To the Devil - a Diva! (23 page)

Vicki was staring up at Raf in admiration.

He'd handled the phone call fantastically well, standing there at the till, while she saw to the queue of customers and earwigged. He hadn't let himself lose his temper with the hysterical old woman. He had simply stated the facts. And he was quite right. Colin was indeed a terrible star-fucker. It had sickened them both to watch him licking around Lance last night.

That Lance. What a loser. Vicki couldn't believe how sad and pathetic he'd turned out to be. His flat wasn't all that special, either.

This morning Vicki had binned her Lance Randall T-shirt. She planned to record over all her
Menswear
videos.

‘That's told her, anyway,' Raf said, simmering with anger. ‘God! What a horrible old bitch. No wonder Colin's as fucked up as he is. Being brought up by her!'

‘Yeah,' said Vicki. ‘You know I never liked him, anyway.'

Raf let out a great, dramatic sigh. There was still a queue at the cash desk. He looked at the next fat, greasy punter, who was holding out a pile of fanzines and a plastic model of something off Star Trek. Raf grabbed them off
him and shoved them in a bag while Vicki rang them into the till. ‘He's got the tiniest cock, you know,' Raf said. ‘Did I ever tell you that? That's one of the reasons I'd have nowt to do with him in that department. He couldn't do anything for me. I need a great big strapping one I can get my gob around. I could hardly find his. He was useless in bed.'

‘That's
£
32.74,' Vicki told the sweating punter, her eyes gleaming.

‘Really,' Raf went on. ‘I think, if you've got a cock that small, why even bother? Chop the fucking thing off. No one's gonna be impressed. Become a woman why don't you. That's got to be better than going about with nowt to show off as a man. No, I think anything less than eight inches semi-erect is a waste of fucking time. It's an embarrassment. I don't want it. No – you can take it away! Stick it up your own frigging arse! You might as well go home and stay home or hack the bloody thing off with your nail-file. I wonder what that Lance made of it. It's bound to have been a disappointment.'

‘I bet,' Vicki grinned, watching their customer shuffle away.

‘All he had to do was quite simple. His instructions were easy. All he had to do was tap Lance for information about Karla, But no, he's much too selfish for that. Once we're all up there in that flat, he forgets all about us. We don't matter to him anymore. We're just his mates.'

‘So what do we do now?' Vicki asked. She was keen to move on, past the subject of Colin.

‘I hate losing friends,' Raf said. ‘I really fucking hate falling out. But sometimes it just has to be done. You can't
let people shit on you like that from a great height.'

Vicki thought back to the look on Raf's face when it became clear last night that Colin was going to be staying with Lance. Raf had looked … affronted, was the only word for it. He'd looked sick with disgust.

They had left with all haste and hardly a word and walked down Canal Street and into Piccadilly together to get their night buses. Raf had been so furious he'd hardly had a good word to say to Vicki, either.

‘Look at me!' he'd burst out eventually. ‘I'm young and I look fucking fantastic and I'm slim as a whip and look at who the fuck I'm stuck with at the end of Friday night! And that Colin is …' He had clamped his gob shut at that point and glared at Vicki as she stood hunched in the bus shelter under an advert for mobile phones. She could have been quite hurt at what he was saying, but where would that get them? Of course she wasn't who he wanted to be stuck with. Of course he was gutted, and wasted.

A thought had struck her then. ‘You didn't fancy Lance, did you?'

He tossed his head, eyes blazing back at her in contempt. ‘Of course not. But if anyone was going to shag the old cunt, it might as well have been me. I could have got Karla's number out of him.'

‘You'd have … shagged him?'

‘It's just a shag, isn't it? You can easily put it out of your mind. Specially when there's something important at stake. You can suffer that much. It's usually over quickly enough.'

Vicki shrugged and sat heavily on the plastic seat. She
was wondering if Raf wasn't becoming a little obsessed with this idea of Karla Sorenson. Still, she had to admire him as he stood there, silhouetted by the new lavatorial fountains and hugging himself, all rigid with ire. The way he talked so casually about shagging. It was marvellous. It was liberating to Vicki. ‘Maybe you can still go and pick someone up,' she suggested, trying to sound casual. ‘You said, down by the canal and that, it's easy enough …'

‘That's not the point,' he snapped. ‘I'm not bothered. For fuck's sake. If I just wanted to come, I'd get you to jerk me off. It really isn't the point.'

