Taking Hollywood

by Shari King

The door banged behind him and he broke into a run to his car, the silver Aston Martin DB7 that sat in the space nearest the door. A few minutes later, his heart was still racing as two cop cars with sirens blaring screeched past him, heading in the direction of a helicopter that was circling overhead. Must have been an accident up near Trancas. Only when he was ten miles away, crossing the boundary line into Santa Monica, did his breathing return to anywhere near normal.

  He dialled Wes’s number using the buttons on the dash.

  ‘Hey, how’re you doing?’ The familiar greeting.

  ‘A free man,’ Zander replied jovially, a display of acting worthy of his third Golden Globe.

  ‘Great. Knew you’d do it, son. Listen, shooting has been moved up and they want you tomorrow. Can you make that work?’

  When it came to Wes, there was only ever one answer.

  ‘Sure. I’ll be there. Just ask someone to fire all the details over to my office.’

  ‘It’s done. And, son . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’

  ‘No problem at all. I’m good, Wes. Really good.’

  Christ, he almost believed himself. What was he supposed to say? No, man, I’m completely fucking rattled and ready to implode. He had to get it together. His career was on the line here. Time to pull this back, get over this shit. Bring down the shutters on a teenager sitting in a Malibu clinic freaking him the fuck out.

  Time to get back to real life. He’d go home, grab a shower, head to the beach, catch a few waves and then spend the night rereading the script for tomorrow. It was the best one yet. His character goes into Iraq and finally tracks down the WMDs that started the last war. A win-win for America. A financial injection into the movie industry and fictional justification for the conflict. Not that he gave a toss about the politics, but as a career move, it didn’t come much better.

  All he had to do was keep off the booze and the drugs and do his job. Right now, he was psyched up on all counts. What did they drum into him in rehab? Choices. He had choices. And he was going to choose to get positive, focused, keep it together.

  The traffic was still heavy. It would be at least another twenty minutes until he made it to his Venice home.

  More to pass the time than out of any interest in what he’d missed, he hit the voicemail button on his phone. With any luck, the MTV hottie he’d hooked up with the night of the brawl with the reality-show wanker had left a message.

  ‘You have thirty-seven new voicemails.’ And that was just today. His PA, Hollie, made a point of going through his messages and filtering them every morning, passing on the details of any that were important. He hit the number one button.

  ‘First new message.’

  There was a pause, a crackle, before the voice filled the car.

  ‘Mr Leith, this is Sarah McKenzie from the Daily Scot. Apologies, I know this will come out of the blue, but I would very much like to speak to you. You see, I have a few questions about the disappearance of your father . . .’

  Zander Leith swerved his car into the side of the road, put his head on the steering wheel, tried to stop the fear that had just battered his natural high to death.

  No use. It was growing. Churning. Taking control. Seeping under his skin. Overtaking his brain. Screaming.

  Make it stop. Make it stop.

  On the dashboard, a Seb Dunhill bobblehead stared at him, a gift from a fan, customized by Zander. He leaned over, snapped it at the neck and put out a hand to capture the fine white powder that flowed from its fractured skull.

  Everyone had choices in life. Right now, his was, clean or coke?

  9.

  ‘Relax’ – Frankie Goes to Hollywood

  Glasgow, 1984

  She was there again. Sitting on the bench. Alone. Staring into space. Doing nothing. Yet he couldn’t stop watching her.

  If Davie’s mum knew he was still up, he’d be in trouble, but he didn’t care. Anyway, she worked three jobs, only Saturday night off. She’d already been dozing when he got back from the chippy with the fish suppers, so she was probably now crashed out downstairs on her brown Dralon armchair, bottle of her favourite American Cream Soda and discarded newspaper on the teak side table next to her.

  She was all right, his mum. Strict, a wee bit bossy, but at least she wasn’t stuck-up like Zander’s mum, all ‘Leave your shoes at the door and go to Mass every Sunday.’

