To the Devil - a Diva! (9 page)

‘God, it would depress me, working here,' Colin said.

He glanced around again at the dark interior of SpoilerSpace and whistled. There were only a few,
shifty-looking
punters hanging around the magazines and he didn't care if they heard him passing comment. What they looked like to him was Fans. Fans didn't have feelings like other people. And it didn't matter what they were Fans of, particularly. Some cult kind of thing – TV shows, comics, science fiction, films. Colin had observed quite a few of their sort since meeting Raf.

There was a certain fleshiness to Fans: a certain
not-giving
-a-bugger about what they were dressed like and a slight air of unwashedness. They were shuffling about and poring over the racks and stacks of fanzines, videos, CDs and rare collectibles. Monsters, heroes, aliens, villains. Just weird. Just awful. It embarrassed Colin, even being here in SpoilerSpace Comics. It wasn't his scene at all. He hated the very smell of the shop: new paper and body odour. Plastic and dust and dirty hair.

All in all, a strange place to find the immaculate Raf. Next to the short girl who was going to take his place at the till during lunch hour, Raf looked taller and skinnier than
ever. He was just finishing up and had flashed Colin a brief, brilliant smile.

Colin watched him. It always struck him that Raf was one of those gay boys who really could have, should have been born a girl. There was a particular delicacy about him; a slightly-aggrieved tinge to his beauty. All he'd have needed was a tiny sideways nudge, genewise, to make him into what he should have been. A stunning woman; a real diva: slender of limb and tall of hair. Raf carried with him a not unattractive air of melancholy, as though holding back his resentment at what nature had offered him. Colin never asked him about it. That would seem too crass. As far as he could see, Raf made the best of things and Colin respected that quietly. But he thought his pal should really be a drag queen. He'd been so good at it, and yet he cracked on that his Mardi Gras vampire rigout had been a one-off thing. And never again. Colin wasn't sure he believed him. He could just see Raf at home, with all his many sisters. All of them crowding round, dressing him up in secret.

Raf was telling his tiny assistant: ‘If any of those fucking Doctor Who fans come in, demanding this month's book, just tell them the delivery's late and they'll have to wait.' His voice was soft and breathy. The contrast with the girl's voice was marked. She rasped back at him: ‘Sure thing, Raf. Doctor Who fans are the worst, aren't they?'

Sadly, Raf was shaking his head. ‘Unfortunately not, Vicki. There are far worse Fans out there. But we get them all. We're the ones in the firing line when they come out to feed their funny appetites.' Suddenly he looked up at Colin. ‘I know what you're going to say.'

‘You're a Fan as well!' Colin complied.

‘I know, I know. But Raf sighed heavily, shrugging his slim shoulders. ‘But not like that. Not in that mouth-breathing, mad completist kind of way. You don't know what it's like.' Then he decided he could leave the dim shop in the care of the tiny girl. ‘I'm training her up to deal with them,' he said.

Colin and Raf crossed the busy street to the cafe opposite.

‘I didn't follow your text message at all,' Raf complained. ‘What were you on about?' Colin wasn't very good at texting.

Their favourite cafe was vegetarian, but ironised and swishy. They ordered burgers and beans and raspberry milkshakes (syrup rather than real fruit) and sat in a red vinyl booth at a table painted with elaborate swirls of colour. Serge Gainsbourg was singing with Bardot through crackling speakers. It was hot and clammy indoors, but this was their usual place to talk.

With great ceremony Colin unrolled the relevant pages of the Daily Mirror for his friend to see.

‘Fucking hell,' Raf said at last.

‘Good, eh?' Colin was gratified to be the one to tell him first.

‘But … I thought she'd gone for good! She said she'd retired! That's what she was saying … back at SlashCon last autumn.'

Colin nodded. He'd been there too. And he'd heard her say just the same thing. Last October he'd trekked down to Birmingham with Raf for a weekend and had been a reluctant attendee at his first ever convention. It was a bewildering, drunken occasion. A hotel swarming with amateurs, professionals, maniacs, Fans. All of whom wrote fiction (most of it mucky) based on their favourite TV shows and
movies. Raf had run around excitedly, meeting and greeting people and talking about his own Slash Fiction, which he published on his website. Although pleased and surprised to discover his pal was reasonably well known in this rarefied world, Colin had soon grown bored. He'd ended up shagging a Buffy Fan with a scraggy mohican and one of those odd, tapering, Walnut Whippy-type cocks.

But Colin had been there with Raf when Karla Sorenson had taken up her throne as guest of honour and queen of the convention. She'd arrived in full lesbian vampire drag and the Fans had whistled and hooted with delight. She had read aloud the winning story in the convention competition (not Raf's, to his great disgust) and answered questions about her long and distinguished career in Horror.

