Authors: H. J. Hampson
Since my rise to stardom our relationship has become tense. Mum refuses to move out of the poky terraced house and, though I hate to admit it, I'm embarrassed to visit. I hate parking my beautiful cars on the street outside where the fucking kids, the little shits, will slash the tyres or break the windows just for the hell of it unless I take a minder with me, and I'm embarrassed by the chintzy sofas and net curtains that haven't changed since the mid-nineties. As for Ma, she don't approve of my lifestyle, and wonders why I can't settle down with a 'nice girl' rather than dating that 'tart' as she refers to Krystal. God knows what she'll say about this mess. But she's the only person I can call and, I've got to say, it's strange and surprisingly comforting to hear her voice.
"Hello darling." She sounds delighted. It's rare for me to call and her unfailing love for her selfish, neglectful millionaire son makes me feel bad.
"Mum, can I come round? Krystal's gone missing."
"What? Krystal's gone missing?" She's got this annoying habit of repeating everything I say.
"Yeah, she never came home last night, the police are looking for her, it's on Sky."
Jesus, I hate lying to her – a murderer lying to his own mother, but what can I do?
"On Sky? Oh my days, Beaumont! Well what did I say—"
"Mum I ain't got time to talk now; I'll be over as soon as I can."
I pull together an overnight bag then head to the garage. The black Land Rover is sitting there, taunting me, telling me it knows my secrets. I'm glad it won't be here when I get back. Anyway, fuck that, I need to concentrate on the now. What car to take to Mum's? I decide on the pimped up Brabus Merc. At least it looks like it might be owned by one of the drug dealers who sometimes come back to the estate to proudly show off their not-so-well-earned bling. I ain't driven it for months and lying on the passenger seat inside is a pale blue cashmere scarf. I pick it up, hold it to my nose, and inhale the aroma of Chanel No.5. She wore it because Marilyn Monroe did. It must have been here since last winter. I feel nothing though, no guilt, no sadness. I just sit back in the seat and close my eyes. I'm totally knackered, it's like a massive come-down – that feeling of being all used up inside, so hungry you feel sick and so tired you feel too wired to sleep. The thought of driving all the way over to Wembley seems like the longest journey of my life, but now all I want is to be back in that small bedroom, where the posters of Barnsy and Glen Hoddle still hang on the walls, more than anywhere in the world. It's a homesickness I've not felt since…when? My first trip abroad, the England under-sixteens away game with France.
There are cameras outside when I drive through the high, electronic gates. I stare straight ahead as they press themselves against the windows of the car, and I block out the things they're shouting by turning the music, some old school R Kelly, right up. Camera flashes surround me. Only about six of the fuckers, a small pack, panting and growling, but it's enough. As I look back through the mirror I can see a couple of them running to their motorcycles which are parked – illegally – on the grass verges. At least if they follow me they'll be out of the way when Serge comes for the Land Rover.
It takes me, and the chasing paps, two and a half hours to reach Mum's house. During the journey I ignore my phone ringing time and time again and when I pull up outside the house I've got voicemails from Michael, which I delete as soon as I realise it's him, and the Old Bill. They want to talk to me again, some guy called Dante. Well, it was like Serge said, they'd be in contact again. Maybe this is just routine, yeah, I tell myself, they don't make appointments to arrest people do they?
It's dusky outside now, and a pap on a motorcycle almost collides with me as I climb out of the car. I wish the stupid fucker had crashed, but he manages to regain his balance and stop a few yards ahead of me. Mum's already waiting at the door, looking worried. She hugs me; her body feels smaller than I remember it.
"I've been watching the news all afternoon since you rung, darling. What's going on?"
"I don't know," I tell her, "I've got to ring the police back, look let's just get inside."
As she closes the door behind me the smells of my childhood reach out to me: oven chips, Ambipure air freshener, nicotine, and I want to close the door behind me and never, ever leave again.