  His gaze flicked around to the other houses in the square. A party going on at number 2. Old Mrs Squinty McGinty at number 18 had her windows open and was singing those old songs at the top of her voice again. ‘You’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low road . . .’ He heard his neighbour shouting that he wished to fuck she would and then maybe they’d all get some sleep.

  That was the thing about living around here – there was only a window or a wall between you and everyone else’s lives. Four blocks of five grey pebble-dashed terrace houses, arranged in a square. Communal ground in the middle with benches and a play area. It was supposed to enhance community spirit. Instead it just meant every bugger knew everyone else’s business.

  The drift of smoke from the girl’s cigarette dispersed into the night sky as she stubbed it out on the leg of the concrete bench she was sitting on. There had been wooden benches there once, but the council had replaced them after one of them had ended up in the garden of the weird bloke at number 6. He claimed he’d bought it in a pub. The council decided not to bring in the police, and instead just replaced the whole lot with concrete seating that hurt your arse, but at least it wasn’t going to get flogged for a tenner down the King’s Arms.

  The council blokes were always round doing things to the scheme. They’d planted flower beds in the middle of the play area last year. All right to look at, he supposed, but the soil didn’t half bugger your trainers when you were taking a penalty. Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s ‘Relax’ was silenced in the middle of the chorus by the stop button on his Walkman. He still couldn’t believe he owned one. Zander had given it to him for his twelfth birthday. He’d overheard his mum saying it fell off the back of a lorry, but hey, Frankie Goes to Hollywood didn’t seem to mind where it came from, so neither did he.

  The catch on his window resisted his first attempt to push it open, but he succeeded on the second try. He slipped over the sill and walked towards her as casually as a twelve-year-old who’d just snagged the crotch of his jeans on a window catch could manage.

  As he crossed the tiny lawn in front of his house and headed to the centre of the square, getting closer to her with every step, she didn’t look up, didn’t look in his direction, not even once.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he said, his breath making clouds in the freezing night air.

  Just when backing away slowly seemed like the only possible way to salvage a shred of dignity, she finally spoke. No eye contact. No smile. Just words.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing. Just, erm, I’m Davie. Live at number 15.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You just moved in?’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, erm . . .’

  Why hadn’t he just stayed in his bedroom with his Walkman on, ignoring the world? The answer was already in his head and there was no way he was saying it out loud.

  Because he’d seen her out here every night this week. And she was gorgeous. Crazy mad dark red curly hair. Huge eyes. Really skinny, like that dancer chick from Flashdance.

  Eventually, after what seemed like an hour and a half, she put him out of his misery with a bored ‘Yes’.

  This was too hard. OK, one more try and then he was giving up, heading back inside for a heat.

  ‘So why are you out here, then?’

  Another pause. His Adidas Bamba took a step backwards. He’d wanted Sambas, but his mum said there was no point paying extra when you could hardly see the difference.

  He paused, about to pivot, when her voice stopped
him.

  ‘Because she’s in there with a bloke and I don’t like hearing them.’

  Wow. It took him a minute to catch up.

  ‘So every night you’re out here because . . . ?’

  ‘In there with a bloke,’ she repeated.

  And again, wow. Davie’s dad had pissed off before he was born and since then the closest his mum got to a conversation with a bloke was shouting out the answers to the questions on the general knowledge round of Mastermind.

  His brain had no answer for this girl’s quiet, blunt manner. Usually he could talk his way out of anything. His teachers said he talked too much. His mum said she couldn’t hear herself think for him sometimes. Even his gran would deliberately take out her hearing aid when he’d been in her house for more than ten minutes. However, now his mind was racing, but his vocal cords were parked.

  A noise behind him made him start. For a horrible moment he thought he was about to suffer the indignity of being dragged back inside and bollocked every step of the way by a mum that smelt of vinegar, American Cream Soda and Embassy Regal.

  When he realized it was Zander, he muttered a strangled ‘Yes!’

  They’d lived on the same block their whole lives, Alexander Leith – Sandy to his mum and dad; Zander to his pals – on one end and Davie on the other, which put this new girl smack bang in the middle.

