You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain Too much love drives a man insane You broke my will, oh what a thrill Goodness gracious great balls of fire
– Otis Blackwell and Jack Hammer, loosely based on Acts 2:2-4.
•
What would be ideal for this job would be a milk bottle. But he had not been able to find one. Last time he had a milk bottle, although that was a long time ago now. Twenty years? These days his milk came in cartons or in one of those plastic bottles. One of those would have to do, and on the plus side they were bigger. You could get a four pint one. He decided that this was what he wanted.
He didn’t want to waste the milk but after drinking the first three pints, he admitted defeat and poured the rest carefully down the drain at the edge of the forecourt. Filling the flimsy bottle was more tricky than he’d anticipated but by the third or forth attempt, he had the knack.
When he went to pay, he had got a funny look from the guy behind the counter at the twenty-four hour garage. But they sold him the petrol anyway. It was the same man who had sold him the milk.
*
Getting ready to go out, John put his hand in the pocket of his jacket. He felt something plasticky and pulled it out: Mr White’s all night bag of shite. It looked up at him. Accusingly or conspiratorially? He couldn’t decide which. He kept staring but no answer came. He looked at his watch. He did not want to be late. Guilty he thrust the bag back in his pocket and put his keys in the other.
Sam had invited him to the Burlington Grill. He had got there on time to find Sam already waiting for him at the bar. She was more conservatively dressed than last time, but still looked stunning. The conversation was going to awkward wherever they did it, so they decided to stick to small talk until they both had a drink and were shown to their table. This happened swiftly because the Maître D’ had recognised John when he came in and had been hovering by his shoulder since he arrived.
They were seated within minutes and sat opposite each other in silence as the waiter described the specials. Without Arlvik’s drugs in his system, John was terribly nervous about the impression he’d make on this date. He also had to stop thinking that this was a date. Concentrating on the menu and ordering quickly seemed to be the only way to fend off the attentions of their over-enthusiastic waiter. Once they had decided and their menus removed, leaving nothing between them and the conversation they had been dreading.
“We deceived you. I deceived you and I am sorry. I want..”
John held his hand up.
“I forgive you. I will forgive you on one condition. Will you tell me your real name? It’s not ‘Sam’, right?”
“No, it’s not. And yes, I will, I promise. But not yet. Will you hear me out first? I’ve been feeling terrible about this and I want to explain as best I can.” It’s true, she did look pale and ashen. She did not seem to have been crying but her eyes were slightly pink as if she’d not slept.
“Go on.”
“I am not going to apologise for my job. My conscience is clear about that but what I did to you went beyond that. I am sorry about that. I didn’t think it was going to turn out like it did but even so I didn’t have any business doing what I did.”
“You could have thought it through…”
“There wasn’t any chance. Jayne only called me a couple of hours before we met you. She was very excited saying Eric Hayle had a great job and she needed my help.”
John started to speak and it was Sam’s turn to hold up her hand.
“Just hear me out please? Jayne said Eric had a friend who needed exposure and needed two girls who would be okay with a kiss and tell. I’ve never done anything like that but I have heard about it happening.”
“He didn’t say that I didn’t know about it?”
“Jayne didn’t mention it. Eric told us both when we met him at Black’s a little before you arrived. It didn’t really have time to sink in.”
“It’s not a small point.”
“I know, but I was more worried about myself. What I was getting myself into.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been doing the escorting for a while. A year or two. I’ve never wanted to see my name in the paper.”
“You and me both”
“It was Jayne. It’s different for Jayne. She has been in quite a few of Eric’s magazines. She has even made a few films. She’s wanted something like this for a long time… the exposure. Don’t get me wrong, she is a lovely girl and she’s a good friend.” Sam paused and took a sip on her wine. “She asked me to help her out. It was a job, a well paid one too. But it represented a lot more than that to Jayne. I wasn’t keen. She knew that. I wasn’t the first person she’d called about it but no-one else was free. I was her last resort. I actually said no.
This was still when I thought you knew about it, that you wanted to be in the papers. When she first called I turned her down. I told her no. She understood.
“But I thought about it and a few minutes later I called her back. It’s funny. The reason I agreed was because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. I’ve always told myself that I am comfortable with what I do, being an escort. But here I was not willing to help my friend because I was ashamed. I didn’t want to be publicly associated with what I do. I realised this and I called her back.”
