The Star Witness

by Andy Hamilton

  I’m keeping an eye out for Jade, but then I look at the schedule and realise she’s not due in till the afternoon. Slowly, I become aware of Louise, hovering at my shoulder.

  “Morning, Kevin, how are you?”

  “Mystified.” I show her my script. “How do I say that first line, while at the same time sounding like a sentient human being?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage it, you nearly always do.”

  You’ve got to hand it to Louise, she’s never stuck for an answer. Simone starts brushing the shoulders of my jacket, muttering darkly about something getting on her tits – could be the make-up department – I decide not to ask. Nigel is now hunched in the corner by the fire buckets. “I’m getting some cue cards made up, just drag the wanker down on to set now.”

  Louise glides silently through the chaos. Everyone is a bit scared of her: she’s the shark in the lagoon.

  “Why aren’t we turning over yet, Nigel?” she sighs. “It’s seven minutes past eight.”

  “Yes, yes, we’re about to, Louise, OK?”

  Then he is bent double by a coughing fit. Louise watches, impassively. Simone mutters something about everyone dying from consumption. Eventually Nigel straightens up, his eyes watering, claps his hands and croaks out his orders.

  “OK, listen up. Scene 38, everyone, bit of a delay because of King Gavin, so we’re shooting out of order. Kevin, are you cool with that? You’ve learnt 38, yeh?”

  I start thumbing through my script. “I’m not sure, Nige, 38, um…OK remind me what I’ve just done in 37.”

  “You’ve lamped Freddie and you’ve just reminded Jess that she’s family.”

  Nigel raises his hand to his earpiece; someone is trying to talk to him. “Repeat that, I didn’t get it.”

  I’m flicking through the script trying to piece together the jigsaw of storylines, thinking out loud.

  “OK, right”, I begin. “And she’s just heard about Freddie and wants to know if I had anything to do with it…blah-blah-blah…”

  “What?” barks Nigel, his assistant’s voice still crackling in his ear.

  “So she’s cornered me outside the restaurant…”

  Nigel turns away from me. “Uh-huh.”

  “…and I’m saying I know nothing about it…then she doesn’t believe me, and then I repeat that it’s nothing to do with me and then…”

  “…the police want to speak to you.”

  “Oh, right. Is that 38 B, then?” I shuffle through the pages. “I’m not sure I’ve got that.”

  I glance up to see that Nigel is looking directly at me. “No…Kevin…the police want to speak to you.”

  Louise fixes me with a penetrative stare. I become aware of an unsettling ripple of murmurs. Nigel steps forward and places a hand on my elbow.

  “There’s two of them in reception, mate. OK, everyone, we’ll take a break, everybody back in twenty.”

  My first thought was “someone’s dead”. Natural, I suppose, we all fear the policeman at the door, don’t we? I thought “car crash” – maybe Sandra, I don’t know – I just never imagined for one moment that it would be about…they are very polite. To begin with.

  “Mr Carver, I’m DS Pates, this is Detective Sergeant Hooper. Sorry for any inconvenience.” She smiles in a procedural way.

  “Has something happened?”

  A glance sparks between the two of them. Hooper (or maybe it was Cooper) rubs his forehead for a few moments. “Well, it’s like this, um, a complaint…has been made against you.”

  “A complaint?”

  “Of assault…by Jade Pope.”

  My mouth falls open, like a piece of very bad acting. I shake my head and then try to make my answer sound as firm and as final as possible.

  “I did not…assault…Jade Pope.”

  “She claims you did.”

  “She fell!…She’d been drinking and she fell, like a stone, she was hitting and kicking me and I was holding her off and I gave her a bit of a push.”

  Pates repeats my last words back to me, weighing each one. “‘A bit of a push’?”

  “I did not assault her.”

  “Well, look, I’m sure we can sort this out, Mr Carver,” she says, giving me the same smile as before. “But I’m afraid it will involve you coming to the station and making a statement.”