  Zander’s house may have been identical to his once, but now it was completely different. His dad’s mates had painted the front, put on a new door, added an extra room on the side and put a garage on the communal grass next to them. No one complained. A council officer came round once and hadn’t been back since.

  ‘How’s it going, pal?’ Davie greeted him, his trademark grin back in place for the first time since he’d dropped out of his window.

  Zander countered the question with one of his own. ‘What you doing out?’

  ‘Just talking to . . . to . . .’

  ‘Mirren,’ she offered, and Davie noticed that for the first time her stare had left the space in front of her and was now fixed on Zander’s face. Her reaction was nothing new. Half the girls in school fancied him. Even the posh ones who came to school in a car and lived up in the bought houses.

  Zander barely glanced in her direction and Davie was unsure why that pleased him.

  Davie checked his digital Casio. Eleven o’ clock. For Zander, this was late. His mum usually had him under house arrest as soon as she came home from eight-o’ clock Mass every night.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘King’s Arms. Need to see if my da is in there. Polis have been round looking for him. Burst in the back door. My ma is going mental. Wanna come?’

  Davie’s hesitation was so slight Zander didn’t notice. Stay here with the girl who was treating him like a dose of the measles or go with Zander to track down his dad? Zander won. And not just because his dad would give them a tenner for coming to warn him about the police.

  As Zander shoved his hands into the pockets of his Fred Perry jacket and walked off, Davie fell into step behind him. As he and Zander turned out of the square and headed in the direction of the pub, a movement caught his peripheral vision.

  So hostile, angry girl had decided to tag along too.

  10.

  ‘Like a Prayer’ – Madonna

  Glasgow, 2013

  Sarah’s morning had started off well. Coffee and croissants in Princes Square, a Grade B-listed building on Buchanan Street, built as a merchant square in the centre of the city in 1841, now home to upmarket stores. It had been a delicious assault on her senses. The aromas from the restaurants on the ground floor infused the air, while the light streamed down from the glass atrium roof. Her partner, Simon, a lawyer, had dragged her there to buy new work shirts from Ted Baker. She’d resisted at first – shopping wasn’t her thing – but later she was glad. It was a snapshot of tranquillity, of luxury, a cocoon of loveliness that protected the inhabitants from the world. As they’d chatted over brunch, they’d listened to an amazing choir sing gospel songs in the central performance area.

  Now, just a few hours later, she was in a different building, listening to songs with the same theme, but without the God-given talent.

  ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ was proving to be a challenge for the organist, who played with elaborate flair and a blatant disregard for the Almighty’s preferred musical arrangement. Not that any of the amassed congregation in the crematorium would be filing an official complaint.

  Sarah just hoped the Daily Scot’s photographer, perched in the window of a flat directly across from the crematorium, was getting good shots of the mourners as they filed in and out, otherwise the fifty quid she’d given the old bloke who owned the rotting tenement room would be wasted.

  When the last bars of the hymn faded, the minister cleared his throat and welcomed the crowd to the service to celebrate the life of the dearly departed soul.

  Another fifty quid said this bloke who was proclaiming that the Lord had called one of his beloved flock home had never met Manny Murphy in his life.

  Looking down from her standpoint on the upper balcony of the hall, Sarah spotted Manny Murphy Junior in the front row, passing a tissue to his wailing stepmother, Manny’s estranged wife Della. Another rat that had fled the sinking ship when Manny got sick.

  Della (36): speciality act – removing flags from her vagina on the stage of the Crystal Gentlemen’s Club. If the Scottish Independence lobby could get her onside, she’d add a unique new patriotic slant that would definitely grab the attention of at least 50 per cent of the voting public.

  Was it Sarah’s imagination or did Manny Junior’s gaze linger just a little too long on his stepmother? Didn’t matter. The editor wouldn’t run speculation like that unless he walked in and caught them shagging on his desk in front of a judge, a lawyer, the irrefutable eye of a CCTV camera and several members of the SAS for protection.

