let us see what marvels come forth!

Suddenly, his arms shot wide apart, there was one sharp crack and then the synthesised sounds stopped, replaced by a soft whupping, while the strobing light continued, beginning to pick our white wraiths darting across the beam, first five, then ten, then dozens of white shapes whirling and spiralling in the beam. For a moment, there might have been a sealed world inside Le/La Moulin Vert where magic was happening, and then the shapes began to settle, the whupping sound clarified itself into the wingbeats of the scores of white doves that were still in the air, still gyrating in the light.

He had created them all, it seemed, from thin air.

Then the strobing stopped, the green neon sign began fizzing back to life, the Super Trouper light once more glared steady on the stage. The magician was taking his bow and the audience was clapping, some even yelling. He had delivered his payload and was returning to base, drinking in the applause.

Me? Part of me would like to say I drifted above it all, ignoring the cheap tricks, but that wouldn’t be true, because I was putting my hands together as much as the rest of the crowd. Not yelling, though – what am I, a cowhand? And anyway, as cheap tricks go, it looked like it probably cost a few bob.

"I thank you for your presence tonight, my friends. Thank you for your kind appreciation, you have been a wonderful audience. I hope you have enjoyed this show, this presentation, our dance with the unknown, our evening venture into the forests of mystery…but I can announce to you that this was a special show in more ways than you can know, because tonight was Justin de Malbec’s last-ever magic show!"

A soft insinuating sigh ran through the audience.

"Yes…because I can announce to you that from next weekend, I shall be retiring from the stage to make a different kind of magic on your television screens. I shall be behind the cameras, broadcasting live on the networks of the nation, bringing you the next, and biggest, television sensation of the age! You have all heard of that show – it’s called Unmissable You and your humble magician is the man behind that sensation. Yes, Unmissable You! I think it’s the most exciting thing to appear on your screens for years and I’m sure you will, too. So, it is for that reason that I thank you again for being such a great crowd tonight and allowing me to bring down the curtain on this part of my career on such a high note. From now on, please join me and my team for Unmissable You live on Channel 6, Friday night at 10 and every night after that! Eye thang-yew an’ goo’nayt-ah!"

Leaving aside the question of whether a high note could bring down a curtain at all, the old hack had given himself a big send-off. If the audience had sighed at the news of his retirement from magic, it had gulped and gasped at the mention of the words Unmissable You. And after that, it had buzzed and yelped at the very mention of the name. The great British public was more than excited about this apparent TV show…and, somehow, this jaded old pro was driving the bus.

None of which made it any clearer why my accountant had given me a ticket for this show, telling me I needed to go and see it. Which made a change from him telling me that my business was bust.

I had heard, barely, of Justin de Malbec, man of magic & mystery, but remembered him better from some of his previous failed voyages into the treacherous shallows of showbiz.

Justin de Malbec….Christ. He had once appeared in Glasgow variety theatres as a hypnotist, The Great Malbini; before that, an unfunny fringe comedy performer called G.L. Ballantyne; after that, he had been a low-rent crooner-u-like in the character of Frankie La Rossa; at various times, he had been a free-sheet astrologer named Vlad van den Kristall. And so on.

How I knew this – aside from simply drifting through life in this city for as long as I have – was that, on my good days, I actually managed to do some investigation. Which is also how I knew that, whatever exotic guises Justin de Malbec dreamt up for himself, his parents had wished him to be known as Graham Lugg when they held him in their arms at the Rottenrow maternity hospital, on a damp and dreary morning more years ago that he could afford to admit.

Only one man and yet so many names, so much striving, so little impact. Ego issues? Ambition issues? Lack-of-talent issues? Delusion issues? It seemed like Graham / Justin / Frankie / Vlad / G.L. had so many issues they were threatening to breed and become a survival threat to everything else in the local eco-system. As it would turn out, I was wrong about that.

Tonight, though, there was no time for my usual lucky-bag psychology because a standard-issue nightclub doorman was leaning over the table and saying that Mr de Malbec would see me backstage. It seemed as if the man was threatening to pay me money, so I was perfectly content to treat his latest grand persona as something very serious indeed. Justin / Graham, I could only conclude, was offering me a role in the business that’s like no other…and, yes indeed, everything about it was appealing.

My accountant wouldn’t let me admit to any other opinion.

Chapter 2 – Magimix TV

Could you see the doves? Before the release, I mean? I was worried about that – it’s not part of my usual set, but I wanted tonight to be a wee bit special. It’s my last shot at this stuff, wanted to see if I could do it. Go out on a personal best. Could you see them?

Never noticed a thing. It was an impressive…stunt. A good way to sign off, if that’s your last gig.

