The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  The Wannabes

  F.R. Jameson

  To V and E, with love always...

  Also by F.R. Jameson

  Screen Siren Noir

  Diana Christmas

  Eden St. Michel

  Alice Rackham

  And available exclusively

  An Interview with Charles Ravens

  Ghostly Shadows

  Death at the Seaside

  Short Stories

  Confined Spaces

  Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ALSO AVAILABLE....

  Available Exclusively!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  INTRODUCTION

  Congratulations!

  You have in your hands (well, on your e-reader of choice) a copy of my first published novel.

  Like all new authors who have sweated and toiled to get their work out – who stared daunted at novels hundreds of pages in length and wondered how they could ever get their scribblings to add up to so much – there was a time when I would beam with pride even just holding a copy of ‘The Wannabes’.

  It was my book. My achievement.

  Ten years plus down the line and a number of novels later (as well as a long hiatus in the middle), I don’t glow quite as much when I hold it now.

  Part of that is that is that I’ve become much more attuned to the indie author mind-set since. Yes, of course, I am still immensely proud of all my books. I give my heart and soul to each and every one. They’re all accomplishments which make me so happy. But whereas I once stopped and took a step back after writing ‘The Wannabes’ and waited for a round of applause, as it were, these days – when some fiction of mine is published – I am always onto the next writing project. I’m thinking about the next book, the next series – as well as how to market what I have and get my work in front of as many people as possible.

  Also, of course, when I started writing ‘The Wannabes’, I wasn’t sure that I could even write a full-length novel. To finish it in a way that was coherent, and entertaining was a thrill in itself. Now though, I absolutely know I can finish a full-length novel. If you hang around for a bit, I’m sure I’ll have one for you sooner or later.

  But, another reason why I don’t beam with quite the same level of pride as I once did, is that I think I could do better now. That’s not a criticism per se, every writer ten years on should think they can do better than their earliest novel. There’s a lot that’s really entertaining in ‘The Wannabes’. A lot that’s interesting and strange and scary and gripping. There’s a great deal about this book which works. But there’s also some choices here that I wouldn’t make again. That feel gauche and full of youthful impetuosity.

  “So why don’t you rewrite it?” I hear you ask. Well, because this a young man’s book and I just feel that if I were to jump all over it as my new middle-aged self, that more than correcting things, I’d probably ruin it. I feel I could write a better book now, but I know I couldn’t write this book any better now.

  Besides there is so much about this book which is me in embryo. For a start, three of the central characters are actresses. As someone who has written, at time of writing, three novels about various actresses (Diana Christmas; Eden St. Michel; Alice Rackham), me writing about actresses so early on is clearly prescient. Or maybe I’ve just always had the same interests.

  Then there’s the supernatural elements, which are my real obsession, and you can see again in ‘Death at the Seaside’ and all the other ghostly shadows stories coming this year.

  ‘The Wannabes’ may be young me, but it is most definitely me.

  So, there you have it. A book which I say isn’t really me anymore, but is clearly crammed full of my concerns and interests and is an entertaining thriller to boot. I say I would change things, but would I really? The more I think about it, this is a book I was always meant to write. It’s me in embryo, it’s my version of juvenilia, but it is undoubtedly me.

  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ‘The Wannabes’. My first novel and one I am most proud of.

  Happy reading,

  FRJ.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Clay stood in front of the house and let the warm summer’s air sink into his lungs. Where the hell was he? Where was this place? He knew he’d come back to London. He knew he’d been in Soho, in the girls’ flat. He could recall kissing Belinda and eating dinner with her, Abigail and Judy. And he grinned as he remembered Belinda taking him to her bed.

  Now where was he? This wasn’t Soho, but it was familiar. He stared at the house, squinted at it, tried to place it. It was Victorian and had four storeys; it looked both impressive and slightly neglected. He glanced up and down the quiet street and then smiled in recognition. This was South London, Brockley, where his friend Raymond Jones lived.

  They’d talked about Raymond over dinner last night. Once they’d all been friends, but now the consensus seemed to be that Raymond was “one of the most loathsome pieces of filth you could ever have the misfortune to meet.” It was Abigail who said that; she was always the bitchiest. But then Judy – who liked absolutely everyone – agreed. Then he’d disappointed Belinda by sticking up for Raymond. Of course, he knew that he would disappoint Belinda eventually – he always did – but he didn’t want to do it on his first night, and so took her suggestion to shut up.

  He wondered what Raymond had done to upset them. They hadn’t really said. It was puzzling, as he’d always liked Raymond. In those basement periods of his life, when his relationship with Belinda reached another new nadir, although there was always somewhere even lower ahead. Then, Raymond would take him out, buy him drinks, listen to his whining and try to tell him what he should do. He’d never listened, but he’d always liked Raymond for trying to help.

  Now he was back, standing outside Raymond’s house.

