by Ben Elton
‘At the slightest hint of suspicion. Bugger embarrassment.’
‘Good. Most important that. At the slightest hint. Bugger embarrassment.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘And where is your pepper spray at this moment?’
In one quick and decisive movement Anna Leman reached into the breast pocket of her pyjamas and the Commander suddenly found himself facing the tiny nozzle of the illegal little can that he had procured for her. If ever it were discovered that he had removed one from the station he would almost certainly lose his job, but that was not an issue. He smiled at the girl standing on the stairs, legs apart, both arms outstretched, the can held in her hands like a movie cop’s Magnum. He half expected her to say ‘Freeze!’ Strange how young she seemed when discussing the subject of Tommy Hanson and how mature she seemed now. He knew that he was a very lucky man to have such a daughter.
‘Very good, darling.’
‘Aikido training, Dad. I’m a cat. In fact I’m a minx.’
‘D’you sleep with it in that pocket?’
‘Hardly, Dad, bit uncomfortable. Under the pillow with the rape alarm, but I move it into whatever I’m wearing, just like you said.’
‘Good girl. Oh, you’re such a good girl, and I’m so sorry, darling.’
‘Shut up, Dad.’
‘Goodnight.’ Commander Leman stepped up the stairs to embrace his daughter. As he reached out to her he suddenly found two fingers hovering inches from his face, a vicious polished fingernail pointing straight into each eyeball.
Anna smiled. ‘Do you know, Dad, I can push them all the way through an orange in a single thrust? If I decided to take a guy’s eyes out, by the time the bridge of his nose had stopped my thrust I’d be at least an inch and a half into his brain. Who needs a pepper spray? ‘Night.’
Anna Leman put her pepper spray back into her pocket, kissed her father and, hugging her Tommy Hanson merchandise, went to bed.
Central Criminal Court, Bangkok (Translation)
‘For too long the moral and cultural strength of this country has been drained and corrupted by the insatiable Western appetite for hard drugs. We will no longer tolerate the pernicious influence of the drug gangs who feed this market. I am aware, miss, that you are a tiny part of the problem, a small fish in a big pond. Nonetheless, the role you chose to play in this crime was a central one. Whether it was your first and only excursion as a drug courier is neither here nor there. You are nineteen years old, a grown woman. It is absurd to imagine that you did not know that what you were doing was wicked and criminal and wrong, and that the consequences should you be caught would be severe. As I am sure that the counsel whom this court has appointed to speak in your defence has explained, it is within my power to pronounce the death penalty upon you. However, in view of your age and apparent inexperience, I am minded to be lenient. You will serve thirty years in prison.’
‘What did he say? What did he say? Am I gowing home?’
THE BRIT AWARDS, DOCKLANDS ARENA
Well, ever so slightly weird, actually. He wanted to play around with the fruit a lot, so I had to be really careful about my dress. Christ, though, he had some excellent cocaine, like diamonds up the nose, I’m not kidding, the best…Unlike this champagne can you believe it? It might as well be fizzy bleach. Probably is, actually, takes the back off your neck. But anyway, as I was saying, Tommy’s totally losing it. I mean, what about him biffing you like that, Harry? Incredible. I think it’s because you said I was your girlfriend. He had a moral moment. But it was so obvious you were joking. Reality is no longer Tommy’s strong point, I think…but so incredibly good looking, though, you can see why he’s such a star. God, but I still can’t believe it. I’ve done it. Yes! I’ve shagged Tommy Hanson. I said I was going to and I bloody have…Oh my God, he’s won another one!’
‘This is for the fans! Because the fans are…Well, they’re the fans, in’t they? An’ at the end of the day, this award’s for them. The fans…So this is for you…The fans, because the fans are what this industry is all about, the fans are, and this is for them. Yeah! The fans! Yeah!’
