The Miranda Contract (5 page)

Marco had a small office in the back of the shop, and while he only ever visited in the weeks before the end of financial year, or when there was someone to hire or fire; the office was kept spotless. This was because of the electronic key lock on the door rather than through any sense of loyalty from the employees.

Dan dropped his satchel on the floor and leaned against one of the benches Tabitha had already cleaned. He looked around and figured she had another twenty minutes to go, and because he didn’t want her to see him break into the office, he decided to watch her instead.

Her hair was tied up on either side of her face in thick piggy tails, but she wasn’t a young woman and wore it that way for practical purposes rather than vanity. In fact, apart from the eyebrows, Tabitha seemed to be devoid of any kind of self-love. She worked without talking, rubbing at the benches with a cloth after a spray of disinfectant, all the while chewing on the end of her cigarette. Dan would have opted for headphones and music to get him through the shift, but Tabitha didn’t even hum or do the little shuffle-dance he’d seen some of the girls do at closing time. She just worked her way through.

“Have you got another one of those?” he asked as she moved past him to grab the stringy broom which hung behind the back door. She looked at him and took it down, banging it twice on the side of the bench to dislodge any dust.

Dan pointed.

“Another cigarette?” he asked.

She leaned the broom against the bench and pulled out the stub from her mouth, crushing it into the bench top. Her eyes were on him, and Dan felt like pulling the hoody back up and just waiting for her to go. Instead, she walked towards him and pulled out a crumpled packet of smokes.

“These are mine,” she said. “You want to kill yourself; you buy your own, okay?”

“Just asking,” Dan said.

“Just telling. Now get your ass out of the kitchen so I can finish up. And if you come here again after tonight, I’m gonna tell Marco.”

Dan shook his head and smiled at her.

“Figures.”

“You think you have problems?” she asked, stepping back into his space. “You’re a kid, you have no idea what life can throw at you. Sure, you’re whining because your mummy came in and embarrassed you today, showed everyone that you’re a freak.”

Dan felt his fists clench over the bench top. She shouldn’t have known about that, he’d made sure the cameras were wiped and none of the other staff would dare talk to Tabitha. He’d even paid the new kid twenty dollars to keep his mouth shut.

The kitchen lights flickered.

“Suck up your pride, Dan,” Tabitha said. “Apologize to whoever you ticked off and go back to your little suburban life, okay? Blue skin or not, you’ve still got a mum and I bet you still have your prissy friends. Don’t think you’ve got it tough.”

She picked up the broom again and started to shove it hard across the floor, sweeping thick lines along the linoleum. Dan grabbed his bag and slipped out of the kitchen. He pressed his hand against the office keypad, scrambled the signals and pushed into the small room.

It smelled of rice.

But it was dark and secure and Tabitha would be going away up to her apartment and out of his life. And in the morning, Dan had a feeling he’d play it all over again, only this time he wouldn’t have anywhere else to be kicked out of.

Chapter 8

Miranda

T
he thick hotel
curtains held back the day as Miranda woke suddenly, the smell of fuel in the room, a shriek clutched at the very edge of her consciousness. She had been dreaming of Jakarta again.

The boy had died. Her legal team briefed her late the night before, but it still didn’t feel real, or else she wanted it to feel
more
real, like it actually mattered. Her manager declared the whole situation unfortunate but not anything to worry about – legally. Miranda wanted to know how things got so messed up, how it didn’t seem to really matter if someone died. But having the boy up on her stage, smiling like they shared some secret and then burning himself to death; Miranda wanted it to mean something.

Anything.

She got dressed and sprayed deodorant around the room. The vanilla scent masked her dreams and reminded her of the early days when she and her sister played at being rock stars in cheap hotel rooms, while her mother cleaned. Miranda looked at the large suite around her and felt the absence of her family deeper. Even the music had changed now she was famous. Her fingers ached for her guitar. She missed the feeling of the nylon strings, the sensation of strumming, the connection between her hands and her voice. It was gone now, outsourced to the faceless band. All she had left was her voice, and even that had been transformed.

Made better.

She picked up her tablet and ran her fingers across its surface. She flicked the screens of her schedule, her eyes taking in media appointments, choreography and then the Big Event in the evening where she would be singing and smiling and hopefully making the record companies and distributors very happy.

She tossed the tablet on the bed and walked to the window, pulling it across as she stepped from one end to the other, letting in the light which looked somehow different to the California sun she knew so well. It was brighter here, or perhaps whiter. She looked down at the street and saw a number of people walking past. There were no large crowds like the night before, no screaming fans or probing journalists. She smiled. Perhaps it would be a better day.