'Krystal's shock breakdown'
'Krystal goes missing'
'Coke-addict footballer's fiancée missing'
'Where's K-Mac!?'
It's all over the papers this morning.
Last night I had fish fingers, oven chips and frozen peas for tea, washed down with orange squash. I lied to my own ma in front of
EastEnders
with the sound down as the paparazzi loitered outside, pissing off the neighbours. I told her more or less what I'd said to the police, adding to it here and there with my own pretend theories about why she'd gone and where she might be. I also called the Old Bill back and arranged to meet this Dante geezer at the house this afternoon. He insisted that the meeting take place at the house. Is he suspicious? Or does he just want a butchers at the legendary Love Palace in all its glory?
And last night I remembered I'd brought a few Valium tablets with me so I took two as I lay in my boyhood bedroom, feeling like a giant in the tiny single bed, trying to remember things that seemed so far away until the drugs kicked in.
This morning I wake from a blank sleep, still fuzzy, confused about where I am until I see Barnsy's face grinning down at me and it all comes back. I lie there for a while wrapped in my duvet. I feel safe, warm. I think about taking the rest of the Valium tablets, just to keep that safe, warm feeling forever, but then I couldn't do that to my Ma so I drag myself out of bed and head downstairs.
Mum is smoking a fag over the morning's papers with all their fantastic headlines. The fuzziness from the Valium has left me too numb to feel any shock, even at the one referring to Krystal as a coke addict. She'd have hated that. Mum is worried, fretting over whatever
The Mirror
is saying, and seeing her like this makes me feel pretty shit about lying to her. She's the only person in the whole fucking universe who trusts me and will defend me to the end, no lie.
I stare at the headlines and the front pages of the papers as I eat my cornflakes and then toast, re-reading the headlines over and over again and the first few lines of text. I can't bring myself to 'turn to pages 4 and 5 for the full story' in any of them. People all over the country must be doing that though. Gorging themselves on the scandal, talking it over with their families as they rush through their morning routines, then heading to their boring little office jobs and discussing it with the person on the next desk. I wonder if any of those losers have guessed what's really happened.
"
The Mirror
says there's been a sighting of her in Hastings," Mum offers. I smile and tell her I can't imagine Krystal in Hastings. She just frowns at me.
I'm meeting this Dante guy back at the house at half two. Serge says it'll be okay to go back then. I guess this means the Land Rover will have gone, but neither of us mentions it by name as we're too paranoid now about the phones being tapped. There's fuck all to do after breakfast so I go to the window and peer though the net curtain. I see a few paps standing around at the end of the drive. A couple are smoking and they look like they're making idle small talk with each other, with their cameras with over-sized lenses hanging round their necks. Bastards.
The Merc is a few feet away from them. I don't like that. I wonder if they've looked inside and seen Krystal's scarf on the passenger seat, perhaps noted the half-eaten packet of Polo mints…
Suddenly one of them yells something and points towards the window. Like hyenas raising their noses to the scent, they all grab their cameras at once. I let the net curtain drop and lean away from the window before the first flash.
"I don't know what they want anyway, hassling you at a time like this," Mum says, entering the room to find me pressed against the wall, her hunted son.
The rest of the morning drags. I can feel my skin tightening and drying out from the central heating, which Mum has on even though it's technically summer. I curse myself for not bringing my moisturiser with me and I'm almost reduced to using Mum's cheap Nivea stuff, but I'm too worried it'll bring me out in zits. Then I start to feel well bloated from all the carbs I've eaten since last night and pass some of the time doing sit-ups and press-ups in my room. All the time I'm thinking about this Dante guy and what he might want. I summon Serge's voice in my head: it's just routine, just routine.
