Dead Girl Walking

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘So what was she like as a child? Was she precocious? Withdrawn? Huffy?’

  ‘Robust,’ Flora replied. ‘On the outside, at least. She was sensitive, but she didn’t like anyone to know. She preferred to put on a brave face than have anybody notice she wasn’t indestructible.’

  He was surprised by her candour. She really wasn’t kidding about never having talked to a journalist before. Parlabane’s phone buzzed on the bench beside him. He saw the name ‘Jenny Dalziel’ flash on the screen. He’d have to call her back. This woman was opening up to him and he couldn’t let an interruption break the spell.

  ‘Do you think that came from not having a mother around?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Heike never likes to lean on anybody: it’s both a sign of strength and a sign of vulnerability. She doesn’t like the idea of being dependent on anyone, and that definitely comes from the way she was raised. She likes to gives the impression she doesn’t need anybody else, but anyone who has known Heike or even just paid attention to her songs would know that she’s been looking for her mother all her life. I mean, that’s hardly a scoop for you, is it?’

  ‘And do you think she looked for her mother in you?’

  Flora glanced out to sea for a moment, a wistful mixture of regret and affection in her face.

  ‘Part of her may have, but I’m not sure she’d allow herself to find her. For the reasons I’ve just mentioned, she doesn’t like anybody getting too close. I’m there for her, she knows that, but she still puts on the brave face even for me. I think that’s why she’s comfortable with the adulation of crowds, which would have other people scurrying for cover: me in particular. It’s anonymous and impersonal, and she doesn’t have to expose her real self to them.’

  She picked up a length of tape and began wrapping it around the frayed end of a rope, goose-pimples on her arm as the breeze caught her skin.

  ‘You worry about her being in the public eye, don’t you?’ he suggested. ‘Everybody wanting a piece.’

  ‘I think that’s what the kids call “first-world problems”, but sure. I mean, I don’t worry about whether she can handle it. I worry about the cost to herself of handling it: of never letting the cracks show.’

  His phone buzzed again, this time with a text. Jenny’s words scrolled across the screen: ‘Call me ASAP. Beyond urgent.’

  Shit.

  He apologised to Flora and walked towards the prow of the boat as the phone auto-dialled.

  Jenny picked up after one ring.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m on Islay. Looking for Ms Gunn.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to find her there. According to the Border Agency, she never came back to the UK. But I was kinda hoping you were gonna say you’re somewhere further than that.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘You didn’t get this from me, Scoop, but they’re turning up the gas on Westercruik. I just heard from a strong source that the Met have sought a warrant for your arrest.’

  Merchandise

  I had one of those hangovers where you kind of see yourself from the outside, and it’s really not pretty. We were in Bordeaux, with the bus for Barcelona leaving in about half an hour. I needed some air. I needed some coffee too, but I couldn’t face the breakfast room. All it would take was the sight of a plate of someone else’s food and I might spew.

  All things considered, it probably wasn’t the best time to take a call from Keith.

  I had last spoken to him on the bus to Dover, the morning after Brixton. It had felt great to talk to him then, just to hear his voice. Part of me wanted to bail and run away, back to him, back to Shetland, back to normality. We talked like we hadn’t done the whole UK tour, like two people who were really missing one another. He even hinted he might fly out to meet me on one of the European dates. I suggested a few destinations.

  ‘Maybe I’ll surprise you,’ he said.

  I knew he wouldn’t, but that didn’t matter so much: it made me feel closer just to hear him talk about it. Keith never did anything spontaneous. Okay, strictly speaking he had once, but the circumstances weren’t something either of us liked to dwell on, and I wasn’t sure if the definition of spontaneity stretched to things done during a massive loss of temper.

  I think we both knew he wouldn’t fly out, and he definitely wouldn’t surprise me, but it was progress that we could have a bit of fun talking about it.

  We had shared less of a cosy chat as I stood outside the hotel in Bordeaux.

  His tone was off from the start: even the way he said ‘Hi’ told me he was feeling huffy.

