The Afterparty

by Leo Benedictus

  Hugo looked at Mike. So did Hamish, Theresa and Renée.

  Experts, the Sky anchor said gravely, believe this to be the moment that Vance fell. You can clearly hear what seems to be another partygoer calling out in shock.

  Birdsong.

  Shortly afterwards, at least two male voices can be heard apparently discussing his injuries.

  Silence, then:

  View. Muffled and approaching.

  … believe you, stark white subtitles suggested.

  Calvin? Are you OK? Mike’s voice again. Frightened. He just fell. Pause. Is it serious?

  Mike was pale.

  Yes. And this time it was clearly Hugo speaking.

  I mean how …

  But Mike’s voice was cut off.

  Don’t touch it! Wait!

  Hugo sounded quite out of control, which was not how he remembered it at all.

  At this point, the anchor’s voiceover continued, it seems as if one or both of the men can be heard leaving the scene.

  Silence.

  On three occasions, the first man asks someone called Hugo, believed to be Hugo Marks, if he has called an ambulance.

  Silence.

  Birdsong.

  An unintelligible murmur, subtitled You call an ambulance?

  Silence.

  Hugo? Mike. Loud and clear. Did you call an ambulance?

  Birdsong and silence.

  Did you call an ambulance, Hugo? Angry.

  I think he’s dead, Mike. That was calmer. A real doctor couldn’t do it better.

  A noise, identifiably Mike speaking, but faint and muddled.

  Shouldn’t we call an ambulance? said the subtitles. You’re supposed to.

  And then Hugo remembered something.

  How long were voicemail messages these days? Three minutes? Longer? Probably it varied between networks.

  He fell three (beep) storeys on to some rocks! He heard himself say. He’s not breathing! That is a corpse! Angry. Angry. Words covered by the wind, but angry. … let’s tidy first.

  Another raging gust.

  And the tape went on, and Hugo listened from his life.

  … the police get here, they will see the mess from people’s drugs everywhere, and we will be arrested. Every single word, bright and clean.

  This appears to be the voice of Hugo Marks, the anchorman said. As if there could be any doubt.

  His career was finished, of course. He and Renée would have to talk about that later.

  And still the tape went on.

  … rested? But it was an accident! I haven’t taken any drugs!

  A pause. And then:

  I saw what happened, Mike.

  The menace. The foreboding tone. Got that spot on.

  Freaking out, Mike’s voice said.

  And the recording ended.

  And Hugo knew what he was going to do.

  According to the time signature, the message was left at 5.58 a.m. this morning. So far police at the house, which Marks shares with his wife, the supermodel Mellody, are refusing to comment on reports that a mobile phone has been recovered from the garden. We’ll bring you more on this story, and all the rest of the day’s news from Rome and around the world, when we come back.

  Michael was such a fool.

  ‘Guys? Is this genuine? Is that what happened?’

  Renée looked at both of them.

  Nobody was more of a fool, or more publicly a fool, than him.

  ‘I need to know! Is that what happened?’

  ‘Yes, Renée.’ Hugo was calm and quiet. ‘That’s what happened.’

  The way Michael had just forgotten. How he had been exploited. That threatening voice, after all his sympathy and care. And he had timidly forgotten. And he was feeling guilty. So weak. And such a fool. Just Hugo’s voice disgusted him. He could not look at the face.

  ‘Mike?’

  Humiliated. So angry. Throbbing with impotent anger. Humiliated on television. His subjugation broadcast. And he had never seen a phone – not in Calvin’s hand, not on the grass.

  He could not look at Hugo’s face.

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘That’s what happened,’ he whispered.

  ‘Renée.’ Hamish was shaking his head and almost smiling, trying to calm her down. ‘If this ever goes to a criminal trial – which I’d say is unlikely – we’ll get that tape ruled inadmissible. There won’t be a juror in the country who hasn’t heard it by then. That’s a good thing,’ he added.

  ‘Why would this go to trial?’ she said.

  ‘Obstructing justice. Possible perverting-the-course. But as I say, I doubt that will happen. Those are difficult to win. Sky’, he pointed at the screen, ‘have done you a favour.’

  Theresa was watching the commercials.

  ‘How about this statement?’ Renée said.

  Hamish considered the question.

  ‘Up to you,’ he announced finally. ‘Hugo did not say they were his drugs. Nor was he specific. That’s not enough for a prosecution, and the police have left it too late to search the house. They might have to at some point, for appearances, but it won’t go anywhere in the end. You cannot avoid a lot of embarrassment, but I don’t think that, if you go ahead with the statement, it will change anything, legally.’

  The TV still flickered mutely on the sideboard. It was the Crazy Frog, ogling them all with its rapacious eye.

  Hugo was a few feet away. Michael could feel his presence.

  Could he just walk downstairs? Step out into all that noise and leave these people? Could he? It almost felt as if he could.

  ‘OK,’ Renée said. ‘OK.’ She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again and said: ‘We’re fucked. Everybody? OK? We’re fucked. But it’s better not to delay. This will only be as big as we make it. Just give me a minute to freshen up, and I’ll go outside and read the statement.’

