‘All we’re doing,’ said Bronte, ‘is trying to find out what happened—’
‘No, he’s right,’ said Tigh. ‘It was a rotten thing to say. It’s nothing to do with you, Toby. I trust you. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Toby, pulling the plate back towards him. ‘Maybe you should think a bit harder about who your friends are. How come you’re matey with her all of a sudden, eh?’ He pointed a knife in Bronte’s direction. ‘Not so long ago you thought she was a right tramp.’
Tigh looked at Bronte.
‘I never said that.’
‘We got past that after Tigh slept with his entire fanbase,’ said Bronte.
‘Yeah, well. Remember who was there for you when you needed a shoulder to cry on, that’s all I’m saying,’ said Toby.
He reached into his pocket and took out his phone.
‘Now, you don’t deserve it, but I have something that might interest you. I believe I have the number of one of the ladies in question stored on here. I needed it to text them when you had got back to the hotel. Would you like it?’
Bronte put her hand on his.
‘Yes. We would like it very much, Toby.’
Toby paused, his finger hovering over the phone. He looked down at Bronte’s hand.
‘I’m really sorry,’ said Tigh. ‘We’re really sorry. But we really, really need that number.’
Toby’s phone binged.
‘I was just enjoying you touching me,’ he said. ‘Right, I’ve sent it over. You can pay me in pudding.’
* * *
‘Fuck, we really hurt his feelings,’ said Tigh, as Toby’s taxi disappeared in the distance.
‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Bronte. ‘It seemed a bit of an act.’
‘Not really. Or if it was, he was just playacting being hurt to disguise the fact he was even more hurt.’
Bronte sighed.
‘He loves you, you know.’
‘Nah,’ said Tigh. ‘I don’t think he’s capable of love.’
‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘You’re his only mate. He really does love you.’
‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘I really, really hurt him, didn’t I?’
‘It’s done now,’ she said.
‘Yeah. Let’s phone that number.’
* * *
The woman Tigh once thought of as the stick opened the door of her house.
‘Oh my fucking god. What are you two doing here?’
‘We got your address from Mai,’ said Tigh.
‘Is it all right if we come in?’ said Bronte. ‘It’s about the video you made.’
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do.’ Bronte pushed past her. Tigh followed. The house was clean and anonymous.
‘You’ve got to be gone when my bloke comes home.’
‘We won’t be long,’ said Bronte, sitting herself down on a cream sofa in the sparely-furnished living room. A large television sat on the wall. Toby’s face grinned out from it, his voice muted. ‘We just want to know what it’s doing in an email with a ransom demand.’
‘I don’t know nothing about it,’ said the woman.
‘But you made the video,’ said Tigh, remaining standing, careful not to step on scattered toys. ‘If you didn’t send the email, someone you shared it with must have done. Who’d you send it to?’
‘No one!’ said the woman. ‘My phone got nicked.’
‘Course it did,’ said Bronte. ‘Who’d you send it to? Don’t bullshit us. We can go straight to the police with that video and get you done not just for blackmail, but rape. Now tell us the truth.’
‘We didn’t rape you! You can’t rape a bloke, can you?’
‘I was saying no,’ said Tigh, quietly.
A small girl toddled into the room, dummy in mouth, and stared at Tigh and Bronte. Her mum pulled her close and hugged her. Bronte smiled at her. Tigh couldn’t bring himself to.
‘Look, the phone really was stolen, OK? We went to Wetherspoons afterwards to get something to eat, ’cos they’re kid-friendly and that, and maybe we were a bit loud or something ’cos they told us to leave, and when I went to call my bloke to pick us up my phone had gone.’
‘You were being loud,’ said Bronte, ‘about what?’
‘Nothing in particular.’
‘Did you mention what you’d just done? About the video?’
‘Dunno. Might have done. We were merry, you know, celebrating.’
‘Celebrating.’
‘Yeah. We’d all talked about doing it, a fantasy, like, and we’d actually done it. We couldn’t believe it.’
‘So anybody in that pub could have heard you and taken the phone.’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
Bronte shook her head.
‘There are so many things I could say to you, but I wouldn’t want your daughter to hear them.’
‘I’m sorry we made the video. And I’m sorry we lost it. And I’m sorry maybe we took things too far…’
The woman looked at Tigh. He said nothing.
‘Is there nothing more you can tell us that might help us?’ said Bronte. ‘Anything at all?’
‘No. Oh, yeah. One of your lot was there. That girl—’
‘Nats.’
‘Yeah. Her and some bloke.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bronte, standing. ‘That was very helpful. Right, we’re off.’
The girl looked up at them with suspicious eyes. Bronte waved goodbye to her. The girl turned to the TV. Tigh saw his own face look down, accompanied by Bronte’s. Craig popped up between both of them and they sang a silent song together. Nats’ head bobbed into frame seconds too late, her mouth open and not closing.
* * *
‘I don’t get it,’ said Bronte. ‘Why would Nats take the phone?’