  ‘I was starting to think you’d lost your phone,’ he said. ‘You haven’t called for days, and whenever I call you I get diverted to voicemail. Do you even switch the thing on?’

  I wasn’t in the best mood to be moaned at.

  ‘Of course it’s on: it’s just I can’t hear it while I’m doing a soundcheck or a show.’

  ‘Yes, you told me, which is why it would make sense for you to be the one calling me now and again.’

  ‘You don’t like me phoning you at work. You’ve told me enough times you’re not supposed to take personal calls.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s wrong with first thing, before I go in? Or lunchtime?’

  ‘First thing? What, you mean like eight o’clock? I’m not on a school trip over here. I can’t remember what eight o’clock looks like.’

  ‘You’re too busy living it up with that band to make time for a phone call?’

  That band.

  ‘Christ, Keith, don’t act like a wean. It’s not always easy, that’s all I’m saying. It doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you.’

  Except that I mostly wasn’t.

  ‘It’s not easy for me either, wondering where you are and whether you’re okay.’

  ‘Well, you can always come out and see for yourself how I’m doing. Did you look into getting flights yet?’

  I knew he hadn’t. Part of me hated myself for using this against him, as by making it a big deal, it seemed even less likely he would do it.

  ‘I’m having to stay on top of a lot of things at work. There’s opportunities I have to make the most of right now because they won’t come round again. I’m trying to lay down the foundations for a solid career, Monica.’

  ‘And what do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘I’m not sure you even know yourself.’

  Yeah, cheers, Keith. Thanks for that. Self-doubt always goes really well with a stinking hangover, and this was the worst of what was fast becoming quite a collection. Every morning I told myself I’d stay on the soft stuff tonight, that I couldn’t be hammering it after every show, especially with the schedule that was rolling out in front of us, and every night I decided: What the hell, I’m twenty-two and if this all falls apart I don’t want to look back and think I didn’t live while I had the chance.

  Actually, I could have had an even more brutal hangover after Brixton. It should have been truly horrific, given how much neat whisky I drank, but it didn’t work out like that. Sure, I felt a bit fragile on the bus to Dover, but the headache and the quease were weirdly anaesthetised by knowing just how much worse I might have felt.

  I woke up in my own room, with little recollection of having got there from Heike’s, and before the first sign of après-whisky could strike I was overwhelmed by this vast sense of relief at what hadn’t happened. Between the overcharged emotions in that room and the malt, there was plenty to explain what did happen, and it was easy to imagine how I would have been feeling if things continued along that path. It wouldn’t have been a hangover, it would have been an emotional holocaust.

  Heike and I were okay after London. I think we both knew we couldn’t pretend nothing had happened, but we also knew it didn’t have to mean anything. Or at least it didn’t have to mean everything. We were closer, I felt.

  The French morning sun sent me limping for the shade, and I abandoned my thoughts of a walk around the block. I settle
d for sitting on the edge of a planter and sipping mineral water. The bus was in the car park and the driver had the engine running, but I wasn’t cooping myself up in there until the last possible moment.

  I looked around for Heike, which was when I realised that, on top of everything, I had slept in. I was supposed to have left two hours ago.

  Shit.

  Heike wouldn’t be travelling with us that morning. She had gone on ahead by train to do an interview for Spanish TV. It had been a late change to the schedule, Jan only springing it on her yesterday evening, and he had asked if I wanted to go along to keep her company. It had sounded good at six o’clock yesterday evening, not so much twelve hours later when my alarm went off.

  Oh well. She had ended up travelling alone after all, but at least going by rail she wouldn’t have to spend another six hours on the bus. Whereas we’d be relying on the faulty air-con to save us all from heat exhaustion and death by fart poisoning.

  And just what you need when you’re feeling and looking as bad as I was is for a gaggle of sprightly and attractive girls to rock up and join your tour party.

