by Jaq Hazell
Slug laughed and said, “Looks like a murdered porn star.”
There was a small pot of dust, toenail clippings and a couple of black pubic hairs lit from beneath by a pink light-box entitled I Owe You Nothing.
“This guy is bitter,” Kelly said. “Which one is he?”
“That’s him, I saw him in The Sunday Times.” I pointed at a tall, dark-haired, thirty-something deep in conversation with an older man in a wheelchair.
“Not bad,” Tamzin said, but then Tamzin said that about everyone.
“I need another drink,” I said.
“Get us one,” Tamzin said.
“And me,” Kelly said.
I crossed the gallery and wove between the cliques; careful I didn’t trip in my high ankle boots. I felt good in that charcoal dress. One or two men stared my way. I could sense it. I recognised one particular face – nice looking but not single. I didn’t need it. I wasn’t interested in unavailable men and I resented the way they kept looking around, checking to see whether or not there was anyone better.
At the bar, I collected three glasses and turned back to find the gallery busier than ever. I could no longer see the art and crowds of people were blocking my way.
“Excuse me, please.” I was so going to spill something, but then somehow a path cleared before me. A man in a black jacket, T-shirt and jeans with artfully mussed up hair was standing aside to allow me through.
“Thank you,” I said, embarrassed by the small voice that came out.
The man watched me return to my friends. I couldn’t believe it. It was Jack Flood, the artist, and he was still staring, watching my every move. I didn’t know how to stand or what to do with my hands. It was like walking endlessly through customs.
I drank fast and headed back to the bar and that’s when something flashed. I turned around and found Jack Flood standing right next to me.
“You’ve just been papped.” He nodded towards a guy with bleached hair. I’d seen that photographer before; he was always at various clubs, lurking round the fringes pointing his equipment at one girl or another. “Is he press?”
“No, he’s on the photography degree.”
“He sees something in you. He’s not stupid. What’s your name?”
I told him.
He smiled. “Where are you from?”
“Bumblefuck.”
“And where is that?”
“The South Coast – a small place you won’t have heard of.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“I’m an only child. I needed to get away – too intense. What about you?”
“I’ve lived all over, but London is home. What do you do?”
“I’m a student – fine art.”
He kissed me then, just closed in on my mouth before the possibility had even crossed my mind. And it was a good kiss, I hate to admit it, but I liked it. I liked him; there was something about him, or so I thought.
Jack Flood broke away. The kiss was over almost as quickly as it had begun. He decided. He decided when it started. He decided when it stopped.
“That was nice,” he said.
Is everyone staring? A few faces looked away. What is he doing? It was his show. I looked up at him, took in his light brown eyes. Is that eyeliner?
“I came to find a girl,” he said, “and that girl is you.”
“Sorry?”
“I wouldn’t bother otherwise.”
“What – you wouldn’t go to your own opening night?”
‘I came to find a girl’ – what sort of a line is that? I thought. I don’t like flattery; I know I’m girl-next-door – nothing without the make-up. But I’d never met a true artist before, let alone a highly acclaimed one. Is this how they are?
“It’s a really interesting show,” I said, “but do you like women?”
He laughed. “Some of my best friends are women.”
“How come they just become these remnants?”
“How much do your lovers leave you?”
He’d got me there. Sometimes I was lucky to even get a surname, not that I wanted it that way. All I wanted was to meet someone interesting – not easy to find – and I couldn’t or wouldn’t compromise.
Jack Flood waited for me to say something. I felt a little out of my depth but managed to ask where he thought his work was going, but my tutor Mike Manners interrupted then, saying he had to introduce Jack to someone. And I rejoined my friends. Much later, after several red stickers had appeared to indicate works that had been sold, I felt a hand slowly stroke down my spine and turned to find Jack Flood standing behind me. “We should talk some more.” He handed me his card.
‘Protect Me From What I Want’ – the following day I sat taking cuttings from a magazine article about the artist Jenny Holzer. It was from her Truisms series: Protect Me From What I Want LED light installation 1982. I glued it across the front of my sketchbook.
The microwave pinged in the kitchen below. I collected my lasagne and went downstairs to the dingy living room where we ate our meals balanced on our laps in front of the TV.
“Not the fucking news.” Slug came in as I changed TV channel, turning the screen camel-coloured with dust, sand and explosions.
“You’ve got to know what’s going on,” I said.
“It’s all the same, nothing but bad news.”
“That’s the world we live in,” Kelly said.
“It’s not my life,” Slug said.
“The Simpsons is on...” moaned Spencer.
“Have what you like,” I said. “I’ve got to get ready for work anyhow.”
“You’re not working?” said Tamzin. “I thought we were going out.”
“Did you hear that?” Kelly nodded at the TV. “They said Forest Road East – someone’s been murdered.”
“It’ll be a prostitute,” Slug said.
“It’s so close,” Kelly said.
“Don’t worry, we’ll look after you, girls,” Slug said.
“Will you be okay getting to work, Mia?” Spencer asked.
