The Star Witness

by Andy Hamilton

  Soon the interview descends into farce, as the presenters try to wind up as chirpily as possible while Derek continues talking off-camera about how he was abused as a child.

  Mac dries his eyes with the back of his hand before switching off his phone.

  “Oh dear, gets me every time, and I’ve watched it loads of times now. Do you think he was abused as a kid?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, God knows. He’s such a hall of mirrors.”

  “He’s like, oh, the one who fell in love with his own reflection.”

  “Narcissus.”

  “Aye, Narcissus…except this fella would probably try and shag his own reflection.”

  I can’t help smiling to myself. A few months back, I would not have been able to watch that clip. I would have felt a visceral, physical nausea at the sight of Derek’s face. But now I had just watched him and found him funny, almost like he was a parrot playing ping-pong or a squirrel trapped in a revolving-door. Mac’s forming the same observation.

  “You wouldn’t have been able to laugh at him last time I visited.”

  “No, I know.”

  “That’s a step forward from punching him in the face.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re leaving the little bastard behind, that is genuine progress.”

  “I know…I’m a phoenix.”

  We both piss ourselves laughing and the ginger guard, Mr Nethercott, comes over to have words with us.

  A few days before the documentary team are due to arrive, as we take a break for over-stewed tea and stale digestives, Dougie has a moment of panic.

  “What if they ask us about y’know…the things we’ve done to end up in here. I’m not sure I want to talk about that stuff. What if my family see it? I don’t want them humiliated.”

  I try to set his mind at rest.

  “You’re in control, Dougie. You don’t have to tell them about anything you don’t want to.”

  “Right…I don’t mind telling them about the first post office job, ’cos that was fucking cool. They could make a movie of that.”

  Dougie begins a game of suggesting actors who could play him in a movie. Albie – more confident now – says Daniel Craig. Pulse says Russell Crowe and Gerald suggests the late Arthur Mullard, which nearly starts a fight.

  “I ain’t telling them how I got here,” Mohammad declares. “That’s between me and Allah.”

  “We all know how you got here, boy,” drawls Pulse, “and nobody’s going to be at all interested in a fella what stole from old folk.”

  Mohammad’s bottom lip juts out.

  “They weren’t old. They were…establishment, weren’t they.”

  Gerald says he’ll be very happy to talk about both his “crime” and his travesty of a trial. Simo tries to join in the conversation, but he starts to get emotional and his speech crumbles into dust.

  “Listen up, everyone,” I say, loud and firm. “Nobody, I repeat, no-bo-dy…has to talk about anything they don’t want to, is that clear?”

  They all seem reassured, but Gerald has got that twinkle in his eye.

  “Might be good for people to talk about their misdemeanours. Might be therapeutic. Cathartic. What about you, Albie? Wouldn’t you like to share your story?”

  Albie looks up, startled, ready to bolt. I try to head Gerald off.

  “Gerald, just leave it.”

  “What is your story, Albie? I’m sure we’d all love to know, you’re our man of mystery. What did you do?”

  “Back the fuck off, Gerald,” says Dougie, spreading his shoulders.

  “Perhaps he wants to talk about it?”

  “No…no I don’t,” mutters Albie.

  “There are some things one shouldn’t bottle up.” Gerald is simpering now and part of me wants Dougie to rip his head off, but my main worry is Albie, who has started to tremble.

  “Nobody has to talk about anything they don’t want to…not now, not when the cameras come…not ever.” I turn to face Gerald, whose eyes continue to glitter. “This is prison. Secrets are fine here.”

  Why has Gerald suddenly got on Albie’s case? Is it jealousy because Albie looks like he will be the star turn in our show? Or is it just plain sadistic cruelty? Albie’s weakness is so plain, maybe Gerald just wants to amuse himself by tormenting him? Either way, I know I will have to keep an eye on Gerald. As I call an end to the tea-break, I can feel him watching me.

