Authors: H. J. Hampson
"I'll get a cab no worries," I say, and climb out of the car, slamming the door shut behind me.
I've still got the half-full bottle of Remy in my hand and as the car drives off slowly down the road I throw it against a nearby wall. The loud crack it makes as it hits and shatters releases my anger and I wonder why I was so annoyed by the driver in the first place. There was something funny about him though … ah, fuck it, I'm probably just being paranoid. I should try to keep my wits about me but I just want to get fucked and try to forget it all. I kick the wall and sigh in frustration.
As I walk to the door of the club I imagine a sleek black panther, pacing up and down in a cage. I'd seen one at the zoo as a child, and I can picture it so clearly now. That's me, a caged, angry beast. I can see myself as a kid, standing there watching the panther as it paced to and fro, scared in case it suddenly jumped forward and broke through the cage. If only I'd known then that I'd end up feeling like that. Maybe I can break through this cage though…
"Good evening Mr. Alexander," a voice breaks into my thoughts.
It's The Social's doorman and he's giving me this well wary look. Maybe he'd seen me smashing the bottle, but had I actually done that? It seems like a dream already. Whatever. I just nod at the guy and walk in, up the stairs. The bar's quiet but in the darkness I clock a group of people huddled in one of the booths. I try to have a butchers at their faces without making it obvious and see a couple of soap stars and Sally Simmonds, the pop singer, who's looking really hot. Maybe later I'll have a crack at her. Imagine the look on that bitch's face if I brought her back to the house. That makes me smile. The soap stars and their mates are all secretly eyeing me up and I can tell they're talking about me. I vaguely know one of the girls because she was dating a guy I used to play with for a while and I wonder if I should just go over and introduce myself, but then I think fuck it, at least I should get a drink in first.
I order a Mojito, and whilst the barman makes it I casually scan round the bar again, looking for CJ, but I don't see him. There's another guy sitting at the bar alone and I realise there's something familiar about him.
The barman comes back with my drink, and as I take the first sip, it hits me. I swear my heart stops dead for a second: it's Taylor Jones. The guy looks like Taylor fucking Jones, no lie. Can it really be him, though? Back from the dead? Or is it his replacement who'd been forced to disappear when the real Taylor Jones topped himself? I can't even think straight. Had Taylor Jones actually died or was it his replacement that killed himself? I can't figure it out. But here's this guy, living proof!
I have to say something. I down the Mojito and move towards the guy. I want to see his face. I touch his arm and he looks up, kind of startled, but yes, there is a definite likeness.
"Taylor?" I say.
"Erm, I'm sorry?" the guy replies.
American. Was Taylor American? I can't remember now, but it's the replacement anyway, not the real guy… I think.
"Taylor Jones? It's okay, I know. They're onto me as well."
The guy's staring back, open-mouthed, probably with the shock of being approached by me, Beaumont Alexander, and me calling him Taylor.
"I don't think I understand," he says slowly.
"Yeah, mate, I know everything – about you, what happened, and all that," I say, and then leaning in close, "I know who they are."
The guy smiles, a nervous smile.
"I'm sorry I think you've got me confused with someone else. I'm Chris, Chris Zapalowsky, the film director?"
So they've got him playing someone else now, unbelievable.
"Yeah, yeah, sure you are. But you were Taylor Jones?"
He laughs, "Taylor Jones? What the dead rock star kid? No, I've never had the pleasure of inhabiting Taylor Jones' body, dead or alive."
He turns back to his drink.
So the guy is denying it all. This was to be expected.
"Okay, so you're not Taylor now, but you were…it's okay. I
know.
It's not just you. They're fucking everywhere. You see Sally Simmonds over there? That probably isn't even the real Sally Simmonds."
The Taylor guy slowly turns round to look at the posse in the corner and then shakes his head.
"I'm afraid I don't really know who she is, my friend."
