Remix (2010)

by Lexi Revellian

  Chapter

  31

  *

  Shortly before eight that evening, the police had finished with me, James and Jeff - for the present, at any rate - and told us we were free to go. In the end they decided to let Ric out on police bail, which I thought an encouraging sign, particularly as they’d now got Emma in custody blackening his name. They wanted him back, though, at two p.m. on Monday.

  Ric, with Dog and attendant policeman, joined our little group last, and while we waited for him I went to the Ladies, had a wash and put on my best make-up. My mood had lightened; Emma could do her worst, but she was lying; she’d be spending the night in jail, and Ric wouldn’t. Everything would work out.

  When Ric arrived, we stood around for a minute, deciding what to do next. We felt as if we were about to be let out of school on the last day of summer term. All of us had managed to snatch some sleep during the day (Ric rather less than the rest of us, as the police spent longer with him) and were in party mood. After what we had been through together we were Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan, blood brothers, closer than family; we didn’t want to part.

  “Let’s all go for a slap-up meal to celebrate, and to hell with Emma,” Ric said. “Get a limo to take us back to London.”

  “Excellent idea,” said James.

  “What about my van? And your motorbike?”

  “We’ll get them tomorrow. I can’t ride the Harley, anyway.” He glanced at the policeman. “Insurance, that sort of thing. How about the Connaught?”

  “Looking like this?” I said dubiously. We were all the scruffy side of casual. Even James looked as though he’d dressed in the dark. “And there’s Dog.”

  “The Dorchester,” Jeff said. “They’ve got private dining rooms. And they do good Chinese, as well as poncy French stuff.”

  “I thought you were banned at the Dorchester?”

  “Nah, that was the Savoy. Dickheads.” Jeff got on his mobile and rang the Dorchester. “Hi, Jeff Pike here. Fine. I want a private dining room for this evening…round about nine thirty. I’m bringing Ric Kealey and a couple of mates. That’s right. Yeah, better had. Okay.” He finished the call, then made another to order a car to take us to London.

  The policeman interrupted him, “D’you want to tell it to go round to the car park, so you don’t have to walk past the press? There’s quite a few of them out there.”

  Jeff raised his eyebrows at Ric, but he shook his head. “No. I’ve waited a long time for this. We’ll go out the front.” He took off the cheap navy hoodie he’d just pulled over his black tee shirt, and abandoned it on a chair. He put his arm round my waist, and we headed for the exit.

  Beyond the glass doors of the main entrance, the golden evening light glowed. Ten metres away our silver limousine waited, and on either side of the path leading to it was the press. The police had erected metal barriers to keep them back, and several uniformed officers patrolled to keep order. Behind the barriers, leaning over them, were hordes of reporters, jostling shoulder to shoulder, and cameramen with enormous cameras, many on ladders so their faces were banked high like spectators at a football match. Film crews had set up tripods and carried big furry microphones. In the background three satellite trucks waited to beam footage across the world.

  They became aware of our presence, and the crowd stirred as every camera lifted, ready. Ric turned to us, a shadow passing over his face. “D’you think word’s got out yet…about Emma?”

  “It doesn’t matter if it has. It’s not true. You can handle it.”

  He hesitated. “How do I look?”

  “You look like shit, man,” said Jeff. “They won’t know you. You’ll have to tell them who you are.”

  “Hey, don’t spare my feelings, Jeff, just give it to me straight, I can take it.” Ric ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it. The gash on his head showed dark against the blond; he had stubble on his jaw and shadows round his eyes. His pale skin contrasted with his black clothes.

  He was double-take gorgeous.

  “You look like the hero of a vampire romance, handsome, dangerous and a bit ill,” I said. It was the truth. Any warm-blooded female wouldn’t be able to keep her hands off him.

  He kissed me, then, “Guys, come with me.”

  “No. It’s you they’re waiting for.” I gave him a little push. “We’ll join you in a minute.”

  Jeff grinned. “Go on, you know you want to. Vain bastard.”