  ‘No,’ Hugo said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  And Michael looked at him then.

  * * *

  From: onolan.daniel@gmail.com

  To: leobenedictus@yahoo.co.uk: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk

  Subject:

  Date: Tuesday, 16 February 2010 16:19:05

  Looking back, it is just so obvious, isn’t it? Actually, let’s start again: it was probably obvious all along. I just chose to be gullible. That way I could believe I had a book deal. Even so, you should both be very proud of yourselves for convincing me so utterly. I mean that. Well done. *Round of applause*

  Greater Manchester Police, on the other hand… dear oh dear. You’d think I was Ayman al-Zawahiri, the number of vans and uniforms they left outside. I mean, I’m just a bloody writer; I’m not going to climb out on the window ledge or crawl through an air vent. But nor am I a total idiot, so when I’m on my way back from the all-night garage (turns out they don’t sell notebooks, what an irony!) and I see all those coppers shivering on the pavement, I’m not exactly going to walk right past them, am I? One guy with a taser knocking on my door at lunchtime, that’s all it would have taken. Couldn’t they see how late at night I often send my emails? I trust someone’s been demoted.

  You two though, honestly. You really had me thinking that my dreams were coming true. And I’m glad, actually. I’ve had the experience now, and nobody can take it from me. The feedback has meant a lot too. Being isolated like this makes it very difficult to connect with people, and knowing you two were there has been such a help, even when I’ve had to disappear at times. Believe me, Val: I don’t blame you one bit for turning me in after I behaved so furtively, so please don’t deny you did it. And Leo, you were put in an impossible position. Knowing so little about me, it was very brave of you to volunteer. I wish you luck with your own novel (if there is one) and I hope this experience has not been too upsetting for you or your family (if there is one).

  My final point is this, and I want you both to pay attention to it: neither of you deserves to feel remorse for what you’ve done. If someone must be blamed for
where we find ourselves today, the only candidate is me.

  But then justice, when we judge ourselves, is frequently miscarried. I, of all people, ought to understand that. So if you ever do feel guilty about this whole episode and wish that there was something you could do to mitigate it, take comfort, there is. Please just leave me alone.

  Daniel

  * * *

  From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk

  To: onolan.daniel@gmail.com

  Subject: Re:

  Date: Wednesday, 17 February 2010 13:09:58

  Dear Daniel,

  I know you would prefer to be left alone, so I am very sorry to be writing to you now. I only do this because I believe that it is in your interests to hear what I have to say.

  And yes, I do also feel guilty. I took fright, I think, once the thought occurred to me that you might be the person they were looking for. You’re right, all the reporting of the case did make you seem like a sinister character, so when I read that second ‘incessantly’ in your email, echoing the one you quoted, I panicked. I began to worry that I would become an ‘accessory’, or some such, if you were who I suspected, and I carried on without informing the authorities. These were selfish motives – I was about to call you ‘William’ – and I can’t pretend that justice was much on my mind.

  Though once the police got involved, it’s true my wrists were bound. They told me that your emails came from the north of England, never Sicily, and that parts of the book corresponded with details of the crime scene which had never been made public. (Detectives will be reading this message, I’m afraid, so I can’t tell you any more.) In any case, it was they who insisted that I keep the relationship going while they traced you, and talked as if I were some splendid Miss Marple figure, though I felt more of a Jezebel as I typed. I do appreciate your forgiving words, but I don’t think I will ever cease to blame myself for the deception.

  Which is why I must now reveal more of it. You ought to know that Leo was never involved. He agreed to let me use his name, and set up an email address, but I wrote those messages, with a detective at my shoulder. Besides advising on a couple of facts, Leo has no knowledge of what I wrote, or your replies. I hope this does not upset you, but I cannot bear for there to be any more dishonesty between us. Though of course I cannot compel you to believe me either; I can only tell you the truth, with hope.

  In which spirit, I have another piece of news to relate. Though the emails since Leo’s appearance have been fictitious, Cape would still like to publish your book. (Bloomsbury declined in the end, but I kept them in, on police instructions, to simulate the excitement of an auction.) Jane loves what you have written – that was always true – and she wants to go ahead, even now she knows that you are the author. You might not be permitted to profit from it if you are convicted of anything, but I sense that money is not actually the most important thing to you. And I believe that you are innocent anyway.

  Which is why, whatever you decide, I do think you should turn yourself in, Daniel. You won’t be surprised to hear me say so, of course, but that does not make it bad advice. After all, if you can convince me of your innocence, you can convince others. And, though you have managed it so far, you cannot keep eluding the police indefinitely. It is your decision. Please think about it carefully. And do look after yourself.

  All my love,

  Val x

  * * *

  From:onolan.daniel@gmail.com

  To:valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk

  Subject: Re:

  Date: Monday, 22 February 2010 10:01:50

  Dear Val,

  Such a kind email. Thank you so much for sending it, in spite of what I said. The warmth of your concern is obvious, and I do not doubt a word of it. Yet I wonder if your loyal optimism, in the event of my surrender, is what prevents you from seeing things as they are. The truth is that everybody thinks I did it, Val. The story is I did it. I can give in. I can protest my case. But jailed or acquitted, I will never be recast.

