The Afterparty

by Leo Benedictus

  Date: Friday, 22 January 2010 01:13:44

  Chapter 11 – Bed

  Thanks Val – I can’t believe it! I’m going to be a published author! I really am so grateful. I realise what a risk you’ve taken on my behalf, and you can be sure I’ll never forget it. If you’re still interested, I enclose the next chapter, a short one, which I’ve finally polished off this week.

  Yours,

  William x

  PS Leo, do you think you could find out how long it is likely to be before the money comes through? I enclose my bank details, and whatever you can do to expedite things would be much appreciated. (Needless to say, Val, I’ll send your cut as soon as I have mine.)

  70,000 (fee) – 12,337.50 (commission + VAT) = 57,662.50

  57,662.50/4 = 14,415.63 (first instalment)

  14,415.63 – 9,500 (agreed Leo fee) = £4,915.62

  Could you wire this £4,915.62, plus future payments, to account number

  8914954 at the Cayman National Bank. You need to do this through:

  Citibank, London, PO BOX 78, 336 Strand, London WC2R 1HB

  swift code CITIGB2L

  sort 18-50-08

  IBAN#GB54CITI18500808914954

  Saturday April 2, 2005

  11:23

  A NOISE, AND Michael sat up in bed, breathing fast.

  Where was he?

  He remembered. And in the instant of its being observed, a terrible new universe constructed itself around him. The accident. The ambulance. The police. Was he still in Hugo Marks’s house? There was muffled daylight in the room. Oh God, he was. What time was it? How long had he been asleep? It seemed like he had lain in this large bed for hours trying to pass out, experimenting restlessly with styles of pillow-shape and posture as his thoughts whirred on and on.

  11:24, said the dial on his fumbled phone. Still early. He could not have been out more than two hours. Almost certainly less. Too soon to get up. Yet he was far from drowsy. And the discovery of a missed call drew him further in, especially as no number had registered, which was what happened when work rang. He dialled his voicemail. Some contact with the usual was what he wanted. Was what he wanted badly.

  ‘You have … one … new message,’ the computer lady said, her words inelegantly distanced, their human smoothness given corners where the slopes of stress mismet. Michael found it comforting, this steady calm, this mechanical unpanic.

  ‘BEEP … Hi Michael, this is Andrea Coles on the home desk at the Standard on Sunday. I’m really sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning, but Camille McLeish tells me that you were at this Mellody/Hugo Marks party last night? If you were, I was wondering if you could give me a call on 7946 4320. We are all hoping we might get you to write something about what it was like, especially in the light of what’s been going on this morning.’

  To write something! A skip hit Michael’s heart. In the midst of everything, he had not thought of this.

  ‘Who was there,’ the message continued, ‘what the mood was, whether you saw Calvin Vance anywhere, that sort of thing. So that’s 7946 4320. If you could call me when you get this message I’d be very grateful. I’ll also try your landline. Thanks a lot. Bye.’

  Michael whispered the number to himself. 7946 4320.

  They wanted him to write something! A real story with his byline on it. They all did.

  020 7946 4320. He entered the code.

  But what to say? He hesitated.

  He knew Andrea a little, and she’d always seemed nice. It couldn’t hurt to talk to her about it.

  02079464320, the screen displayed expectantly.

  Michael pressed green, and did not wait long.

  ‘Hello, home desk.’

  ‘Er, hi.’ His voice popped and crackled drily. He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, could I speak to Andrea please?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hi, it’s Michael Knight. I just got your message.’

  ‘Michael, hi!’ She sounded very pleased. ‘Thanks for calling back.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘So yeah. Is it right that you were there last night?’

  ‘Yes, and …’

  ‘I thought so. Camille said she gave you her invite. And we’ve actually got a couple of pictures just come through, showing you with Mr Marks himself. Is that right?’

  ‘Really?’ He reached for an air of nonchalance. ‘Pictures from the party?’

  ‘Yes. You’re standing next to him while Mellody gives some speech. They’ve used it online, but I think they cropped you out.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So what was it like?’