A DROP-IN CENTRE, KING’S CROSS
Ma name’s Jessica. They call me Jessie. Yes Ah’m a prostitute, yes Ah’m a heroin addict. How did ye ever guess? Glasgow. Well, a little village near Glasgow, actually. Dumgoyne, it’s called, very nice, lots of hills, if you like hills, which Ah don’t, well, Ah didnae then, anyway. Ah miss ‘em now…No, Ah can’t give it up, not the smack or the game. Christ, you ought to know better than to ask that. How long have ye worked here? Ah’ve told you Ah’m an addict, Ah need the junk, Ah like it and whoring’s the only way Ah can get it. Besides, the fellah Ah work fur’s no very pleasant, if you get ma meaning. Ah imagine you meet a lot of girls in ma position…Don’t feel you have to talk to me, hen, Ah’m no’ after counselling and Ah’m no’ looking for a methadone programme, Ah’ve only come here for the free coffee and a bit of a warm, it’s effing freezing out if you hadn’t noticed and there’s me standing about in hotpants and a boob tube. No no, don’t get me wrong, Ah’m nae trying to get rid of yez. Ah don’t mind chatting if you don’t mind — Ah’m just saying Ah don’t need help, that’s all, or at least there’s nothing ye can do for me, which isn’t the same thing, Ah suppose…But Ah don’t mind chatting, telling you how badly Ah’ve screwed up ma life, confessing, Ah suppose…Ah used to go to confession when Ah was a wee girl — Ah was a good Catholic then — every week: forgive me, Father, Ah stole some sweeties, forgive me, Father, Ah put glue on my teacher’s chair, forgive me, Father, but Ah must be bad because ma stepfather says it’s ma fault what we dae together…Sorry, I’m rambling, Ah didnae mean to say that. Ah hate other people’s hard luck stories, it just came out. To tell you the truth, Ah’m still a bit wasted…’
Jessie’s eyes were far away, the pupils almost invisible. The volunteer worker offered her more coffee, but she seemed not to hear.
‘As long as Ah live nothin’ will ever feel as good as the first time that Ah took heroin. On the other hand, back then when Ah took it nothing had ever felt worse than being’ me. When Francois stuck that needle in ma arm Ah stopped hurting. Instantly years and years of pain and fear disappeared. Everything that had happened to me at home and on the streets went away. The months I spent freezing to death around Charing Cross, the fear, the cold, the hunger, the never-ending loneliness of living like a rat among rats was all ancient history. Ah laid back and truly believed Ah was in heaven. Then of course Ah woke up in hell. Ah can’t believe it was only three months ago. Ah think Ah’ve used up most of the rest of my life since then.’
THE PAGET HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON
When Peter arrived home shortly after 2 a.m. he brought the early editions of the morning papers with him. Angela was in bed but still awake and they devoured the coverage of the Brits together. ‘It’s amazing,’ Angela said. ‘You’re in every single one.’ Inevitably most of the reportage concerned Tommy and his antics, but Peter was definitely prominent amongst the lesser figures.
‘Well, it’s not every humble backbencher who gets hugged by an ex-Spice Girl.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Emma Bunton?’
‘Of course.’
‘Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.’
‘I can see that, Peter. What’s she like?’
‘So sweet. I mean genuinely nice, not remotely starry. I must write and thank her. Let’s face it, it’s her that’s got me all these photos.’
‘Well, she does look lovely.’
‘But the great thing is all the articles mention my bill and my having seen Tommy Hanson to talk about it. I was worried that they’d spin the Brits against me. If there’s one thing the press hate it’s politicians trying to look cool.’
‘Yes, but drugs is such a youth issue.’
‘Exactly, and I’m making the PM uncomfortable, which the press always like. I really do seem to have caught the public mood or at least the mood of the younger gene
ration. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, they’ve asked me to go on Newsnight as well as Question Time.’
‘Well, so you damn well should. It’s so obvious you’re right. You’re the only politician talking any sense on the issue at all. I mean, look at Prohibition in the States: total failure. All it did was invent Al Capone. There’s no point banning things people want, because they’ll get them anyway.’
‘Exactly, an absolute no-brainer.’
‘You’re not going to use that phrase in public, are you?’
T certainly am. I got it from Samantha. It’s useful having somebody vaguely hip around.’
‘I thought you said she was a serious sort of a girl.’
‘She is, but you can be hip and serious as well, can’t you? Look at Dido.’
‘She’s very beautiful.’
‘Who? Dido?’
‘Samantha.’