‘Those tablets are expensive, even if you order them online from America,’ said Tigh.
‘Yeah, but one hundred grand? No one’s that addicted.’
‘Unless she has debts.’
They sat on the train platform, many miles from either of their homes. They would take separate connecting trains a few stops down the line.
‘And who was the bloke with her?’ said Tigh. ‘A boyfriend?’
‘What? No, Nats is a lesbian.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. She’s gay. Seriously, you didn’t know?’
‘It never came up in conversation.’
‘I thought you’d just guess. You know, by the way she’s all… lesbiany.’
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘For a man who slept with a thousand women in a fortnight, you really are quite sweetly naïve, you know that?’
‘It wasn’t nearly that many. But anyway, this is a false trail, because Nats didn’t take it, did she? She’s barely aware of what’s going on that’s relevant to her, let alone what some drunk women are shouting in a Wetherspoons.’
‘She has her good days.’
‘Not on the tour she didn’t.’
‘So we’re back to square one.’
Tigh’s phone jangled. Another email.
‘Ah shit,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ said Bronte.
‘It’s the video again. There’s a message. Says, “Time is running out. Get the money or this goes viral in a week.” I mean, the spelling’s bad, but that’s what it’s meant to say, I’m guessing.’
The train arrived. They walked down until they found an empty carriage.
‘So what do we do now?’ said Tigh. ‘The only lead we have is Nats’ mystery man, and that’s probably nothing, and none of our business.’
‘We’ll just have to ask her,’ said Bronte. ‘Or maybe it’s time to go to the police. But then once we say anything, it makes the video officially a thing. And Angela just has to hear a rumour about it and you’re gone.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Tigh. ‘I like my job. It’s fun. I work with nice people, even if on
e of them is trying to blackmail me.’
‘I don’t want you to go either,’ said Bronte. She leant over and kissed him.
‘Wow,’ was all Tigh could say, before finally adding, ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘Just so you know,’ she said, ‘I’m not even going to begin thinking of sleeping with you again until you’ve been to a sexual health clinic. You’re almost certainly riddled with VD.’
‘It did hurt to pee this morning.’
They cuddled in silence until it was their stop. They kissed goodbye and took their separate trains.
* * *
A third email arrived six days later. ‘1 day 2 go,’ it read, with the video again embedded. ‘Get mony and wate futer insturctons.’
The previous week had produced nothing fruitful. There had only been one opportunity for them to talk to Nats, and she had been only barely aware they were in the room.
Tigh turned up at Bronte’s flat unannounced and showed her the message.
‘So this is it,’ he said. ‘We either go to the police or I get together all the money I have and try to fob them off with that.’
‘How much have you got?’
‘About two grand right now. All the tour money went on paying back the credit card I’ve been living off for the past three years.’
‘May not be enough, hun.’
Tigh sunk into the sofa.
‘I don’t want to give the fucker a penny, but…’
Bronte put her arm around him.
‘But you don’t see another way.’
‘No.’
‘So we just wait, I guess.’
‘Yeah.’
She kissed him.
‘I’ve been to the clinic, but I haven’t had the results back yet,’ he said.
‘I think that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s said to me,’ she said.
* * *
Tigh’s phone jangled, waking him. It was six o’clock in the morning. He was lying on the sofa, his foot hitting the unfinished board-game they had played into the small hours, neither of them capable of winning.
He called for Bronte. She stumbled out of the bedroom in pyjamas, rubbing her eyes.
‘It’s them,’ he said.
He showed her the message.
‘Get the money,’ she read out loud. ‘Put it in… what? This guy really can’t spell. Oh, a suitcase and wait at gate of… oh my god. That can’t be right. That’s the industrial estate where the studio is. At eleven o’clock tonight?’
‘They’re not exactly disguising that it’s someone from the channel, are they?’
‘But this is insane! Why would you do that? Either it’s some weird game, or they’re really thick.’
Tigh shook his head.
‘However stupid it is, we’ve got no option but to go along with it. I’ll have to go to the bank and make a withdrawal. You got a suitcase?’
‘I have,’ said Bronte. ‘But you know what? There ain’t no way we’re filling it with your money. They’re on my territory. One way or another, we’re bringing this prick down.’ She mimed violence.
‘Wow. I think I’ve made my choice.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
* * *
The taxi drove away, its driver uncurious, leaving Tigh and Bronte outside the lit-up gates of the industrial estate, with a suitcase stuffed with fake money they had drawn that afternoon with a felt-tip pen and cut from a roll of card, sprinkling some glitter over the top for good measure. It was ten to eleven.
‘Isn’t there a night watchman?’ said Tigh.
‘Dunno,’ said Bronte. ‘Never been out here so late before.’
Tigh tried the gates. They were locked.
‘There’s a light on in the studio,’ he said. ‘Just one, though. So who’s there now?’
They waited, both of them shuffling with nerves. Tigh wanted to urinate, as he had most of the day, although with meagre results. It was almost a distraction from the situation, and he found he was dwelling upon it when the gates electronically dragged themselves open at eleven o’clock precisely.
