The Last Stage

by Louise Voss

  ‘Don’t you sodding talk to my sister like that.’ Pete was back – there must have been someone in the bathroom. He stood in the doorway glowering at us both. Samantha got to her feet in one lithe moment, squaring up to him.

  ‘Pete! What the fuck?’

  He approached her and with a forefinger jabbed her in the chest, above her right breast. She growled – an actual low growl of rage.

  Then he turned to me. ‘You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?’

  ‘We’re in love,’ I said defensively, and Pete snorted.

  I put my hand on his arm but he shook it off. The three of us were standing in a small circle around the oil lamp, angry elves around a magic toadstool. A poisonous toadstool, I thought, drunkenly.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Pete, I realise this is a bit of a shock. Perhaps I should’ve told you first, but I wanted you to meet Samantha…’ My voice wobbled. ‘Please don’t judge her – us – until you know her better. I’m so happy, Pete, honestly. I’ve never been happier.’

  Pete looked me in the face. Suddenly, and for the first time, he seemed so much older than me. There was sadness as well as anger in his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, you really look it right now.’

  Samantha lunged for him then, eyes narrowed, cigarette still in the corner of her mouth. I had to put my arms round her waist from behind and drag her away from him, kicking and screaming so loudly that Webbo and Marsh appeared in the doorway, their eyes bloodshot and their movements sluggish.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Samantha wrestled her way out of my grip, grabbed her still-full rucksack and pushed past the boys. ‘I’m gonna leave you children to it,’ she said coldly. ‘Seeya, Meredith. It’s been real, but I’ve got more important things to do with my life.’

  I was reeling. Surely she couldn’t mean what it sounded like she meant?

  ‘Samantha! Stay. Please!’ I moved towards her, but Pete held my forearm, then hugged me so tightly that I couldn’t extricate myself before I heard the bang of the front door.

  Samantha was gone.

  Webbo and Marsh sloped away, leaving Pete to deal with me. He tried to comfort me, but I was too drunk and distraught, and I lashed out at him.

  ‘This is your fault! You wound her up and now she’s gone!’

  ‘Mez, if that’s how easily wound-up she gets, you don’t want to hang around with her.’

  I made furious speech marks with my fingers. ‘I don’t “hang around” with her. We were – are – in a relationship! Why is that so hard for you to accept? We’ve been together for over a year!’

  I refused to allow myself to consider that Samantha had been AWOL for at least three-quarters of this time.

  Pete slumped back on my mattress, looking utterly shell-shocked. It was a surprise, for both of us – we almost never argued. But at that moment I wanted to punish him, make him feel the same pain I was feeling. He scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes but I couldn’t tell if he was crying. Even in my fury, I hoped not. I’d never seen him cry, not since we were little kids. He hadn’t even cried at Dad’s funeral.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you this, Mez, but I saw her earlier. She was in the pub garden when I arrived, kissing that girl with the black hair, when you were on stage. I didn’t think that much of it, apart from the fact I’ve never seen girls snogging before so, you know, I noticed. That’s why I was frosty with her when she showed up here.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I sobbed, although of course I did. Deep down I’d known all along, as soon as I saw Samantha look at that girl. I just couldn’t bear to admit it.

  ‘Oh, come on. You think I’d make up something like that? Of course I wouldn’t!’

  ‘You just can’t cope with me being gay.’

  ‘THIS IS NOT ABOUT ME!’ he yelled, suddenly as furious as I was. ‘Why can’t you just stop blaming me? In fact, why can’t you think about someone other than yourself for a change? You just walk out, leave me to cope with Mum, who’s in a right state by the way, not that you give a shit. You haven’t even asked how she is!’

  ‘I talk to her!’ I shouted back. ‘I ring her once a week!’

  ‘Whoop-de-doo,’ said Pete. ‘You ring her for five minutes once a week from a phone box and think you’ve done your duty; but every single day of the week I have to deal with her crying her eyes out. She misses Dad like crazy, and now she has to worry about you too, living on your own, dropping out of school, moving in with people she’s never met and knows nothing about. Now I can see why you haven’t told her anything about them, because they’re a bunch of druggy, benefit-scrounging losers, aren’t they?’

