Authors: H. J. Hampson
"Detective Inspector Dante," he chimes, sounding happier than I've ever heard him..
"Dante, it's me, Beaumont."
"Oh aye, nice to hear from you. Not on a plane to Rio then?"
"No. Listen I've thought about what you said. And I'm gonna do it."
I hear him breathe out.
"That's great news son, I mean, really, it's the right decision."
"Yeah."
"So you're going back to the, er, Love Palace? Just play along with whatever they say. See how the ground lies. Suss 'er out and see who's running her, as it were. Then call me, yeah? We'll arrange a meet ... and try to be subtle about the whole thing, for God's sake."
"Okay," I say and hang up. It does feel kind of good, having old Owlface on my side. Dante, my old enemy, reassuring me. It's crazy, but then ain't everything crazy these days?
I notice the suicide note lying on the bedside table. The writing looks like a child's. I take it, rip it into pieces. What would I have written after 'sorry'? Maybe that's all there was to say really; there's probably an advantage to keeping those kinds of things short.
Then I'm Alex Crystal again, wearing dark glasses and hiding in a corner of the reception lounge, waiting for my car. Whilst I'm sat there, I read my texts. There's fifteen, and a few voicemails. One of those is from Di Cotto, he's screaming so loud I've got to hold the phone away from my ear, going on about me skiving off training and asking where I am today. Shit, I should be at the ground now, but that's the least of my worries.
'Sorry Guv, I had to go on the run for two days cos some nutcase mafia guys were gonna kidnap my girlfriend and replace her with a fake, but it's okay they just murdered my agent instead, the one you hated' I imagine saying to him. He did hate Serge so that might shut the cunt up.
There's a message from Rico, the hairdresser, one from Daniel the nutritionist, one from CJ asking about the money (I'd forgot about that), two from Jon, one from Sabrina at Franco Visconti jeans, a hang-up, and two that make my blood run cold:
"Oh Beau-mont," a Cockney, drunk voice, "we're just wondering where you are. You're missing your own party. Shame about your old man Serge wasn't it?"
I'm trying to swallow as the recorded bird asks whether I want to repeat, save or delete. And then she comes on:
"Hey Beaumont, it's Krystal. I can't believe you've left me here, alone, in the Love Palace. I'm so lonely without you, my beautiful husband-to-be," and then a creepy giggle.
She's got the voice to a tee. So they are there, waiting for me. I think I am going to throw up again.
"Alright, Mr Alexander?"
A lively voice interrupts my thoughts. It's Kevin, one of the drivers I've got to know quite well over the years.
"Heavy night was it?" he asks, nodding at the sunglasses.
"Er, yeah, kind of."
He just smiles and picks up my holdall. Kevin, reliable old Kev, never asks too many questions, never complains. Must be about my age and all he's been doing for the last three or so years is driving twats like me around, living for the huge tips we give when we're pissed. Probably tells all the stories to his mates in the pub.
"Mr Alexander?"
I must be zoning out or something because Kevin is touching my elbow and giving me this weird look like I'm his senile old grandpa or something.
I shake myself back to life and follow him to the car, where I sink down in the back seat and think about what I'm going back to … 'missing my own party', what the fuck are these people going to do to me? But I'm so tired I can't really bring myself to care … the soft sound of the engine lulls me into a doze where I'm with Dante, and Serge …Serge has been shot in the head, blood everywhere, screaming, Krystal staring up at me, so much blood.
I come to with a start and wonder where the hell I am, then remember. We're pulling up outside the gates to the Love Palace. The two paps are still camped outside the house as we drive through, and for the first time ever I've got to say I'm glad they're there. They're witnesses for whatever happens next. I almost want to get out of the car and talk to them, tell them everything, give them the scoop of their lives. But no, trusting the Bill is one thing but journalists are a different question.
Kevin pulls up outside the huge doorway. Nothing moves all around us. Is she in? Are they here?
I thank Kevin, pass him a twenty and stare up at the house as he drives off. The full English is having a riot in my stomach and I'm shaking badly. What is she going to say to me? I expect her, them, to be standing there in the atrium when I open the door like some kind of fucking welcoming committee from hell, but when I push the huge wooden door open no-one is there. In fact the house is completely silent as I stand there looking up at the chandelier. The door thuds shut behind me. If she's here, she'll know I'm back; you can't close that door subtly.
I walk up the stairs slowly, and the
déjà vu
kicks in. It's just like that awful time when Dean was alive, just before we had the fight.
I push open the door to the lounge and the first thing I see is the back of her blond head. She's sitting on the sofa facing away from the door. She turns round in an instant though, stands up and walks over to me, holding her hands in front of her.
She's a good likeness, but not quite as good looking as Stella, maybe more like Krystal, without the sparkle, or maybe a merge of the two.
"Welcome home Beaumont," she says coldly, standing there with her hand on her hip.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Krystal," she says, like I'm fucking stupid.
It's like we're saying lines in a play.
"Krystal's dead."
She smiles at this. "No, Beaumont, Krystal is immortal, she'll never die."
This is too fucking weird. Weirder than last time, kind of.
"Look, whatever, just stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours. You can have the large guest bedroom in the West wing, I'll get all her clothes moved there – assuming you want to wear a dead woman's clothes."
I'm shocked at my own guts. These are the wrong lines and it's throwing her act off kilter. She's got nothing to say to that. I turn to head for the kitchen and hear her shouting after me:
"Maybe we can talk later then, Beaumont, there's a lot we need to discuss."
Yeah, too fucking right there is.
I'm well shaking as I pour myself a multi-vit shake. It's a mix of nerves, anger and sheer exhaustion. She doesn't follow me into the kitchen, which is a relief, and there's no sign of anyone else in the house.
