Welcome To Wherever You Are (22 page)

Savannah watched from behind the linen curtains in her bedroom as her father’s black Chrysler began its slow approach along the driveway and up towards the mansion.

As he parked, she took a deep breath. Then, partly shielding her eyes, she drew her arm back and threw a fist-sized solid metal paperweight through her window.

The glass shattered instantly and the paperweight continued its trajectory, missing the Reverend’s head by no more than an inch. The car’s windscreen cracked as it rebounded onto the bonnet and then to the ground. Reverend Devereaux’s alarm rapidly turned to rage when he raised his eyes to discover his daughter standing defiantly by her window.

The front doors of the house smacked against the rubber stoppers, making the wooden shutters vibrate as he ran up the staircase and towards his daughter’s room. For two weeks he had kept her locked away in the vain hope she’d understand that breaking his rules had consequences. But she’d inherited his stubbornness and made no attempt to apologise. And if said apology was not forthcoming by the end of the month, he had reserved her a room in a private hospital in Maine which, he’d been advised, offered a medication and forced re-education therapy to assist Savannah in coming around to his way of thinking. But with this further act of blatant rebellion, he would ensure she was en route within the hour.

The Reverend hurried along the hall and turned a key, flinging Savannah’s bedroom doors open. He expected to see her still by the window; only his daughter wasn’t there. His eyes narrowed and he looked back and forth, scanning the room for her.

Then he dropped to the carpet like a bag of stones and clutched at his neck.

The Reverend’s body convulsed as the electricity travelled through a lamp base Savannah was holding and under his skin and through his veins like thick, boiling water. He felt his cold heart beating faster than it had ever done before as it, alongside all his other muscles, tightened. Savannah kept the electrical current flowing through him, watching as, frozen and unable to protect himself, Reverend Devereaux was completely at her mercy.

Time spent with only the television for company had educated Savannah; one DIY show in particular had taught her how to strip the wires from an unused old lamp and upcycle them for an alternative use. It was only when the presenter advised caution as it could transform it into something potentially lethal, that Savannah knew what she must do.

She wore an old pair of galoshes she found in the back of her wardrobe so the rubber would act as insulation and prevent her from being electrocuted, until finally, when she was sure her father would not be rising to his feet for some time, she dropped the lamp. His body looked sluggish, each breath he took was desperate, his pupils were dilated and his body was virtually motionless.

She swiftly yanked off her boots, slipped on her sneakers and rifled through his pockets, knowing he always carried a large number of bills in his wallet. Then she grabbed a pre-packed overnight bag and escaped the confines of her room.

Savannah’s hands and legs shook as her ‘fight or flight’ adrenaline rush took hold, and she threw herself towards the open front doors. Suddenly a voice behind her stopped her in her tracks.

‘How on earth . . .’ began her mother, brow furrowed, but clearly wary of the determined expression on Savannah’s face. Savannah gave her one last ‘don’t fuck with me’ look, and made for her father’s car.

‘Please, please, please,’ she muttered, hoping that in his confusion over narrowly missing the flying paperweight, he had left his keys in the ignition. And she thanked God when she found them there.

Once the engine turned over and the handbrake was released, she put her foot on the accelerator and sped away, spitting gravel in her wake.

*

The Greyhound coach slowly pulled away from its bay outside Montgomery’s station and began its long haul towards California.

The overweight Korean man sitting behind the ticket counter’s reinforced plastic screen had advised Savannah the journey would take around forty hours, involve three transfers and twenty-eight stops before she reached her Los Angeles destination. But Savannah didn’t care, just as long as the bus took her far away from her life. Every minute she spent on the tired old vehicle with its faded blue and grey seats and empty plastic tables was better than being trapped inside a gilded cage.

Once she’d got behind the wheel of her father’s car, her first instinct had been to drive to Michael’s campus. She was less than a mile away before she had second thoughts. If she loved Michael as much as she knew she did, she would have to let him go.

So she turned the car around and headed downtown instead. She left it parked two blocks from the Greyhound station with the keys in the ignition in the hope it might be stolen or stripped, rubbing salt into her father’s wounds. She charged the bus fare to the Reverend’s black Visa card, and then left it by the sink in the bathroom so others could make use of it before it was cancelled.

Savannah’s only possessions in the world were the clothes in her holdall and those on her back. She unzipped her hooded top, placed it against the window and leant her head against it, watching the rain gently trickle down against the backdrop of a blood-red sky.

Intuition warned her that no matter how far forward she went, Savannah would always be looking behind her, just in case.

TODAY

Ron handed Tommy a spare pair of sunglasses from his pocket as they stood in the corridor facing room 23.

‘Your storeroom,’ said Tommy, suddenly concerned as to why Ron, who behaved oddly at the best of times, was luring him into an unfamiliar room when Tommy was wearing nothing but a towel.

‘Put them on,’ Ron replied, then knocked three times on the door, paused and knocked twice more. They heard two bolts being pulled to the side and then a key turning, before it opened and Peyk’s face appeared.

‘I see we have company,’ he smiled, and ushered them in, quickly closing and bolting the door behind them. They stood in pitch blackness for several seconds until Peyk opened another door to a brightly lit room.

Tommy gazed around in astonishment, his eyes opening wide.

‘What the hell have you two done?’

No one spotted Jake slip quietly away from the hostile atmosphere of the lounge and up a flight of stairs towards the fire exit.

He hated confrontation, and was a little taken aback by Tommy’s ire towards the girls dancing, but he’d had to leave when he heard the opening chords of
that
song.