I'm starting to get proper annoyed now. Why can't the fucker just admit that he has at some point been Taylor Jones? I've told him I know, that I'm in on the thing.
"Please, just admit it. You know my girlfriend? She's one of
them
! Like you were!"
Again, he smiles. "Er, I'm sorry if you're having girlfriend trouble, but I really can't help … barman? Can I get another one of these please?"
"For fuck's sake!" I slam my fist down on the bar, "All I want to know is what happened to you, so I can stop it happening to me."
The guy's now looking startled again, leaning back on the stool against the bar. He's raised his hands in front of himself. He thinks I'm going to hit him and that's just what I feel like doing.
But I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round. To my surprise, it's Jon.
"Beaumont, man, what are you doing?"
"I thought you were in with Kelly?"
"Yeah…"
He says something about Kelly having an early start tomorrow, but I'm so wasted I can't really understand.
"So who was that guy?"
"Who, this guy…?"
I turn round to look at the guy, but the bar stool is empty. I look back to Jon and shrug.
"Listen, Mattaus is DJ-ing at the Biscuit Factory tonight, why don't we head over there?"
He puts his arm round my neck and tries to guide me away from the bar.
"No, I've got to meet CJ." I pull away from him and fall back into a bar stool.
"I don't think that's a good idea," he says, helping me up.
"Yeah maybe."
Fuck it, I'll just go to the Biscuit Factory. I let him put his arm around me again.
"You are Jon, aren't you?"
He laughs, "Of course I am."
"We shared a room together at the 2002 World Cup."
"Yeah."
I don't even know why I'm asking him this, but I can't help myself.
"What was the hotel called?"
He seems to look into the distance, then looks back at me and laughs.
"Shit, Monty, it was ages ago, I can't remember."
He should remember, we both found the translation from Japanese really funny.
"Come on, let's go and check out Mattaus' gig."
I let him lead me out of the club. And I think about me and Kelly, the night we had that drunken fumble, and her excuse was 'Jon's changed,' but now I can't remember if that actually happened or if I imagined it.
I'm so drunk I almost trip down the stairs and he has to steady me. We both laugh about it, like he's as drunk as me, and I know he's not, but I'm too pissed to deal with it.
We're in a cab and colours are spinning around my head and I feel like I might puke. I could just go home right now, but then no, fuck, she'll be there, I can't deal with her. What is the plan again? The Biscuit Factory. Jon is talking about Kelly but I'm not listening. I wonder if they're following me. Where are the paparazzi when it matters? Although no doubt all stories will be fake. This night won't exist. Right now I don't exist. I bet they're listening. I bet they've bugged me, can they read my thoughts though?
The cab seems to stop really suddenly and when I look out of the window I see the pink neon sign of the Biscuit Factory glowing above me. There's a queue of people, miles long, stretching away from the door, the faceless plebs, all ugly. Jon pays and then we're on the pavement and I hear one of the rabble shout my name but I don't look and instead we walk straight into the club. The bouncers nod at us as we pass, no need to even
check
the guest-list.
Inside the music is so loud I can feel my bones vibrating. Shit, I wish I'd just gone home. The clubbers clear a path for us, stopping dead in their dance moves and staring, girls swooning. Yeah, maybe later girls. Right now I want to get to the VIP section and score, pronto.
We walk past the bouncer and red rope and up the steps to the VIP section. It's high above the dance-floor, with floor to ceiling windows, like a little observation deck where you can watch the masses below. Good for picking out girls, but then everyone looks too far gone now; there's steam rising from the heaving crowd, the sweaty fuckers.
I can feel people staring at me and I realise I've lost Jon. But anyway, I'm glad the bar is there to support me as I wait for the barman.
"A Mojito," I say and he nods blankly.
"And where can I get some coke?" I ask when he returns with the drink.
He raises his eyebrows. "I'm sorry sir, we don't…" he starts to say.
"Ah, fuck it. They're all on fucking E down there."