  The first day of filming arrives and the group, plus a rather fidgety Malcolm, assembles in the games room. Everyone seems to have had a shave and passed a comb through their hair. A cameraman and his assistant lug various bits of kit into the room. Then Julian strolls in.

  “Morning all,” he breezes, “thank you so much for this. You all remember Michelle I’m sure…”

  The trouser-suited Michelle shuffles a little warily into the room.

  “Bonjour, Michelle,” beams Pulse, pushing the Jamaican accent for romantic effect.

  “And this other young lady is our latest recruit.” He holds out an arm, as if to cue her entrance. She comes in, smiling awkwardly.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” I explode. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “And hello to you too, Kevin,” says Louise.

  Everyone looks very thrown by the violence of my reaction, but I don’t care.

  “For fuck’s sake!”

  “All right, Kevin, calm down,” says Malcolm.

  “I don’t believe this!”

  Julian tries to sound confident.

  “Louise is our company’s latest acquisition. And we are very excited because she’s widely regarded as being the best in the business.”

  He then introduces her to each member of the group, who shake her by the hand while trying not to look anywhere they shouldn’t. I stand watching, beside myself with shock, frustration, rage and lots of indefinable negative emotions stirred by the memories of working under her yoke.

  I drag Malcolm outside into the corridor and, as clearly as I possibly can, I try to spell out Louise’s character and reputation to him.

  “She’s a shark, a depraved shark.”

  Malcolm tells me that, with the greatest respect, he thinks I might be over-reacting. I tell him that she would murder her own grandmother and film it if she thought it would get good ratings. Malcolm points out that, editorially, we have final approval.

  “I told you, she’s a shark. Sharks don’t obey agreements.” Now Malcolm feels, still with the greatest respect, that I am being paranoid. I start to tell him stories – most of which I think are true – about how she has fucked various people over. He hears what I am saying, but we have signed a contract. I say we should veto her and he sighs wearily.

  “And what the hell is Julian playing at? Eh?” I jab my finger in the direction of the Rehearsal Room. “He must know she was my producer when the whole…when everything kicked off. He must have realised that connection. Why didn’t he run it past us? Eh? Why? Tell me that, why?”

  “They’ve only just acquired her, he said.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “Why would he lie? And why wouldn’t he use her? He obviously feels she’s a catch and that she’s good at her job. Is she good at her job?”

  “Stalin was good at his job.”

  “Still comparing me to Stalin?” says a familiar voice. Louise has materialised behind me, like she always used to, as if she has her own secret network of tunnels. “I’d have thought you’d have had time to come up with something new.”

  “I couldn’t be bothered.”

  Malcolm apologises to her for my tone. What the—? Who does he think he is? She gives him her most charming smile. “Malcolm, do you think Kevin and I could borrow your office for a few minutes?”

  “I’m not the person you knew,” she begins.

  I snort with derision.

  “What, you don’t believe people can change?” she asks.

  “A leopard can change its spots, but not by painting over them.”<
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  She hesitates. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, Kevin, so I think I’ll just press on. It is not my intention to do anything sensationalist with this programme. You have your contract, with all its stipulations, there is no risk. I’m not a producer of soaps any more. From now on, I intend to make documentaries, programmes that I am not too embarrassed to watch.”

  This sounds very odd. I don’t remember her ever criticising the show. She always defended it as “the people’s TV”!

  “Did you always feel that way?” I ask.

  “I came to feel that way. It wore me down. Which is why I left.”

  “Please tell me you got fired.”

  “I didn’t get fired. I quit. The cast, past and present, made me a lovely farewell tape.”

  “So sad I wasn’t available.”

  “Very sad.”

  “Was Derek on it?”

  She pauses to gather herself. Have I struck a nerve?

  “Unfortunately, Derek is on it, yes.”

  “I can’t believe you cast him like that.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  Again, very odd. She never used to admit mistakes.

  “But you’ll be pleased to know, Kevin, that the mistake is being rectified. He’s being written out.”