  ‘Fine, you know. Fun actually. But …’

  ‘Did you talk to Hugo at all?’

  ‘Yes, I did. But …’ Even his quietest voice rang loud in the bare bedroom. ‘… I was going to say, I also went back to the house afterwards.’ He looked around desperately for some way to keep the noise down.

  ‘No way!’ gasped Andrea.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘That’s fantastic! You mean you were actually at the house?’

  ‘Yes.’ Half-whispered.

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No, and …’

  ‘And did you see Calvin Vance? Was he pretty wasted?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I think a few people were.’

  ‘I just can’t believe you managed that, Michael! Hang on for one second, OK?’

  A fidgeting sound, and then the line went silent.

  Should he shove himself beneath the duvet? Behind the curtains? Would that smother this conversation? It would certainly seem odd to anyone that found him. But then – how could he have been so stupid? – he saw the en-suite bathroom. Tearing away the bedclothes, he dived inside, tugging at the light cord, which, a bonus, also activated the extractor. Perfect. He felt very clever in the buzz, like a spy reporting to his people. And still he had not told them half of what he’d done.

  ‘Hello, Michael? You still there?’

  ‘Yes, hi.’ Now his voice could properly express his pride.

  ‘I think there’s a good chance we may be going with this story on the cover tomorrow. Any other week it would be definite, but it kind of depends on the Pope situation. Though even if he dies today, I think this will still make something downpage. Would you be able to file by four-thirty at the latest? Twelve hundred words. Or as much detail as you can remember really?’

  ‘Well that’s the thing. I’ve been trying to say, I’m actually still at the house.’

  Pause.

  Towels lay around him, folded fat and square as shop-made cakes, attending to a shower stall or ‘wet room’, as they called it on TV.

  ‘Sorry, which house?’ Andrea said.

  ‘Hugo Marks’s house.’

  ‘You are kidding me?’ She was whispering now.

  ‘No.’

  ‘The big mansion in Holland Park with all the cameras in front of it, you’re inside there right now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘… oh my God …’

  ‘So the problem is the police say I’m not supposed to leave yet. But if I’m going to write something I can’t do it here.’

  ‘How come you’re there? Are lots of people still inside?’

  ‘No. I mean, I don’t know. I’ve been asleep. I’m not sure if I should talk about it, but I was here when Calvin fell off the roof. I saw it. And the police have been. They say some detectives and forensics people will be along later.’

  ‘Oh my God. What happened? Wasn’t it an accident?’

  ‘No definitely. It was. He slipped. They’re saying it was an accident, right?’

  Tension tightened Michael’s body like a hose turned on.

  ‘Yes, I think so. Hang on, I’ve got the police statement in my email.’ Hurried keystroke chunks came clattering along the line. ‘Yeah, OK. Here we are: “A twenty-year-old man has died of his injuries after falling from the roof of a house in the Holland Park area of London. The man, who has yet to be formally identified, was taken from
the scene by ambulance at approximately 7 a.m., but died later in Charing Cross Hospital. Officers are interviewing eye-witnesses, and are keeping an open mind about events, but at this stage they do not suspect foul play.” I suppose you’re one of the eye-witnesses, are you?’

  The air was dense. The extractor fan whirred louder in it, struggling through.

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘He’s dead?’ was all he could say.

  ‘Sorry?’

  He looked at himself in the mirror. He was naked except for his boxer shorts, which were covered with pictures of Homer Simpson eating a doughnut.

  ‘Did you say Calvin died?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. They announced it a few minutes ago. Oh God, didn’t you know?’

  Michael sat down heavily on the toilet.

  ‘I’ll call you back, OK Andrea?’

  ‘Michael, God, I’m so sorry. Do you want to take a moment and …’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  ‘Hugo, are you awake?’

  He did not move.

  ‘You need to wake up, Hugo. I’ve brought you a coffee.’

  A soft thunk near his ear.

  ‘We have some news.’

  He lifted himself on to his elbows, and then up against the headboard, dredging limbs through cotton stodge. He sipped some coffee – hot – and rubbed his eyes. Renée was at the end of his bed again. She did not have a good news face on.