  They climbed out of two taxis in the car park, seven of them in matching T-shirts and hot pants, and queued up to collect matching rucksacks from the boots of the two vehicles. They looked made-up and manicured within an inch of their lives. Not a brain cell between them, I thought to myself in my admittedly grouchy, hungover condition. At first I assumed they were part of some kind of marketing or publicity operation, headed for the hotel, until I noticed Jan get out of the second taxi and pay both drivers. That was also when I noticed that the matching T-shirts all had the Savage Earth Heart logo.

  ‘The hell is this?’ Damien asked, bleary-eyed as he stepped from the lobby, chewing on a croissant. ‘Are we on a reality show now?’

  ‘Shh,’ said Rory next to him, staring in disbelief. ‘Don’t make too much noise or you’ll wake me up. I’m having this dream that seven porny-looking burds are getting onto our tour bus.’

  Jan wandered over to where we were all stood in the shade, our bags at our feet.

  ‘Everybody ready to hit the road?’ he asked, like all the other stuff wasn’t happening, and let’s all pretend we see nothing please kthxbai.

  ‘Ehm, what the hell?’ I asked, as Heike wasn’t here to do it.

  Jan laughed self-consciously.

  ‘Crazy rock ’n’ roll, huh? These are the merchandising girls on the Serpent tour. It starts tonight in Barcelona, and as it is also being promoted by Bad Candy I’ve been asked to give them a lift.’

  Jan over-enunciated when he was feeling uncomfortable, like he was playing the dumb foreigner: English is my second language, please don’t give me a hard time.

  ‘That’s Serpent’s merch team?’ Damien asked. ‘I’m in the wrong band.’

  ‘Serpent are a big deal,’ Jan said apologetically, not realising Damien wasn’t serious. ‘They are playing the Palau Sant Jordi: all arena venues.’

  ‘So why are they all wearing Savage Earth Heart T-shirts?’ I asked.

  Jan shrugged.

  ‘Kind of a favour for a favour. A lot of people will be looking at those T-shirts at the Palau, you know?’

  I started to wonder how convenient it was that Heike wasn’t here to witness this, but it wasn’t my place to make a fuss. Plus I wasn’t exactly feeling up for a fight. I just wanted to curl up and go back to sleep, but I’d settle for getting to Barcelona without being sick.

  The new arrivals all piled on board and sat together towards the front. I got a closer look as I shuffled along the aisle, feeling self-conscious about keeping my shades on, but knowing I’d feel worse if they could see what I looked like without them. I felt really hacket.

  At first I thought they looked early twenties, but seeing past the make-up I realised that was stretching it. More like late teens, the lot of them. They didn’t say much, not even to each other: maybe they had been touring together even longer than us. They didn’t look French or Spanish. I’d have said Eastern European, maybe Romanian or Bulgarian. I wondered how they’d ended up doing promotion work for a Scandinavian metal band on tour.

  I did get off to sleep on the bus, but was woken when it got pulled over past Puigcerda on the Spanish side of the border. I had a horrible moment when I thought I’d lost my passport, before finding it under my bag on the seat, where it had fallen as I moved my book, laptop, purse and phone out of the way to look for it.

  We all had to get off while the police checked our documents. I noticed that Jan had a thick stack of passports, which he handed over while waving towards the merchandise girls. I didn’t understand the Spanish he spoke to the cops, but he seemed cheery and relaxed. None of this was new to him. Or to the others, it turned out.

  ‘The whole open borders thing doesn’t really apply quite so much when you’re in a band,’ Damien explained, eyeing the two sniffer dogs that were so far being kept back on a leash. ‘It’s not so much random checks as a wee bonus if we cross a border and don’t get stopped.’

  ‘Maybe they think we’re the mules for Serpent’s stash,’ suggested Scott. He was kidding, but his joke did make me worry where Dean was keeping his.

  In the event, they gave us the all-clear and waved us on our way without the dogs getting involved.

  ‘I think that was just to let us know they’re watching,’ Scott said.

  I saw Jan standing by the door, collecting passports from our seven guests as they filed silently back on board.

  Definitely, I thought. But watching what?