  “Fine,” I say, a bit too quickly, “fine, fine, that’s fine. I’m very happy to do that, very happy, more than happy.”

  So I rustle up my solicitor, Graham – who warns me not to say anything before he gets there – and we go to the police station to sort out this ridiculous misunderstanding. (Louise had expressed some concern – producer’s concern, not real concern – and I told her that it was nonsense and that I wouldn’t be gone long.) On arrival at the station, I tell the desk sergeant how absurd the complaint is and he sympathises and shows us into a room with just a table and four chairs. Graham and I sit there for twenty minutes writing my statement. The sergeant brings us some tea and biscuits.

  And then DS Pates comes in, only this time with a female colleague. Pates starts the tape machine. I give them my statement. They peruse it for a few moments, not long. Then Pates reads out a section of Jade’s statement.

  “During the meal, we decided to terminate our relationship…”

  I laugh scornfully and I feel Graham’s hand touch my elbow.

  “…and at first he seemed to accept the decision…”

  “That’s bollocks.”

  “…but later, in the car park, he became abusive and punched me in the face…”

  “So’s that.”

  “…knocking me to the ground. I asked him to drive me to the hospital…”

  “And that.”

  ”…but he refused.”

  “All bollocks.”

  I sit for a moment with my hands clasped behind my head, trying to fake nonchalance, but it’s all too much. I can’t contain myself.

  “Listen, if you act on this garbage you’re going to embarrass yourselves. It’s not what happened. I dumped her. Then she turned violent.”

  Pates notes something down.

  “You dumped her?”

  “Yes.”

  The other one leans back in her chair.

  “How old are you, Mr Carver?”

  “Fifty-two. Why?”

  She smiles. “Just doing the maths.”

  By the time they finish questioning me, it is dark.

  * * *

  Flash! Pop, Pop! Flash!

  “Kevin! Kevin! Did you hit her, Kevin?”

  Pop! Pop!

  I can feel Graham’s arm in the small of my back as he tries to helm me through the barrage of flashbulbs and questions. There must be forty of them at least, swarming over the steps of the police station. Camera drives whirr. A microphone is shoved in front of my face.

  “Have you been charged, Kevin?”

  Pop! Whirr!

  “Any comment, Kevin?”

  “Kevin, are you guilty?”

  The paparazzi are all shouting: “Look this way, Kevin,” exactly as they do when you’re walking the red carpet at an awards ceremony. Stupidly, I hesitate, dazed, and the questions come even faster.

  “Are you guilty, Kevin?” Pop!

  “Did you hit her?” Whirr!

  “Kevin! Just a comment!”

  “Cat got your tongue, Kevin?”

  “Come on, Kevin, play the game.”

  “Kevin! Over here!”

  Pop!

  “Did you hit Jade?” Pop! Whirr! Pop! Pop!

  “Keep going,” hisses Graham, propelling me hard towards his car. A hack steps in front of us but we just plough right through him.

  A voice shouts: “Hey, that’s assault!”

  “Over here, Kevin, this way!”

  Pop! Pop!

  “Whoa, watch it!”

  “You fucking watch it!”

  Now we’re being squeezed against the side of Graham’s car, a camera gets knocked to the ground, el
bows start to fly and somehow Graham manages to brace his back and create enough room to open the passenger door. We tumble inside and, after several attempts, ram the door shut behind us. Faces are pressed against the windows, still shouting the same questions. A photographer sprawls himself across the bonnet and starts shooting. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  “Jesus Christ!” I look at Graham as he fumbles with his keys. “How the fucking hell did they know I was here?”

  “That’ll be a policeman supplementing his income,” he replies with a half-chuckle and a shake of the head.

  “Kevin!! Have they charged you?” Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Graham is opening the automatic window. A flash goes off right in my face. That will be a shot of me looking pale and hunted. The shouting gets louder and Graham is holding up his hand in midair with the patient, weary smile of a primary school teacher.

  “Gentlemen…gen-tle-men…”

  Slowly, the cacophony begins to die down. I find myself wondering how we can be right outside the police station and yet not see a single policeman.