  “Just you and me, then, Dog.” Ric moved away, paused, turned, and his dark eyes met mine. He smiled. Not the dazzling smile; a small, intimate one that was just for me; then he switched on the charisma and walked towards the double doors. They slid open. A thousand flash bulbs blazed and coalesced into one brilliant flickering glare. A roar shook the air as they all bellowed his name.

  He walked down the steps, posing without seeming to, answering some of the shouted questions, working his way slowly towards the limousine. He flirted with a pretty CNN girl, putting his hand over hers on the microphone, and she blushed just like the WPC had. He picked Dog up so he could be in the shot, and hands reached out to pat him. Dog didn’t seem fazed by the crowd, the noise and the lights. Ric made some joke and the nearest reporters laughed. I watched, proud of him, my heart glowing.

  “Well,” James said, “He’s back.”

  I glanced his way, and noticed that beyond him Jeff’s whole attention was concentrated on Ric; he was smiling as I had done, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. Ric, I saw with sudden clarity, was the love of Jeff’s life; not his wife, a mother figure who provided the home and family he’d never had, nor the succession of women, mere accessories to his rock star status like the limos and the drugs. Such romance as he possessed was focused on Ric, who indulged him. Jeff had felt like that since the early days of the band. He wasn’t going to go away. If I wanted Ric, I’d need to accept this.

  His hand on the car door, Ric looked round for us, photographers still snapping him.

  “Just take no notice of them and keep moving,” Jeff said. “Let’s go.” The cameras whirred and flashed anew as we stepped outside, and the reporters yelled, a hunting pack in full cry. The assault of light and noise was overwhelming, disorientating. I could pick out some of what they were shouting.

  “This way, Jeff!”

  “Over here!”

  “How did you get those cuts, Jeff?”

  “Jeff, will The Voices relaunch now Ric’s back?”

  “Give us a smile, love. Are you Ric’s girlfriend?”

  A microphone was thrust under my nose. “How did you meet Ric Kealey?”

  It seemed rude to ignore the man. “Er…”

  Jeff grabbed my arm. “Vikki’s with me, and she doesn’t want to talk to you, wanker.” He dragged me past, scowling. Wooing the press was not something he went in for, clearly. We reached the car and tumbled in. The driver moved off, chased down the road by photographers shooting through the windows. Jeff raised his middle finger at them. Soon they were left behind, though a handful of paparazzi on motorbikes and mopeds buzzed along in our wake, dust trailing Ric’s comet. We settled into the plushy seats, Ric’s arm round my shoulder.

  “How long will they follow us for?” James asked, peering out of the rear window.

  “All evening,” said Ric. “Dog, you were terrific, they loved you. You’re a star.”

  The driver dropped us right outside the hotel entrance, a doorman opened the limousine’s door and we sprinted up the steps into the marbled halls of the foyer. A beaming manager appeared at once; “Nice to see you, Mr Pike. Welcome back, Mr Kealey. Madam, Sir,” and escorted us, incongruously unkempt as we were, through the sumptuous lobby to a lift. I realized he’d been waiting for our arrival. Heads swivelled as we passed, and hotel guests muttered to each other. One or two took photos of Ric with their phones, discreetly.

  I’d never been to the Dorchester before. The private dining room turned out to be part of a suite, so there was a spacious living
-room with a fireplace and three sofas as well as a formal dining area. Decorated in soft shades of cream, blue, green, with a balcony and views of the treetops in Hyde Park, it resembled the home of someone rich with conservative tastes - not unlike Phil Sharott’s, come to think of it. Not Jeff’s sort of place at all, I’d have thought; but he seemed at home there, and all the staff knew him.

  Once we’d ordered from the menus, I stepped out on to the narrow balcony, with its background hum of traffic, and view of Hyde Park in the twilight; the dark bulk of trees, the deepening blue sky, the street lights and the constant flow of cars. James followed me, and when the Krug arrived in a silver bucket, Jeff got them to bring it outside.

  I lifted my glass. “To James and Jeff. To not being dead.”

  “To Jeff and James,” Ric said. “To being alive.”