  ‘Mmm?’ he said, following sip two.

  When he put the cup down, she told him.

  ‘Calvin is dead.’

  Nothing happened for a bit.

  ‘He died in the operating theatre,’ she said. ‘I guess we were prepared for this.’

  Hugo nodded. He did not feel sorrow. Just tiredness, and the fact that he liked coffee.

  ‘It’s very sad,’ he said, not meaning it. The world was filled with sadder things, in his opinion; indeed it consisted mainly of them.

  ‘The cops have just announced there’ll be a news conference in about an hour.’ Renée stood, and put her hands on her hips. ‘Nothing big, they tell me, just nailing down some details to stop the bullshit taking off. When they’re done, I think we should put our statement out. Hamish is here, and we’ve drafted something that I’ll go and read to the mob if you’re OK with it. I hoped we might get Mellody involved too, but nobody can reach her. She hasn’t rung you, I guess?’

  Hugo shook his head.

  ‘OK. Obviously that’s not helpful, but we mustn’t jump to conclusions. She could be anywhere. But she’ll only make things worse for herself if she tries to run off. And her people will tell her that. But if you can get hold of her, that would be good.’

  A nod or a grunt or an ‘OK’ felt expected here, so Hugo did one.

  ‘Oh, and I called Caspar,’ Renée added, brightening. ‘He says he has some footage of Calvin from Cuzco last night – dancing or something, I haven’t seen it yet. But I’m offering that to the networks in the hope that they’ll go easy on the drug stuff for now.’

  The drab weight of Ambien still squatted obdurately in his head, though he could feel the coffee start to needle through. Hopefully Renée would leave him soon.

  ‘So look,’ she added. ‘I know you haven’t had much rest. You must be wiped out. But we need you to look over this statement. I also think you should talk with Independence personally as soon as New York wakes up. Do you need a modafinil?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’ll fix this, Hugo.’ She looked over with a face that hoped to find him reassured. ‘We just have to keep not fucking up until the world gets bored.’

  And now again: her ‘My Sharona’ ringtone. Neither the handset nor its noise had changed for years.

  ‘I’m talking to Hugo, Theresa,’ Renée began irritably. Then she frowned and listened. There was an ‘Uh-huh,’ and then a ‘Right, OK.’ Again, ‘Uh-huh.’ She looked at him once more, not reassuring this time. ‘I’ll be right out.’ Then she hung up.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said.

  Mopping his eyes with a fist of toilet paper, Michael climbed back into bed. He gathered his body, and drew the duvet over in a single sweep, repelling the world. Inside, he was alone with his heat.

  What was he going to do?

  He thought of Calvin. Poor boy. And of his family. And of himself.

  He had done so little wrong, yet this was all his fault. It frightened him.

  Fresh drops, fat as ladybirds, wriggled down his cheeks. Michael heard them pat on to the sheet.

  He wanted yesterday back, with its companionable dullness. The late commute, lunch in the canteen, the email repartee – these domesticities seemed edged with sacredness in the light of recollection. And then the invitation, the taxi ride, the fretful stabs at talk. Oh, he would give anything to untake those blithe decisions, all so out of character, and break the chain of consequence that hauled him up on to the roof. It wasn’t me, he wanted to scream. It wasn’t me! But there was nobody to hear it.

  And now what was he going to do?

  Was he under suspicion? Had he committed a crime? To give Calvin a shock was all he had intended, but it had been enough to kill him. And Hugo knew this. He knew he knew. But would he tell? Yes. In the end, he would.

  Outside his tent, the bathroom fan had stopped, leaving just the heavy up and down of Michael’s breathing.

  He had said he would call Andrea back.

  What was he going to say? Would it be wrong of him, now, to write something? Or the opposite? Was this, instead, what writing was about? Or was he just another Fleet Street casuist, trying to believe so? Was he searching only for the viewpoint that would print his name? And make some money. Perhaps a lot of money … He was trembling. He needed advice. But there was nobody to advise him.