  Clay had only been there a couple of times before and he struggled to remember the layout. There was a light on in the first floor window and he wanted to know what room that was. He closed his eyes and thought, recalling the one or two dinner parties he’d been invited to – but he couldn’t quite get it. The memories were there but he couldn’t grasp them properly. He opened his eyes and peered up. There was a light on and he didn’t know in which room, but at least it suggested there was someone home and awake.

  The wooden gate gave with a nudge and a creak and he strolled up the concreted front path. He reached the blue front door and squinted through the frosted glass, but glimpsed nothing except uninvitin
g blackness.

  He rang the doorbell. There was no instant reaction, no sound, no racing feet on the stairs. He took a step back and gazed up at that lit window on the first floor. He rang the bell again, holding his finger so that the sound reverberated continuously through the house.

  Finally, it got the response he wanted. The hall light was switched on and a figure came charging down, walking through the hallway with a military strut, as if about to offer a strong reprimand for this disturbance.

  Even through the dark frosted glass Clay knew it was Raymond. He recognised the shape of Raymond’s head and also the black T-shirt and jeans that served almost as Raymond’s uniform.

  Clay was a big bloke – well over six foot, with an impressive set of shoulders – and Raymond must have been able to see the size of his visitor through the glass, but he didn’t hesitate. His movements were fast as he undid the bottom dead lock and then the top Yale lock, then he swung the door back with an angry pout.

  Raymond’s expression changed instantly. Once he realised it was Clay, his mouth fell wide open and all facial hardness and tension was replaced by shock. His eyes went from being narrow behind thick glasses, to ballooning wide in surprise. He’d rested his hand at the top of the door – a barrier to this nocturnal visitor – but once he identified Clay, the arm flopped to his side. His legs seemed to tremble and he staggered back a couple of steps to keep balance. He stood with his arms outstretched between the hall walls, gaping at his old friend Clay.

  Clay smiled. “Hello, Raymond.”

  “Jesus!” The word was carried on a lungful of trapped breath. “Fuck! Clay, I just never thought I’d... I just thought that...” He coughed. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

  “I’m sorry to come so late,” said Clay.

  “That’s fine.” Raymond tried straightening himself up, attempting to look a little more composed. “I’m glad to see you. I really, really fucking am.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Clay stepped out of the dark and pushed the door shut behind him.

  Raymond was a slightly overweight, slightly handsome guy who was just over average height. He kept his hair short because it was almost uncontrollably curly.

  He was an author. He wrote funny and sad romans-à-clef which Clay always enjoyed but which never seemed to sell. The girls’ circle was a collection of like-thinking wannabes, a bunch of dreamers whose life so far was a resting post before fame and fortune. There were actresses who just needed that break, writers working on that sellable idea, musicians a drumbeat from that next hit song. They sat around discussing their futures, becoming dizzy with impending glory in the corner of a shabby West End pub.

  Clay was there too, one of their friends. He scarcely had a creative bone in his body and used to marvel at knowing such people – even if they were stuck in an oak-panelled, beer-serving rut.

  “Where the hell have you been, Clay?” asked Raymond.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s two years since we saw you. You disappeared, man. Just vanished. We thought – I thought – that... It doesn’t matter – but where the fuck have you been?”

  “I don’t know. Nowhere in particular, I suppose. I’ve just been hanging around–”

  “For two years?”

  “I know, it sounds strange, doesn’t it? But I honestly don’t know what else to say. I’ve not been doing that much.”

  “Jesus!” said Raymond. “Well, it’s good to see you, wherever the hell you’ve been. Do you want a drink? Something to eat?”

  “Sure.”

  Raymond led him upstairs and Clay remembered the layout. At the front of the first floor – the room with the light on – was a bedroom. At the back there was a large and impressive kitchen and a spacious dining room. On the floor above that was a bedroom and a bathroom and above that a spare bedroom in the attic, where he’d crashed once or twice long ago. The walls were all painted white with a hint of something suggestive of cornfields; it was a soothing colour, very appropriate for Raymond.

  “Where’s Lizzie?” asked Clay.

  Raymond glanced back at him and shrugged. “We broke up.”

  “What? You’re divorced?”

  “No, trial separation. I think it’s more of a trial for me, though. She seems to be enjoying it.”

  The kitchen was their main room for socialising, and Clay saw it hadn’t changed much. There was a six hob oven, a huge fridge and freezer, deep cabinets and, along the walls, pan after pan hanging on hooks. Gleaming frying pans, heat singed woks and large pots you could probably cram a whole sheep into. And of course, the real focal point – the eight-seat table where the succulent food would be served and eaten.

  “So you’re here all alone now?” asked Clay.

  “Yeah I am. I was just being boring and single and doing some reading.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry to hear about Lizzie.”

