Authors: H. J. Hampson
"Right," I say, and we both get out of the car.
Serge stands stone-still, listening like a deer might for the movement of a predator. The air is still but cold and smells slightly sweet and rancid. That'll be the green slime which, I imagine in the darkness, is covering the concrete walls of the dock. The only sound is the gentle lapping of the water against that slimy concrete.
"Okay," Serge whispers and starts moving towards the back of the car. I follow and he throws the boot open. The black bin-bag shape is there as we'd left it, but I swear it's grown. I don't want to touch the fucking thing, I'm scared of what I'll feel if I pick it up – a stiff human arm, the fingers of the hand, the head, all totally brutal.
"Well come on then," Serge says, as if he can sense my hesitation. He's already grabbing one end of the vile thing. I take a deep breath and pick up the other. It feels like the feet which is better, at least, than the head.
It seems well heavier than when we loaded the thing up and we literally stagger with it towards the water. The old bastard can barely carry his end and almost drops it twice.
"Fuck this," he pants, "let's just roll it under the railings."
I have to say, I'm not convinced that's the best way but it's so fucking heavy I'm kind of glad he says this. The railings are about two feet ahead of us. There's a space of about half a metre between the ground and the horizontal bar, and a metre or so between the vertical ones. I don't even know what's beyond them – sheer drop into deep water or a bank of mud and slime. I take a look over when we get there and I'm overjoyed to see it's water. We put Dean's body down by the railings and begin pushing it forward. It's going to have to be head or feet first rather than fall in on its side, so we have to turn the bastard round. I can feel my heart beating faster and faster as the fucking thing is teetering on the edge of the dock. I want it to fall so much but as soon as the last part, the head or the feet, leaps out of our hands and the whole thing shoots towards the water, I'm totally freaking out. Within seconds there's a crash as it hits the surface and all those memories of Krystal come flooding back. Can I really get away with it twice?
But then there's just the fizzing of the water as it devours Dean's corpse, and then nothing but the sound of waves slapping against the dock walls. I sigh and look at Serge. He looks shit-scared and all, no lie, glaring back with his eyes so wide I can see every broken blood vessel in the yellowing balls. But that's just for a fleeting second, soon as I've registered it, and his face changes back to its normal look of a semi-scowl. I've seen the fear on Serge's face though, no doubt of that. Makes me think we're in it together after all.
We stand there looking out into the darkness.
"How was your second one, then?" Serge asks after a while.
"Easier."
I try to sound blasé about it but in all honesty I'm feeling sick to the depths of my stomach.
Where is Krystal, in that coffin of rotting carpet, now?
I wake up with Stella's warm body curled up against me. When we got back to the house last night she was still up waiting for us. It was almost four in the morning but we all thought it would be a good idea to have a few drinks because everyone felt too wired to sleep. So, me and Serge had a few whiskies and Stella had a couple of glasses of wine. We celebrated the fact that the Lanky Wanker was gone for good and no one said anything more about The Substitutors thing. Serge had passed out on the sofa and then me and Stella had a drunken snog before I led her upstairs. Kind of weird I know, but it just seemed like the thing to do at the time.
I raise my head slightly off the pillow then let it drop back with a groan. I feel pretty bad; my head throbs and my mouth and throat are desert-dry. It must have been gone seven when we went to sleep, first time in a while I've stayed up all night, it has to be said. I can tell the sun is shining outside, it's creeping in through the gap in the curtains. I glance at the alarm clock and see it's half eleven. Fuck, that's only, what? Four hours sleep, but I'm supposed to be at the training ground at one. Not good. I should get up and start moving but I carry on lying there, telling myself, 'just another five minutes'. And I start thinking of the things that happened last night. It's all too mad, my mind can't process it properly. But no more of the Lanky Wanker! That's one good thing. I bet Serge is right about those gangsters too. Some agents are really dodgy, Christ knows I've wondered what Serge has got up to in the past and I remember one cocky agent at my first club who tried to pass this player off as Nigeria's top striker, but the guy turned out to be the said striker's cousin. The gaffer went ballistic when he found out the lad couldn't score for toffee and tried to sue the agent who fled to Rio.