“What a good Samaritan” John said. Sam looked pained “Sorry.. I didn’t.. carry on.” Sam took another sip of her wine.
“So that was how I was feeling when we got to the club and Eric told us that you didn’t know what was going on. I should have thought a bit more about you but I was confused enough myself. I couldn’t let Jayne down. She really wanted this. There she was sitting opposite Eric Hayle, can you imagine what that represented to her? Well you saw in the restaurant. Eric was promising her all sorts of things: a front page, a contract at one of his magazines, a film of her own. He knew how to play her.”
“I’ve been noticing that.”
“If I am honest, he played me too. He told us that you were determined to be famous; you would do whatever it took but that you didn’t really know it yourself. But that’s why you had put yourself in his hands. He said it would work better if you were kept in the dark. If you didn’t find out until afterwards.
He said it was just a little trick he was playing on you. He said you were a little afraid, that you’d chicken out if you’d known.”
“Yes, I wouldn’t have agreed” John paused. “Is that how you saw me, a chicken?”
“You were... sweet. Yes, I suppose it was a bit like that.” She laughed. “You were terrified when Jayne and I first approached you.” John had to smile.
“Eric also said you really needed to get laid and he was right about that, wasn’t he?” She laughed again and held his eye.
“You pretty much know the rest.”
“Yes, I was there...” John took a sip of his drink. “But were you?”
“Yes, no, it’s complicated. There’s a part of me..” She stopped herself. “Can we not get into that right now? I enjoyed myself, I enjoyed your company. I’d like to enjoy this.”
She gestured around them and then held out her hand for him.
“I’m Natalie.”
•
A more alert shopkeeper might not have sold a box of matches to a confused and oddly dressed man smelling strongly of petrol. But then again, he might decide that if he didn’t, someone else would.
Besides the man had also bought a pocket A to Z. He was probably just lost.
*
After they had ordered the dessert, Sam/Natalie asked him if he’d like anything else sweet. He didn’t understand. She asked if maybe he needed to use the bathroom. He still wasn’t really getting it so in the end she just handed him the wrap of cocaine. Embarrassed that his mind had been going down an entirely different path, John took it and hurried away. He wasn’t going to take any but, well, maybe just a little. To be sociable.
They had already been getting on like a house on fire but the cocaine poured petrol on that. But then Natalie suddenly stopped talking. John looked round to see what it was that had stopped her. There were two policemen talking to the Maître D’. Just at that moment the Maître D’ scanned the room and pointed out their table. In the next moment, the shorter, fatter policeman locked eyes with John. And removing all doubt that it was him they were hunting for, this mean and ugly looking officer and the Maître D’ started over in their direction.
Feeling instantly guilty, John’s heart leaped to his mouth, he was desperate to make a break for the rear door. They could have made it too if John’s legs had not just turned to jelly. Some consideration was given to sliding lifelessly to the floor, hiding under the thick white tablecloths of the Burlington Grill. This was rejected on the grounds that his whimpering might give him away. That and a vestigial need not to humiliate himself in front of Natalie. The small part of John’s brain that was not engaged in full-scale panic was trying to persuade the rest of him to keep calm. It was almost succeeding when another small residual rational corner of his cortex piped up in a tiny frightened voice to remind him that he still had over half of White’s Original Miscellany in his jacket pocket. Those of his internal organs that had not previously abandoned hope could now be felt jostling and pushing their way to the lifeboats.
The policeman and the Maître D’ had paused halfway as the officer asked the restaurateur to leave him to tackle Smith on his own. The Maître D’ clearly did not like this trumping of his authority and was upset he would not find out what the law wanted with this customer. He needed to know. It might be necessary to bar the outlaw from returning.
Realising he could not get away and having been brought up to fear and obey authority and especially of the blue uniform wearing kind, John was ready to launch into his confession. Hoping that coming clean with an instant and contrite confession would go better for him. Maybe some crying might help too.
“Mr Smith?”
“..s”
The policeman was clearly senior, he wore a peaked cap rather than a helmet and his uniform was not fluorescent blues an yellows but still of the heavy old fashioned style with lots of silver crested buttons. Tucking his headgear under his arm, he reached in to his upper left chest pocket and removed his regulation, black covered, fold-over notebook.
“Mr John Smith of 43a Havenhand Avenue?”
“..s”
“Hello, Mr Smith. I am Detective Inspector Lipton from Herne Hill Police station.”
“..s?”