  He did at least drop his voice when he said that, but I was in too much of a frenzy to do the same.

  ‘How dare you talk about my friends like that! You know what, why don’t you just fuck off back to Salisbury? Go running back to Mum and tell her what a mess I’m making of my life. I’m sure you’ll take great pleasure in it. I wish you’d never come!’

  ‘Oh, and here comes the self-pity. That’s predictable. OK, well, fine. I’ll go. And don’t worry, I won’t tell Mum anything that will stress her out even more than she already is. You just carry on, pleasing yourself and letting everyone else pick up the pieces. You always do.’

  He hauled himself off the mattress and picked up his backpack and sleeping bag and for the second time that night, someone I loved walked out of my life.

  ‘Oh, and by the way,’ was his parting shot. ‘You aren’t even gay. You’re just weak.’

  It would be five years before I next saw him, and I never saw Samantha again. I never had another gay relationship, either. So as much as I resented him saying what he said, I guess he was right.

  34

  Present Day

  Gemma

  Gemma drove up to the main gates of the estate for the second time that day and switched off the car engine. It was a perfect English summer’s evening, everything an even more vibrant green than usual after the earlier thunderstorm, sheep grazing placidly in the field outside the estate, all the previous humidity replaced by a cool, brisk breeze.

  She had been home to pack an overnight bag, then back to the station to finish writing up her daily report, and to inform Mavis and Lincoln that she was relocating to Minstead for a few days.

  It was 6.00 p.m. precisely, the time she’d asked Meredith to get the security guard to let her in. She craned her neck to look through the tall wrought-iron gates to the house, thinking back to Mavis’s earlier words: ‘Let’s hope you can get some significant intel off of her, or there’d be no need for you to be there. I mean, it’s pretty secure, isn’t it? Security twenty-four/seven, a locked gate, fence around the perimeter…’

  ‘I’m going in as her FLO, not her bodyguard,’ Gemma had said, trying not to shudder at the words ‘off of’. She had once, during a dull stake-out, compiled a mental top ten of irritating things Mavis said, and ‘off of’ was definitely in the top three. ‘She’s just lost two people close to her.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go in tomorrow? You’ll only have a few hours with her tonight.’

  ‘I wish I could. But she doesn’t want to be on her own, and her brother’s busy tonight. She specifically asked if I could come now, and she doesn’t strike me as the needy type.’

  ‘How did she seem, in herself, when you were talking to her? Doesn’t sound like she’s coping.’

  ‘No, I don’t think she is. She sounded scared. She admitted that she thinks the same person who killed both of them only did it to get at her, after what happened to her in the nineties. It’s just a case of trying to figure out if she’s got reason to believe it, or if she’s just being paranoid. Lots of people who’ve been in the public eye – people who’ve never been through anything like what she went through – are paranoid too.’

  ‘Or lying,’ Mavis said, darkly. ‘We can’t rule that out yet, either. But, assuming she didn’t do it, somebody killed Ralph Allerton and Andrea Horvath. It’
s pretty unlikely that it was two separate random murderers.’

  ‘I know,’ Gemma said, taking the keys of a pool car off a peg and signing them out. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll report in to the guv later.’

  ‘Give me a bell too, let me know. And … look after yourself, Gemma,’ said Mavis, much to her astonishment.

  An elderly uniformed man on a golf buggy finally drove up on the other side of the gates, heaved himself off it, came towards her, and fumbled with the large padlock.

  ‘Hello. DC Gemma McMeekin,’ she said after he’d hauled open the gates, holding her hand out through the window. ‘Thanks for coming to meet me.’

  The guard shook it. His hand was fat, with a calloused palm, and he smiled at her with a mouthful of teeth so yellow and crooked that it made her happy she had braces.

