by P. R. Black
‘You were in a public place, and anyone has the right to photograph you in those circumstances.’
‘It was a private conversation!’
‘Hardly private. Anyway, I spoke to your husband later on. He dropped by at the offices in fact, to find out what’s going on, on the ground. I was indisposed, but I got his number. Interesting chat we had. Anything to add to his claims? That you drove Stephanie away? That you were in fact quite cold with her, never quite bonded properly? He mentioned something about depression, but that’s quite personal information, so I wouldn’t dream of publishing it.’ And here, Adrienne beamed.
‘You print one word of this, I’ll sue for defamation. That’s a promise.’
‘Newsflash, Georgia: in order for it to be defamation, it has to be untrue. Here’s a funny thing: what Rod said to me struck a chord. That time you came over and had a night out with us, when you came to check up on Stephanie. I got that sense from you, too. There was a real distance between you and her. I’d never have said that to your face, until you had the nerve to come into my office, and say those appalling things to me. You all but insisted I had something to do with it. I had nothing to do with it. So, I’ll do it now. I will say it to your face. It’s best not to have regrets, isn’t it? You know all about that now. You were cold, and Stephanie knew all about it. Said she was dreading you coming to visit. Dreading it.’
‘Oh, you’re a piece of work, Adrienne. My nose is never wrong, you know. And why have you given me these photos, incidentally? You going to sell them somewhere? What are you getting out of giving them to me? A dig of some kind, obviously. That’s it, isn’t it? There’s some insult attached. Something that makes Stephanie look bad, and you look good. I’ll bet everything I have on that.’
Adrienne chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t bet on anything, if I had your luck.’
‘Get out of here, Adrienne. Or I will do something that I might regret. Possibly.’
‘Not to worry, love. I was just going.’ Adrienne got to her feet. A waft of perfume reached Georgia’s nostrils as she did so – not at all unpleasant. Her attire was perfectly arranged, but she seemed to take an age to be sure she had all her belongings and her coat was properly fastened, with her hat positioned time and again. Once she had everyone’s attention, she said, at the top of her voice: ‘Have to go. It’s not every day a girl gets to have a date with a rock star. Can’t keep him waiting.’
21
Technology was meant to make things clearer. But the more pixels we can cram onto a screen, the less definition we have.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
The computers looked old, in that the monitors were in three dimensions, with wheezing motherboards and fan units. Also, they were that weird grey/beige colour. They appeared to have been upgraded to latest spec, though, as she booted up the computer. It felt almost quaint to be given a password on a piece of paper by a barista. There was only one other customer at the tight-knit bank of monitors, a young Asian man who typed, seemingly without pause, his eyes fixed dead ahead. Finals time coming up, Georgia reminded herself.
She plugged in the pen drive and, after an automated scan certified there was no virus lurking within, Georgia opened the folders, marked ‘TOKYO DRIFT’
Sub-folders appeared, all marked with names. ‘KYM BURLEIGH’, ‘CONNOR URQUHART’ and of course ‘ADIE CONNULTY’ appeared. ‘I’ll restrain myself from looking at your accidentally leaked candid shots,’ Georgia muttered drily to herself, and here, at last, the student sat in front of her stopped typing and looked up.
Georgia clicked on the folder marked ‘STEPH HEALEY’.
Thumbnail images opened up, all black and white. Georgia clicked on the first. There was Stephanie, but not Stephanie. Her hair had been cut into a fringe that traced around her face, as if trimmed around the rim of a bowl. It had something of the Evil Teacher about it, and didn’t suit the girl Georgia knew. But this didn’t seem to be the girl Georgia knew, full stop. Stephanie was dressed in fishnet tights and absolutely nothing else; she was contorted into an S-shape, accentuating her legs and trim bottom, easily her best features. Her arms were crossed over her breasts, but Georgia gasped when she saw how thin Stephanie was – the terrible detail of her ribs, visible beneath her elbows. The small dark eyes were given more prominence by heavy use of black mascara, and she had been shot against a white background, making the light and shade all the more stark. Georgia did not recognise the set of the eyes. There was something not exactly feral, more malevolent; a challenge in the narrowed gaze, like Clint Eastwood flinging his poncho off his hip in the middle of town.