“Mr Smith I am afraid your flat has burned down.”
“What?”
“It appears someone has set fire to your house.”
“Oh, is that all? Thank God!”
“Sir?” The inspector asked uncertainly.
“Oh, yes, terrible, terrible” Smith said to reassure the officer, this wonderful policeman who did not want to arrest him. This lovely policeman who was not going to take him down, lock him up and brick up the door. This glum looking policeman who had said something about his house being on fire.
“Hang on, that IS terrible. What happened?”
“It appears that someone set fire to your house, Sir. I understand this must be a shock to you.” said the inspector not really understanding why this odd man was so jumpy but reassured that he was now acting the role of the inconsolable victim of crime more accordingly.
“We are not sure Sir. On first impression of the Fire Scene Investigation Officer, it would seem that someone broke your front window and threw a petrol bomb into your front room.”
“I can’t believe anyone would do that!”
“There is a lot of scum out there Mr Smith,” said the policeman, with the weary tone of a man who a had a lot of professional contact with the aforementioned scum.
“When did this happen?” asked Smith.
“Mid-morning, sir. We had been trying to track you down all day. There are quite a few John Smith’s in London.” said Inspector Lipton.
“Yes, how did you find me?”
As the inspector explained that a journalist from the Clarion had seemed interested in the story and had helpfully established his whereabouts. Smith reflected that this was probably the least bad way to find out your house had burned down. Sitting on a comfy banquet in a Michelin starred restaurant, a pre-dinner cocktail swimming up to your head and an excellent bottle of red recently opened. Much better than getting home from a hard day’s rat-racing to find you no longer had a home. Or worse yet waking up in bed, sitting up just long enough to breath a lungful of smoke, exhale ‘Oh Bugger’ and expire.
“Tell me the worst, I am ready. How bad was it?” He said, toying with his chocolate and white truffle ravioli.
“Very bad, I am afraid Mr Smith.”
“Oh well, pull up a chair super-intendant and tell me all about it,” said Smith chirpily, the cocktail working its magic and his heart considerably happier now it knew they were not likely to spend a night in the cells. “Can I get Marcel to bring you anything?” Gesturing to the Maître D’, who had all the while been edging closer.
“Nothing for me Sir, Thank you.” Nonetheless, Detective Inspector Lipton took a chair and consulted his notebook. “The front room was utterly gutted. It was burning fiercely by the time the fire brigade arrive and there was nothing they could do. Besides the petrol bomb, there was a lot of accelerant material scattered about the place.” John thought of all the books, newspapers and pizza boxes that normally littered his sitting room and imagined how well the room would burn.
“The bedroom was less badly affected but it is not likely you will be able to save anything.” The inspector turned the page but that was all that he had, it seemed that this odd if well-dressed man who was of interest to the papers and ate in extremely expensive restaurants with an attractive and immaculate blonde lived in a one bedroom basement flat in a nasty part of Lambeth. Maybe he was gigolo, thought Lipton.
“The rest of the building suffered from smoke and heat damage but mostly your neighbours escaped unscathed. Do you know who might want to do this to you? An ex-lover? An aggrieved husband?” The inspector asked untactfully pursuing his gigolo theory.
“No, no-one I can think of, no-one like that.” John paused. “Eric mentioned there had been a few death threats but he said not to take them seriously. God, what if he’s wrong?”
Inspector Lipton watched as John’s demeanour took another U-turn. “And who is this ‘Eric’ person?” he asked reaching hopefully for his policeman’s biro.
“Eric.. Eric Hayle.” For a moment the inspector’s gigolo story was looking better and better, then two added slowly to two in his straightforward policeman’s brain. He realised that this man was the overnight publicity machine John Smith. It dawned on the inspector that he was dealing with a ‘celebrity’. No wonder the chief had insisted that he went, rather than sending a couple of constables. But someone might have warned him.
In the presence of a personage known or believed to be famous, the attitude of typical wet behind the ears police constable changes from the practical but surly menace they extend to the general public into a helpless slack-jawed star-struck fawning. With time they learn that celebrities are just like everybody else except with bigger egos and less common sense. They also have better lawyers. The attitude of your seasoned detective inspector changes from his normal patronising sarcasm and a barely disguised mild derision to one of debased sycophancy and deeply hidden extreme suspicion and dislike.