Vicki was holding her breath in shock. But then her bus was pulling up, all its windows lit and all its seats empty. And Raf was still looking at her like she would never, ever get the point.

Now he knows that she's actually here in his city, Rafiq wonders what he would say to Karla Sorenson. Any day now he might bump into her in the street. Or in a queue in a shop. She had to use shops. She was human, same as him. In the foodhall at Marks and Spencers, picking rolls out of baskets with plastic tongs. On an escalator in Harvey Nicks. Him going down, her sailing upwards through the middle of the building. They would meet in the middle where two hypotenuses bisect, with all those cabinets of luxury items laid out, seemingly hovering in mid-air around them, like angels. And for a second they would meet on the level, and look into one another's eyes.

Raf couldn't imagine how she would be dressed. He didn't want to think of her looking dowdy, unimportant.
Or looking any different to how she did in the theatre of his sporadic Fan Fiction, and that was an amalgam of every sluttish, gorgeous, vampiric ensemble she'd ever donned for her movies of the Sixties. Only not cheap. When they met face to face she'd be in some expensive version of those past incarnations of Karla. He'd invented these outfits and dolled her up quite lavishly in the endless stories he had written about her.

When he went back and read these stories of his – his fanfic, his slashfic, his adventures in glorious hypertext – he was disappointed, of course. The exact look and feel, the precise sensation was never there in the text. Everything he ever imagined never transmitted itself into the writing. The words were bold and crass and lifeless. As he wrote his vampire lady tales, he thought them redolent and heady and shimmering and fleshly. When he read them back – when they were already afloat on the worldwide web – they seemed flat and minimalist and sometimes silly. Not much detail. Not much plot. A bit cartoony. Fanwank.

If he met her to talk to in the city one day, he'd say: I feel like I know you because I've tried to get inside your mind. I feel like I know all about you and I suppose that's a very daring thing to say? The words would leap out of him and the sentences would be fully-formed: the thoughts perfect and exact. And she would smile and nod at him and she might have heard such things before. It might be par for the course. Raf was no fool. He knew what fans were like and what they thought. How they contented themselves. How they consoled their fevered selves. He knew he was no better than that.

Except. Except she would see something special in him. In just that quick eye-contact and those few phrases. She would see the natural genius there. The beauty. The flash in his eyes that matched hers completely. That marvellous ironic glint she would occasionally give to the camera, to the audience, during her close-ups. A tiny thing, a tiny glint, that most of her viewers would miss. A wink to the wise and the initiated, that ironised her whole performance; that sent the whole thing up. Even in the most terrifying of scenes, and the most sexy, Karla would swivel round to the camera and give this tiny little sign that she was taking absolutely none of it in earnest. It was the kind of sophisticated, self-crafted gesture that Rafiq adored.

He had practised his own version for hours in the mirror in the bathroom at his parents' house. His sisters banging on the door, needing to be in, and he was rehearsing, perfecting, what he called The Glint.

It was the means by which superior beings recognised each other. A glamorous, coded little signal that simply said: Well, here I am and what a dump this is we both find ourselves in. What a tawdry, dreadful world we have to survive. And we are better than this, aren't we? Me and you. We were made for far better things, my dear. Our raw material was superior to this tatty dross from the very start and we've moulded it and pounded it and rarefied ourselves until we became this advanced and superior and delightful and aren't we glad? Hello, my dear, this is how we work out in the end. And just look at us both! Aren't we great? Glint. And – heavens! – she was glinting back at him. Even as he genuinely bared his soul in a way he would never do with anyone other than her, the two of them were glinting
like mad at each other. They were still sending it all up. Oh, nothing mattered. Nothing but us. Oh, don't mind me, my dear. I'm so glad to meet you. Soul sister. Soul brother. Glint. Glint. I'm so pleased that I've come across you, in that actual flesh.