Oh, you bet it’s my last. I’ve been around this business for….well, you tell me, you’re the detective.

I love it when people tell me what I am - validation. In case I forgot.

Aye, and Manny Singh also told me you’re a skint detective, in case you forgot that an’ all.

"Right enough. So, yes, I know about your career. Your highly varied career."

"Listen, Stevie – you don’t go by Stephen, do you? – you can get snotty with me up to a point, I quite like that, but don’t go over the score, eh? My highly varied career got me a four-bed detached over by Crookston Castle, I’ve always earned, I’m no’ some fuckin’ loser. It’s been not a bad living."

But now you’re into the big time?

"Nothin’ bigger. You’ve seen all the buzz in the press? Haw, never mind the press, it’s the fuckin’ public, they’re buzzin’, too. Never been a lift-off like it. So you know how big this will be. Unmissable You will be the show of the year, dead cert, and mibbe one they’ll talk about for years."

What if I said I didn’t know? What if I said that this doesny seem like my kind of TV show?

"Are you sayin’ that? You really never saw the…trails….the interviews…the press launch…the websites, virals…the big fuckin’ posters up and down the streets of this fair land? Christ, there was a hundred thousand people at Hampden Park to audition for the show. The place couldny hold them! Stopped traffic on the whole south side all day! You saw that, right? Mibbe you got stuck on a bus cuz of it? Those people, they got off their arses from every corner of the country – and Ireland, some of them from Holland and that, too – all to come to Glasgow because of Unmissable You. And the detective never noticed?"

"Oh, I noticed. Like you say, you’d have to be livin’ underground not to have. But I never noticed you, Justin. All I see is blondes from the tabloids and all these Z-listers giving it laldy, and then Shane Chase telling us all to tune in. Not Justin. Is it Justin, by the way, or…?"

Justin’s fine. Manny told me you were a snotty bastard, as well as skint. Snotty enough to talk yourself out of a job, Stevie.

Is that me fired? Already? That’s a record, even for me.

Ah, naw. Don’t get me wrong. Just take a step down off that high ground there. I’m just sayin’, Stevie – remember who’s picking up the tab. I can see that snotty is good when it comes to your business. Up to a point.

So why don’t I see you up there on those posters? Why’s it Shane Chase and Jayney Bayliss in the papers and the websites?

Look, Stevie, they’re the faces, for sure. And they’re the biggest faces you can get for this kinna thing, am I right? I’m just backstage here, just making the machine go. Executive Producer, is what I am. Suits me, I don’t need the face-time. I mean, look at me, I’m wearing okay, but I’m no Brad Pitt.

You’re no Shane Chase, even.

No, but I’m making more from this than he will.

Which gets me to be the next question – how come a retired magician, former comedian -

- how the fuck am I even in this thing at all?

That’s it. Cuz, nice four-bedder over by Crookston Castle is all very well, but if what you say about this show -

"Oh, no danger – everything I say about this show is golden."

- if that’s right, then it’s different league to the Moulin Vert and line-dancing nights at Steamboat Creek.

True what you say. It’s a nice wee living compared to…to everything you could ever dream. More.

So, like I say, how come? If I said copyright…?

Naw, say ‘format’.

You own the format?

Correct. This idea is mine. If they want to play, they pay. And it’s me gettin’ the bucks. And, actually, let me say this – a whole lot of the viewers are getting rich, too. That’s the secret, that’s why the format is genius.

Educate me.

Okay, so it starts with sixteen people in a house together…

Wait a minute - do I need to understand the show to do this job? I told you it never sounded like a good night in to me.

If you want to understand how it all works, yes, I need to explain. So, they’re all locked in the house together, and the cameras are on them all the time…

That’s just Big Brother.

Whoa, hear me out. The sixteen of them get to do a…a…a talent show thing. Sing, dance and that.

That’s just, I dunno, Pop Factor, all that shite.

And is that not some fuckin’ humongous success? But we’re not about that, this isny a freakshow.

And…I’m wingin’ it here – people phone up and pay money and get to vote the eejits off every so often?

Hey, Stevie, it’s like you actually watch some of these shows that you say you don’t.

I breathe this air, Justin.

Aye, well this is one for everybody, right up to the grannies. They’ll all be mainlinin’ this, cuz we let the sixteen of them out once a week to…’make a difference’. How’d ye like that?

Community work?

Dead on. Get a makeover done on some old couple’s garden, raise money for wee black weans, do some soup kitchen for the homeless, mental cases. You name it.

Justin…Justin, this is just every cheesy format in TV history papped in the Magimix and stuck back together with sellotape. It’s loopy.