The other shots were in the same vein; in the next one someone had given Stephanie an extraordinary spiky haircut, fanned out on one side. She posed with one finger to her temple, and grinned. She was wearing only a pair of underpants and heels, with an ancient studded bikers’ jacket unzipped to the navel. Again, the pigeon hollows of her breastbone caused Georgia to clutch her own chest. Again and again, Stephanie wearing very little. In one shot she was wearing PVC boots up to the tops of her thighs, and was even cracking a whip.
Only one shot could have been called explicit, but there was something arty in it – just Stephanie, nude, facing the camera. Her hair was wet and her skin was glistening, though this latter was clearly the effect of oil rather than water, as intended. Here the hollows, ridges and bones of Stephanie’s undernourishment were apparent – the hip bones and pubic bone and the non-existent stomach, the almost mechanical bulge of the shoulder blades, were the most painful to see.
Georgia checked over her shoulder; no one was watching. There were at least thirty shots to go through, some separate angles in the same study. The last one, though, was most troubling. It was Stephanie, again wearing the fishnet tights along with a pair of patent leather pumps with an immense silver buckle on the instep. She was almost folded in half, forehead resting on her knees, arms, hands and fingers loose, trailing across the white-tiled floor.
Georgia chewed the inside of her mouth. Then she saved all the pictures to her email’s online drive, zipped up the pen drive, then checked her watch.
‘Little bitch,’ she muttered. ‘Shaming her. That’s all this is about. Shaming me. Shaming her after she’s…’
She dropped some coins into the tip jar on her way out, noting with satisfaction that the young mother had the baby asleep at last, and was getting her things together as carefully as she could.
‘Hey,’ she whispered to the barista. ‘Do you know a place called Cronus?’
‘Oh yeah,’ the girl whispered back, ‘there’s usually a band on in there. I heard the Megiddos might be playing this week – secret gig. They’re still in town.’
‘Really? That’d be awesome. I’d love to see them play. Can you tell me how to get there from here?’
22
A whole afternoon then the night after it drifted away. This might be what it’s like to be famous. It’s certainly what it’s like to be wasted. You’re plugged into something else. You start to believe that you’re special; you’re a star. I think they call it self-actualisation. All the big stars manage it – they become who they want. Maybe this is the path. But it’s nothing really, I know that. A slutty assignment. But what a rush. There’s a shabby glamour to all this, like tinsel at a school dance. But when those lights fade, ah, dear.
Cornfed, just lie with me. Just lie quiet, and let me hold you, as long as I can.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
Georgia walked past the doorway several times. It was in one of the older buildings in town, what looked like a smart Georgian town. There were decent businesses either side of it – a nauseatingly cute cake shop with strawberry red and white tablecloths and doilies and a fine art centre, its walls curiously naked in a way that denoted affluence. She double-checked her phone; nope, it was there somewhere.
Then she saw the sign on top of an innocuous-looking doorway. Greek-style lettering, the upper and lower curves of the le
tters pointed like a short blade: CRONUS. The litter bin to the front, with polystyrene cases poking out, and the squat, brutish young man in the doorway should have been the giveaway.
The bouncer grinned as she approached. ‘Got any ID? Over-twenty-ones only, I’m afraid.’
‘Will my pension book do?’
‘In you come. Mind if I give your bag a search? Regulations.’
Faint stirrings of panic; Georgia smiled broadly to keep them at bay. ‘Sure.’
A cursory search, thank God; he was nowhere near the hidden compartment. ‘If you’ve got any guns or drugs in there, can you let me know how you hid them on the way out?’
‘I’ll put something on TripAdvisor.’
Something of a flaw in either the planning or design, the doorway led to a rising staircase, rather than descending. The walls were poorly lit, and blood red in the places closest to the light fixtures. The carpeting was scuffed, worn and weathered like the faces of rough old men.