Ask Colin what the photo shoot was like and he wouldn't have been able to tell you. Lance took him to the studios but left him outside. He was wanting to involve Colin in his life and Colin thought that was good. But he thought he'd be meeting everyone right away and getting introduced, but after they took a cab from Canal Street, bombed over to the studios on the edge of Castlefield, Lance bundled Colin into a pub for the morning. A nice, old, traditional pub where, Lance said, they look after you and the barmaid was Thai. He said that was where the cast and crew often went for lunch when they were filming or rehearsing and, if Colin looked out, he might see some famous faces while he was waiting.

Then Lance was off and it was clear he didn't want Colin around while he was having his piccies taken. Piccies of him and Karla all wrapped around each other for the local and national press. Whether that was to spare Colin's embarrassment or Lance's, Colin had no idea. But Colin ended up spending late Monday morning in a bar full of heavily varnished tables reading the wrinkled Sunday supplements, passing time, swallowing down bubbly lager before it went warm.

Lance had been wearing a beautiful suit. Really nicely tailored. You could see. So nice it was hard to see what colour it was. That subtle. He'd been off like a shot. And he'd seemed so keen on Colin up till then.

This was Colin's first still moment. His first time alone after a weekend of seismic activity. Lance's sudden – well, what? Affection, enthusiasm, this rush of unconditional love – it had knocked Colin sideways. He'd had uninterrupted hours lavished upon him. He was dizzy with tiredness; freshened up on new booze and fags and the expensive unguents and creams kept in the Japanese style bathroom and now he was rubbed raw, through the unfamiliarly sustained contact from someone who actually gave a shit about him. It seemed. And now, after sitting alone – the varnish on the pub table so thick it made the pint glass stick – Colin was actually missing the bastard.

Then Lance came back. Flushed with being the centre of attention. His job done. A successful, tidy operation. When Colin looked, it was as if you could see the flashbulbs preserved in Lance's dilated pupils. He said Karla hadn't been too much of a cunt. That was the way he put it. Not as much of a self-serving cunt as he'd expected. A professional, she'd been focused on the task in hand. Dragged up as vampire lady numero uno, of course and flapping around the place with her bazoomas thrust out to catch all the free publicity. She was enough of a pro for that. So she hadn't been impossible.

‘I needn't have worried,' Lance said. ‘Maybe I overreacted. I should have known she'd behave. I didn't even mind when she draped her raddled body all over me. She was right. That shot will make the front page of the Manchester Evening
News. It's just work. We can do that much.' He declined a drink – hastily, surprising Colin. Colin's lagers had gone to his head and he'd figured that wouldn't matter: Lance being such a boozer, he'd soon catch up. Make Colin feel less lonely in his headachey Monday lassitude. But Lance wasn't drinking. He had plans for Monday afternoon, and Monday night. He laughed and wouldn't tell Colin what the evening plans were – but this afternoon, he announced solemnly, he wanted to take Colin home.

‘What?'

He wanted to see where Colin lived. He wanted to meet his gran. He wanted to announce to her in person that he had fallen in love with Colin. And that he wanted to look after him and take him off her hands.

Was I ever in her hands? thought Colin dazedly. Was I ever a burden to anyone? And do I ever want to be in anyone's hands again?

Lance had to sign to get into our tower. Eric on the desk downstairs made him do it, to seem extra vigilant in his job, but also because he wanted an autograph. As Lance bent his head over the desk Eric raised both eyebrows at me: I was bringing celebrities home!

I didn't say anything. We took the tiny lift up to the ninth floor. Lance was looking around with interest, though there's nothing to see in the lift. I know. I've been trapped in there before.

‘I didn't think you'd have a security guard,' he said. ‘That's good. I could do with one in my flat.'

I smiled, but I'd been watching him ever since we'd got out of the taxi. He was determined to find everything about
the place I lived in quaint. We had left his gorgeous, tasteful place in the world far behind. Now I felt awful coming back to mine.

I let us into our flat and straight away he was onto how roomy it was, how surprisingly airy: how these council flats were little palaces in disguise. We were standing in the poky dark hallway. I could hear my gran jumping up from her armchair, having heard us come in, realising I had company. She'd be dashing about having a tidy, in the seconds it took us to get down the hall. I could hear the rustle of her knitting bag. She liked to use a plastic carrier bag to keep her wool and needles in. I'd bought her a number of lovely, smart, purpose-made knitting bags over the years that she said were too nice to use. They'd go in the cupboard and she'd stick with her Tesco carriers. They got punctured by the needles and eventually fell apart. She'd be so ashamed of them she'd have to hide them behind the sofa, all in a panic, when company came. Like now. We walked in to find her kneeling on the settee, bundling things out of the way.