  ‘George. Good of you to be ’ere to keep an eye on our Meredith. I’d do it meself, like, but I’ve got to do me rounds. Can’t be everywhere at once, can I? But, I tell you, this is a bloody terrible business. The thought of it. Nothing like that’s never happened ’ere in all thirty years I bin ’ere. Shall I show you to the cottage?’

  Gemma explained that she’d already been there once today, so George locked the gates again and drove off with a sombre nod, his buggy making a loud whining noise. It reminded Gemma of her mum’s sewing machine, when you tried to press the treadle but the needle was jammed in the material and wouldn’t move.

  There was a team of gardeners turning over the soil in an empty border on the far side of a lawn, white marble statues flanking them like the weeping angels in an old episode of Doctor Who, but Gemma’s attention was mostly on the stunning view, layers of violet hills in the distance. No wonder Lady Whatshername had wanted to build her home here.

  She parked in the staff car park and retraced her steps down to the cottage. A flowerbed by the downstairs window was bursting with hollyhocks in various pastel shades. Gemma hadn’t noticed it earlier in the pouring rain.

  ‘Hi again. Nice not to arrive drenched this time,’ Gemma said, dumping her bag on a chair and inspecting Meredith’s face. She looked a bit more composed than she had earlier, but her already-pale skin still bore the greenish tint of stress and shock.

  ‘Come on through, I’ll put the kettle on. I’m just making dinner – stew. It’s almost ready. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?’

  ‘Great,’ said Gemma. ‘And no. I’ll eat anything.’ She gazed at two framed prints on the wall – cats wearing glasses superimposed against a background of dictionary entries. Like many of the objects and much of the decor in the cottage and, Gemma reflected, on Pete’s boat, they could easily look naff in a different context, but here they actually weren’t at all. That purple velvet chaise-longue had seen better days, and the Chinese rug looked faded and threadbare.

  ‘It’s a gorgeous cottage. I wish I lived somewhere like this.’ Gemma followed her into the kitchen, admiring the potted orchids on every surface and ledge. It was instantly about ten degrees hotter in there, a warm fug of cooking meat that made Gemma’s stomach rumble. ‘My flat’s in a block of identical ones, built twenty years ago. It’s like they were intended to have no character whatsoever. But it was all I could afford.’

  Meredith made a noncommittal noise and clicked open the latch on the door next to the sink, revealing a small utility room, where she opened a drawer and removed a clean dishcloth.

  A cat had been lying curled up on a pile of clean laundry on top of a dryer, but when it saw Meredith, it jumped up and ran into the kitchen, leaving a circle of black fur on the top white towel.

  ‘That’s actually not even my cat,’ Meredith said, crossly. ‘He comes in through the cat flap and waits till he can get onto a bed. He’s called Gavin. He’s actually the house cat, but he seems to prefer it here.’

  Gemma laughed. ‘Gavin! Excellent name.’

  Meredith dried two mugs and threw in tea bags. ‘Ralph named him.’ Her voice sound strangled. ‘Just got to mash these spuds then we’re done. Would you like a glass of wine as well as the tea?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ said Gemma, although she’d have loved one. She was feeling strangely unsettled. She’d had numerous previous FLO postings, but never one to a solo woman, and never overnight. She couldn’t shake the faint feeling that rather than being assigned to Meredith, she, Gemma, was more like a foster child – or an exchange student – than the one who was meant to be taking charge of the situation; it was as if she needed Meredith, rather than the other way around. Although of course, she did need Meredith. The investigation needed Meredith.

  Meredith needed to be kept safe.

  35

  1992

  Meredith

  That April evening was one of the highlights of my life … until it was ruined. It was certainly the pinnacle of the band’s trajectory. It was what we had all fantasised about since our days in the squat, nine years previously. Secretly fantasised about. None of us ever articulated it, beyond a vague ‘we want to get the message out’ and an earnest agreement that, should we ever hit the big time, we would use the money to help the needy. But we’d come such a long way since the days of really having a message, of ranting about consumerism and elitism and cronyism. Perhaps if we had been more honest we would have admitted the truth: Yeah, and obviously it would be great to be millionaires too.