"I'm sorry sir…"
I jump with surprise as someone slaps me on the back.
"Hey Beaumont,"
It's Mattaus. He looks a bit surprised too when I turn round.
"I thought you were DJing,"
"I am ... in fifteen minutes, you just got here in time."
"Cool. You got any coke mate?"
He seems a little taken aback by the question and all. What the fuck's wrong with people round here?
"Ah, Beaumont, they're pretty strict about drugs in here these days, but I could probably sort you out with some pills."
"Nah, mate, I need coke," I say, turning back to the bar. I'm really fucked off now. Since when did VIP sections get all fussy about cocaine?
"Are you okay, mate?" Mattaus asks, leaning in close to me.
"Me? Okay? Ha! Yeah I'm fucking fine," I say loudly, so
they
will hear. But then I put my arm round Mattaus and whisper to him. "But not really, they're onto me you see."
"Sorry, who are?" he whispers back, but I suddenly feel exhausted and can't be bothered to explain. He wouldn't understand anyway.
"Nothing, it don't matter."
"Okay," says Mattaus, drawing out the 'k' as if he's talking to a nutter. "Listen, I have to go sort out my decks, but I'll catch up with you after the show, okay?" and then he slaps me on the back again.
Thanks a fucking bunch mate.
I order another drink and slump over the bar. Still no drugs. Damn, I wish Stella were here now, I've got to say, or do I mean Krystal? Fuck, I don't even know any more. Krystal is dead though. I wonder what Stella is doing right now, on the other side of the world. Fuck, I wish I'd gone with her. When she calls I'm going to tell her I'm coming over too. Hell though, why wait? I can go anywhere at any time – even tonight, I could go home, grab my passport, turn up at the airport. Money though, I'll need to sort that out first. One more drink and I'll go home, early night, get onto it first thing tomorrow. What time is it actually now? I try to focus on my Rolex but the hands seem to quiver in front of me. Fuck. And where the fuck has Jon gone?
I sense someone has come to stand next to me at the bar. A woman – I can smell the perfume. I turn and see it's a stunning red-head – all pale skin and razor cheekbones. Model, has to be. She looks so fragile she might break. Is she attractive or not? I'm too drunk to decide.
She smiles at me and I decide, yeah, she's fit. I smile back and try to imagine whether she'll be a good fuck or not.
"Hi, I'm Vanya," she says in a bland, trans-Atlantic accent that reminds me of something or someone earlier in the night. It makes me feel uneasy. But fuck it, I 'hi' back and watch as she sucks a little of her Cosmo through a straw. She's almost too beautiful to imagine having sex with.
"You having a good time?" I ask.
"Yeah, cool DJ."
"It's my friend, he's brutal on the decks, I'll introduce you later."
She laughs, slightly, and then to my surprise leans in close. I think for a second she's going to kiss me, which is a bit forward but I ain't going to complain, but she doesn't. Instead I feel her breath on my ear as she whispers:
"I hear you're looking for some charlie? I think I can help you."
This is better than a kiss.
"Come out back with me."
Out back? I don't know where she means but I follow her anyway. She heads for a door at the back of the room, and leads me down a staircase. It's like a backstage area of the club – dark, concrete, cold. As we get to the bottom the sound of Mattaus' records becomes deafening. It's some kind of storeroom. There's crates of beer stacked up around us and I reckon I can hear them gently clinking against each other as the whole place vibrates with the deepness of the bass lines. Probably the dance-floor is beyond the far wall; just metres from us are thousands of sweating, horny people.
I look at her. There's no point trying to talk, the music is too loud. She kneels down near a box of bottles and pulls a mirror and clear plastic bag of white power out of her handbag. I kneel down on the other side of the box and watch her cutting up neat little lines with a credit card. I wonder if she's famous. I can't place her face, but she could be. And I wonder if maybe after we've both done a couple of lines we'll fuck down here. Against the wall of the dance floor, maybe.