‘Not my type.’ He wondered how well he’d played it. Probably a little too quickly. ‘Anyway, youth is always attractive. She’ll be a grim-faced, twenty-stone junior minister in fifteen years’ time.’ Too much, way too much. First rule of politics: when you are in a hole, stop digging.
‘I’ll have to be up early tomorrow. I’m going to King’s Cross. They’re showing me round a drop-in centre they have there, then I’m having lunch with the Party Chairman. I think they’re beginning to realize that I’m not going to back off and that I may be on to something.’
‘D’you still think there’s any danger of their withdrawing the whip? Chucking you out, even?’
‘I doubt it, but it’s possible. My line is that this has to be a conscience issue and that the government and the party should allow a free vote. The Chairman’s line, of course, is that I’m a dangerous, crazy drug-pusher, which actually I don’t mind at all. Churchill was a maverick. You have to be a stirrer if you want to get on.’
‘Oh, so suddenly you’re Churchill already?’
Peter Paget got into bed beside his wife. It was two thirty. Knowing that Angela would be awake, he had taken the Viagra while driving home. One hour. Perfect, better get a move on. Even before Peter had begun his affair with Samantha he had been finding it increasingly difficult to maintain an acceptable level of sexual activity with his wife. Since Samantha had begun to satisfy him so regularly it had become nearly impossible. Viagra had saved him. He still found Angela attractive in a sort of a way, and the little blue pills gave him just enough edge to muster a performance. Once a week was quite enough, though, and, Brits or no Brits, tonight was the night.
THE PRIORY CLINIC
My name is Emily and I am a cocaine addict…’
Emily reviewed the circle of faces, a mixed group, of screw-ups. Druggies, alkies, eating disorders and even a sex addict — a compulsive masturbator to be precise. Emily knew one or two of them slightly — the supermodel and the American actress. Not, she was glad to note, the masturbator.
‘…So I’d got to where Tommy kicked me out of the cab, hadn’t I? I suppose I should be grateful to him. In fact I am grateful to him, because it wasn’t until I found myself sitting in the gutter on Brixton High Street that I realized how mightily I was ruining my life. Well, if I’m honest, the realization was not immediate. Brixton High Street wasn’t quite the road to Damascus, but it would eventually turn out to be the road to recovery of sorts. The road to here. Of course, as the lights turned green and Tommy’s limo pulled away I was absolutely transfixed with terror. I’m not going to lie to you and say it wasn’t about colour, because it was. I’ve met very few black people in my life, and when I have it’s been mainly abroad — servants and hotel staff in Africa and the Caribbean, you know the sort of thing. There were two black girls at my school. One was royalty and the other a president’s daughter. They seemed like nice enough girls, but I never really spoke to them, and I’m ashamed to confess that we called them the Coco Pops. They said they didn’t mind, that they thought it was funny, but I doubt they did. Anyway, there I was in the gutter, and suddenly almost every face I could see was either black or brown and there were plenty of them because, let’s face it, when a girl in a tiny little Gucci number falls out of a stretch limo and rolls into the gutter, flashing her G-string and shrieking obscenities, you’re going to stare, aren’t you? I had no money, no cards and no phone and that alone would be enough to make me feel utterly naked (which I practically was anyway), but on top of that I felt like I had been parachuted into an entirely alien land. I was suddenly in my own private chapter of Bonfire of the Vanities. I was terrified, absolutely shitting myself. Of course, the fact that my system was saturated with cocaine was not helping my state of mind. It makes you paranoid, you know. Well, I expect most of you know that.
Anyway, a few people, kids mainly, were sniggering and laughing, but mostly people seemed surprised. I don’t blame them. After all, I was the alien, not them. Anyway, I must have sat there for as long as a minute before a big man with dreadlocks leant down and reached out his hand to me, but instead of taking it I shouted at him not to touch me. He didn’t care, he just shrugged and walked away. Then there was a screech and a shout and a little bell ringing behind me, and I turned to see a bicycle courier, the chunky front wheel of his machine barely inches from my nose. He was one of those superb specimens that these guys always are, just a great streak of muscle in a Nike bodysuit, plus, blessed relief, he was white. Yes, I’m being honest. That was the thing that mattered to me most at that moment. Pathetic and terrible, I know.’