  “Gentlemen…I would appreciate it if you could get off my car. Thank you.”

  “Kevin, did you hit her?”

  Now all the others are shouting again. Pop! Pop! Another barrage of light from all sides. I cover my face and hear Graham’s voice, calm and clear, cresting over the hubbub.

  “Gentlemen! My client has no comment to make at this stage, other than that he is innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  “Innocent.”

  It’s a word that always carries a little echo of desperation, doesn’t it? At least, it does if you’re innocent. That night I did not sleep one single second. I had entered that febrile daze of shock where you think everything and nothing at one and the same time. I tried all the ploys I usually tried whenever I couldn’t sleep. I read a dull book – a biography of Olivier – and I got up and watched some dull TV – fat people playing poker, golf highlights and celebrity chefs judging ex-reality TV stars as they cooked for obscure comedians. From time to time, I got up and drifted around my kitchen like a ghost. It was one of the longest nights of my life.

  Eventually, I saw the first fingers of daylight sneaking round the curtains and ran myself a bath. As I lay in the hot water, I tried to control the panic induced by an ominous sense of something that I could not control. I had not been this frightened since my first day at big school, or the day that Mum got her diagnosis.

  I felt ashamed at going to pieces like this. Unmanned. Child-like. The truth would out, I told myself. It was a misunderstanding. Panicking would not solve anything. Come on, Kevin, grow up. Trust the process.

  The following morning Graham collected me in his car and we headed straight to his office in Pimlico, where we were met by someone called Nina Patel who was, he explained, very experienced in cases involving celebrities.

  She is brisk, bright and capable, and I soon begin to feel I am in safe hands.

  “First things first, Kevin, tell me exactly what happened,” she says. “I know it’s upsetting for you, but I need to get it clear in my head. Tell me what you told the police.” She makes notes on her tablet as I detail the events in the car park and, as I take her through it, I wonder if this is the story I will be telling for the rest of my life.

  Nina Patel seems to register my despondency because she places her hand on mine.

  “Alright, Kevin, I know this is awful, but the first thing to remember is that it is quite possible that the police won’t follow up and press charges.”

  Graham weighs in. “That’s right. Sometimes they just bring someone in to see if it encourages any other women to come forward.”

  I cannot believe he has said that.

  “There will be no other women. I don’t hit women. I didn’t hit this woman.”

  “No, no, ’course not,” he stammers. “I’m just saying that’s sometimes what they do.”

  “That’s more in cases of alleged sexual offences,” Nina smoothes. “It’s probably more a PR thing. The police like to look as if they take violence against women seriously these days.”

  My mouth has turned dry so I ask for water. She fetches me a bottle of Evian from the fridge.

  “The wheels might turn quite slowly, I’m afraid, Kevin. They’ll be nervous about whether to prosecute. Especially if she’s a bit of a flake. How many drinks had you had?”

  “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. Never give more information than was asked for. So, how many drinks?”

  I make a guess.

  “Two…three glasses of wine?”

  “Red or white?”

  “Red.”

  “O-kay…and was she on red?”

  “No…white.”

  She touch-types on her tablet for a few moments.

  “Good. Now, in the short term, you’ll need a top PR person to come up with a strategy.”

  “I don’t need a ‘strategy’. I’m innocent.”

  Graham smiles ruefully. “You’re trending on Twitter.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Some very nasty stuff’s getting put about.”

  “I don’t care, and even if I did I couldn’t stop it.”

  Nina Patel lays another reassuring hand on mine.

  “Kevin, it’s important that we keep your version out there. Do you have a Twitter account?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’ll start one up for you.”

  Graham opens his laptop.

  “Also, we need to release a full statement from you. About your shock and outrage et cetera. I’ve got the beginnings of a draft here.”

  A dizziness comes over me. Some terrible, inexorable story is beginning, and I am just a helpless spectator.

  “There’s going to be a war of words,” I hear Graham say. “And you need to protect yourself. Regardless of whether it goes to trial.”