  “Does he know?”

  “No, the writers have kept it under wraps.”

  “How’s he leaving?”

  “In a gas explosion, I think. Or possibly a tram crash, they hadn’t made their minds up when I left.”

  “Was it your decision?”

  “Oh yes,” she chuckles. “I couldn’t take any more. No one could. He’s such a pain in the arse. And I’ve worked with some world-class pains in the arse…” She gives me a little smile. “But he’s phenomenal. There’s not enough attention in the whole planet to satisfy that boy. By the end, I reckon ninety-five per cent of my time was spent just baby-sitting him. So I rushed off an e-mail telling the writers to kill him. A sort of leaving-present to myself.”

  I spend an enjoyable moment picturing his reaction.

  “He’ll be livid.”

  “Not my problem. I’m out of there.”

  There’s a new lightness to her, which makes me feel a little envious.

  “I saw Derek on YouTube.” I tell her. “It was so funny. He was promoting his autobiography.”

  “It’s shit.”

  “You’ve read it.”

  “No.” We both laugh. “That’s just a given.”

  God, here I am, sharing a laugh with Louise the shark.

  “I always liked working with you, Kevin. You made me think. It was nice having someone who liked a fight.” That sounds more like the Louise I know.

  “You don’t have to worry about me here,” she continues. “Julian’s my Exec, I understand this project, I’m not going to mess with it…or you. I don’t want to. I’m a professional.”

  Is she being straight with me? She was always so hard to fathom.

  “You really fucked me over, you do know that, don’t you?”

  She stiffens slightly.

  “It was an unfortunate time…especially for you.”

  “Yeh…an apology would be nice.”

  She looks at me long and hard.

  “I’m sorry for what you went through, Kevin…but, right or wrong, I was doing my best for the show.”

  I wait to see if she’s going to elaborate.

  “That’s all you’re getting, Kevin.”

  My conversation in the governor’s office with Louise was followed by another hissed conversation with Malcolm in the corridor, where I emphasised how dangerous I thought she was. He listened, and absorbed, and duly noted, and nodded a lot, but after twenty minutes or so he reminded me that we had signed a contract and it didn’t include any veto on producers. So, as far as he was concerned, that was the end of the story. But he said I was welcome to keep a watching-brief on Louise, which I told him I fully intended to do.

  So, after taking a few moments to compose myself, I re-entered the rehearsal room.

  “Oh good,” says Louise, “our director is here.”

  “We don’t have a director as such,” Gerald informs her, “we’re a democracy, aren’t we, Kevin?” I so want to punch Gerald. But instead I suggest that we start by rehearsing his sketch.

  “Are you planning to film this?” I ask Louise.

  “No, we just want to settle in, get a feel of what you’re doing. We might shoot some GVs at the end. They’ll come in handy at the edit.”

  “Well, you don’t need me here,” chirps Julian, “so I’ll make myself scarce. Good luck all, and, once again, many thanks for letting us share in this fine enterprise.” He pauses by the door to give a friendly wave, and then he’s gone. He’s the executive producer, so we won’t see him again.

  Within the first few minutes, I realise that today’s rehearsal is going to prove especially difficult. My main problem is that there are two women sitting in the corner of the room, so everyone is showing off like mad. Pulse has upped the lilt in his Jamaican accent to the point where I’m half-expecting him to break into a calypso. Gerald is coming out with snipey little jokes which are his idea of babe-magnet wit, Dougie is flexing his pecs and Simo keeps doing back-flips. They are gymnastically impressive, but sudden and alarming. Only Albie is behaving normally, if that is the right word.

  After half an hour of chaos, I get tired of raising my voice, tired of imploring everyone to concentrate, so I call a break for tea and biscuits. In the scrum around the table, Louise pops up next to me.

  “That was a bit of a mess, Kevin.”

  “They’ll settle down. It’s excitement.”

  “Who’s the one who hardly says anything?”