‘I guess we go in,’ said Bronte.
They walked up the driveway. The gates closed behind them.
‘Look!’ said Tigh. ‘The light’s gone off.’
The studio was all dark for a minute. Then, reception lit up.
‘Shit, I can see someone moving in there,’ said Bronte. ‘They’re coming out, whoever it is.’
She grabbed his hand.
‘Quick! Hide!’
‘Where?’
‘I dunno. Behind this bush!’
They crouched behind the bell-shaped topiary. The suitcase stuck out awkwardly at their feet. Bronte hurled it behind them, out of the reach of any security light.
The door opened, and the light in reception went out. Two figures emerged. They descended the stairs into the car park, and kissed passionately.
‘What the hell?’ whispered Bronte.
‘What have we walked in on?’
‘Hang on, that’s… Nats!’
And who’s that with her?’
‘I don’t fucking believe it. It’s Angela.’
‘They’re… kissing?’
‘That is such a breach of workplace rules.’
‘We had sex.’
‘I’m not paying you.’
‘They’re feeling each other’s tits, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. Now shut up and enjoy the show.’
They watched as Angela and Nats explored each other up against the door of a 4x4, before they finally got in and the engine started. It drove off past them, the beams of the headlights catching their crouched bodies for anyone to see, should they have been looking in their direction. The gates opened for the car to pass through, and closed behind them.
‘OK, that was weird,’ said Bronte. ‘Although, I have to say, arousing.’
Tigh wished it had been for him. The desire to urinate made him squirm.
‘Hang on… they’re not the blackmailers, are they?’ said Tigh.
‘No,’ sighed Bronte. ‘But we are now in an excellent position to blackmail them, if we wanted to.’
‘Do we want to do that?’
‘No. Wait.’
‘We do?’
‘No,’ whispered Bronte. ‘There’s someone over there, behind that bush. Other side of the driveway.’
Tigh looked. Bronte was right. There was someone squatting behind the bush directly opposite them.
‘What do we do?’ he said.
‘We go over there. Don’t worry, I did martial arts as a kid. I could probably kill you right now.’
‘That’s reassuring.’
‘We need to leg it, if we’re going to have the element of surprise. Right, let’s go.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes!’
Bronte and Tigh ran towards the bush. A startled shape, clad in black and evidently weighed down by a large camera, took flight. Tigh was surprised to find he was nearly upon the figure within seconds.
‘Tackle him, Tigh!’ cried Bronte.
‘Watch the camera, Tigh!’ a male voice yelled. ‘It belongs to the channel!’
Tigh dived and pulled the figure down by the legs. The camera hit the grass with a thud and a clink. The figure cried out from out of his balaclava as Tigh sat on him.
‘Right, you little shit,’ said Bronte, pulling it from his head, ‘let’s see who the fuck you are. Ah. I see. Hello, Martin.’
‘What are you two doing here?’ Martin gasped.
‘What do you mean?’ said Tigh. ‘You told me to come here. You’re fucking blackmailing me!’
‘No I’m not! Why would I do that?’
‘Because of the video. You want a hundred grand for it or you’re going to put it on the internet.’
‘What? Oh, that video. I don’t care about the video. Anyway, I deleted it as soon as I saw it. Can you get off me please?’
‘So you have seen it?’ said Bronte.
‘So where’s the phone now?’
‘In my office, which I always keep locked. Not that it matters. Like I said, I deleted the video.’
‘The video’s out there,’ said Tigh. ‘Someone emailed it to me. Said they’d put it online unless I gave them a shitload of cash.’
‘Fuck,’ said Martin. ‘That is a very bad situation.’
‘But the person who is behind it is here tonight,’ said Bronte, ‘and we’re going to take them down.’
‘Well, that is good news. Now will you please get off me? I need to check that camera’s not broken.’
Bronte nodded. Tigh released Martin, who scrambled for the camera and checked the lens.
‘So why are you hiding behind a bush outside the studio wearing a balaclava?’ said Bronte.
‘Well, you saw them!’ said Martin. ‘I needed evidence of their being in a relationship if I’m going to take it to the board. She’s making a laughing stock of the channel, Bronte. She’s so in love with that girl, she can’t see that she shouldn’t be in front of a camera anymore. Every so often she gets her to clean up, but then she gives in and just orders her more Pink off the internet. Told me I had to put her on the tour. She even gave her her own show! We can’t broadcast it. She’s actually asleep in a third of the takes, or else catching squirrels only she can see.’
‘So, hang on,’ said Tigh, ‘No one we’ve seen so far this evening has anything to do with the video.’
‘No,’ said Bronte.
‘So who opened the gate for us?’
‘Oh my god, look!’
Bronte pointed to reception. The light was on. The door was open.
‘They’re waiting for us inside, whoever they are,’ she said.
‘It feels like a trap,’ said Tigh. ‘We could do with backup.’
Erotic Nightmares Page 5