The Vanity Game

by H. J. Hampson

  He hangs up before I can ask a single one of the millions of questions that are flickering through the static.

  SEVENTEEN

  Me and Nicholas step outside the police station and are met by a wall of cameras, flashes everywhere, microphones being thrust forward.

  "Oi, Beaumont!"

  "Hey fucker!"

  "You're guilty, right?"

  "Murderer..."

  But it all just flies over my head. Krystal, back? How the fuck could this be? I must be looking like a complete twat right now, standing here in front of all these cameras, but just staring ahead, beyond them at the wall of the police station car park.

  I'm aware of Nicholas standing next to me, slightly in front, raising his hand and the rabble quietening down. "My client … police ineptitude ...clear his name … reunited … Krystal."

  This can't be a dream. I can feel raindrops on my face. I can smell the coffee and nicotine and grease that's coming off the pack of paparazzi. I can feel Nicholas' briefcase knocking against my leg. But she's dead, killed with that knife that's in that plastic bag, this must all be a mistake.

  We fight through the rabble of press, who've started shouting and jostling again, and into a waiting car. The bastards press themselves against the windows, camera lenses against the glass. I'm a zombie, the walking dead. Nothing makes any sense and I'm too fucked to figure it out. I want to go home and curl up in my bed, under the goose-down duvet, but I know I've got to see Serge.

  As the car pulls out of the police station car park, leaving the paps in its wake I turn to Nicholas but before I can speak he shrugs his shoulders.

  "No facking idea either," he says. "Perhaps you should tell me at some point what you know about that knife business et cetera."

  I don't answer him, and can't remember what I was going to ask him. That knife business, I don't know nothing about it, mate. I lean back and close my eyes. The driver's got the radio on really low, but I can just make out the music – it's ‘You Wear it Well’ by Rod Stewart, one of my mum's favourite songs. It wants to trigger some memory or other in my head, something deep within my childhood, but my mind won't give anything up except the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap aftershave. That means it must be my dad in there somewhere. Shame, would have been nice to remember.

  But the song finishes and the news comes on. A male reporter: "It's seven o'clock and this evening's headlines… Krystal McQueen makes a shock return as her boyfriend, Beaumont Alexander, is arrested and then released on suspicion of her murder."

  A female reporter's voice comes on: "Krystal disappeared five days ago and her boyfriend, the soccer ace Beaumont Alexander was arrested on suspicion of murder in the early hours of this morning. Police were seen searching his Essex mansion and a black Land Rover allegedly belonging to the star was found burnt out on waste ground in Hackney, East London. But we've just discovered that Ms McQueen, who is rumoured to have suffered some kind of breakdown, has turned up at the offices of a national newspaper with her agent. Exactly where she has been is unclear but it's reported that she is in good health and good spirits. The couple are due to be reunited live on The Toby Silver Show tonight.

  "Beaumont has just left Paddington Green police station looking exhausted and dishevelled. His lawyer, Nicholas Feers-Simpson, told reporters Beaumont was looking forward to being reunited with his girlfriend…" Nicholas' voice came on straining against a noisy background.

  "Stay tuned for more news on this increasingly bizarre story…"

  There's no way she can be back. No way. I killed her myself, I sat and watched the blood run out of her and watched the body sink into the Thames. Or did I? Maybe it was all just a dream.

  EIGHTEEN

  "So I dunno what's bleeding going on," Serge says as he follows me into his office and I collapse into the deep, soft sofa on which I've sat hundreds of times before but have never been as grateful for as I am now. He sits, as usual, on the swivel chair behind his desk.

  "I get this call at about 9am from this guy, Dean McCormack, claiming he's Krystal McQueen's agent… I was like 'what's this geezer playin' at?'

  "Anyway, he says Krystal has returned from her wilderness, of whatever he called it, and is on her way to The Sun's office…well he's in a car, I can tell that much, and she's gonna do this big interview and he wants to know whether you've been released yet, and this and that … and then Beaumont, Jesus, he puts her on the phone.