  “That’s Paul. The others call him Albie. Short for albino, which he isn’t. He’s just very fair.”

  “What’s he in for?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “Just curious.”

  I lower my voice. “Well, I can’t tell you because I don’t know. None of us do.”

  Louise goes ominously quiet and I realise that I’ve said too much.

  “Leave Albie alone, OK?” I tell her.

  I restart the rehearsal and, in an attempt to calm everyone down, I ask Dougie and Albie to give us their rendition of “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, which they perform a cappella, as Norton the pianist is in solitary for spitting at a guard.

  Everyone sits spellbound as Albie’s beautiful voice floats on Dougie’s pleasing bass and, as the last note fades, they break into applause.

  “That’s brilliant, guys,” exclaims Louise, “and you’ll be doing that in the performance, yes?”

  “I think that’s going to be the climax of the show,” I tell her.

  “Well, and of our documentary. There won’t be a dry eye in the house.”

  Again, I feel nervous about how Louise seems to be assuming control. The other producer, Michelle, just sits there like a lemon.

  Mohammad asks if he can show the group his latest piece. My heart sinks a bit, but he says he wants feedback, so we give him the floor. What he has come up with is a loud, rhythmic poem (of sorts) entitled “It Ain’t Hard, It’s the Word of God”.

  Most of it is lumpen and turgid, then, during a section on modesty, he suddenly points at the two women producers and addresses them directly:

  “So don’t flaunt bare shoulders

  Or flash your thighs

  ’Cos you trap men’s souls

  With your eyes

  And the prophet knew that sin

  Works through the senses

  So cover up them lady-bits

  Or face the consequences.”

  Although Mohammad’s doggerel is crass, it feels quite threatening and Michelle the Lemon looks like she’s about to run away. But Louise is watching with a wry grin. As Mohammad’s ranting rhymes grind to a close there is a general shifting of buttocks in seats.

  “OK, guys, feedback, hit me,” he says.
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  Louise asks if they can film the feedback session because she thinks it might be interesting.

  “Well, you’re wrong,” mutters Gerald.

  No one expresses any objections to filming, so the operator shoulders his camera as I invite comments on Mohammad’s work. Dougie opens with the observation that, in his opinion, it was shit.

  “You probably don’t understand it,” protests Mohammad, trying to appear calm because the camera is pointing at him. “It’s about big ideas, innit.”

  “All ideas look big to you”, comments Gerald.

  “It’s about the word of God.” A tiny tremble is creeping into Mohammad’s voice. “As told to the prophet. And it’s a word you all need to heed because otherwise you’ll be destroyed by Allah. Because of your sin, and your blasphemies, and your materialism and, I don’t mean to be personal, miss, but you need to wear a longer skirt.”

  Louise gives a dark chuckle. “Thanks for the tip.” Now Mohammad is talking directly into the lens of the camera.

  “The prophet says that all people, men and women, should dress modestly.”

  “Which bit of the Quran mentions skirt-lengths?”

  Gerald’s question stops Mohammad in his tracks.

  “Which surat mentions skirt-lengths?”

  “Erm…”

  “What is a modest length? Her skirt is knee-length, personally I wouldn’t class that as immodest.”

  “Well…”

  “But you seem to find that threatening. Why is that?”

  I intervene because I can see that Mohammad is getting very rattled, which was Gerald’s objective from the outset.

  “Let’s not get bogged down on skirt-lengths. Let’s widen this. What about the role of religious faith in prison? I’ve noticed quite a lot of prisoners are religious. Does it help them get through it? Pulse, you wear a crucifix…”

  “Yeah, it was my mother’s, man.”

  “Do you believe in God, or a god?”

  “On some days, maybe.”

  “The good days?”

  Pulse laughs deep and low. “Hell no, the bad days, that’s when you hope someone’s looking out for you.”

  “How about you, Albie? Did Mohammad’s…piece…connect with you in any way? Do you believe in God?”