  Sally. Sally.

  And quickly pulling back the cover, he returned to the dim grey cool. Noisily, he blew his nose, and blinked.

  A fresh suit, a shirt, and even shoes and underwear, had carefully been laid out on the chair by the door.

  Had all that been there when he awoke? Or just now, when he left the bathroom?

  He shrugged, and picked up the phone.

  Hugo dressed smartly, for a spring calamity. He chose a mid-grey suit, almost invisibly plain, and left its waistcoat on the hanger. The trousers zipped, he added socks, and then some rich brown brogues he liked. A scan along his shirt rail found an apt companion at light blue. As he buttoned, he approached the window on the garden side, and made a peephole in the curtains wide enough to see that the policeman still stood vigilant beside his dirty rocks. They would be Calvin’s rocks forever now. That boy’s memory would colonise his house. He drained his cup of coffee and, though it was still hot, placed it on the folded cherrywood of the card table by his bed. Mellody used to make him wince by doing that. They used to play cards too.

  ‘OK,’ was what Renée said as she walked in without knocking. Then, when she had Hugo’s full attention, ‘I think we have a serious problem with Mike.’

  ‘Yes, you said that. But I don’t think …’ It was a feeble attempt to stall her, begun with little hope against such a determined start.

  ‘No, this is something else. Theresa just heard him talking to his editor.’

  Now Hugo was confused. Mike had promised.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘She went up to give him his clothes, knocked on the door, and he didn’t answer. When she went in he wasn’t in bed, but she could hear him in the bathroom talking about writing something, and how he had to get out of here.’

  Renée’s face was covered in concern for Hugo’s feelings.

  ‘How do you know it was his editor?’

  ‘We don’t, I guess. But he was talking about writing an article, and not being able to discuss things on the phone …’

  ‘What did he actually say?’ Hugo could hear how desperate he sounded.

  ‘Let me get Theresa.’

  But Theresa was already coming in. She had
obviously been waiting by the door until her cue. Like this was a little presentation they had organised. Like they thought he was unreasonable. Hugo Marks: a pleasure prince too drunk on self-regard to tell sycophants from friends. Like he needed cornering with proof before he could believe that he had been betrayed. And maybe they were right.

  ‘… wouldn’t have listened. Only I wasn’t sure if I’d got his room, so I had a look around, and I heard a voice in the bathroom,’ Theresa was saying.

  She was a smart young woman. Immaculately organised, intelligent, tireless and quick, yet blessed by some invaluable defect of her character that made her servile, and a treat to bully. Not once, as far as Hugo knew, had Renée ever found a task too unreasonable for Theresa to perform. Even such an outrageous instruction as lying now, to her employer, would have been met, he realised, with meek compliance. She would have come in to see him and stood, as she stood now, talking, talking, talking about ‘going to write something’ and ‘when Calvin fell off the roof’. The words would have been planned, and well delivered. And yet they would not have convinced. Not like the loyally trembling lip before him and the doleful shoe-stare did. Usually he felt sorry for Theresa. He hated her now.

  ‘All right!’ he shouted. ‘Shut up!’ And dipped his brow into his hand.

  ‘Listen Hugo,’ Renée said, when a respectful pause had passed. ‘You wanted my help, and now I’m giving it to you: Mike is a liability. You have to turn him in.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Or else he could make it look like Calvin got so wasted at your party that he died. Do you think he’s not going to tell his paper about all the sex and drugs round at Mell and Hugo’s place? Maybe he’ll say you didn’t call an ambulance because you were too busy clearing up?’ She spoke in torrid bursts, like she was throwing up words, stopping, and then throwing up some more. ‘To be honest, if he’s desperate, Mike could say you pushed Calvin yourself because he screwed your wife.’

  ‘I said OK!’

  Theresa looked close to tears.

  ‘All right,’ Renée said. ‘Just call the case detective – I have his number – and tell him what you really saw. If you wait until after Mike gets his story out, it will be too late. Anything you say then will sound like some bullshit excuse you’ve just made up. I only want you to tell the truth, and be believed.’