  “To Caz…” James smiled at me, “…and Ric.”

  “Whatever,” said Jeff.

  Suddenly I felt riotously happy. Champagne always has a heartening effect on me, and I’d already been feeling chirpy. I was alive, so was Ric, he’d said he loved me (okay, maybe in the heat of the moment because we were both about to die, but still) and I’d get to dapple Saladin instead of someone else who might do it wrong. Me, Jeff and Ric dropped ice cubes over the balcony railing, trying to hit various features on the roof below, getting very competitive, making up elaborate rules and accusing each other of cheating. James egged us on.

  “You have a go, Jas.”

  He shook his head. “I’d rather watch you lot.”

  “Then get us some more ice cubes sent up, will you?”

  “And a laptop,” said Ric. Jeff rolled his eyes, but I thought it a brilliant idea; I was keen to see us on screen.

  When the waiter brought what he’d asked for, James didn’t follow him on to the balcony; he hung back, and I could tell he wanted a quiet word with me. A little reluctantly, I made my last throw and joined him inside. Pools of lamplight made the big room intimate; the others were being too raucous to hear anything we said. I sat on a sofa and James perched on the arm.

  “God, Caz, I’m so pleased you’re safe.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “I keep thinking what would have happened if Jenny downstairs hadn’t lost her keys. It makes me go cold.”

  “When you came through the French window - I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to see anyone.”

  “I’m just so glad I was there.” He reached out and squeezed my hand briefly. His expression lightened; he got up and fetched the laptop from the coffee table, sat beside me and opened it. “Let’s see what you look like on the news.”

  I glanced in Ric’s direction, but he was immersed in the game. He’d see it later. James went to the BBC’s homepage. The main story was Rock star Ric Kealey alive, all charges dropped, with a photograph of Ric holding Dog. James clicked on a link, Kealey leaves Maidenhead Police Station. I watched, riveted; on my own I’d have played Ric walking down those steps and charming the reporters over and over. Now the rest of us appeared. James laughed.

  “Caz, you look all innocent with huge eyes, like a small child on her first trip to Disney World.” I gave him a look, wasted because he was concentrating on the laptop; when the brief clip was over he went on speaking as he switched it off. “Changing the subject, I had a phone call from Posy today. While you were in the interview room.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was having second thoughts. Said she missed me, that maybe she’d got it wrong, she wasn’t sure she wanted to settle down after all.”

  “Did she mean it? Or was she just saying it because she’d frightened you off before and wanted you back?”

  “Lord knows. I’d be taking advantage of her, I think, if we did get back together on my terms.” James went on more hesitantly, “The funny thing is, though, that I’ve sort of come round to her way of thinking.” He stopped; I waited, but he gave no sign of carrying on. He sipped his champagne, staring out at the balcony, and I followed his gaze. Ric and Jeff were leaning over the criss-cross railings, side by side, absorbed in their contest.

  “Yeah, dude, bull’s eye, but it was the wrong one, you’re doing the one on the right this time.”

  “No, no, it was that one, you retard. The other one’s your one, the one you haven’t hit yet.”

  I turned my attention back to James. He was still watching Ric and Jeff.

  “You’ve got a rival there, you know. It was pretty obvious on the journey to Cookham.”

  This was old news. “Yes…but he’ll never get what he wants.” I was more interested in what he had been saying about Posy. I wondered if, unlike Jeff, she was about to get her way; she knew James, and a woman who has set her sights on a man should not be underestimated. If she succeeded, Rosemary would be pleased with her as a daughter-in-law. “So Posy…d’you mean you do want to marry her after all? She’s very nice…”

  “Caz, you’re an idiot.” His blue gaze met mine. “I want to marry you.”

  Good heavens, he was proposing! “Oh, James…”

  “I know. Ric. But I thought I’d better tell you, so’s you’d know. Just in case.”

  There was something I had to say. I owed him an apology. “Look, I’m sorry about the other night. This morning.” I avoided his eyes, looking instead at the streams of tiny bubbles in my glass. “I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.”