‘She definitely said she was turning her back on it all,' Colin said. ‘No more performing for me, she said.'

‘And now she's going to be on five nights a week!' Raf looked as worked up as Colin had ever seen him.

‘Have you seen
Menswear
?' Colin asked. The waitress was bringing their tofu burgers and their plastic beakers of frothy shake.

‘Course,' snapped Raf. Everyone had seen it. When it first started it had been big news: the producers had announced that they intended to push back the boundaries of decency. TV drama would never been the same again. And, at first, there had been a certain breathless fascination in seeing how far they would go in making a really dirty soap opera. The first glimpse of bare breasts, the first naked arse, terrestrial TV's first flash of a full-blown hard-on: all of these tidbits were dutifully logged and discussed in the media. The queer press had given the show quite a lot of coverage, too,
splashing screen grabs of naked male flesh and dwelling on the presence of Lance Randall in the cast. Manchester's local press had gone overboard on Lance. His show was filmed here and this was where he lived: amongst them all, in the city's own queer village.

‘Fucking hell,' said Raf again, his voice turning deathly. He couldn't even look at his lunch. The Daily Mirror rattled and shook in his slender fingers. ‘You know what this means, Colin.' He looked up into Colin's amused eyes.

‘Hm?' Colin picked up his burger. Sauteed mushrooms dropped out, splashing in his baked beans.

‘It means she's coming here. Karla's coming here. To live and work. Amongst us. In our city. Of all the cities in the world … the queen of the lesbian vampires is going to be here … !'

Colin wondered if Raf was going into shock.

‘Lance isn't very pleased,' he told him.

Raf stared. He knew that his pal often saw Lance Randall, because the actor's apartment was right next door to Slag! bar. ‘You've already talked to him about it?'

Colin nodded, chewing and smiling, glad he had even more to disclose. ‘He was in the bar this morning. Swigging gin first thing. Looking mightily pissed off. I think it's cause she'll be the star of the show now and not him.'

‘Well, that's right,' said Raf. ‘He isn't in Karla's league, is he? Course he's not. Just because he's flashed his tired old bollocks about, it doesn't make him a star. Karla, though … she's the real thing. A proper, honest-to-goodness old-fashioned star.'

‘Don't be too hard on Lance,' said Colin. ‘He's a nice guy.'

Raf shrugged. ‘Can I keep the paper?'

‘Sure. He fancies me, I reckon.'

‘Lance does?'

‘Keeps trying to get me up into his flat. Asking me to come up.'

Raf frowned. ‘Yeah? I thought he said he isn't queer. That's just the character he plays on the telly?'

Colin smiled. ‘You've not seen the way Lance looks at me. His eyes lit up when he saw me this morning.'

Now Raf was looking strangely at Colin. ‘I wonder …' He grinned. ‘I wonder if he can get me in,' he said. ‘To meet Karla. In person.' He drummed his hard nails on the laminated table. ‘I bet he can.'

‘To be honest, Raf … I wouldn't be happy asking him.'

‘Not even for me?'

‘He hates her, Raf. Really, the way he looked this morning, when he heard the news … I reckon there's gonna be trouble. There's gonna be fireworks.'

Raf was tutting and ripping the relevant pages out of the Mirror. ‘How could anyone hate Karla? She's a wonderful, wonderful woman and human being. I just know she is.'

Karla was used to the very best in hotels. She knew what service was. She knew what luxury was like. Proper luxury. Not just a free bathrobe and a few tatty flowers on the console table. She'd been to LA and had her eyes opened. That was back when they were grooming her for Hollywood. She'd also been to Cannes in more recent years, when the critics had decided that – twenty-five years after the event – the sleazy films she had starred in were High Art after all, and not just trashy soft porn. So the high life was what she was used to. These days she took a certain level of comfort for granted.

Well, why shouldn't I? she thought. I've paid my dues. When I was starting out I had to stay in some grotty old dives. God, back when we were actually making those films we were sleeping in campervans in north Wales. Drizzle and asthma and early morning calls to go traipsing around in slate quarries with my bosoms hanging out. That's what's earned me luxury today, and it's a long time coming.

I deserve a bit of pampering now. Today of all days. I've got them a shitload of publicity for their poxy show.

She was thinking furiously, to block out the shapes and spectres of the Manchester skyline all around her and to
abate her nervous fears. Part of her mind was pushing away the memories of her last time here in this city, of all her early years here. She was coming back as an utterly different person. She was protected, she told herself. She was safe because of the invincible person she'd become.

They say Manchester's come up. Everything's world class. Property prices through the roof. The Commonwealth Games, all that. Maybe now it's big enough for me.