  Our progress had been slow and steady, but what Cohen had worked and argued and sacrificed for finally paid off. All those circuits of the country in the knackered, old red van; the student unions and pubs and crappy festivals; the flexi-discs and home-printed T-shirts, building up our rabidly loyal fanbase, Goth by Goth.

  That momentous evening saw the launch of our album, our third, but the first of a new deal with a major label, and said label had pushed the boat right out. They’d given us a five-million-pound advance for it, so they had to make sure they did all they could to recoup it – and the marketing and promotional spend started with the launch.

  It sounded a lot, five million, we all agreed, almost sheepishly. And it was, of course. We rationalised it by pointing out that those were days of stupid advances. Bowie and U2 got close to forty million for deals in the late eighties and early nineties.

  The launch was held in a swanky recording studio venue in Chiswick, the live room decorated with huge floor-to-ceiling black-and-white photographs of each of us. People milled around – other popstars, looking haughty and vaguely peed off that they weren’t the centre of attention. Journalists, TV celebrities and record-company staff from bigwigs to postroom boys had all just started arriving. The plan was to do an exclusive full playback of the new album, once enough free champagne had been circulated, followed by us performing an acoustic version of the first single, ‘Old Boys’ Club’.

  Marsh was grumbling about the champagne and ‘fuckin’ ridiculous canapés’ that a dozen besuited waiters were offering on silver trays. ‘It’s not right,’ he kept saying.

  ‘Oh, chill out, Marsh,’ Webbo said, swigging back a full glass of fizz. ‘We’ve been over this a thousand times. The more well-known we are, the more of a platform we have to effect change.’

  I took a glass of orange juice from a passing waiter’s tray. I didn’t like champagne, and didn’t want to drink anything alcoholic before we performed to such a starry and select crowd. Even though it was just one acoustic number, I wanted to give the best performance I’d ever given.

  ‘Or,’ I said, ‘we could’ve done a press release saying that we were offered this big swanky launch with ten grand’s worth of booze and cocktail sausages, but we turned it down and gave the dosh to homeless people. That’d get us publicity, right?’

  ‘Might do,’ said Marsh, lighting up his rollie and using an empty glass as an ashtray, ‘but it’s a bit late now.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Spike. ‘It’s a top idea. Wish we’d have thought of it earlier.’

  The boys, once more, all looked slightly sheepish. I knew that our huge advance didn’t sit well with man
y of our fans either, who’d been very vociferous about it – sending letters written in green ink to the NME about how we’d sold out, and so on. But as Iain McKinnon, our new marketing manager, explained, the size of the advance had a direct correlation with how much the company would promote us, so in terms of giving our music the best possible chance to reach a big audience, it was the one thing that could ensure our worldwide success.

  ‘Give the money away if you don’t want it, hey?’ he’d said, his smooth forehead furrowed with confusion at the idea that anybody would be that insane.

  In the end we all agreed to make sizeable donations to charity, and I actually did it. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that the boys had got around to it yet, but that was for their consciences to worry about. None of my business. Marsh bought his parents a new three-piece suite, so perhaps that was his idea of ‘giving back’.

  They were here tonight – a nice middle-aged couple, her in pearls and twinset, him in slacks and a tie, standing awkwardly against the wall, drinking juice and looking nervous whenever a waiter appeared with canapés. ‘You should talk to your mum and dad,’ I chided, poking Marsh in the side.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Man, it’s so embarrassing they’re even here. I didn’t think they’d really come when I invited them. They hardly ever leave Northamptonshire.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have them,’ I said wistfully.

  I was the only member of the band who didn’t have anyone there to support me. Webbo and Spike were both with their girlfriends, and at least Marsh had a mum and dad to be there, even if he was mortified by them. Despite the fact she’d turned out to be a two-timing bitch, I had a flash of wishing Samantha could be there to see us. But Marsh had heard on the grapevine that she’d gone back to the States and was now working at a Californian university as a lecturer in English literature.