The Vanity Game

by H. J. Hampson

  "He's got this contact in the Met, who told him that the detective guy – Denton?"

  "Dante."

  "Yeah, him, that he was dead certain you killed her."

  At this point she stops and stares at me with wide-open, questioning eyes. I look down at the carpet and say nothing. She might want to confess all, but I ain't trading secrets with her.

  "So he comes up to me and he says, 'how do you fancy being a footballer's girlfriend?' He said he'd make me famous… Ha, it's so embarrassing now to think of it. He paid for me to get me hair done and all that, got me to talk in a Cockney accent, and before I knew it, I really did look and sound like her. God, when I met you that night at the TV station, I was so scared."

  She looks at me again, and I study her face. Actually, now she looks nothing like Krystal, but she is pretty, no lie. It's a fucking brazen stunt Dean pulled though.

  "Stella, these gangsters … whatever they're called ... do you think they'll come looking for Dean?"

  She looks at me again. She's screwing up a tissue in her hand.

  "Oh God, I'd not thought of that."

  "Were his friends – the fat guy and the skinny guy – part of it?"

  She laughs: "Keith and Wayne? Oh no, they're just a pair of brutes Dean knew from Salford. Ex-bouncers. I've never met any of the gangsters, I think they're some kind of organised crime ring, a cartel."

  "What, like the Mafia?"

  I can't hide my panic. Keith and Wayne, as I now know The Slob and The Rat as, seemed like a pair of chancers, compared to what we might be dealing with. She bites her lip and tries to smile.

  "Maybe they won't care about Dean," she says.

  "What?"

  "As long as they keep getting their money. It says in all my contracts that fifteen percent of what I make is to be paid into this mystery account. I guess that's them."

  Maybe she's right, if it's just money they're after. This 'substitute' business sounds fucking bizarre, but then I guess weird things go on up North and maybe it's a bunch of wise guys trying it on, taking advantage of Krystal's disappearance.

  Stella's body shudders with another sob. "Dean was such a bastard, he … he … forced me to you know… all his mates as well."

  I think of the used condom in the bin. I feel fucking sorry for her now.

  "Well he's dead now," I say, "And you can stay here, if you want."

  And suddenly we're hugging each other again and I'm breathing in the sweet smell of her hair. Maybe the bastard has done me a favour. I've got away with murder and now Dean's dead, Stella can carry on being Krystal and these gangster people can carry on getting their money and everyone is happy. In some ways it feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, but as I'm holding Stella, I look through the window and get a fleeting feeling that someone is watching us. Probably just paranoia.

  She lifts her head up and smiles at me.

  "Thanks. I'd like to stay… if that's okay."

  We go into the kitchen to look at Dean's body. He looks as if he's passed out drunk, but a pool of blood has collected by his side. It's soaked into his jeans, turning the denim dark which at first glance makes him look like he's pissed himself. He must have hit his head on the corner of the Aga when he fell. Stella gives him a prod then almost jumps out of her skin when he suddenly slumps to one side, and I find myself laughing at her fright.

  "I've never seen a dead body before," she says.

  I'm about to reply that neither have I when I remember that not only have I seen a dead body before, but I've wrapped one up in carpet, loaded it into my car then chucked it into the Thames, and that brings me back to reality. I'm a double murderer. Double murder … the words mean nothing really, and we've got to do something with this fucking body.

  "I'll call Serge, he'll know what to do," I say, and she nods and just says 'yeah'.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Serge stands in the kitchen with me, shaking his head and muttering.

  "It was an accident," I tell him.

  "That's what you said before. Well I have to say, son, you're much more composed this time. You must be getting used to it."

  "He was asking for it," I reply. I ain't really in the mood for humour.

  I tell him what happened, and give him the low-down on what Stella told me.

  "She says there was these other guys behind it – some kind of cartel they call The Substitutors."

  Serge frowns. "The what? Never heard of them."

  "They wanted her to take Krystal's place, and now they're getting money from all the promo deals and endorsements she's doing."

  He stops frowning and starts shaking his head.

  "Listen, being an agent is a tough business and you get some right shits in this line of work, but I ain't heard of nothing like that before."

  "But Stella says they're gangsters."

  He smiles. "It sounds like a good plan to me. I mean, they were getting Dean to do the running around and they were getting the fifteen per cent."

  "Yeah, great idea," I say, rolling my eyes. "So you don't think they'll be upset that we've killed Dean?"

  "You've killed Dean. Nah, look, I ain't no expert but whoever these people are, as long as they're getting their money why would they complain? Now Dean's out of the equation they'll get a better cut won't they?"