Loopy, you say? Then how come it’s on Channel 6 every night? Listen, once you let all those contestants out of the studio, it’s not just a TV show any more. We’ve got sixteen separate media storms – sixteen times the exposure! They’re going to places all over the country, all the local TV are watching every step they take, never mind just Channel 6, we’re webcasting live streams, every tabloid is filling a dozen pages. Nobody has ever seen anything like this, ever. It’ll be a media volcano.

"Eh…’Media volcano’? Fucksake, Justin, I hope that’s in your first night press release – if you’re still doing anythin’ as old-school as press releases…..see, I hear what you say…All this stuff sells, I know, and if you’re taking the view that double the format is double the good news, then okay, you’re beating the shit out of every format ever, so…"

You’re still not convinced?

Talk about the money. It’s the money that makes it work.

"Sure. ‘course, the money is part of the format, too. Also my idea. Let’s talk about the money – but tell you what, let’s do it in the car. I want you to see Unmissable You. It’s your wee preview of history. And you can meet Emmelle."

Chapter 3 – Cash Is King

A black saloon waited by the kerb in Hope Street, some kind of Mercedes. It looked awfully like one I had taken a set of tools to, one time, over in Giffnock, to demonstrate to somebody that consequences still existed. Bad memories, something still unfinished there.

Tonight, though, a bulk loomed in the front seat as De Malbec and I slid into the back.

Stevie? This is our head of security, Warren Boland.

The bulk turned and extended his hand.

Bogs. Pleased to meet you, Stevie. I’ve seen some of your work, here and there.

Do we know each other?

No, no worries there. I just do security, nothin’ moody. Used to work for JP Docherty, but. You remember him?

Captain Nightlife? I don’t have to ‘remember’ him, he’s still in the papers.

Aye, well, did the door for a few of his places, keepin’ the fuds out rather than in, know? Nothin’ that you’d call executive.

So, you’re still in showbiz here then?

This? This is different class, a whole ‘nother story. I’m not what you’d call an excitable guy, not these days, but this…I’m kinna excited, got to say it. But anyway….Mr De Malbec, the studio now?

"Yes please, Warren. I want Stevie to see Unmissable You. And feel how it’ll be."

De Malbec hadn’t said where the studio was, so I had no idea how long the journey would be. Bogs turned the wheel immediately and swept the car to the right, past the front of Central Station and the late-night taxi queue gathering already, fuelled by a volatile mix of confusion and certainty. Then, right again down Union Street, all bus stops and wider lanes, brighter lights, straggling pedestrians unable to distinguish pavement from highway, and not caring either way. Through the first set of lights and into Jamaica Street, more bus stops and broken glass catching the headlamps, sparking back as the Mercedes stopped and went, picking its way through more huddles of heedless foot traffic. If ever there was a nation of militant pedestrians, Glasgow would undoubtedly be its capital city.

Over the bridge, then, crossing the dark swell of the Clyde, glinty and jet in the night, over into the south side. The south side, my Glasgow. But then again, the city is a big place and we were heading straight down Bridge Street, not turning to follow the river towards Govan. So, not quite treading in the footprints of my own personal history.

Then, turning left, we were in the Gorbals, every stranger’s shorthand for the vision of urban decay that Glasgow used to represent, a cliché welded to a trope and sutured by ignorance. If every Russian winterscape was Siberia, if every gangster was in the Mafia, if every philosopher was a beardy freak, then all of Glasgow was the Gorbals. Synecdoche, I’d call it, if I’d ever heard of the word.

But, not so. The acres of slums, the habit of violence, the corrosion of poverty: all were real, but all were partial. There was much more to the city than that – more, and sometimes less as well. And, sometimes too, that really was all there was.

Now, though, the Gorbals (real, imagined, fictitious, all of those) was a different beast to the one of legend. In the 1960s, slum clearance had razed entire streets and plugged mighty towers and slabs into the grim grids of tenements they replaced. Some of those towers had themselves been flattened and scraped from the landscape, only 20 years after they sprang like stunted flowers from the muck of the inner city’s south side. The Gorbals of the 21st century had plenty low-rise apartments now, merged into the remaining quilt of towers and slabs, and the surviving tenements, those that planners, chance and timing had spared. It wasn’t pretty, exactly, but it was less ugly than it had been. The people who lived there? Some will be the same, some will be different. That’s life.

Oddly, it seemed to me, what always remained untouched through the many phases of development, re-development and un-development was a scattering of grandiose churches, vast Victorian temples in the Greek revival style, all Doric columns and sweeping facades, on top of massive arrays of steps that would fail every accessibility code ever devised. It was towards one of these that we were heading in the darkness, a looming presence in the night, isolated next to the elevated section of a disused railway line, a viaduct surrounded by vacant acres of weeds and garbage. This particular church, I knew, was called Hutcheson’s-Tron – it’s not that I’m a cultural historian, you understand, just that the place was famous.