Karla was keen not to feel that she was slumming it. But she needn't have worried. When she arrived at the TV station's hotel, the Prince Albert, she found that even her extravagant expectations were met. She eased herself out of the car, let Rupert the chauffeur take her bags, and composed herself. She put on a gloss of simmering dissatisfaction. It wouldn't do to look too keen and excited. She mustn't seem too grateful for this second bite at the cherry. She was a mature and famous lady and, like the city itself, had been redeveloped quite a few times over. She had to be both exquisite and blasé.

Karla shrugged on this carefully constructed mien and strode like a panther onto the veined marble flooring of the Prince Albert's foyer. She made sure she drew glances and comments as she went.

Fame like hers, she'd once told HIYA magazine, was like an old pair of flashy shoes. Your arches and toes could still be deformed by them, and they could make your feet really stink. But once they were broken in, you could fetch them out again and again, and walk comfy. No bother.

The porter had seen the Daily Mirror that morning. He said so in the lift. He looked wary of her, hardly daring to breathe. He was wondering whether she'd mind if he talked to her.

He was dressed up like a little monkey, in an old-fashioned porter's uniform. Small hat, epaulettes, gold braid. Karla liked that. A bit of tradition. Respect. He was standing by her luggage. She'd brought a minimum of luggage. She wasn't sure how long she'd be here and, besides, Flissy would get her a great deal. She'd buy all new. First day off, she'd be down Kendals and King Street. All the Manchester stores she could never have afforded to shop in, back in the old days.

She realised the waiter was talking to her, asking about the show. And before she knew it, she was answering him. Even telling him she'd never watched the silly programme in her life. Only heard how naughty it was. Her voice was coming out in her slow drawl. Treacle poured onto sizzling flesh: that was the sound of her voice. Dulcet. She was talking like a vampire lady. Putting on the old shtick. She looked the porter up and down. Golden mirrors all around the lift. Very flattering.

The porter was a little overweight, just a bit tubby and hairy. She liked that, considering him as they rose slowly to
the suite at the top of the Prince Albert. He was standing close to her, the luggage between them. She watched him swallow his nervous saliva down. She pushed out her breasts. Made it seem that they were filling all the unoccupied space in the elevator. She couldn't help herself. She just did this kind of thing automatically. She watched his sharp adam's apple bob and steady.

When they got to her suite and he grappled with the key card she tipped him generously. He demonstrated a few things. Where the light switches were, the phone.

By then Karla had lost patience and interest in him. She needed her lie down. The porter was wanting something he could show off to his mates about. Something to mark him out. She pictured him in the staffroom, somewhere in the basement, perhaps, where all the porters and chambermaids sat smoking and drinking sweet milky tea. He'd be telling them how close he'd come to making it with the vampire lady. It would be the most exciting thing in his life so far and all the others would listen close.

She looked at him and caught a glint in his eye. Cocky little thing. He licked his lips, hands clasped behind his back.

Oh, well. Give him something to do. Might as well.

‘I wonder if you could you do me a very great favour … ?'

‘Of course, Ms Sorenson.'

‘I need to get in touch with my producer, Adrian. Could you get onto the studio for me?' She handed him the note with the office's number on. ‘I'm too tired to see anyone just yet. But perhaps they could send me some tapes of the show? I could do some homework here in the hotel.'

The porter nodded briskly.

‘Oh … and one more thing. My co-star, Lance Randall.' The porter blinked in recognition.

‘I'm a very old, very dear friend of his family. He'll be delighted to know that I'm joining the cast of his show. Do you think you could ask Adrian for his home number? I'd like to contact him first, before we have to meet in the studios.'

The porter nodded, committing all of her instructions to memory. He was trying very hard. ‘What's your name?'

‘Kevin, Ms Sorenson.'

‘Well, Kevin. I'm not sure how long I'll be here. But while I'm back in Manchester, the Prince Albert is going to be my headquarters, at least for the first little while.' She flicked her eyes around the airy, muted room and smiled, her gaze came back to rest on Kevin in his scarlet porter's outfit. She dipped that gaze momentarily and was gratified to see that hard little knot of flesh in those uniform trousers. ‘My headquarters … and my lair.'

‘I'm sure we're very honoured,' he said.

‘I would like to count you among my personal staff, Kevin.'

He nodded and his adam's apple was trembling again. As if he was daring himself to do something rash. ‘Perhaps,' he said. ‘You … you could … do … that thing.'

Karla frowned. ‘What thing?' she asked, knowing full well.

‘The thing you used to do in all your movies. When you made someone into your … servant …' Kevin smiled weakly, eagerly. ‘Maybe you could … do that to me.'

‘Oh, yes,' Karla said. And she stepped towards him.

It didn't take long.