The bar across the door hung to one side from a broken screw, so he pushed it open and made his way onto the roof. He realised it wasn’t the secret hideaway he first thought it might be when he spotted two stained mattresses, a long disused satellite dish half-full of cigarette butts and scores of empty beer bottles with sun-bleached labels.

Jake walked closer to the edge and leant against the railings, looking down with a new perspective at the cars parked at 45-degree angles in the street below. Sunlight angled off their windscreens and rear-view mirrors, and on the sidewalk, throngs of people made their way to and from the beach. His eyes followed them into the distance before he scanned the rooftops of neighbouring buildings, beyond the tops of palm trees and finally the ocean.

Jake tried to locate Hollywood, wondering if he could ever muster the courage to take a trip there and gain the closure he felt he needed two years on.

As much as he enjoyed the company of other people, sometimes he preferred them in small doses, and today was one of those days. He’d had his fill of being the centre of attention for a lifetime.

TWENTY-SIX MONTHS EARLIER – LONDON

Lightning had certainly struck, not once, but three times as Stuart’s band topped the singles charts with a trio of releases.

Then after a newspaper headline-making chart battle, their debut album outsold Coldplay’s latest effort three to one to reach pole position. With manager Geri Garland’s public relations company driving the promotional campaign at full throttle, Stuart, Gabriel, Josh, Dylan and Ethan’s fixed-smile faces were impossible to avoid. From being gunged on a kids’ TV show to paparazzi photographers clamouring to take their pictures as they entered nightclubs with models, there was nothing about their public activities their fans didn’t know.

Privately, it was a very different matter.

*

With no children of her own – by choice rather than by circumstance –
Star People
was Geri’s baby.

She’d created it, so she decided who’d make the live shows. But when the audition process began for season two, Geri grew concerned. She’d later informed Stuart that after a month of travelling up and down the country listening to woeful hopefuls caterwauling, she’d chosen four male solo singers picked for their voices rather than their looks. And as the competition lacked tween fodder, Geri decided the best way forward was to push them together and create a boy band. However, they lacked one vital ingredient – there was no Gary Barlow, no Justin Timberlake and no Harry Styles, and any boy band worth its salt needed a front man. So when Geri met a handsome young porter working at a Holiday Inn in Bolton, her gut instantly told her she’d unearthed the missing ingredient.

Very little took Geri’s breath away, except maybe her first cigarette of the morning, but the porter made her middle-aged heart race as he carried her Louis Vuitton luggage to her room. He felt her eyes bore into him from behind.

It wasn’t just Stuart’s lean physique, his chin as sharp as a razor or his chiselled cheekbones that made her feel like a teenage girl again, it was the aura of bright colours she swore she spotted floating around him when he spoke. She liked that he was blissfully unaware of his own beauty and had an innocence she rarely came into contact with in her shallow industry. Such innocence was there to be exploited, and Geri was the perfect person for the job.

The next morning, two crisp £50 notes was all it took to get Stuart’s home address from one of his colleagues. ‘This will be easier than I thought,’ she informed her driver as her Jaguar pulled into a shabby council estate.

Talking a shocked Stuart into going along with her plan took little effort, as Geri had made persuasiveness an art form and Stuart had nothing to lose. He surprised himself how at readily he opened up to a woman he barely knew as he recounted his childhood and teenage years spent abandoned in foster care, shuttled between temporary parents and social workers, and how it had forced him to learn self-reliance. He revealed how he’d harboured vague ambitions to find a career in the travel industry, but was willing to put that on hold for what Geri was offering.

Stuart was all too aware there was more to life than minimum-wage employment and living in a house where he shared a basic kitchenette with a seven-strong Somalian family and a friendly Russian couple who appeared to have a never-ending supply of British passports in plastic folders on the communal table. Sometimes when his hotel shift came to an end, he’d study for his Open University travel and tourism course at a table in the corner of the hotel restaurant while furtively watching families dine together.

So when Geri offered to open up a new world to him, one so far removed from his own it might as well have been located on a different planet, he grabbed it with both hands. Fame was something he neither craved nor needed, but Geri had the measure of him.

‘See this as a means to an end,’ she explained. ‘It won’t last forever because boy bands never do. Just ride the wave for long enough and you’ll be set for the rest of your life.’

What she didn’t inform Stuart was how much she enjoyed having the power to change a person’s life on a whim. She cherished it all the more knowing that she could bring it to an end just as sharply.

With Stuart on board, Geri had a complete, marketable, boy band ready to roll off the
Star People
conveyor belt and straight into the television live shows. Four reasonably talented lads whose music teenage girls would download and whose merchandise they’d pay over the odds for, plus a beautiful lead singer with a sob story everyone would lap up.

Geri’s puppets did what they were told, obeyed the clauses in their lengthy contract about not bringing their brand into disrepute and discreetly bed-hopped with other girl groups and reality TV stars behind closed doors.

When the cameras were on them, Lightning Strikes were the best of friends, larking about and referring to each other in interviews as brothers. But behind closed doors, Stuart barely spent any time with them when they weren’t working. He was quietly envious of their families, their closeness and their freedom to be who they were, while they were green-eyed over him being the focus of fans and journalists alike.

As hard as he’d tried, there was little Stuart could do to fend off Geri’s frequent sexual advances. She only ever required one of two things – to either give him oral sex or to masturbate him, and never in the confines of a bedroom. Instead, it would occur when Stuart least expected it, like in the back of a limousine, a TV show dressing room, a hotel restaurant and even once in an empty recording studio sound booth. Stuart never climaxed and Geri didn’t seem bothered. She never asked for penetrative sex or for Stuart to pleasure her, a small mercy he was grateful for. It was, he decided, just another way in which Geri let him know who was boss.