Are we going to church, Justin?

You’ll see, but first you’re going to have to meet some people…some of the reasons why you’re on this trip.

Bogs drove the car around the dark mass of the church to where I guessed the huge frontage would be and as we turned the corner, the street was suddenly awash with light. From a piece of scrub opposite the church, a bank of searchlights illuminated the weathered grey stone of the imposing façade, while on the building itself, several gantries of Klieg lights turned night into day across the pavement and tarmac surface of the street. It was a single block of the Gorbals turned into the Las Vegas strip, glitter gulch next to the dark railway arches. Justin de Malbec was using this Greek revival temple as a studio for his TV show.

Further down the street, towards the old train tracks, several TV location trucks stood, a festooning of cables running from them into the church. There were people, too, some of them on scaffolding, fixing a fifty-foot vinyl banner that read Unmissable You – Channel 6 Every Night on the pediment over the main entrance, some others around the steps and the high open doors of the church, footering with objects I couldn’t identify, but the people De Malbec was pointing to were across the street, unconnected to the TV studio activity.

About eight of them, they huddled together, wearing some kind of matching robes or gowns, dark and cowly, like monks. Behind them, I could see now, almost obscured in the huge wash of light across the street, was a cross, maybe twelve feet high. And it was on fire.

Tell me, Justin, who is it that’s burning crosses in the Gorbals this fine night? And why are they all looking at your TV studio?

They call themselves the Church of Jesus of the Second Vision. And they’re bamsticks, obviously. You can talk to them later, in fact that’ll be one of your first jobs, but let’s get into the studio.

The broad steps – about twenty of them – would make a great setting for a sweeping ascent into the church/studio, perfectly framing the view for the TV cameras that would be installed across the street on the now-empty high gantries that had been constructed there, ready for the live broadcasts. At the swung-open high church doors, we were met by what looked like Bogs’s stunted twin – same lowering presence, same out-of-fashion Crombie coat, same who-the-fuck-are-you? look on his face, but 20% smaller. They were Bill & Ben with criminal records.

This is our deputy head of security, Stevie – Clinton Morris.

E’body calls me Cutty, but. Pleased to meet you, Mr McCabe. I’ve heard a lot about you.

Pleased to meet you an’ all, Cutty. I hope you’ve only read the good reviews.

I’ve got your security pass here. And Cutty handed me a laminated badge on a blue lanyard. It had my photo on it – not that I’d given one to de Malbec – a bar code, my name and the title Head of Operations. I couldn’t suppress a smile at being given a nice head-of job in a hierarchy, without even applying for it. And a badge, only half an hour after I heard about the show for the first time. Some folk are just born lucky, I guess.

Inside the building, nothing of the church it had been remained. We left Bill & Ben to do some securing and made our way through a wide reception, technical areas, dressing rooms, production offices, front-of-camera corridors before de Malbec finally paused in front of two heavy doors on which were golden letters spelling out the show’s title.

Here’s where the real magic happens, Stevie… he said, opening the doors. Behind them, a short corridor with recessed lighting, a sort of airlock leading to a second set of doors. Beyond those, well, you could only call it a lair.

Thousands of square feet of leather, chrome, smoked glass, fur, sixty-inch televisions, brushed steel, Mondriaan prints, multiple couches, all with an overhead canopy of surveillance equipment, like a rainforest made of lenses.

Here, Justin, will Goldfinger not be pissed off when he gets back and sees what you’ve done to the place?

Yeah, isn’t it something? This is where the eyes of the nation will be after Friday. Why’n’t you have a seat somewhere – pick a couch - while we have a talk. Whisky?

Don’t care for it, thanks. Don’t suppose you’ve got any beer worth drinking?

Just the stuff with the sponsor’s name on it – one of the sponsors, anyway.

Aw, no. Orange juice’ll be fine. We reclined on a white leather sofa, de Malbec manoeuvring his fingers around his whisky glass like a crab juggling a whelk.

I’m makin’ millionaires here, Stevie.

Starting with yourself.

Well, once the show is a hit, sure. There’s others’ll be taking a slice first…but you don’t want to know about that.

Actually, I do. You said you’d talk about the money.

Aye. Cash is king. I’m gonny make a millionaire, well, in fact, tons of them. Plus me, like you say, cuz that’s how everything goes round, right? But plenty of fuckin’ nobodies are gonny end up somebodies when they become you.