  He looks at me and shakes his head.

  "So this bird comes on, saying 'Hey Serge, I can't believe Monty's been arrested... blah blah blah…'"

  He tries to mimic Krystal's slightly less Cockney accent.

  "And it sounds pretty much like her, but obviously, well it ain't her. I don't know who the fuck she is ... or who these people are. But they want you to go to the Channel 6 studios at 8:30pm for the live re-union on The Toby Silver Show. You gotta do it, Beaumont, there's fuck all else for it."

  I'm trying to take all this in but the words just swirl around my head and none of it makes much sense at all.

  "But how can...? Why is, like, some chick pretending to be Krystal?"

  "Fuck knows," he says, and throws his arms up and then brings his hands together under his chin as if he's praying. Neither of us says anything for about a minute and I can feel myself drifting off to sleep again. My brain is shutting down, it can't deal with this impossible information.

  "Look, whatever the fuck is going on, it's got you off the hook. The police are buying it, the press are buying it. Maybe it's divine intervention," Serge says eventually.

  "What, you mean like something to do with God?"

  "Yeah, well not literally. Ah, fuck it Beaumont, I don't know what the hell it is."

  He offers me a large whisky but all I can stomach is a strong, black coffee and a couple of Xanax tablets.

  "Serge," I say after taking a couple of sips of the coffee, "she was definitely dead wasn't she?"

  He sighs. "Of course she fucking was, deader than my bleeding grandma, and anyway, if she wasn't, if by some miracle she's crawled back out of the Thames, you really think, after what you'd done to her, she'd wanna go straight on The Toby Silver Show for a romantic reunion?"

  I shake my head. Of course, Serge is right.

  "Yeah, she'd definitely have wanted to go on Jonathan Ross, rather than that arsehole Toby Silver's show."

  Serge gives me this funny look. "Deader than my bleeding dear old grandma…" he mutters again.

  The phone starts ringing, the sudden noise making me almost spill my coffee and Serge shoots this 'who the fuck' look at me before he answers. I close my eyes and listen to Serge's half of the conversation. He keeps saying 'I don't know mate', 'I know as much as you', like it's a friendly journo or someone.

  "That was Michael," he says after hanging up. Michael! I'd blanked out the scene in the bar last night (was it really last night?) and how he said he was in love with her. Seems kind of funny now.

  "He's upset, miffed at why she's sacked him. Wonders what the hell's going on… Don't we all?"

  I shrug. Who gives a shit about Michael when my ex-girlfriend has just come back from the dead? Then I think: is she actually my ex-girlfriend, or are we still going out?

  Serge is right: there's nothing for it, I have to go to the TV station and meet this woman claiming to be Krystal. I mean, what can happen that would be worse than being arrested again, being questioned and facing a life in prison?

  "Oh and by the way, you won today. Three nil. Nico scored a hat-trick."

  I nod and I don't feel jealous or happy, just nostalgic for the simplicity of kicking a ball around a field.

  NINETEEN

  The studio girl opens the door to the Green Room and motions us inside. I've knocked back so many tablets that it feels like I'm floating. Everything is slightly blurred around the edges. Soft focus. But I'm glad of the cushion.

  It's dark in the Green Room, it's lit only by a few dim lights in the corners.

  S
he's sitting on a couch in the centre. Blonde hair let down and wavy, a halter-neck pink top, black skirt. It's her, but then…

  There's a guy sitting next to her, shaved head, ear-ring, looks like a thug. A whistling noise fills my head as I step forward. It is her. But, no, how can it be? But it looks just like her. She stands up, the guy doesn't, and she steps towards me, holding out her hands. The manicured nails, oh God, the Chinese symbol tattoo on her wrist.

  And I'm just standing there, motionless. She's holding out her arms and smiling. Wearing that pink shade of lipstick she always does. No blood, anywhere. This is the weirdest fucking thing ever, guaranteed.

  "Fucking hell," Serge says under his breath, he's just behind me.

