Authors: H. J. Hampson
"And yeah," she's saying, "and then he started to get involved with these people, these shady gangster types. He called them The Substitutors... Like, because they substitute celebrities…"
"They what?" I say.
"They replace celebrities. You know, like I replaced Krystal. I don't know much about it, or who these gangsters were, but one night I overheard Dean talking to one of his contacts. It was just after Krystal went missing; he was telling this guy how I looked just like her, saying I'd be a good replacement.
"He's got this contact in the Met, who told him that the detective guy – Denton?"
"Dante."
"Yeah, him, that he was dead certain you killed her."
At this point she stops and stares at me with wide-open, questioning eyes. I look down at the carpet and say nothing. She might want to confess all, but I ain't trading secrets with her.
"So he comes up to me and he says, 'how do you fancy being a footballer's girlfriend?' He said he'd make me famous… Ha, it's so embarrassing now to think of it. He paid for me to get me hair done and all that, got me to talk in a Cockney accent, and before I knew it, I really did look and sound like her. God, when I met you that night at the TV station, I was so scared."
She looks at me again, and I study her face. Actually, now she looks nothing like Krystal, but she is pretty, no lie. It's a fucking brazen stunt Dean pulled though.
"Stella, these gangsters … whatever they're called ... do you think they'll come looking for Dean?"
She looks at me again. She's screwing up a tissue in her hand.
"Oh God, I'd not thought of that."
"Were his friends – the fat guy and the skinny guy – part of it?"
She laughs: "Keith and Wayne? Oh no, they're just a pair of brutes Dean knew from Salford. Ex-bouncers. I've never met any of the gangsters, I think they're some kind of organised crime ring, a cartel."
"What, like the Mafia?"
I can't hide my panic. Keith and Wayne, as I now know The Slob and The Rat as, seemed like a pair of chancers, compared to what we might be dealing with. She bites her lip and tries to smile.
"Maybe they won't care about Dean," she says.
"What?"
"As long as they keep getting their money. It says in all my contracts that fifteen percent of what I make is to be paid into this mystery account. I guess that's them."
Maybe she's right, if it's just money they're after. This 'substitute' business sounds fucking bizarre, but then I guess weird things go on up North and maybe it's a bunch of wise guys trying it on, taking advantage of Krystal's disappearance.
Stella's body shudders with another sob. "Dean was such a bastard, he … he … forced me to you know… all his mates as well."
I think of the used condom in the bin. I feel fucking sorry for her now.
"Well he's dead now," I say, "And you can stay here, if you want."
And suddenly we're hugging each other again and I'm breathing in the sweet smell of her hair. Maybe the bastard has done me a favour. I've got away with murder and now Dean's dead, Stella can carry on being Krystal and these gangster people can carry on getting their money and everyone is happy. In some ways it feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, but as I'm holding Stella, I look through the window and get a fleeting feeling that someone is watching us. Probably just paranoia.
She lifts her head up and smiles at me.
"Thanks. I'd like to stay… if that's okay."
We go into the kitchen to look at Dean's body. He looks as if he's passed out drunk, but a pool of blood has collected by his side. It's soaked into his jeans, turning the denim dark which at first glance makes him look like he's pissed himself. He must have hit his head on the corner of the Aga when he fell. Stella gives him a prod then almost jumps out of her skin when he suddenly slumps to one side, and I find myself laughing at her fright.
"I've never seen a dead body before," she says.
I'm about to reply that neither have I when I remember that not only have I seen a dead body before, but I've wrapped one up in carpet, loaded it into my car then chucked it into the Thames, and that brings me back to reality. I'm a double murderer. Double murder … the words mean nothing really, and we've got to do something with this fucking body.
"I'll call Serge, he'll know what to do," I say, and she nods and just says 'yeah'.
Serge stands in the kitchen with me, shaking his head and muttering.
"It was an accident," I tell him.
"That's what you said before. Well I have to say, son, you're much more composed this time. You must be getting used to it."
"He was asking for it," I reply. I ain't really in the mood for humour.
I tell him what happened, and give him the low-down on what Stella told me.
"She says there was these other guys behind it – some kind of cartel they call The Substitutors."
Serge frowns. "The what? Never heard of them."
"They wanted her to take Krystal's place, and now they're getting money from all the promo deals and endorsements she's doing."
He stops frowning and starts shaking his head.
"Listen, being an agent is a tough business and you get some right shits in this line of work, but I ain't heard of nothing like that before."
"But Stella says they're gangsters."
He smiles. "It sounds like a good plan to me. I mean, they were getting Dean to do the running around and they were getting the fifteen per cent."
"Yeah, great idea," I say, rolling my eyes. "So you don't think they'll be upset that we've killed Dean?"
"You've killed Dean. Nah, look, I ain't no expert but whoever these people are, as long as they're getting their money why would they complain? Now Dean's out of the equation they'll get a better cut won't they?"
"I suppose so, yeah."
"So just chill out. Now, what are we going to do with this fucking body?"
I still can't get my head round it but it's been a long day, and Serge is probably right. He knows the business as well as anyone. Sounds like killing Dean was in everyone's best interests.
He suggests we wait until it's dark then load the fucker up into my new Land Rover and head down to the docks again. He reckons a big clean up ain't so important this time because the cops ain't going to come looking for some wannabe-gangster like Dean.
"They'd probably want to come and give you a fucking medal for doing away with scum like that," he says, which is what I want to hear. But the thought of taking that journey to them deserted docks again makes me feel a bit ill, and it has to be said, it's an insult to Krystal to bury this thug with her.