When it's time to head back to the house for the showdown I hug Mum goodbye and tell her I'll see her soon, though truth be told I don't know when that'll be. I take another look out of the window to see the pap crowd has got bigger. There must be about fifteen or so of the fuckers now, like vultures collecting and waiting. It's as though they can sense me because I swear the flashes start going off before I've even fully opened the door. I want to get to the car quickly but they form a wall in front of me, moving together as one, the snip-snap of the cameras going off all around me. I got to admit it freaks me out a bit, being this close to them with no security. I want to lash out at them and tell them to fuck off to hell but I keep my eyes turned down to the pavement and try to push through them. I don't want to look at the cameras and give anything away.
"Beaumont, mate, over here," they cackle.
"Where do you reckon she is?"
"Was she back on the drugs?"
They're pressing against me, actually touching me, but I manage to climb into the car and slam the door. I have to sit there for a second, breathing slowly, but they still carry on, banging on the windows. I rev the engine loudly and they scatter like pigeons and I can drive off.
They don't follow me as I make my way through the housing estate back towards the ring road. This is a bad sign. They're obviously staff hacks or team paps, not the freelance loners you usually get who hang round exclusive nightclubs till closing time to get a few shots up the girls' skirts. Likely they'll be on their mobiles now, sending messages back to the chief pigeon or whoever is in control. Maybe they've just put tracking devices under my car and know where I'm going anyway. Crap, I can't let myself start thinking shit like that.
As I'm nearing the gate to my house I can see them crowded on the road, waiting for me. Not a pretty sight. There's even a huge news van with a whopping great big satellite dish on the top and what looks like Japanese writing in the side. I want to accelerate and run the bastards all down, hear the camera lenses crush under the Merc's tyres, but I don't have the guts to do that so I slow down as I try to pass them. No option really as they're blocking half the road. Needless to say this gives them a chance to swarm round the car, whooping and shouting. I wish Serge was here now, calling them all 'fucking cunts', telling me how they're all sex-starved alcoholics. I wonder what they'll do when this DI Dante fucker arrives and, as my stomach flips at the thought, I wonder again: what the hell does the guy want?
The house is so silent, it makes the air feel heavy, and this makes me feel more nervous. I can feel her everywhere. I keep expecting her to appear in a doorway or call me from a far-off room, like I've forgot for a second she's dead, and then I remember – I killed her, and I see the blood, see her eyes. I walk through the hall and come to the glass wall beyond which the water of the swimming pool glistens under the low lighting. I watch the water for a while. It's hypnotic the way the gentle waves roll up and down the length of it, and then fuck me, I swear I see a body, floating face down, just for a second, close my eyes, open them again, and it's gone. Totally spooks me out, and I run through the house until I'm stood in the lounge under the skylight, panting, sunlight bearing down on me, burning away those horrible vibes. Jesus, I must be going fucking crazy, but I swear there was something in the pool. I wish so badly there was someone else here, anyone, and when the gate chimes go I'm kind of relieved, thinking maybe it's Serge, but then I remember, no, it's the fucking Bill, the detective.
A fat, balding face on the CCTV screen scowling up at the camera. Huge bushy eyebrows that make him look a bit like an owl. I press the buzzer and watch Owl Face as he carries on staring at the screen, the scowl turning to this gormless look, and then he must notice the gates are opening because the eyebrows suddenly raise and he vanishes from the screen, obviously rushing back into his car. That would be kind of funny if he wasn't the Old Bill. Owl Face obviously ain't used to hanging out at gaffs with high security gate systems.
I'm at the door before he's even driven down the drive, and open it to watch him pulling up in his plebby little detective car and get out. The eyebrows rise again when he sees me standing there. Awe-struck probably. His body is fat to match his face, well middle-aged, plump at any rate, and his face is flushed red, as if he's an alky. And he's wearing this crumpled shitty, grey suit that looks cheap as hell, with a maroon and cream tie that could have been nicked off a school kid.
"Detective Inspector Dante," he says flatly, flashing me a police badge with a photo of his face on it, in the same scowling expression that I saw on the CCTV screen.
"Beaumont Alexander," I say back.