  "Hi Beaumont," she says, white teeth glowing in the darkness. That soft, slightly husky voice.

  "Go to her," Serge whispers so I move forward, shaking, my arms slowly opening too. We hug, the scent of Chanel No. 5 choking me. I feel her fragile body against me – so she's not a ghost then. Then we pull away from each other and I look into her ocean-blue eyes, they give nothing away.

  "You … came … back?" I stutter.

  She smiles at me, a really creepy smile. "Yes, Beaumont, I came back."

  "But you…" I trail off. It's too weird. I see the body, stiff and cold, lying face down on the roll of carpet before we wrapped it up. The sound it made as it hit the water. Serge was there too. This must be a dream. I'll wake up in the police cell, Dante breathing down my neck.

  I'm aware of other people in the room, members of The Toby Silver Show crew standing near the doorway watching us, like we're rare animals in a zoo just about to mate. The thuggish guy on the sofa just stares at me. I don't like him. Where's Michael, the nice Jewish boy? She's sacked him, of course...

  The studio lights are dazzling, the crowd invisible behind the glare, but their whoops and cheers suggest there is a lot of them. As we make our way to the sofa, Toby Silver stands up grinning at us. He shakes my hand and kisses her, Krystal. There are beads of sweat on his leathery, orange face. She's smiling into the nothingness beyond the lights and nodding slowly, lost in the moment. Under the strong glare her whole face is illuminated and I can see every feature clearly. Something is different, I can't place it. Is it an extra millimetre on the fullness of her lips, or the shape of her eyes or the profile of her chin? Or am I just imagining it? I'm sweating but inside the tablets have created an icy numbness. I think they've flooded my nervous system and I can't tell any more if I'm feeling nervous or excited.

  Finally the crowd quietens and Toby Silver starts to speak. As I watch him he divides, and then there's two of him, floating in front of me then merging back into one. I can't hear what he's saying. It's hot but it's cold. I'm going to throw up, I've got to get out of here, quickly, quickly…

  "Beaumont…" Toby is saying, the look on his face…

  "Beaumont…" she says, the voice from the grave….

  "Beaumont…."

  There's something cold on my forehead. I open my eyes and find myself staring back into some huge brown eyes. Short brown hair, kind of tomboyish, wearing what looks like a pair of earphones…she's cute, but what is she? An angel? A doctor? I'm lying down and I'm aware of a number of other people standing around me and something large and red to my right hand side. The sofa of The Toby Silver Show… I'm still in the TV studio, but the lights are dim now. I try to sit up, and then her face appears above me, the blonde hair hanging down and brushing my cheek.

  "Beaumont, darling, are you okay? You fainted."

  She takes my hand, and kneels down beside me. The smell of Chanel No. 5. Our eyes meet, which makes me shiver. No sign of a grudge. No indication she holds it against me.

  I can hear Serge's voice, he's talking to someone beyond the sofa, telling them: "Fucking hell, can't you see the boy's in no fit state to carry on the interview."

  PART TWO

  Reunited and even more in love

  We're delighted to bring you an exclusive interview with Beaumont Alexander and Krystal McQueen on the tropical island paradise of St Lucia.

  The couple are spending a few weeks relaxing in their luxurious new villa – a well deserved break after an exhausting summer which has seen Krystal make a courageous recovery from her well-publicised nervous breakdown.

  The world was shocked to learn of Krystal's disappearance back in July. In an exclusive interview in this magazine she said: "I just needed time out to clear my head", and talked about how she had been driven to despair by the relentless attention from the tabloid press.

  Now she's a picture of health and is concentrating on re-establishing herself as a musician. Her latest single, the moving and autobiographical 'Back in Your Arms' topped the charts for a week back in August.

  We asked the couple if their relationship had changed after their emotional re-union?

  "Yes – now we're stronger than ever." Beaumont says. "When Krystal went missing my world fell apart and it made me realise how much I loved her. Our re-union on The Toby Silver Show was one of the happiest moments of my life – as everyone saw, I was overcome with emotion."