  As for the rest of the attendees, the only story here was a background Glasgow gangland piece, and it had been done a dozen times before. Every killer, crook and conman from the criminal world not currently banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure was here today. Jimmy Lowe: head of the biggest drugs family on the west coast. His lifelong rival Danny Dodds, sitting opposite surrounded by a network of relatives who made more from vice and smack than most mid-level corporations. Cass Miller: never to be underestimated, the matriarch of a family that boasted a national shoplifting operation and two of the most prolific gunmen available for hire. Franz Lowery: confessed to three murders in the 1980s, now out of Carstairs and married to a junior member of royalty who clearly wanted to fuck off her parents.

  Generations of crime, corruption and fear, all of them gathered in the black clothes of hypocrisy to pay homage to a man they probably despised but who would be elevated to the status of gangland legend now that he was gone.

  None of that interested Sarah. She’d leave that to the crime reporters and the out-of-work journos who made a fast buck by trotting out a true-crime exposé that bore little resemblance to the truth.

  She was more interested in who wasn’t there. The way Manny Murphy told it, he’d grown up with Jono Leith, shared women, wages and jobs. Manny’s passing had made national news. Why wouldn’t his old mate Jono come to pay his respects? And would Sarah spot him if he did?

  Zander Leith was tall, over six foot. According to Manny, he looked just like his dad: same stature, same dark blond hair, same green eyes. Even allowing for some age-related subsidence, there were very few sixty-something men here who topped that height.

  Sarah counted three, before being interrupted by another wail from Della. Jesus, she should get an Oscar in the category of Most Hysterical Attention-Seeker in a Supporting Role.

  Eyes back to the mourners. One of the possibilities had jet-black hair, greased back and auditioning for a role as spokesperson for Just for Men.

  Another was bald, but sallow-skinned. There was a third, but his head was bowed, so she couldn’t m
ake out his features. A subtle vibration against her hip compelled her to surreptitiously slip her phone from her pocket, and under the pretence of lowering her head in prayer, read the message on the screen.

  ‘Tonight. 7 p.m. Rogano. Dress gorgeous. Sxx’

  The elderly lady next to her mistook her sigh for an exhalation of sadness and gave her an empathetic smile. Sarah recognized her from a feature she’d done the year before on professional mourners, all of them perched up here day after day, vicariously sharing grief and hoping for the holy grail of an invitation back to the food- and drink- laden wake.

  Not that she was in a position to judge, given that the only thing she was mourning right now was her planned night in front of the fire, laptop open while drinking wine to the TV backdrop of Grey’s Anatomy.

  Of course, she could say no to the text, but she wouldn’t.

  Sxx was Simon Anstruther, lawyer, activist, firm member of the establishment, key player in the SCCRC. The Scottish Criminal Cases Review Commission was the last source of appeal against miscarriages of justice in the Scottish legal system.

  They’d met when she was covering the final stages of a judicial inquiry into the conviction of a serial rapist who maintained his innocence despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Sarah’s theory was that dragging out the case, reliving it in court after court, was a sick distraction for the sick excuse for a man, another chance to toy with his victims, torturing every last shred of misery from them.

  By the end of it, it was obvious to Sarah that Simon felt the same. Case closed. The rapist’s sentence was increased and Sarah got an all-access pass to a bloke who knew the details of every high-profile case in Scotland since criminal records began.

  Victory all round.

  It helped that Simon was actually a nice guy, easy on the eye in a Harvey Specter-Suits league, with an understated arrogance that was backed up by the knowledge that he was damn good at what he did.

  It was Simon who had given her the background to the life and times of Jono Leith. Small-time crook, promoted to mid-level suspicion after the Bank of Scotland in St Vincent Street lost two of its basement walls and almost £100,000. Back in 1984, Leith and five others were charged, but it didn’t stick. Neither did the convictions for armed robbery, assault and a few domestics on which the charges were dropped when complaints were withdrawn.