  “Oh don’t worry, I don’t think it’s your fault. We all make mistakes, don’t we?” He tried for a smile, but it didn’t really come off. “What would you like to drink? Will whisky do?”

  “Of course.”

  Raymond bent over and reached into one of the lower cupboards. There was the clink of bottles as he searched for the good whisky. Clay found himself staring along the wall until he came to a particularly heavy pot. Without conscious thought, he moved forward, grabbed it by the handle and held it above his head. Finally Raymond found whichever bottle he was looking for and straightened up. Clay swung the pot and smashed it into the back of Raymond’s skull.

  Raymond yelped and grabbed at his head, the whisky bottle shattering at his feet. He tried to keep his balance, but buckled over, his hands clutching his scalp.

  Clay raised the pot and cracked it into his friend’s head again.

  Again Raymond cried and again he didn’t fall over. This time the blow was more detrimental to the pot, which shot loose of its handle, crashed into the ceiling and clattered to the floor.

  Throwing the handle away, Clay reached back to the wall – this time choosing a sharp-rimmed wok.

  He placed his hand on Raymond’s shoulder to steady the blow and then brought it down quick and hard.

  The force of it smacked Raymond’s face to the floor, cleaving his skull. As Clay tried to raise the utensil to hit him again he found it was stuck there. It had split open the back of Raymond’s head and that sharp rim had wedged amidst the pulp of broken bone, flesh and blood. Raymond grunted and shuddered, his left leg twitching spastically. Clay put his foot to Raymond’s shoulder to give himself some leverage, then prised the pan out with an odd sucking sound. He steadied himself and then clubbed his friend again and again. He kept going until Raymond had stopped grunting, moving and breathing.

  Clay took a step back and looked at his efforts. He smiled.

  The back of Raymond’s head was a mess of crunched up bits of flesh, bloody bone and brain-messed hair.

  Clay strode over to the oven and opened the door. He ran his finger along the dials and lit it up to its highest mark. He grabbed Raymond’s collar and dragged the corpse across the linoleum, placing his broken skull on the first shelf of the oven. He jammed the door in the crook between Raymond’s bloody neck and shoulders.

  As he stood at the sink and washed the stains from his hands and the specks of blood from his face, he whistled a tune he didn’t recognise. He looked down at his front and saw he was wearing black, and that the blood stains didn’t show at all.

  Just before he switched out the light, he caught his reflection in the dark window-pane and thought he seemed really happy.

  The room was filling with smoke, dark and pungent, as Raymond’s cranium roasted nicely.

  Clay whistled a cheerful tune and smiled at his reflection.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Clay woke with a frightened start. He shot up from the pillow, shivering, every inch of him seemingly lacquered with the sheen of cold sweat. He stared aroun
d, his eyes blinking in disbelief, and even the realisation that he was still in Belinda’s bed didn’t ease the hammering of his heart.

  Everything in her room was green. The walls, the curtains, the bedspread, the pillows. Every sodding thing. Even the wardrobe, chest of drawers and the picture frames had been daubed this outside hue. Normally it seemed rich and healthy, as if wrapped in the skin of a Granny Smith; but this morning – as his heart pounded – the dawn light made it appear as if everything was ill and rotten, as if there was a contagion of gangrene.

  Belinda lay with him under the sheets, both of them still naked. The violence of his waking had disturbed her awake, and now she appraised him with curious green eyes.

  Belinda Bondurant, the one time love of his life. He’d seen her for the first time in years last night. It had gone better than he would have hoped, and once again he was waking in her bed.

  Stroking her hands down his arms, she kissed his chest.

  He felt a relief, an easing. The tension slipped away as he realised he was actually in her room, that this was real life, that he’d just had a bad and rather dark dream. He lay back and she kissed her way up his chest, towards his face. Once there, her lips found his and he slowly reciprocated. He felt the same stirrings as the previous night. She raised herself up and looked down at him.

  God, she was gorgeous!

  There was a jack-hammering in his chest, but still he smiled as he looked at her.

  She was a beautiful redhead – not ginger, as she always carefully pointed out. She had a fantastic red mane, which grew like fire from her ivory skin, a heart-shaped face and a small mouth which usually offered a smile that was half a kiss or half a pout. But this morning those lips really did open up and stretch and give him the full glory. She was sexy, both carelessly and knowingly. A glimpse of the back of her head was enough to get a man’s attention, while full-on eye contact and that little half-kissed smile could melt even the coldest prude.

  Belinda had dimples that she didn’t like and had practised keeping her smile small so they didn’t show – she was an actress, appearances were everything – and as a result she really only had two smiles. Her normal smile was the shape of a kiss, beautiful in front of you as if you could just lean down and pluck it. He knew that was the smile she used when she was flirting, giving the lucky man the impression she was just waiting for his lips. But there was another smile – the smile that slipped out that morning – the one where emotion got the better of her and she smiled wide and real and deliciously.