“I’ll get the bus or tram back.”
Back in my room at the top, I looked out the window to see if there were any girls out on the corner at the crossroads. The wall where they liked to sit was empty but I sketched it anyway – the waiting-for-a-trick wall with its bricks falling from one end.
I reapplied my eyeliner and pinned up my hair, gathered my uniform together, and raced down the two flights of shag-pile carpeted stairs. “Seeya,” I shouted out in the greying light of the hallway, and slammed the front door behind me, pressing my fingers against it to check.
Two women with bare legs were now sitting on the wall opposite. It’s too cold to dress like that, I thought. What are they doing there? Have they not seen the news? I wondered if Mum and Dad had. Probably not, this was local stuff. They didn’t even know I was living in the red light area.
As I turned onto the main road, I saw the police cordon further up the hill by The Vine, our local pub. Nottingham and particularly our scrappy corner of the city suddenly seemed more dangerous, and yet nothing had changed. The threat of a madman roaming the streets had always been there. It’s probably safer than normal – police everywhere, I thought. But still, to make the twenty-minute trek across town to Saviour’s Bar and Restaurant, I slipped my keys between my fingers. The sharpest, jagged-edged Yale was between my index and middle finger, and gripped discreetly by my side. Everyone needs keys.
Two
Jack Flood’s DVD cuts to his hotel suite: dark panelled walls, velvet mocha club chairs and a crystal chandelier, beneath which Flood is face down, fully clothed, on the bronze satin bedspread. He stirs, rubs his eyes and rearranges his black T-shirt. He takes a whisky miniature from the mini-bar and switches on the TV.
“Welcome to Sky News at five,” the male newsreader says.
“Same old,” Flood says. He knocks back the whisky, grabs a leather jacket and camcorder and exits the suite, taking the winding stairs down t
o reception.
“Good morning, sir,” the concierge says. He’s a tall, long-faced man, immaculate in black against the hot pink, paisley wallpaper.
The camera moves with the revolving door and out onto the cobblestones. “Why the long face?” Flood laughs to himself.
Outside it’s dark, misty and damp. Flood films his way downhill towards the main city centre: there’s a man muttering in a shop doorway – Flood homes in on him, spots a mobile headset and loses interest, a couple of women in saris scuttle past and the camera then lingers on a bearded heap asleep in a battered sleeping bag. “Look at that – the original Nomad.” Flood refers to a painted bronze cast of a figure in a sleeping bag by the artist Gavin Turk that Saatchi used to display in the foyer of his gallery to confuse the public. Flood nudges the bag with his foot. There’s little response beyond a muffled grunt. “Stick it on a skip,” Flood says, and moves on towards a pedestrian thoroughfare, where he spots a convenience store – inconveniently shut. “Call this a city?”
“You wanna film me?” There’s an old man with matted hair and a gappy grin who gives Flood a thumbs up.
“Any newsagents round here, squire?” Flood asks.
“Don’t go there, pal – they’re all terrorists.”
Flood turns the camera away and films a small blue toy monster that’s lying amongst fag butts and beer cans.
“Wait!” The man points ahead. “Tesco,” he says, like he’s seen the light.
“Thank you, my friend. Here, have a drink on me.” Flood hands him some cash.
“Bless you, sir, most generous.”
“Always happy to help the destitute die a little sooner.” Flood walks on past Monsoon, Gap and Marks & Spencer and finds the fluorescent-lit temple that is a 24-hour Tesco Metro. There are newspapers tied in bundles by the door. Flood retrieves a small knife from his pocket and slices open the plastic binding.
“You read a lot.” The girl on the till has round cheeks, large hoop earrings, a blonde ponytail and black roots. “Are you filming me? What you filming me for?”
Flood zooms in on her pink frosted smile, before the camera shifts to survey the conveyor belt: a pile of the day’s papers, a Kit Kat, and bottle of orange juice. “It’s all about me.” Flood flicks through The Guardian. “Here I am.” He points at a feature.
The cashier toys with one of her hoop earrings as she reads. “Wow, I’ve never met a famous artist before.”
“It must be hard for you to meet anyone the hours you work.”
“Yeah, but it’s all right, you earn more on this shift.”
“Have you ever had your portrait painted?”
Wide-eyed, she shakes her head, her hoop earrings hitting against her jaw-line.
“What’s your name and number? I’ll key it into my phone.”
The girl checks around before quietly relaying her details.
“Carmen – now there’s a name. Do you know the opera?”
“Yeah, well, not really – I’ve heard of it though.”
“She lured men with her beauty – is that you?”
She looks blank. And the camerawork is shaky as Flood gathers up his purchases. “I’ll be in touch.”
Flood’s hotel suite: the bronze silk curtains are drawn and the lights are dim.
Flood spreads the newspapers across the king-size. “The show’s a sensation – five stars.” He pores over the arts pages of the broadsheets, and moves on to the tabloids. His face darkens and his eyes are hard.
There’s a knock, and Flood stares at the door. “Who is it?”