The supermodel nodded. She was generally considered to be one of the most spectacularly beautiful women on earth, but she had lost count of the magazine covers that had gone to white girls when by rights they should have been hers. Emily avoided her eye.
‘I looked at this young man all sheathed in shiny purple as if he had been sent to me by the League of Superheroes. ‘Please can you help me? I’ve lost my phone. I need a phone,’ I said, fluttering and pouting and generally turning it all on. ‘Get out of the fahkin’ way, you stupid fahkin’ cow,’ he replied. ‘This is a fahkin’ cycle lane, not a fahkin’ chill-out room.’ With that he stuck out a hand to stop the white van that was about to pass us and to the accompaniment of much hooting and shouting he rode around me.
‘Tears were coming now and then I heard this deep friendly voice. ‘You’d better get up, girl.’ It was the big man who’d first reached out his hand. He’d heard the commotion and turned back. ‘You’re blocking the road.’
‘I let him help me up and the little crowd that had begun to gather started to disperse. A few boys continued to gawp, but, let’s face it, I’d worn that tiny dress with the express purpose of making boys gawp, so I was hardly in a position to complain when they did. I asked the man if he knew where I could get a taxi and he smiled and pointed to three different minicab places within fifty metres, the ones with the orange flashing lights, the sort you go to at three in the morning in Soho, feeling rather brave, because there are no proper taxis.
‘ ‘Take your pick, girl, but make them tell you the price before you start.’
‘He laughed and then I laughed too. This wasn’t an alien nation at all, it was just five thirty in the afternoon on just another London high street. I wasn’t going to be raped or killed and there were three separate cab companies within a minute’s walk, any one of which would have been delighted to take me back over the river to where my money and my life lay waiting, any time I wanted.
‘But, you see, suddenly I didn’t want to, because just as quickly as the paranoia had engulfed me so did the euphoria. I’m sure some of you know the feeling.’
Emily avoided the masturbator’s eye.
‘I was still drunk. I was still coked up and E’d up and I was still a wild wild naughty little miss who got what she wanted, because boys love good-time girls. I’d even got Tommy Hanson, briefly, which is gold medal stuff amongst us wild wild naughty little girls, you know.
‘No, I wasn’t going home just yet. I’d set out for a big night and I intended
to have one. I was in Brixton, after all, and even though it was still only the afternoon various dub beats could be heard emanating from upstairs windows. This was real life. Tough, street, a little bit scary, but I was a wild naughty girl. Nothing fazed me.
‘ ‘Actually, I was wondering if I could trouble you for some ganja,’ I said.
‘He smiled again. ‘Where you keep your money, girl? Up your arse?’
‘It was a fair point. If I’d had any money, up my arse would have been just about the only place I could have concealed it.
‘ ‘Well, actually, I’m afraid I don’t have any money. I wasn’t trying to score, I just fancied a puff. Is that terribly rude of me?’
‘He just laughed and took my arm. As we walked together up the high street, many heads turned. It was obvious what people thought of this big rasta and the white tart who had put her arm through his, whore and pimp, had to be, and I loved it. Bad old Emily being bad again, with her long golden shiny legs the focus of a thousand eyes. Fuck Tommy, fuck the Brits. I was where the real people were, not all those rock industry fuckwits. Let’s face it, black people invented rock music, didn’t they?At least I think they did, and Elvis stole it, is that right? I know I’ve been told that. And here I was, hijacked on my way to some honkey lovey fest by a proper bro’, a homeboy. The house he lived in was pretty much like my brother’s rooms at Cambridge in as much as the curtains were drawn and there were lots of people lounging around on couches, cushions, the floor, etc. Very loud duf-duf music which could have come straight out of my bro’s collection was playing, and a thick fog of pot smoke stretched from the floor to the ceiling. In fact, now I come to think of it, the whole thing was an exact negative image of my bro’s place in that the set-ups were identical except that in his rooms everyone was white except for one black girl who was doing law and whom all the boys wanted to sleep with, and at my new friend’s place everybody was black except me and from the whistles and shouts I got when I walked in I would not have had any problem getting laid myself.