"Can't you think of something more, you know, original?" I ask him.
He gives me this look, screws up his face like he's swallowed a wasp.
"Oh sorry, I didn't realise you were some kind of expert in body removal. You got a better idea then?"
"I was only asking," I say. Jesus, like there's a need for that attitude.
We wrap the body up in bin-bags held together with gaffer tape and clean up the pool of blood. At one point Stella appears in the doorway, looking nervous and awkward. I flash a smile at her.
Serge looks round from the sink where he's washing the blood out of a cleaning cloth. He looks from her to me, and without removing his hands from the sink, nods at her and just says, without smiling, "Alright?"
He could be a bit more fucking friendly. The bastard's probably still got one on him because of me asking about taking the body some place else.
Stella mucks in and helps us take the body downstairs, through the garage and into the back of the Land Rover. Credit to her, it's not an easy job and the whole time she looks like she might burst into tears at any moment. But it's good she's here. It's weird, but it feels like I've been promoted and now it's my duty to look after the rookie, like Serge looked after me when we dealt with Krystal. She and Serge don't speak to each other either, and so I feel like the link between us all, the master of the operation.
It's easier this time to get the body into the car because the bin-bags aren't as bulky as the carpet. Still, Serge is effing and blinding as we try to get the thing to lie flat.
I tell Stella to wait at the house and give her a quick hug, don't know why, it just feels right. Then I pull on my beanie hat, the same one I wore when we took Krystal, and climb into the front of the Land Rover where Serge is already waiting.
"I'm too old for this shit," he says, still panting from the effort of moving the body. I don't say anything back. I'm thinking about what lies ahead of us, and imagining that after this is done I might be able to live my old life again. That would be some result, no lie. I start the engine and press the remote control to open the garage door. The car begins to creep down the drive when Serge starts talking again.
"What d'you say that thing was called?"
"What thing?"
"The thing Dean was working for."
I don't know why he's asking. I don't want to think about that right now.
"Oh. The Substitutors or something. Why?"
"Just thought I might do a bit of digging, that's all… So you like her then?"
"Like who?"
"Her," he motions back towards the house with his head, "that Stella."
"Yeah, she's okay. She's been through a lot, you know."
The bastard gives a quiet grunt, "Yeah, so she says."
"Oh come on Serge, Dean was treating her as badly as he was me… Well worse, really."
"I never thought you'd be so soft towards an ex-hooker," the fat bastard says sarcastically.
What the hell is his problem tonight? Now I feel my anger swerve away from Dean and towards him.
"She's not an 'ex-hooker', Serge, she just did a few dodgy films. You know, it's not that different from the ones Marcus Bazelle filmed in my house and I didn't see you complaining about those girls."
Bazelle, a guy I got to know through Krystal really, used our house as the set for three of his 'erotic' films – basically slightly arty bongo flicks. I remember Serge hanging around the set that day like some sleazy old geezer, and he had to go out for a wank when the sex scenes started. Gross. I tried to encourage Krystal to get involved in a bit of a gangbang with the cast that night but she weren't having any of it, so me, Bazelle and the actresses met up in a hotel room a few days later without her knowing. Good times, sort of.
"Alright, don't get yer knickers in a twist. I guess there must be something about her. I dunno, maybe she reminds you of an ex or something," Serge shoots back at me.
"Don't I pay you enough to keep your fucking nose out of my business?" I snap, because that's below the belt. All the years he's been my agent Serge, the fucking father figure, has been creaming fifteen per cent off of my earnings, sometimes more here and there, and I hadn't minded, or at least turned a blind eye to it while it was all good and the contracts kept coming in, but since the whole Krystal thing Serge has proved as much use as a chocolate fucking fire-guard in protecting me from Dean and his cronies, and yet here he is, still taking his fifteen per cent out of my wage pocket. Maybe he doesn't have my best interests at heart, like he likes to say he does. But then again, shit, here he is helping me move a dead body – the second body. Can I trust him though? Ah, shit, I don't even want to start thinking about dark crap like that. I wish that last conversation hadn't happened.
We drive on in silence. As the car eats up the road in its headlights the silence gets heavier until I want to say something so badly but I can't think of a single word. Last time we drove in silence too, but then I'd almost been in awe of the fucker and his calculated coolness. It's a totally different vibe now, it's like we're both different people, replacements like Stella.
Soon we're on the motorway and the yellow glare of the street lights dazzles me for a second.
"Mind if I put the radio on?" I say eventually.
"Nah, as long it's none of that gay crap," he says quickly, like he's glad one of us has finally spoken as well.
I force a chuckle because it does my nut in when he refers to my man George as 'gay crap', but I've come to get used to it and I'm just grateful he's being okay with me so I ignore it and flick the thing on. The car fills with some old, Sixties song… Dusty Springfield I reckon. The local station is obviously doing retro hour, but it's kind of pleasant.
Serge taps his fingers on the dashboard in time with the music.
"Good old Dusty, this takes me back, I tell ya," he says.
Takes me back as well, but to some place I can't fully recall. I think Mum and Dad were dancing together round the kitchen, it must have been a long time ago.
It ain't long before we're turning off for the docks. I remember this road from the last time, the huge machinery of the docks looming above us. Fear creeps up inside me the closer we get and I try to tell myself that it'll be just like last time but easier – no one will be around – and again, Dean had deserved to die. We pull up at the same spot, the headlights hitting the shiny, black water for a second before I kill them. Now only the weak street lamps that stand sparsely around the dock provide the light for us to work in.