She straightened up and did an amazingly composed double-take. She greeted Lance like she was the Queen at a garden party, gently taking his hand.

‘I knew the face was awfully familiar,' she smiled, as he introduced himself. ‘Of course! You are one of my very favourite actors, Mr Randall. But I'm sure Colin has told you that already.'

Lance grinned at me quizzically.

‘I had no idea Colin had such illuminous friends,' she went on. ‘Now, what can I fetch you? Colin, lovey, sit him down. Make him feel at home.'

‘I was just saying, what a lovely place you have here,'
Lance said smoothly. He gazed at the UPVC windows, taking in the whole view of the city centre. ‘Panoramic,' he said approvingly. ‘Do you realise what you'd have to pay to get this these days?'

‘I've been here since the late Sixties,' Gran said proudly. ‘I was one of the first to move in, up in the sky. I've never regretted it. Colin's lived here all his life, haven't you, love? He doesn't know what it's like to be anywhere else.'

One of the really great things about Gran is the way she can suddenly make a party out of nothing. That afternoon we had salmon sandwiches with cucumber, biscuits with cheese and cocktail onions, and then three kinds of cake. The best china came out – the Royal Doulton that had once been my mother's, all gold and rose trim. My gran has this great sense of occasion and an ability to get the tone just right. Out came the hostess trolley; doilies appeared on the nest of tables; a Mantovani record started playing, seemingly of its own accord. Without, it appeared, any discernable effort on her part, we were having high tea and enjoying ourselves: sitting in a huddle and eating cake.

This was completely typical of Gran. I could see that she had won Lance over completely, in a matter of minutes. Through the proceedings I would catch her eye now and then. She looked shrewd and amused, wanting me to see that she'd cottoned on to my game. She knew that Lance and I were somehow together. I could see in those glances that she was pleased and bemused and worried and sad and eager to get it right, all at the same time. Also, she was annoyed that I'd not given her fair warning of our arrival and that I'd been away since Friday night. Though she lavished attention on
Lance, there was an edge to her dealings with me during our tea. It was brittle as the brandy snaps I never even knew we had in the kitchen cupboard.

‘We've got something else in common, Lance,' Gran confided. She was using his first name easily now, and eyeing his expensive clothes like she was trying to see through for the labels. ‘Besides Colin, of course.'

‘Oh, yes?' Lance smiled. I was impressed at how unflustered he'd been through all of this.

‘Hm-m,' she sang, pouring the last of the tea from the bulbous Royal Doulton pot. That meant the sherry would be coming out of the sideboard next. ‘Karla Sorenson,' she said, brightly.

He paused and blinked before he said, ‘Really?'

‘She's your new co-star, isn't she?'

‘Indeed she is,' Lance said levelly. ‘In fact, I've just come from my first dealings with her on this show. A publicity photo shoot.'

Gran clapped her hands. ‘How wonderful! Did you see it, Colin? Did you meet her?'

‘Uh, no,' I said. I was slicing up the rest of the swiss roll.

‘Well,' said Gran. ‘A photo shoot. No wonder you're so smart, Lance. Did she behave herself then, hm? She was always a bit of a livewire, Katy.'

Lance frowned at her.

‘Oh, I knew her well before she was Karla,' Gran laughed sagely through the crumbs. ‘I remember when she first started appearing in the movie magazines and the papers and that, and they were going on about her being a big new British Star, and I couldn't understand why she'd taken this funny name. Foreign-sounding. Then, she was putting on
that daft foreign accent as well. Like something out of the Iron Curtain.'

‘So she's really ‘Katy', then?' Lance smiled.

‘She was when she were on our street, years ago,' Gran told him. ‘I was evacuated with her, you know. Did Colin tell you?'

‘No,' he said, looking at me. ‘He didn't.'

I shrugged. Shrugged like my head had been in such a whirl these last few days I hadn't had time to think straight.