This was why the chief superintendent had sent Detective Inspector Lipton, a well-salted veteran of many years’ service. There was no other officer under his command whom he felt safe sending to interview a man who had barely been off the front pages of the tabloids all week. Sure enough, D.I. Lipton rapidly adapted to the situation adopting the ingratiating tone he saved for his superiors. Meanwhile he tried to remember why this man in front of him was famous. He could not think of any reason other than that he was famous and a new theory started to form in his crime-fighting mind: Smith had probably started the fire himself for the publicity.
•
The plan was a good one but the man with the plan had forgotten a few details. He realised now that he ought to have waited until the False One had come home and gone to bed before he had done it. But once he had got into the flow of his inspiration he had decided to follow it and it hadn’t occurred to him that the other actors in his drama might not be hitting their cues as appropriate.
Besides after three pints of milk, he had needed the toilet quite badly. So he rushed through the attack and rushed off to find a toilet. By the time he got back there was a little crowd and big fire. The man felt quite pleased with himself. It was not until around the time the fire engine arrived that he realised the Enemy had escaped again.
The firemen were very quickly in control of the fire. The flames had been pretty but now there was nothing to see. So he took a walk in the park to think things through. He would not be discouraged. He was a fool to have thought that fighting the forces of darkness would be a walk in the park. It would be tough. It was a challenge and that was why he had been Chosen. After all had not everyone always told him he was special? If he was to do this he needed to do it properly.
It was time step up a gear.
¢ ?
Shona had arrived at Saint Helena’s School for Girls by taxi and paid the driver too much before trying to duck stealthily inside. The solid and secure school-doors prevented her. Eric Hayle had answered his intercom promptly enough but she was kept waiting for what seemed like an age. She was sure he was doing it deliberately. It was late, past 10pm so there weren’t many people on the streets, but that made her presence all the more conspicuous.
Relieved to be finally inside in privacy, Shona did not take in too many of Saint Helena’s distinctive features as Eric led her into his study. Eric, himself, was still in his suit. A soft grey, pinstriped three piece, but his waistcoat was unbuttoned and his tie was gone.
She wanted to get this over with but Eric was not going to be rushed. He took his time preparing her a drink, Chinzano with ice. She hadn’t wanted to come but was sufficiently ambitious and astute to know that you didn’t make Eric Hayle any more of an enemy than he needed to be.
“Shona, out of the harsh glare of those studio lights you look ten years younger.”
“Please.” Her voice was harsh but she was already resigned to the fact that Eric was going to have his fun.
When she had taken his call earlier that day, he hadn’t said what this was about. And while she knew that she should not even consider any proposal he could make she knew even more clearly that she would. That decision had been made a long time ago, well before he called again this evening and ordered her into the back of a taxi to meet him in his home. It was as if she and the Devil had signed an agreement in principle and now were just haggling over terms.
“Do you see much of Nigel these days?” he asked.
“What do you want, Eric?”
“Not much, not much, we’ll get to that. But there’s really no need to take that tone. Yes, I want some things from you but I am quite prepared to pay a generous price.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Oh, I know … It’s not money that I am offering. Not just money. I know you, don’t think I don’t. I know your weaknesses.”
Shona sighed and rolled her eyes. Why did men always have to be so melodramatic.
Shona’s craving was for fame, and when indulging her vice was she was not nice. Indeed, it would be a bold or perceptive therapist who could tell which she enjoyed more the recognition of celebrity or the opportunity to be bitchy. The unrelenting niceness of Hazel Cole and the annoyance of having been upstaged both began to gnaw at her.
Yes, she had resolved, thanks to Hazel, to be nicer but the thing about resolutions is that they are very easy to make and very hard not to break. Especially once the craving hits you and you realise that the self righteousness of doing the right thing is nowhere near as rewarding or as fun as the vice which you have been denying yourself. Shona’s heart was already racing.
“This is about Hazel Cole, isn’t it?”
“All in good time. Come and join me” Eric had gone to sit on one of the chesterfields. Shona hesitated long enough to make it see like she had a choice and then went to join him, seating herself instinctively in the chair on his left. Stage right. As she walked over, she noticed for the first time that there appeared to be two people asleep in the bed.
“Isn’t this nice?” Eric asked. “I feel like a guest on your show. What say we try and solve my problems? You and me together?”
“I am listening.” Shona said, though her tone was not one ever heard on daytime television.
“You have your show and you have a shitty column in the Scum, how much do you get for that?”
“Two thousand pounds a time.”