Well, if she's here to stay then I might as well try to act as normal as possible. I ring Di Cotto back and make a grovelling apology. I tell him Serge has been murdered and I was too shocked to think about training. Di Cotto is mad, but as predicted, the thought of Serge being murdered cheers him up a bit. I can imagine the stroppy Italian bastard ordering gorgeous Natalia to get him a bottle of the finest champagne so he could toast the death of one of his enemies.
Then I call Mum. She's upset I've not told her about 'the wedding plans' before they got in the papers. If only I could tell her the real story.
"Having to read about my own son's wedding in the paper!" she moans.
"Yeah Mum, listen, you know how it is. It's all got out of hand, we're not even officially engaged. I don't know if there will be a wedding."
She
must have come into the kitchen while I'm on the phone and overheard the conversation.
"No wedding?" she says, surprising me, when I've hung up.
"Not if I can help it, no."
She cackles, proper witch-like, "Well I don't think it's really up to you is it, darling?"
She really is Krystal's evil twin… I want to break her neck, ram a carving knife into her.
"I don't know, Denise, who is it up to?"
I stress the 'Denise' and notice her eyebrows rise slightly in surprise. Again, these aren't the right lines.
She ignores me and moves towards the fridge. I watch her, getting angrier by the second, as she takes out a carton of strawberry smoothie and pours herself a glass. Who the hell does this bitch think she is? Moving into my house and keeping strawberry smoothies in my fridge?
"So aren't you going to tell me who sent you, Denise? Who made you into Krystal? Who paid for your nose-job?"
She turns to face me.
"Well I think you already know that, don't you?"
"Okay so what about you? Why are you here?"
She smiles at this. An evil, satanic smile.
"Oh come on Beaumont, who would turn down the opportunity to become one of the most famous women in the UK? Who would turn down the opportunity to be the girlfriend of Beaumont Alexander?"
Her fake blue eyes pierce me questioningly. She's got a point, it has to be said. She looks like she's going to say something else but then decides not to. We take a sip of our drinks and eye each other hostilely. I notice she's wearing a huge engagement ring, which makes me fucking incensed.
"Oh yeah,
Chic!
are coming to do a shoot tomorrow, 3pm," she says casually, waving the hand with the ring on and smiling. "It's for the engagement."
Déjà vu again … well fuck me, talk of
Chic!
shoots in the kitchen near the knife rack. This bitch had better watch out; she's living with a double murderer.
"Yeah well we'll see about that."
"Tomorrow, 3pm, it's final," she says, turning away and walking out of the kitchen. I think about pulling out the knife, running after her and plunging it into her back, but it wouldn't go down well at all with Dante.
The next day there's no sign of the evil witch when I leave the house for training. When I get there everyone is sympathetic about Serge's death. It's good to be with the guys rather than back home, but when lunch finishes there's nowhere else I can go but there.
What will the lads think when they see the fucking gay
Chic!
shoot? They'll wonder how I can do that when my agent's just been murdered. If only I could tell them that I'm the victim of a massive crime ring and I've been asked by a senior police officer to help smash it. Then they wouldn't think I'm so 'gay'.
As I'm sitting in the training ground car park in my sports car I give Dante a call. It rings for ages, and for some reason I imagine him fishing through all the pockets of his overcoat, looking for his mobile.
"Dante speaking."
Finally. He sounds knackered, like he's been running or something.
"Dante it's me. I've met the girl."
"Right, son, right. What she like then? Anything to report?"
"Hostile. She's not given anything away and there's no sign of her management yet."
He grunts, as if this doesn't surprise him.
"Oh, there is one thing though."
"Oh yeah?"
This makes him perk up.
"Yeah, she told me
Chic!
are coming to do a shoot today at 3pm. For the, y'know, engagement."
He starts coughing, like he's choking on a drink or something.
"
Chic!
the magazine? Oh right, I'll send the riot squad for that one then. Listen, sorry, just go along with these things. It's best if you co-operate with them – the criminals that is, not the
Chic!
people – but call me again tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yeah."
I hang up and sigh, a riot squad would have been great. I sit back in my seat and through the windscreen I clock the young Senegalese boy, Kobe, trooping across the car park, pulling his huge puffa jacket tightly around his antelope-like frame. I wonder what it must feel like to be him, only seventeen and thousands of miles away from his family in this cold, wet city. I'm jealous, as crazy as that sounds. Kobe's a quiet, Bible-bashing lad. He's totally unaffected by the greed and excess of the game. It's how he's been brought up, I guess, in his shanty town in Africa, where there's fuck all to keep you going but God. But I admire his guts to be different; it's like a shield that protects you from the temptations, but the temptations usually break you down eventually. I've seen it happen before – the kid'll be up on drink driving charges by Cup Final day. Or maybe not, maybe he'll stay strong.
Me, I've only been inside a church a handful of times: weddings, Grandma's funeral, a painfully boring christening. Still, I've been taught bits of the Bible in school … the Ten Commandments… Thou shalt not kill. Well I've broken that, ain't I? But it's no good to start on with this deep thinking. What would Kobe think though if he found out he's playing alongside a murderer?
The freak-out gets worse on the way home. I can't stop thinking about how in less than an hour I'll have to canoodle with
her
for the benefit of the fucking
Chic!
cunts and their cameras and there's nothing I can do about it.
The team arrive at 3pm on the dot. There's Margot, the shoot co-ordinator who I've had the misfortune to meet before; a stuck-up bitch who dresses far too young for her age. There's the sexy brunette make-up artist, the predictably camp male stylist, the scruffy photographer who obviously thinks the whole thing is below his skills, and a posh bird called Cathy, the hack who's going to do the interview.