Gran was over in the sideboard. ‘After I saw her on the news I went through some old things,' she said, tugging open the stiffest drawer. ‘I knew I had this somewhere.' She held out a small, faded photo so we could both see. It was so old it was just about falling to pieces. Most of the cardboard backing had come away so it was like a scrap of dirty cloth she was making us squint at.

‘That's you? With her?'

Gran gave him a wry grin, almost flirtatious. ‘We were all young once upon a time, Lance.'

I'd never seen Gran as a little girl. You could see it was her. There was still something stern and pinched in her rounded face.

‘Who's the two grown-ups?' I asked her.

The photo had been taken outside a terraced house and everyone was screwing their eyes up against the sun: the two little girls, one dark, one blonde, and the wrinkled, bearded, hobbit-like man and a skinny, really tiny woman in an apron. It was a photo before the days of flashes, when they had to go out on the street to get their picture taken. Something very touching about those photos. Something you don't see anymore in people's collections of snaps: whole families
bunched up together outside their front doors. This is our house. This is where we all live together.

‘That's the Figgises,' Gran sighed. ‘I haven't looked at this in … decades, it must be. Funny how they stay looking just the same. Brings it all back exactly. They look smaller, and younger, actually, than I remember.'

‘They look like proper country people,' said Lance, peering intently at the worn snap.

‘I suppose they were,' Gran said. ‘Like people out of another age.'

‘They're who took you in?'

She nodded. ‘And we thought they were the funniest looking things we'd ever seen. Me and Katy, getting off the train in Kendal, just praying that it wouldn't be the Figgises we were going to. They looked like the weirdest ones of the bunch. Well, we knew we'd end up going with them, to their narrow little house. Still. I suppose they were kind enough to us. I can see that more clearly now. When you're a kid you resent everyone. Even those trying to take care of you.' She looked at me.

‘So the girl you were put with, that was who turned into Karla?' I was gobsmacked. I'd heard Gran's stories about the war, but I thought the girl with her had just been some girl she'd lost touch with. Not Karla. I didn't know they were that close.

‘For a while we were like sisters,' said Gran. ‘Till I ran away.' She laughed gruffly, and took the photo back. She shoved the drawer closed with her hip and returned with the sherry and three sparkling glasses.

‘You ran away?' I certainly hadn't heard this bit before.

‘Towards the end of the war,' she said. ‘If we'd kept a
proper eye on the news and all that, we'd have known we'd be sent back to Manchester soon. But I ran away, anyway. Katy stayed with them.'

‘Where did you go?' Lance asked.

Gran was pouring the drink. ‘I was rescued, I suppose,' she said. ‘By a couple who vaguely knew the Figgises. Moved in the same circles, you could say. They lived in a big house in the Ribble Valley. A really big house. A mansion.'

‘But why did you need rescuing?' I asked. ‘Was it Karla's … Katy's fault?'

‘Not really. She got mixed up in what the Figgises were messing around with. Them and their friends. By the time I realised what it was all about it was too late. Katy was in pretty deep and there was no getting her out of it. I had to leave her behind.'

‘What was it? Drugs?'

Gran laughed softly. ‘Drugs? Back then? Jesus, Colin. It was hard enough getting hold of sugar back then. Drugs!'

Lance was sitting forward, all alert. ‘It was magic, wasn't it? Black magic.'

Gran glanced at him, a suprised look on her face. Then she nodded very slowly. ‘That's what it seemed like. To me. And to the Soamses, who were the couple who rescued me and took me in and eventually returned me to my mam here in Salford. The Soamses had been involved in their coven, too. That's what the two of them did. Infiltrated suspect covens. And to them the Figgises' lot seemed harmless at first. A few rituals in the woods and dancing around by firelight. They said they were trying to defeat the Nazis through white magic. They wanted to turn back the possible invasion by larking about in the trees and on deserted beaches. Well, it
wasn't just like that. The Soamses discovered that they were into something much nastier. And I was best off away. Even though the Figgises seemed so nice. And Katy stayed behind and, I suppose, got into it even deeper.' Here Gran looked perplexed. ‘That's the kind of world it becomes impossible to leave. Once you're in that far, you can never get out. I've always thought that. Fox Soames thought that. He told me to watch out for the person Katy would turn into. He told me to watch my back.'