  TWENTY

  The pictures make me want to vomit. The fake smiles, the forced poses. That week in the Caribbean was a total nightmare. Stuck with her and her entourage on that boring little island. All the long silences, the heat, that late-night incident with the drug dealers, paparazzi everywhere. It was definitely in the top ten worst weeks of my life, but saying that, these days there are a lot of contenders. It's been three months now I've had to put up with her and him and I'm just about through with it.

  After my totally shameful fainting episode on The Toby Silver Show we were taken back to the house and left alone. I was in a bad state, so exhausted after the whole arrest thing and pretty wired on all the pills I'd taken. She led me upstairs to the bedroom and before I knew what was happening we were making out.

  I knew all along that something was different but I was so knackered I wanted to believe that maybe she really was back and all that bad, crazy stuff – the blood on the kitchen floor, the body wrapped in carpet, the knife – was all just a dream.

  I just couldn't bring myself to ask her what the hell was going on and she was a good actress, no lie, but as the days went on, it was the little things that let her down – like the messiness and the cluelessness about the alignment of good and productive forces. I've got to admit I've started to miss the real Krystal's obsessions with all that hippy mumbo-jumbo shit. In fact, I miss her a lot. She was so innocent in a lot of ways – like the way she'd do anything for fame and a bit of respect.

  Of course now the fame and respect are no longer issues. Brand Beaumont and Krystal has blown up, big style. After she 'came back' the offers came flooding in: TV appearances, magazine interviews, product endorsements, modelling contracts, you name it. Now not only am I the face of Franco Visconti Jeans, but also fronting two sports clothing labels, an energy sports drink, a chain of boutique gyms, a designer watch company, and a hair gel product. There's the Beaumont and Krystal his'n'hers fragrance range and we've even got our own internet dating site, which is fucking ironic because there is zero romance in this relationship.

  Her pop career has finally taken off, she's launched her own range of knickers and modelled for numerous brands. It made me sad and angry to see 'her' on the cover of Vogue, the all-time biggest dream of the real Krystal.

  So, yeah, now we're more famous and richer than we were before. In the public eye, the 'blip' of Krystal's disappearance has been accepted as some kind of nervous breakdown which came and went, and is now forgotten. In the paparazzi shots and fashion adverts and the pop videos she looks just the same as ever – maybe just a little less blonde and a tiny bit more curvy.

  As for me, I've made a 'triumphant' return to the team, and have even regained my past form. Everyone's talking about how I'm the best I've been for years. I can't stop scoring and that old feeling of pure ecstasy that I used to get when I saw the ball floating in
to the net has returned. The guys run up and hug me, pile on top of me, treat me like one of the lads again. For the first time in years I'm giving it everything, because it's all I have. It's become an escape. It's like I'm a kid again and when I'm playing football I can shut out everything else, so I play football and hang out with the team as much as I can. Of course when I was a kid it was Dad walking out and the school bullies and all that shit that I was trying to shut out, now it's a different kind of demon.

  I dread going home after training. Not because of her, 'The Fake'. To be fair we don't see that much of each other because of our schedules, and when we do, when she's on my arm at a celebrity party, or eating salads in front of the TV whilst watching the soap operas she hated before she was murdered, we don't say much. It's really because of him. Dean, the guy I saw in the green room of The Toby Silver Show. My number one enemy of all time, guaranteed.

  He calls himself The Fake's manager and fixes stuff up for her, saying things like: 'I've fixed you up an interview with Elle, doll,' in his thick Mancunian accent. But really he's just a thug. He's made my life a total misery. He's virtually moved in. They have one wing of the house, I have the other, but we share the kitchen and lounge. So I get in and he's sitting there, sprawling his lanky legs over my fucking sofa, calling me a 'twat', or a 'fucking poof', which I mostly just ignore. It's all I can do. I call him the Lanky Wanker to myself, and Serge, but I don't dare say this to his face. It's not like I'm a fucking chicken, it's just because I don't know what would happen if I did.