  Holidays in the Sun

  Parlabane stood looking out for Mairi in front of the Brandenburg Gate. She was running late, but at least he didn’t need to worry that he was waiting for her in the wrong place. It wasn’t as though there was another one just like it.

  He gazed up at the quadriga and found it both beautiful and intimidating: a bit like Heike Gunn, to be honest. The goddess thundering forward on her chariot unavoidably brought to mind that image on the cover of Tatler.

  She was Victoria, goddess of Victory, but was also interpreted to be Eirene, goddess of peace. Conquest and affirmation; contrition and reconciliation. These were the two sides to Heike’s songs: the combative and crusading, ever ready to fight someone else’s battles; and the gently ameliorative, seeking tender connection and offering a balm to emotional wounds. Which side, he wondered, had led her to become lost?

  ‘Jack.’

  He heard her voice and turned to see that Mairi had crept up behind him. She had flown in from London, he from Glasgow. She got in first, and had already headed out by the time he checked in to their hotel, so she’d texted him to meet up here.

  She was carrying a Starbucks coffee, purchased from a place nearby on Unter den Linden.

  Parlabane couldn’t recall when he last bought one. Even after they had generously ‘volunteered’ to pay some tax, he had thought: No, fuck you for ever. And yet the sight of Mairi was a timely reminder that any such principled stance would always be an exercise in farting into thunder while the majority of folk remained blithely disengaged.

  Mairi had a pair of sunglasses on top of her head, and was dressed in linen trousers and a grey T-shirt that could easily have been a nondescript combo on most other women, but on her looked like it cost more than Parlabane’s entire wardrobe. While his thoughts were turning to where he could get something cold down his neck, the coffee she was toting just seemed to further underline her natural cool.

  He had come on foot, eschewing a taxi in order to get his bearings and establish a feel for the place. The hotel was on Tiergartenstrasse in the diplomatic quarter, all embassies and electronic security gates. It had inevitably turned his thoughts to Sir Anthony Mead and that honeytrap laptop, but he could put all that to the back of his mind for now. He wasn’t sure how soon the Met were likely to be granted their warrant, but he’d left the country within only a few hours of speaking to Jenny.

  Mairi stared at the jacket he had slung over his s
houlder, an unnecessarily heavy-duty affair. Indeed, any jacket was a garment too far on a day like this.

  ‘Yeah,’ he confessed bashfully. ‘For some reason, I thought it would be chilly.’

  ‘It’s June, Jack.’

  ‘Too many Cold War movies, I guess. I need it to keep my stuff in, though.’

  ‘Get yourself a man-bag.’

  ‘I have my dignity.’

  She looked him up and down, her verdict on his appearance indicating she was unconvinced by this last claim.

  They made their way through the crowds of tour parties and proprietorially noisy gaggles of American teenagers, heading for the venue where Savage Earth Heart had failed to play the final night of their tour. It was a place called simply Palast, a two-thousand-capacity converted cinema just off Friedrichstrasse. The plan was to get talking to the venue staff and develop an objective version of events prior to Heike’s disappearance. Parlabane wanted to hear about the show that did go ahead, as well as some first-hand accounts of the behaviour of both band and crew in the lead-up to Jan’s announcement that the singer had a throat infection.

  The place was shut. There was no show scheduled for that night, and no amount of ringing the doorbell or phoning the management office roused a response. They’d have to come back the next day.

  ‘Let’s got to the Brauereihallen,’ Mairi suggested.

  ‘I know almost no German, but that sounds enough like brewery hall as to strike me as a great idea.’

  ‘It’s where we made the video for “Zoo Child” – that’s the next single. I came over for the shoot. Heike chose it because they played there on the last tour. I came over for that too. It’s a big multi-use venue, different size halls for gigs and for clubs, chill-out spaces, decent food. I remember Heike was very keen on one of the bars: we’d hung out there before. We were there well into the night.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t managing them on the last tour.’

  ‘I wasn’t. But I knew what was in the wind and didn’t think it would hurt my chances if I “just happened” to be in town towards the end of what I knew to have been a very trying period.’