You’ve lost me there. You went a bit Spice Girls for a minute...they become you?

"You! Not you, not Stevie McCabe, you, like in the show – it’s called Unmissable You. The winner ends up with the title, y’know, from the contestants, they get ten mill – biggest prize ever, right? But every night, some sad sack watchin’ the telly gets a million as well! Every night! And all they have to do is be watchin’ the show when we call their name. Every night!"

After they pay when they call up in the first place?

Ah, sure – token entry fee, not the point.

Not a token when you’ve got millions doing it.

You’re not totally wrong there, Stevie, but why wouldn’t they do it? Sixty-five pence a day and they can win a million every night? That’s a helluva deal.

It’s not a ‘deal’ at all, Justin. It’s just a gamble. And the chances must even be worse than the lottery?

Let the mathematicians sort that one out. The point is, this is on TV and everybody gets to be part of the biggest thing ever. It’s about you! ‘You’, meaning them, obviously.

And what if they’re not actually watching the show when you call their name?

They’re gubbed. We go on to the next one. It’s all live. They have to watch, or lose. And they never know when we’re gonny call the names, it’s random. Except it isn’t that, obviously. We just change it around to suit ourselves. And sometimes, we’ll do it twice, early in the run, like? Because when we do it at the start of the show, all the zombies turn off...until they see in the paper the next day that we did it again! And they tell themselves that that was their chance, the one they missed, so they make bloody sure that watch every minute the next night, in case it happens again.

So the show is unmissable.

"Exactly – and the winner is unmissable you. And they cop a million in their Wranglers an’ all. Just for watchin’ my wee show."

And some of the adverts in between?

Oh, Stevie…you should see the kind of numbers Channel 6 is after for those slots. Y’know, if the winner’s name hasn’t been called, the cost of the adverts goes up during the show? They’re having a fuckin’ auction for adverts, while the show’s on! They’ve never seen anything like this.

I sat back in the white leather marshmallow I’m happy for you, Justin. Sounds like you’ve got three sevens on this one. Back at the club, you said I could meet Emmelle?

You’re not sayin’ that right. It’s ML. Mary-Lynn. She’s not here at the minute – have to keep her away from the studio, cuz she’s a contestant. Would look bad if she was in here before the show even starts, eh?

I’m startin’ to hear something hooky even now, Justin.

Well, that’s not your problem. What you should do is go and talk to the monks out there, or don’t, do what you like. And then we can go and see ML. But those wallopers with the burnin’ cross are your problem right now, you need to get a handle on that. Bogs has a document called Security Strategy, have a swatch at that and buddy-up to the bams with the cross. After that, we can go and meet ML.

This time of night?

Oh, she’ll be up, don’t worry about that. We need to talk about the stalker.

Ahh….go on.

ML’s got a stalker, a wee cyber-problem for us, y’might say, but we’ll get to that later.

Fuck a duck, Justin, a stalker?

But Justin was pouring himself another Laphroaig.

Chapter 4 – A Parade of Idiots

I wandered back through the Xanadu of surveillance to the main entrance, where Bogs was waiting to give me the slim document that was Unmissable You’s security strategy – perimeter maintenance, staff rotas, police liaison (nobody I knew listed there), emergency protocols, credentials policy – none of which I cared about, that was Bogs’s job. On the upside, there was some ammunition there for my wee chat with the Church of Jesus of the Second Vision.

Making sure my Head of Operations badge was out of sight, I crossed the light-ablaze street to the burning cross. In these situations, it’s always best to head straight for the leader, although who that might be wasn’t quite clear, since they’d all been to the same branch of dull brown robes ‘r’ us. I settled on addressing the biggest protestor.

Very late to be out tonight, brother…I’m Stevie McCabe.

You’re with the show, with….them, aren’t you? You’re going to try to get us to stop our righteous protest. Normally, I’d say don’t waste your time, but I’m happy to waste the time of somebody like you. I curse you.

Whoa there, captain. You always dolin’ out the curses on a first date? That’s not nice. We’ve only just met. Tell me this, though….are you the leader of this group?

No, I’m not a leader, none of us are. We are all followers. We have a leader, but here’s not here, not in the physical sense that I’m sure you mean.

But if I had to make sure your people get a message, I can tell you and you’ll, y’know, pass it on?

I can communicate with my fellows, of course. Any of us can.

Communicate with me, then. I’ve told you my name – what would yours be?

Call me Brother Jai. But, you know, we don’t have to talk to you at all.

"Okay, but after tomorrow, this block is closed to traffic and pedestrians, so what you will have to do is get your roadshow back behind the barriers. Either take it up to the corner, or somewhere