There was a knock on the door and she turned as it opened. The man only barely fit through the door, his head nearly scraping the top. He wore a dark suit which looked brand new, and barely concealed his enormous wrestler’s physique. He bowed his head slightly and stepped in, closing the door behind him.

“Sully,” Miranda said with more relief than she expected. She ran to him and leapt, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shirt. He smelled of jasmine.

“How are you, little one?” he asked softly, holding her up like a father would. He gently kissed her head and then she reluctantly slid out of his embrace and shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Better than the boy in Jakarta.”

Sully frowned. And then he touched her arm, no words necessary. She quickly showed him the suite and walked to the balcony. Sully nodded his approval at the view and then stroked his black beard, looking closely at Miranda.

“This riot last night, it has made you a little melancholy,” he said, like he had assessed her as they walked through the suite. “Too much pressure cannot be good for one so young.”

It was his usual speech. She turned away from him and looked down at the street again, the breeze blowing her hair back.

“You were younger than me when you started your career,” she said. “You’ve told me enough times, and I know you don’t really think I’m too young, or too naïve.”

“Perhaps.”

“No,” she said, turning on him with a smile. “Not perhaps. You know this is nothing to me.”

Miranda stopped as she realized the words which had come out. Sully raised his eyebrows. He seemed amused.

“I mean it doesn’t bother me, no stress. Those kids last night just wanted to get close, to see me in the flesh instead of on websites or whatever. It’s part of the job. There wasn’t any protest, no hatred. I wasn’t in any danger, not really.”

“And what about the boy?”

Miranda had a flash of the burning boy again. She clenched her jaw and pushed the image away, replacing it deliberately with memories of Box Springs Mountain, its reddish hue reminding her of childhood summers, with just Miranda and her dad.

“The pizza boy?” Sully added.

“Who?”

“The boy last night, the one who came to your rescue,” Sully said, enjoying himself. His short dark beard only barely hid the grin.

Miranda hadn’t actually seen the pizza boy; she’d been surprised by the weight of the crowd, especially since she only planned to go for a short stroll to clear her head. But her security detail showed her CCTV footage of the boy from the hotel cameras: a scrawny blonde kid in a striped blue and white shirt.

“What about him?”

“He is entourage,” Sully said. He was making fun of her. “Three local uberhumans for the final show. This young man is on security detail with me; the others are dancers, I believe.”

“Hang on,” Miranda said. “Back up a bit. That pizza kid is my bodyguard?”

“No, Miranda. I, as always, will be your bodyguard. The boy will assist us. He has very interesting abilities.”

Miranda shook her head.

“What? He can flip a pizza?”

Sully shrugged.

“That I do not know, but he has an affinity with electrical devices, quite useful for us. Last night he diffused the crowds and allowed you your privacy. For that, I think, you should … how do you say it? Cut him some slack?”

“You’re a comedian,” she said.

“At one time, perhaps,” Sully said. “But today I am simply your Sully. And as your Sully, may I turn your attention away from boys for the moment and to more peaceful, dare I suggest, relaxing pursuits. We have organized two excursions out from the city, for your pleasure. The first is to visit with those koala bears you were interested in.”

“I was only half serious,” she said.

“Then you will be at least half very happy. And that is an improvement from what I see here this morning. The second excursion will be tonight after the party. You will be flying to an island. Very exotic, some friends of yours from Hollywood are having their own private party. Very private. You will be able to relax.”

“Maybe,” she said. She didn’t really have many friends, let alone ones she could relax with. And the ones from Hollywood were hardly going to give her a break. Mostly they were keeping her close so they could exploit her if she made it big. She knew the friendships would only last as long as her music career maintained its top ten status. After that she would be sent packing, back to Riverside.

“That sounds great, actually,” she mumbled.

Sully nodded and checked his silver watch. It was a habit and Miranda knew he hardly ever noted what the time actually was. He gave the room a second glance from the balcony, and then bowed his head to her, smiling widely.

“We will see these koala bears after breakfast,” he said. “Until then, I have to untangle some of that red tape these government people like to spin whenever a celebrity comes to their shores.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, waving his hand. “It’s just a matter of clearing the use of uberhumans on the tour. They have agencies here to monitor ubers, interestingly they have an employment agency also. Australians!”

Sully’s laugh echoed through the suite as he waved goodbye again and left, leaving Miranda out on the balcony enjoying the morning sunshine. The idea of going to an animal sanctuary suddenly sounded good. Australian animals surely wouldn’t be impressed by her.

As he inserted his room card into the slot, Sully could sense someone was already inside. He wasn’t psychic, but he was right; so when the door clicked and he pushed it open, Sully gave the man in the pinstripe suit a casual glance before ignoring him.

“Good morning, Mister Sully,” the man said. He spoke with an English accent: private education, born into money.