“Jack, it’s me – Marcus, open up.”
Flood moves slowly towards the door.
Marcus Hedley is dressed in crisp jeans and a navy sweatshirt with his usual horn-rimmed glasses. “Jack, thank God,” he says.
“It’s a little early for a social visit.”
“I know you don’t sleep.” Marcus Hedley glances round at the luxury suite. “Can we sit down? There’s something I must tell you.”
“Save your breath, I already know.” Flood nods towards the pile of newspapers lying open on the bed.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to find out like that.” Marcus tries to put an arm round him.
Flood moves back and away. “When did you find out?”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“When did you find out?”
“Jack, please sit, we need to talk this through.”
“Did you deliberately not tell me?”
Marcus removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes. “I only ever have your best interests at heart you know that. I was trying to protect you.”
“You couldn’t risk the star of the show not showing up...”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“When did you know?”
“Late yesterday – it was shortly before the private view. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to spoil your moment; you’ve worked so hard, and I wasn’t sure how you felt about Angie. It’s been a while...”
“Why didn’t you tell me after the show?”
“You disappeared. Where did you go?”
Flood frowns. “When did it happen?”
“I don’t know exactly. The coroner’s report will look into it but I’m told she was found yesterday but probably died the day before.”
“On the eve of my show...” Flood looks towards the window. “Is it true what the papers are saying?”
“It’s too early to tell.”
“I saw her that day.”
“Oh?”
“She was fine – she seemed fine.”
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
Flood moves across the room and retrieves a Bible from the back of the hairdryer drawer.
“Oh, Jack – don’t do that, not now.”
“How else do you suggest I get through this?”
“Come back to London, come and stay with me for a while.”
Flood sits back down carefully placing the Bible on his lap, dark curls half-cover his face.
“Let me take you for breakfast.”
“I can’t eat anything, not now.” Flood opens the Bible to reveal a hollowed-out cavity.
Marcus stands up. “I’m going to leave now.”
Flood carefully removes a small plastic wrap from the hollowed-out book.
Marcus shakes his head. “You’ll be okay?”
Flood doesn’t reply. And Marcus shakes his head and lets himself out.
Again, there’s a knock at the door.
“Is that you, Marcus?” Flood closes the Bible and puts it aside, then redirects the camera ensuring it will encompass the door.
Outside, stands a petite woman in a pink, tailored skirt-suit with blonde waist-length hair and stilettos.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“I am Tatiana.”
“You’ve got the wrong room.” He goes to close the door but the woman reaches out to stop him.
“This is suite 12?” she says.
“There must be some mistake.”
“You book me online, no mistake.”
“I can’t see a tall Russian blonde with flawless skin.”
“You booked me. I know – photographic memory.” She taps the side of her head with a perfect pink nail.
“You’re about five four at a push, yellow hair – I’ll give you that, but you’re orange. Fake tan does nothing for me, sweetheart.”
“You saw my picture online, you know what to expect.”
“Look, putting the Trade Descriptions Act aside, now is not a good time.”
“You want – I come back in little while?”
“It’s inappropriate right now.”
“I come all this way. You pay my taxi?”
“I thought I already had. You’re all the same, here, take that and lose the tan – we may have a future then.” The woman snatches the cash and deposits it in her slim Chanel clutch bag.
Flood shuts the door and then immediately
reopens it. “Hold on a moment.”
The woman pauses and turns around, and Flood says, “I want a closer look.”
Maciek’s cab, after dark: the car is stationary in a built-up area. Flood must be filming from the backseat, as he’s not visible and yet his voice is audible. “The work is by Douglas Meek. He made two identical pieces – Catch Me If You Can I and II. The first was displayed in an exhibition and allowed to melt as Meek had intended. Nicholas Drake bought the second one and he insisted the gallery deliver it frozen to his home so he could enjoy the melting experience in private. Only he didn’t do that, he’s had a special freezer installed to house the piece.”
Maciek frowns. “In Poland we have many power cuts. He could go away for a day, come back and find only water.”
Flood laughs. “That’s like the urban myth about Saatchi’s blood head.”
“What is blood head?”
“It’s a piece by Marc Quinn. It’s actually called Self. Basically, it’s a cast of the artist’s head filled with his own blood. There was a rumour that Saatchi had it stored in a freezer at home that got switched off by builders who were refurbishing a kitchen for his wife. But it wasn’t true. He sold it to America for a decent profit. I hate to admit it, but Drake’s on to something.”
“And he will buy your work?”
“He’s making the right noises, let’s put it that way.”
“What is this man who can spend so much on ice?”
Flood snorts. “He’s a vulgarian.”
“You do not have respect for him?”
“These collectors are all the same. They buy to feel alive – to terrorise themselves. They long to feel like their lives are volatile when they are not.”
The camera focuses in on a man across the street as he doubles up and vomits by the wheel of a parked car. Maciek tuts. “What is the matter with your people?”
“There’s no poetry in their lives,” Flood says. “It’s all so disappointing.”