  James smiled. “Don’t be. It was nice while it lasted.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, I told Posy no. I didn’t feel it would be honest. And she said, she’d got the picture, she couldn’t compete with you. And hung up.”

  Chapter

  32

  *

  Monday morning my phone woke me. I stretched out a sleepy hand for it. James. Ric stirred, turned over and settled again, his eyes firmly shut.

  “Hi…what time is it?” I said quietly.

  “Ten. Did I wake you? I’ve been up for hours, I’m at work now. Have you looked outside?”

  “Hang on.” I slid out of bed, put the mobile down for a moment while I slung on my towelling robe, and went to the round window that overlooks Fox Hollow Yard. It was packed with people - reporters and paparazzi in their own little encampment; drinking cups of coffee, chatting, sitting on the cobbles typing into laptops.

  “Goodness,” I said. “Ric turned the sound off on the entry phone last night. They followed us here, and rang the bell as soon as we went in. Nothing like as many as that, though.”

  “I came to collect the car just after eight this morning, and saw them. They pounced on me for want of anyone better, but I told them I couldn’t say anything, it was sub judice. Don’t know if that’s true. By the way, I bought the papers and put them through your door. Thought you’d want to see them.”

  “Oh James, thanks, that was kind.”

  “There’s some nice shots of you. Ric of course, and Jeff looking baleful. And read the Daily Mail first - some surprises there. Anyway, got to go. See you, Caz.”

  “Bye, James.”

  I went softly out of the flat, down three flights of stairs to the office. The answer machine’s red light blinked at me in the dimness, wanting attention. I ignored it - somehow I doubted it was horses the callers were interested in. We’d let the blinds down the night before, so none of the reporters could see me tiptoe to the door, though I could sense them moving about. Two were sitting on the doorstep; I could hear them chatting a foot or two away from me. The newspapers were fanned on the floor where James had shoved them through one at a time. I shuffled them into a thick pile, tabloids on top. Upstairs, I plonked them on the kitchen counter and put the kettle on while I had a quick look. James had said read the Mail first…I was immediately distracted by the paper on top, the Sun, huge letters taking up most of the front page.

  RIC KEALEY

  HE’S ALIVE

  HE’S BACK

  and he’s innocent

  A photo of Ric, holding Dog, smiling at the CNN reporter. Dog, it seemed, was as photogenic a
s his owner - he looked adorable. Inside, there were spreads across four pages. The salient facts, though understandably not a lot of detail, plus background about the band and the murder. They revealed Ric’s plans for a solo career; he was quoted as saying, “The Voices won’t be re-forming - been there, done that - but Jeff and Dave are the best, I hope they’ll guest on my next album.” Lots of photos. One of me…hmm, I didn’t look too bad… Rocking together - we reveal the stunning new woman in Ric’s life - she’s Cass Tallis…

  Cass Tallis? Who’s that? Huh.

  …an ex-teacher who makes rocking horses. After a posh dinner at top hotel the Dorchester with Voices drummer Jeff Pike, she and Ric returned to her trendy Hoxton home. Another photo of me, which I recognized as the one from my website. Could be good for business? I spooned tea into the teapot, poured water and put bread in the toaster. The Daily Express…

  VOICES STAR RETURNS FROM THE DEAD!

  Sensational reappearance of ‘late’ Ric Kealey - and the police have dropped all charges. Full story inside.

  The toast popped up and I reached for it absently. The Mirror had a shot of Ric the day before, and a separate one of a suave-looking Phil Sharott at an awards ceremony…

  SO WHO DID KILL BRYAN?

  Ric Kealey walks free, Voices manager held.

  I poured out the tea, buttered my toast and spread marmalade, moving the Mirror off the Daily Mail…I stopped. They’d split their front page; like the other papers, they headlined Ric’s return from the dead; RIC’S ALIVE, police drop charges, with a photo; but running in tandem, above a picture of Emma looking at the camera, pale hair perfect, eyes wide and solemn -

  Exclusive

  I KILLED BRYAN

  Emma Redfern reveals all to Daily Mail reporter