After a welcome from a surprised-looking female steward through another door, Georgia emerged into a long, blacked-out space that she recognised from her student days. A dank place where quieter-natured people would gather; blacked out at the windows, a long bar dominating one wall. A small stage dominated one side of the room, but it was empty for now. It was quiet – Georgia supposed it was a week night, at the beginning of exam time, with only sparse pockets of people here and there.
She couldn’t quite make out every face, and she supposed it might be too much to ask the girl serving at the bar to turn the lights up for a minute or two. Instead, she asked: ‘Hi there. I heard the Megiddos were in tonight, is that true?’
The girl pursed her lips, a patronising smile Georgia wanted to slap right off her. ‘I think you’ll find it’s only one half, I’m afraid. And he won’t be performing, he’s made that clear.’
‘Mind telling me where he is? I’m a massive fan.’
‘Right. Well. He’s over in the alcove. That’s his spot.’
‘Many thanks.’
That pursed smiled again. ‘Not of the crazed variety, are you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A crazed fan. A stalker. Yee! Yee!’ She mimed stabbing someone, in harmony with the serrated Psycho notes.
‘Oh, much worse than that. I’m his mother.’
There being no further comeback after that, Georgia followed the barmaid’s directions. A set of alcoves were set into the walls, reminding her of railway sidings. Benches were set up inside, furred over with some unspeakable carpet that surely constituted a health hazard. These were empty except for a couple conversing with bowed heads over the sound of the music, and one with about three people in it, one of whom was the man she was looking for.
Shouldering her bag, Georgia approached. As well as Scott Trickett, there was a man Georgia didn’t recognise, a good-looking young man with long hair and gypsy eyes, who had a seamed, lived-in look to him that stopped him from being truly beautiful. Beside him was a young girl who looked as if her body had outgrown her features, dressed in black with a sleeveless top, cut low in the front, a short black shirt and thigh-high cowboy boots. For a disorienting second, Georgia was reminded of Stephanie; she flashed back to the photoshoot she’d just seen on the memory stick Adrienne Connulty had given to her. She blinked to clear the vision.
Sitting across from these two was the bovine, red-bearded bulk of Scott Trickett. Georgia heaved herself over alongside him, smiling at the surprise of the two newcomers sitting opposite.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m carrying out a spot-check of ID. Don’t suppose either of you have your NUS cards on you?’
The pair traded looks, part confusion, part irritation. ‘We’re not students, love,’ the long-haired man said, in a Scottish accent like pebbles ratting down a drain.
Scott Trickett frowned hard at Georgia, then, once he recognised her, threw back his head. ‘Aw, I don’t believe it. This is my mummy! Everybody, say hello to Mummy!’
The young woman wearing black took him at face value, and proffered a hand. ‘Oh, lovely to meet you. It’s great you can get out to see Scott.’
Georgia shook her hand, and said, in all earnestness: ‘I’m not really his mother.’
The girl looked confused, but her companion was baleful. ‘Not sure what you are, exactly, if you’re not his mother. A joker? You aren’t a copper, I can tell you that right away. I can smell them. And you smell…’ the young man inhaled, brutally, more of a snort than a sniff ‘… really flowery, in fact.’
‘Folks, this is an old friend,’ Scott Trickett said, amiably. ‘Could you leave us for five minutes? Promise we won’t be long.’
‘Sure, mate. We’ll be right back.’ The man with the gypsy eyes winked at Georgia, then gestured for the woman in black to move. Still embarrassed by what had happened earlier, she tutted and then slid along the seat with some reluctance. They both headed for the bar.
Scott Trickett swirled half a pint and sipped at it. ‘Surprised to see you around here. You should still be out of the game, by rights.’
Georgia made an effort to soften her features. ‘I didn’t feel too bad when I woke up. I hadn’t really had too much to drink, you see.’
‘Ah, right. It’s strange – cos you looked completely out of your head.’
‘It was some night. A very emotional one, too.’
‘That’s right. A long party. Would you believe, I haven’t been to bed?’
‘I would believe it.’ She grinned.
‘What brings a nice lady like you to a place like this?’
‘Well, first of all, I heard you were in town, and I really wanted to say sorry.’
Trickett put down his pint glass and arched an eyebrow at her. ‘What for?’