I look at Stella. She's still fast asleep. Weird to think yesterday she was my enemy, now I'm thinking it's kind of nice waking up next to her. Stella from Salford, Krystal from Onger. It's a head-fuck, no lie.
Everything around me is still. The house, my house, is silent and I'm not going to get up and find Dean in my swimming pool or putting his dirty feet up on my sofa. It feels like today is a new beginning and bad as my hangover is, I know it's going to be one of those days where you don't care because you're in such a good mood it's like the happiness chemicals neutralise all the bad hangover vibes and it don't hurt so much. A few painkillers and a multi-vit shake will work wonders, guaranteed. Maybe me and Stella could watch a movie tonight, curled up on the sofa, lights dimmed. I start thinking about all the times me and Krystal did that the evening after a heavy night. That one time after the Brit Awards when Krystal was so drunk she fell into a table and knocked a drink over some stuck-up Hollywood actress. The next night we watched a stupid rom-com and the actress from the night before came on as a cameo. It was too funny, man, too funny. But it's no good to start thinking like that.
Stella is beginning to stir next to me.
"What time is it?" she asks, her thick northern accent shocking me for a second. I tell her and she groans, closes her eyes again, puts her arm over her forehead. I look at her again, lying like this. She looks nothing like Krystal, or does she? Christ, I can't even remember what Krystal looked like now. But fuck all this mind-screwing, I've got to get up.
I was expecting to find Serge still sprawled out on the sofa but the lounge is empty. Yellow daylight is streaming through the huge windows and only the empty whisky bottle and glasses on the table in the centre of the room suggest anything of last night. I look up at the huge canvas above the fireplace and the artistic impression of myself stares back at me. That definitely has to go. Not only is it a blatant reminder of what I've done, but it's also looking decidedly passé. The hairstyles, the poses, the heavy use of black and grey, it's all so two years ago, and I guess it won't suit Stella much having her predecessor eye-balling her every time she walks into the room.
In the kitchen, I pause to look at the floor by the Aga where Dean fell. I feel nothing. No panic, no fear, in fact I can feel the corners of my mouth turning up into a smile. He deserved to die.
I turn the coffee machine on, and as it whirs into action I notice a piece of paper on the breakfast bar. It's a note from Serge:
"Had to leave early. Catch up on Monday. Serge."
What the hell did the lazy fucker have to get up for? He ain't got any other clients. But I'm relieved he's not still here, making pointless hung-over conversation and demanding coffee and painkillers.
A pang of hunger groans in my stomach and it gives me the at-this-moment-guaranteed best idea ever. The fridge is still full of Dean's crap. I pull the door open, scan the contents and – bingo, baby! – there on the second shelf is just what I want right now: a packet of bacon. I go over to the bread bin and sure enough there's a loaf of cheap, thick sliced white bread in there, which is a total result. A bacon sarnie, it's the cardinal sin of all foods – but fuck it and fuck the multi-vit shake. I feel a weird sense of pleasure at the thought of eating Dean's food. 'I've killed you, bitch, and now I'll eat your fucking bacon'. And as I'm standing there breathing in the heavenly smell of grilling pig flesh and slathering ketchup (also courtesy of the Lanky Wanker) onto the bread, trying to remember the last time I did this, I'm thinking this is fucking paradise.
Stella must have smelt the scent of it as well because she appears at the doorway soon after I get it started.
"Aw, you couldn't do us one as well, could you?" she asks. I grin and give her a nod. There's something to be admired in a girl that ain't afraid of the calories and cholesterol in a classic bacon sarnie. Krystal would never had touched one in a million years, well not since she got into all that weird diet stuff. Back in the day she did love her junk food, it's got to be said.
Anyway, me and Stella sit down together and tuck into the grub.