  Nina Patel is leaning over me now. She seems concerned. “You’ve gone a bit grey, Kevin, are you ok?”

  I’m not OK.

  She leads me into her office, draws the blinds and lays me out on the sofa. The sofa becomes my shell. I curl my body up and half-sleep in the semi-darkness, like a creature trying to cease to exist.

  * * *

  Two days after the media scrum, I’m summoned to the studio for a meeting. I had a pretty good idea what it would be about. I’d been on the show for sixteen years and had seen many cast members run into serious “personal difficulties”. Invariably, a convenient storyline is cooked up to explain their character’s sudden absence.

  The PA with the mole on her cheek (Jenny?) shows me into a room that I’ve never seen before. It has a long shiny table and glass cabinets full of twisted chrome awards. This is clearly an important meeting because all the producers are there: the two executive producers, the consultant producers, the series producers, the three associate producers, the assistant producers, and the producer.

  Louise begins by asking me for my “take” on recent events. I tell the room that, at some point, I expect sanity to prevail and the accusation to be dropped.

  Nobody says anything. Very few of them are looking at me and I feel my breathing start to grow shallow. At last, Louise speaks.

  “OK, Kevin. We’ve looked at the problem from a production viewpoint, an editorial viewpoint, um…a legal viewpoint and, of course, the human viewpoint.”

  “Really? Who would have provided that?”

  She twiddles a pencil between her fingers, as she chooses her response. Her voice gets softer. “We’re trying to help, Kevin.”

  I feel stupid. Why am I being aggressive? I need these people on my side.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, raising my palms, “that was…I’m a bit edgy, I’m sorry.”

  She smiles prettily. “That is perfectly understandable. Now, of course, the simple answer is to send Lenny on a bit of a sabbatical.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “However, it’s not that simple.”

&n
bsp; What does she mean? It is that simple, it’s very simple. What is she saying? I scan all the faces, but nobody is giving anything away.

  I start to laugh, nervously. “Yes, it is, it’s easy, just have a word with the writers, they can put me in a coma or something. Or they can send me to Australia. Or they can put me in a coma in Australia. They can—”

  “And what sort of signal would that be, eh? If we took you off the nation’s TV screens? What would that imply? Wouldn’t that suggest an assumption of guilt by us…about you? Wouldn’t that play into the hands of the ‘no smoke without fire’ brigade?”

  I try to think. Why can’t I think?

  “Well, um, possib…um…yes, I suppose it might but…”

  “Ex-actly. And the same applies to Jade.”

  “…sorry?”

  “If Melanie disappeared that would look like a vote of no confidence in Jade. So, as we don’t want to be seen to be passing any kind of judgement, you both stay in the show.”

  A terrible premonition starts to shadow me.

  “Right, but, um…we don’t have to do scenes together, do we?”

  Louise is smiling emptily now, like an air hostess.

  “Don’t be silly, darling, Lenny and Melanie are lovers, of course you’ll be doing scenes together.”

  “But…how do we do that?”

  “Professionally.”

  I feel my pulse quicken, but pause to try and contain the rage that I know is creeping into my voice. “So, the viewers will be watching us…kissing, while at the same time knowing that, in real life, she could be sending me to jail?”

  The various producers all stare at the floor or into their coffee cups. Only Louise is prepared to look at me direct. “Well, for some of them, possibly, there might be an element of subtext.”

  “You’re turning us into a freak show,” I say, falling hard on the work “freak”.

  “Kevin, don’t be a drama queen.”

  “It’s a freak show!”

  She leans back in her chair and sighs. “Well…Jade says she’s cool with the idea. She’s being much more grown-up about it.”

  This is grotesque, obscene. I desperately need a moment to clear my head. I find a quiet corner in the props bay and ring Graham for legal advice. But I only get to speak to his voice-mail. I leave a tangled, garbled message and then I ring Mac. His advice is straightforward: “Tell them to stick it up their arse with a broomstick.”