“Bollocks, you get six hundred if you write it yourself and three hundred the rest of time. I will give you two thousand a go, whoever ends up writing it, and that’s for a weekly not fortnightly column. And that is just the beginning of what I could do for you.”
“But?”
“Well there are a couple of things you will have to do for me.”
Shona said nothing but let him continue.
“That Hazel bitch is queering the pitch for my golden boy, I want her off the field. Her navel-gazing and ‘oh-so-reasonable’ attitude to everything undermine the tale we are trying to sell. It just confuses people. The public don’t have fancy Pea Aitch Dee’s in psychotherapy or whatever la-di-dah lunacy she psychobabbles. They don’t need some old biddy opening up their heads and peering inside. They want something simple, something immediate and direct. Mr Smith and the newness of nowness not Doctors Cole, Freud and fucking Frankenstein. I want her out of my way and I want you to help me.”
“Hang on, she is a phenomenon too. My viewing figures are huge. Double what they were even at the height of that shit-storm your papers stirred up about me.”
“We only printed the truth and look at you now, it didn’t do you any harm, did it?”
“It lost Nigel his job.”
“Yeah, well you can do a lot better for yourself than a junior treasury minister. He wasn’t ever going to go anywhere anyway. And if he did, he wasn’t going to leave his wife. So either way, I’d say I did you a favour” Eric became more conciliatory. “Look, I want her finished but it doesn’t have to be straight away. We play them off against each other and we can both benefit.”
Shona thought about it. “It won’t work . She loves everyone and your moon-faced loon is in a world of his own. They’re both ungovernable.”
“We won’t be working with them, we will be working with the public’s perception and that is the easiest thing in the world to manipulate. You could ask Nigel, but I expect you don’t talk to him much these days.”
“Bastard.”
“Come, come! You do these two simple things for me and you will not be sorry.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet, but when I do, I will expect you to be there for me. Obviously I can’t sign you up to my paper while you are still behind that witch. But I can give you a little taster now,” he said handing her a folded piece of paper. Glancing at it, she saw a few meaningless numbers. “You’ll find that someone has opened a discreet account for you in the land of the cuckoo-clock. There is not much in it at the moment, but I find it is always useful to have a few florins tucked away out of sight of our wonderful Inland Revenue.”
She gave it another look and tucked safely into her purse, as she looked back up Eric was adjusting himself in his seat.
“And two things? You’ve only mentioned one?”
“Oh, I think you know” he said, his eyes falling then rising to meet hers with a cruel sadistic glint.
“Bastard,” she hissed under her breath. But she could see everything that he was offering her and she wanted it so badly that she could almost taste it. If you wanted to get ahead, sometimes you had to make sacrifices. You had to swallow your pride. This wouldn’t be the first time.
One last swig of her drink and she was down on her on her hands and knees crawling steadily across the rich carpet to where Eric was already unbuttoning his flies. All the while there was a fierce gleam in her eyes, like a panther who sees her prize.
It was over faster than she’d anticipated. It was bad but wasn’t as bad as she’d feared.
Eric was quickly to his feet and threw her some handkerchiefs as he rearranged himself. He moved to beside the door, eager to get rid of her. She was just as eager to leave.
“Well, that’s all decided then. I’d offer to shake hands but I don’t think there’s any need. You have your down-payment. And I have mine. I haven’t decided how this is going to play yet but when I do, you will get a phone call. And when the end game is in sight, you’ll get a contract and then I will want to collect my full price.”
“But, that … “
“Like I said, that was a down-payment.” Eric was laughing as opened the front door and ejected her into the night.
Her departing “Bastard” was mostly for his benefit. As she played everything back, it hadn’t gone at all badly. She’d got a very good deal and Eric Hayle was better as a friend than as an enemy. Besides, he wasn’t holding all the cards. He clearly knew nothing about her blossoming relationship with Marina Allan.
*
The fire left John quite badly shaken. The policeman had gone but John’s nerves were still jangling. Natalie moved her chair a little closer and took John’s hand in hers. She couldn’t think of much to say so she just stroked the back of his hand. It seemed to help.
Marcel, the Maître D’ had not been quite close enough to hear everything but he pieced things together. He did his bit to help. Two coffees and a large brandy appeared silently in front of them. And they were left undisturbed until it was time to close the restaurant.
Natalie took John back to hers. He didn’t object. There was nowhere else to go.