"I can't believe Dean's gone," Stella says between mouthfuls. She's wearing no make-up, and now I think that maybe she does look just like Krystal.
"Nah, me neither, babe."
She gives me this look, like I'm her fucking hero.
"Looks like Brand Beaumont and Krystal is back on track, eh?" I say, winking at her, just to make her swoon a little bit more.
I even make it to training on time, though it's got to be said that I'm feeling a little bit sick from that bacon sandwich. Still it's a pretty easy going session, and everyone is in a good mood, feeling pretty psyched about the game away to Liverpool at the weekend.
When I get home we don't put a movie on but we talk some more about our lives so far – my rise to stardom, how she dreamed of being a famous actress as a child. But we don't mention what happened last night. In fact, that night is never talked about again.
At the weekend, though we draw, I score an absolute screamer and find myself dedicating it in my head to Krystal, or at least Krystal's image, which maybe is Stella, though I'm not too sure.
Serge calls on Monday to talk about a new sponsorship deal and various other aspects of my brand. I wouldn't say Stella is my girlfriend at this point, although for business purposes she is Krystal, who is my girlfriend. But we're sharing a bed most nights and as time goes on, it kind of gets to the point where we're fuck buddies who live together and, it has to be said, it's not long before I guess I am thinking of her as my girlfriend. So, it's pretty much like before, I guess.
We find Stella a new agent to handle the day-to-day things – a posh woman called Georgia who I suspect is a lesbian but who has great connections in the music and fashion industry and is more than happy to maintain and develop Stella's, or rather Krystal's, profile. And fifteen per cent of all Stella's earnings keep going to the mystery account that Dean set up. Whoever the mystery account holder is, they seem happy to let things roll and we soon forget about all that gangster nonsense.
At Christmas we invite my Mum over and she seems to take to Stella's version of Krystal much more than she did to the actual Krystal, remarking to me when we are alone together, "She seems a bit calmer these days." And in the summer we holiday on an exclusive Caribbean island owned by an ageing Hollywood film star who's desperately trying to retain the last grains of his dwindling credibility ("Get her to go topless on the beach," he begs me, "the paps will love that."), and then we spend time on a yacht moored off St Tropez with a party that includes the supermodel, Boadecia Klaus, some Liberal politician dude and a Russian oil magnate. We are
Chic!
asserts, now moving in circles unchartered by any other football star and former glamour girl.
"Why do they always have to bring up the 'glamour girl' thing? It was years ago," Stella moans one evening, as if she'd lived through the days Krystal had spent gracing Page 3 of
The Sun
. She's sitting at the breakfast bar wearing four-inch, black Christian Louboutin heels, a hot pink Versace dress and a white cashmere cardigan that Boadecia gave her. It's around one in the morning and we've just returned from a party. We're both sober and I'm clumsily using chop-sticks to shove small chunks of sushi into my mouth.
"Well you know…" I start, but then realise I don't have an answer to this question.
I watch her, flicking through the pages like she's looking for something really specific and it suddenly strikes me how totally weird it is that this ex-call girl from Salford has become Essex's favourite daughter, Krystal McQueen. Maybe, she's even better than the original. Would the real Krystal have been able to stand there so… What's that word the politician used ...
demurely
, with the great and good of St Tropez? If only they knew the truth. It amazes me what a good tan and tasteful designer beachwear can do. But then
who
in that town hadn't got where they were through sex or money?
It is kind of crazy when you think how easily she's slipped into the role. In public she's started to soften Krystal's harsh Essex accent to a smoother and blander Home Counties tongue and quite often now she uses this tone at home. She's slowly toned down the blondness of her hair and the brightness of her fake tan, so now the hair is verging on brunette and the tan a more subtle brown. She has, in effect, become what Krystal had longed to be: classy. Now all the magazines like to run features on how much she's changed, occasionally printing pictures of her in the Page 3 days to illustrate how she's transformed herself, and that's the only time I know they're printing pictures of the real Krystal and not Stella.