Bottles came dancing towards Michael, and took him up mischievously in her arms. She held her nose up in the air, miming Broadway posh.
Billie Holiday leaned next to the record player. She was older now, in the 1950s, and she was wearing a blue satin dress.
'Man,' Billie said, chuckling to herself. 'How can anybody sing that stuff? It sticks in your throat.'
She tried anyway. Billie sang Julie Andrews as if it were true in her rough old voice.
It was a sweet song about falling in love. Billie gave it uncertainty. Billie turned it into a song about last chances.
The old music swelled, and the two voices blended, hopeful, exhausted and innocent, exalted. The sweet long ended.
'Happy New Year,' growled Billie and held up an unsteady toast for them all.
And there was Henry.
Henry was weeping with joy. 'It's all right Michael,' he said, shaking. 'It really is all right. Everything will be fine. Really.' Michael hugged him, to soothe him.
'I love you,' said Michael.
'I love you too,' said Henry.
Michael said, 'You know who's upstairs?'
Henry nodded yes and smiled.
'You planned this!' exclaimed Michael, realizing.
Henry closed his eyes once and opened them. 'I can see all the way to the end,' he said. His eyes were as steady as car headlights. 'I am,' he said, 'there.' And he pointed far away, beyond. Michael knew what he meant: Always.
'I gotta pee,' explained Michael.
Michael stumbled out of his sitting room into the dark landing with the floor that would ram slivers into his feet. Parched, headachy and hungover, he slumped down on his own cold-seated toilet, and held his head in his hands.
He could feel a movement in the structured fat of his brain, a kind of kink, as if it had shifted gears. Abruptly the music was turned off.
Suddenly it was dawn for real, grey and quiet.
Michael wiped himself and padded out into his neglected sitting room. It was empty and quiet and dark. God, it was drab. It was like a hangover after a party was over. Why was it so dull suddenly? It wasn't just that the lights were off.
Then he saw why.
The walls were blank. All the Picassos were gone. So was the desk that was the only thing Picasso had directly carried up the steps himself.
And suddenly, eyes wide with terror, Michael knew what that meant. It's over. My God, it's over. And then he remembered Stumpy. He had not got the Angel's home address. And he couldn't ask Henry; Henry would be gone. Would the real Stumpy have any trace of memory of meeting Michael? What if he couldn't find Stumpy again?
Michael ran up the stairs and darted round the lintel of the doorway into the bedroom. And he saw the bed was full. A pale, silver arm reached across the empty sheet for Michael. Everything else had gone, but the real Stumpy was still there. Then Michael knew what that meant, too.