  It is flattering, of course, that Jane still wants to go ahead with publication. And it is enchanting of you to believe she wants this ‘even now she knows’ who I am. But search your instincts, Val. This is not an ‘even’; this is a ‘because’. Take Daniel O’Nolan’s book to any publisher and see how many rejections you get. They won’t even need to read it. This is the power of fame: always being listened to, never being heard. (We are, as Michael Knight has said, ‘the unignored’.) I fear that you’ll discover that yourself one day, when the details of our partnership emerge.

  Thank you for your message, though. The answer, to all your questions, is that I still have a little work to do. I realise that someone in a uniform will probably compel you to write back, in which case I apologise in advance for the slowness of my reply. It has become rather difficult for me to reach a computer recently.

  Affectionately, of course,

  Daniel

  * * *

  From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk

  To: onolan.daniel@gmail.com

  Subject: Re:

  Date: Tuesday, 23 February 2010 17:02:07

  Dear Daniel,

  Just so that you know, no one is compelling me to send this. The final draft will be checked by the detective, but whether I write – and what – has been left to my discretion. So please do not imagine that this is a policeman’s voice you’re reading. This is Valerie, just as it always was.

  Nor am I here to hassle you about giving yourself up. You understand my argument, and I understand your objections. I still think it would be better if you surrendered, but we will leave it at that.

  I do want to clarify Cape’s intentions, however. Jane would never deny that a book with your name on it will attract a good level of attention (and neither would I), but you should not let this blind you to the sincerity of her admiration for Publicity*****. She wanted to publish this before either of us had any idea of who you really were, remember. And when I spoke to her earlier, she said she was happy for you to have no role in promoting it. She also said you could use a pseudonym if you would like to keep your name off the cover. Jane will do anything she can, in other words, to disassociate you from the finished edition, if that is what you prefer.

  Meanwhile, Cape’s legal department have also made a suggestion, which, under the circumstances, you might find more appealing anyway. In its current form, they do feel that the book could be actionable. (The whole O.J. fiasco made publishers very wary of ‘what-if’ books, I think.) If our email correspondence were also included, however, the lawyers feel this would put the chapters of the novel in their proper fictional context. We would have to change your name, my name, everybody’s name, and a few details, to avoid direct references to the real case, but in Jane’s opinion (and mine) this would add another fascinating dimension. (And she suggests using a different title, such as The Afterparty, as the result would essentially be a different book.) It also means you need not make any further revisions. With your consent, one of Jane’s colleagues would acquire the book and edit it into a suitable form, inserting the usual ‘any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead’ disclaimer. For my part, I would be happy for my emails to be published in this way. But the final decision, of course, will always be yours.

  Please think it over, and do look after yourself. I’m sorry I called you a ‘creepy advertising guy’.

  Valerie x

  * * *

  From:onolan.daniel@gmail.com

  To:valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk

  Subject: Re:

  Date: Friday, 26 February 2010 21:16:04

  Chapter 13 – The end

  Dear Val,

  Thank you for your email. I’ve thought about your proposal, and I accept. Jane has my permission to publish the book and all my emails, calling it The Afterparty if she wishes. I would be grateful if you could take out any mention of my name and email address, and print it under a pseudonym of your choosing. Or perhaps allocate it to Leo Benedictus, if
he would still be willing to stand in for me. He is free to play the author and deny my existence if he wants. I would also like to stipulate that my suggestions for promoting the novel should be adopted whenever possible within the limits of a reasonable marketing budget for a book of this type. Please hold any payments due to me in trust until I can collect them. Failing which, please give them to the charity of your choice.

  I enclose the penultimate chapter. It was originally intended as the final one, but I have amended it in order to create the opportunity for another, which I am currently writing. It will all be over soon.

  Love,

  Daniel

  Saturday April 2, 2005

  12:44

  THE CRAZY FROG was on TV again. That bubbling, babbling child machine.

  ‘Do you mind if I turn it off?’ Garth asked. He still had his overcoat on, and was being polite. More polite, Mellody suspected, than usual.

  She lowered her head in slow assent, just once, and hugged the blanket closer. ‘Turn it down,’ she said.

  He reached across his two dictation machines for the remote control, and pressed mute.

  The fire rustled softly through its middle age.

  ‘So does this voicemail surprise you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. If it’s genuine.’

  ‘And how would you feel if it was genuine?’

  ‘How would I feel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re “one of the Sun’s best writers” and you’re asking how I feel?’

  ‘I am.’ He smiled, answering both questions.

  Mellody lofted her eyes in resignation.

  ‘Sad, I guess.’ But sadder for Hugo than for Calvin.

  ‘And do you think it is genuine?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You weren’t there at the time?’

  ‘No. I was asleep.’

  ‘But do you think your husband would be capable of leaving a young man to die?’

  Yes. Mellody did think that.