‘Well… hitting you.’
‘Don’t apologise for that. I was a prick.’ He shrugged. ‘Fair play. Everyone hits me.’
‘I didn’t take your comments too well, and also, I didn’t thank you properly. You and Riley throwing that party… It’s a great, kind thing that you did. It means a lot to me.’
‘Well, we just want her found,’ Trickett said. His eyes lost focus for a moment; Georgia glanced over her shoulder, and realised he was staring at the girl who’d been sat across from him a moment before as she waited to get served at the bar. She rested one of her feet on part of a high stool, her thigh muscles flexing. ‘Wherever she might be. X marks the spot, so they say.’ He blinked, and returned to the present. ‘Oh… sorry. My mouth has a way of tripping me up.’
‘I remember that detail, yes. You don’t have to apologise to me.’
‘Some things should just stay buried, you know?’
‘You’re right about that.’
‘In a manner of speaking. Uh… sorry?’ He grinned weakly. It was difficult to know whether or not this entire Tommy Tourette routine was just that, an act, or if it was a natural condition. Georgia decided it didn’t matter. She glued an easy smile to her face, and didn’t make eye contact, for fear that she might claw his out for him.
‘Can I get you something?’ she asked.
‘Uh, that’s a hellova kind offer. Just whatever beer they’ve got. A bottle.’
Georgia brought him back a pint of lager. ‘Oh – sorry. You said a bottle, didn’t you? Damn it.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs, ah…?’
‘Healey.’
‘Mrs Healey. I was going to call you Mrs Stephanie, there.’
‘I’ll answer to anything.’
‘How about Milfy? Can I call you that?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Never mind. Bad joke. I’m all about the bad jokes. I can’t stop. I should be kept away from a microphone, I really should.’ He accepted the pint and sipped from it, grinning with a fresh growth of foam across his lips.
‘Your bandmate not out to play tonight?’
‘Brightman? Nah he’s got some local entanglements. There’s a big party up at his dad’s.’
‘And he hasn’t
invited you? Curious.’
‘I didn’t say it was tonight.’ Some irritation, here.
‘What is it, a birthday or something?’
‘Yes. That’s what it is. A birthday. That’s right.’ Trickett sipped his beer, and glanced at the girl with the black boots. She was having a very animated conversation with her long-haired male companion. Neither of them looked particularly happy. ‘Now, have a look at this situation, here. It’s quite finely balanced.’
‘What do you mean? The couple who were sat with you?’
‘Yeah. It could go either way. Look. They’re a couple. But it’s dodgy.’
‘They’re arguing. I don’t get what you mean, though. How is it dodgy?’
‘I mean, whether or not she’s going to be in my bed tonight.’ He cocked his head. ‘Hope that doesn’t shock you.’
‘Believe it or not, sex has been around a while.’
Trickett clinked his plastic pint glass with Georgia’s bottled water. ‘Touché! I like you. I mean – look, the guy’s quite good-looking and all that. I can say that quite happily. The pair of us go to a blind casting audition or photoshoot, he’ll be in the reckoning – I wouldn’t even get a picture taken for the file, unless it’s for the office Christmas party. But I’ve got something he doesn’t. And his little gothy pants girlfriend wants it. And he’s not happy.’
‘You’ve been in this situation before?’
‘One time I had a super-fan come over, a guy. Waited hours to see us. Brought his little girlfriend. Nice little piece. Bit plain. Short hair, not my usual thing. But anyway, at the after-show party, I tongued her right in front of him. He stood there watching. Couldn’t do a thing about it. See, what I’ve got is… a bit of magic and sparkle. Show business, baby. Accept no substitute.’
‘That sounds like a quality evening. Maybe the girl thought she was going to meet Riley? Maybe that’s why the girl with the boots came here, in fact. To see the main man. Not you.’
‘Sure,’ the big man said, with no hesitation or discomfort. ‘I totally accept that. I take what Riley leaves. Shit, I was banking on it. And sometimes, I take what Riley doesn’t leave. That’s the way it goes. He’s a good-looking boy – but he can’t shag them all.’