Sully took off his jacket and hung it carefully. His back and shoulder muscles flexed in the man’s direction. Sully was not about to be intimidated.

“My name is Curtis,” the man continued. Sully caught a smirk on the man’s face in the narrow mirror. “I’m here on business, from Mister Klein.”

Thurston Klein was Miranda’s manager, as well as the one who signed Sully’s cheques each month. A self-serving entertainment expert, Klein managed to position Miranda at the right places at the right times, and even Sully admitted there was some form of art in that.

“I have never heard of you, Mister Curtis,” Sully said. “You bring bad news.”

“Terribly sad, what happened in Indonesia,” Curtis said. “A boy like that; in front of all those cameras, those adoring fans.”

Sully remembered the concert, remembered the boy and his five seconds of fame. But it wasn’t the boy’s face which kept him awake at night. It wasn’t the tragedy of his death. It was the effect it had on Miranda which troubled him so much more. She was nineteen, a child, really; even if she would never admit it. And Sully could still see the horror on her face, the shock, the brutal awakening, as the boy smiled his way into death to please her.

Sully said nothing. His fingers loosened the shirt from around his neck before carefully undoing the top three buttons. It was good to be able to breathe again, he thought.

“Unfortunately this whole mess in Indonesia won’t be fixed with apologies and sad faces, Mister Sully. The girl needs to shake it off, laugh at the whole thing, take it in her god-damned stride.”

Miranda would never laugh it off. And that was why Sully worked for her, to protect the integrity, the beauty which held court in her mind and body.

“Do you have a message from Mister Klein, perhaps?” Sully asked.

Curtis opened his palm and gestured to the table, deeper within the room. Sully’s eyes tracked the movement and took in a sophisticated laptop and projector. Sometimes Klein would negotiate terms via the internet, or hold conferences across continents. Personally, Sully preferred the face to face negotiations, but perhaps Klein was reluctant because of Sully’s physical presence. He didn’t blame the man, of course.

Curtis shifted to the laptop, tapped the keyboard twice and a beam of light spread from the projector to the blank wall over Sully’s bed. Klein’s bald head appeared a little too large on the flat wall, the perspective a little off, transforming him into something not quite human.

“Salaam,” Sully said.

“Is it morning over there?” Klein asked. “Did I wake you, Suleyman?”

“It is not inconvenient. And you have, as always, my full attention, Mister Klein.”

“I’ve sent Curtis to assist with these latest developments,” Klein said. “Miranda needs to use this or she’s finished. I can’t work miracles, Suleyman, no matter how hard I try.”

Sully shrugged.

“Miracles are not our vocation, Mister Klein.”

“This is make or break,” the manager said. “If she has a breakdown, good. If she goes a little crazy, even better. But we can’t have her moping around when every damned teenager on the planet is looking to her right now.”

“We all react to these things differently,” Sully said.

“No kidding. I’m saying, and I’m saying it very clearly to you, right now Sully. If she doesn’t react, and react in the way we need her to, then I’m cutting her off. She can go and sing country and western for all I care. We need razzle, here. We need drama, movement, insanity if we can muster it.”

Curtis moved to stand a little to Sully’s side. In his hand was a briefcase, silver and sleek. Sully hadn’t seen it before.

“Perhaps we should give her more time,” Sully suggested. “The rest of the tour has been quite successful.”

“Successful?” Klein shouted, his face turning a little red despite being plastered across the hotel wall. “You aren’t here, Suleyman. Here, in the heart of things, she is a complete disaster. A complete farce, from Seattle to bloody Indonesia. Her girl-next-door game doesn’t wash with the fans anymore. They want extreme.”

Klein wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he realized he was losing his composure.

“Perhaps I should continue?” asked Curtis. His clipped voice was in stark contrast to Klein’s rant. The manager nodded his head and reached for a glass of water, off-screen. “We have a solution,” Curtis continued. “It will require a little game of cat-and-mouse, but ultimately harmless to all concerned.”

Sully wondered what kind of cat-and-mouse game was ever harmless. He had known a number of mice in his time and none of them had ever reminisced happily about being the subject of a game.

Curtis handed him the suitcase. It was lightweight, with a chain and cuff dangling from the handle.

“Inside this briefcase is our young lady’s salvation.”

“Possible,” Klein added, leaning forward on the screen, his face filling the wall again. “Possible salvation. I’m not even one hundred per cent certain she has a chance anymore.”

“Go on, Mister Curtis,” Sully said, testing the strength of the chain and its overall design.

“The financial people want publicity, which translates into sales and profits, of course. The Human Tour has been somewhat lackluster in that department up until now. There was hope that with the buzz surrounding that poor boy’s death on stage, but… well, things didn’t turn out as planned.”