  "I suppose so, yeah."

  "So just chill out. Now, what are we going to do with this fucking body?"

  I still can't get my head round it but it's been a long day, and Serge is probably right. He knows the business as well as anyone. Sounds like killing Dean was in everyone's best interests.

  He suggests we wait until it's dark then load the fucker up into my new Land Rover and head down to the docks again. He reckons a big clean up ain't so important this time because the cops ain't going to come looking for some wannabe-gangster like Dean.

  "They'd probably want to come and give you a fucking medal for doing away with scum like that," he says, which is what I want to hear. But the thought of taking that journey to them deserted docks again makes me feel a bit ill, and it has to be said, it's an insult to Krystal to bury this thug with her.

  "Can't you think of something more, you know, original?" I ask him.

  He gives me this look, screws up his face like he's swallowed a wasp.

  "Oh sorry, I didn't realise you were some kind of expert in body removal. You got a better idea then?"

  "I was only asking," I say. Jesus, like there's a need for that attitude.

  We wrap the body up in bin-bags held together with gaffer tape and clean up the pool of blood. At one point Stella appears in the doorway, looking nervous and awkward. I flash a smile at her.

  Serge looks round from the sink where he's washing the blood out of a cleaning cloth. He looks from her to me, and without removing his hands from the sink, nods at her and just says, without smiling, "Alright?"

  He could be a bit more fucking friendly. The bastard's probably still got one on him because of me asking about taking the body some place else.

  Stella mucks in and helps us take the body downstairs, through the garage and into the back of the Land Rover. Credit to her, it's not an easy job and the whole time she looks like she might burst into tears at any moment. But it's good she's here. It's weird, but it feels like I've been promoted and now it's my duty to look after the rookie, like Serge looked after me when we dealt with Krystal. She and Serge don't speak to each other either, and so I feel like the link between us all, the master of the operation.

  It's easier this time to get the body into the car because the bin-bags aren't as bulky as the carpet. Still, Serge is effing and blinding as we try to get the thing to lie flat.

  I tell Stella to wait at the house and give her a quick hug, don't know why, it just feels right. Then I pull on my beanie hat, the same one I wore when we took Krystal, and climb into the front of the Land Rover where Serge is already waiting.

  "I'm too old for this shit," he says, still panting from the effo
rt of moving the body. I don't say anything back. I'm thinking about what lies ahead of us, and imagining that after this is done I might be able to live my old life again. That would be some result, no lie. I start the engine and press the remote control to open the garage door. The car begins to creep down the drive when Serge starts talking again.

  "What d'you say that thing was called?"

  "What thing?"

  "The thing Dean was working for."

  I don't know why he's asking. I don't want to think about that right now.

  "Oh. The Substitutors or something. Why?"

  "Just thought I might do a bit of digging, that's all… So you like her then?"

  "Like who?"

  "Her," he motions back towards the house with his head, "that Stella."

  "Yeah, she's okay. She's been through a lot, you know."

  The bastard gives a quiet grunt, "Yeah, so she says."

  "Oh come on Serge, Dean was treating her as badly as he was me… Well worse, really."

  "I never thought you'd be so soft towards an ex-hooker," the fat bastard says sarcastically.

  What the hell is his problem tonight? Now I feel my anger swerve away from Dean and towards him.

  "She's not an 'ex-hooker', Serge, she just did a few dodgy films. You know, it's not that different from the ones Marcus Bazelle filmed in my house and I didn't see you complaining about those girls."

  Bazelle, a guy I got to know through Krystal really, used our house as the set for three of his 'erotic' films – basically slightly arty bongo flicks. I remember Serge hanging around the set that day like some sleazy old geezer, and he had to go out for a wank when the sex scenes started. Gross. I tried to encourage Krystal to get involved in a bit of a gangbang with the cast that night but she weren't having any of it, so me, Bazelle and the actresses met up in a hotel room a few days later without her knowing. Good times, sort of.

  "Alright, don't get yer knickers in a twist. I guess there must be something about her. I dunno, maybe she reminds you of an ex or something," Serge shoots back at me.

  "Don't I pay you enough to keep your fucking nose out of my business?" I snap, because that's below the belt. All the years he's been my agent Serge, the fucking father figure, has been creaming fifteen per cent off of my earnings, sometimes more here and there, and I hadn't minded, or at least turned a blind eye to it while it was all good and the contracts kept coming in, but since the whole Krystal thing Serge has proved as much use as a chocolate fucking fire-guard in protecting me from Dean and his cronies, and yet here he is, still taking his fifteen per cent out of my wage pocket. Maybe he doesn't have my best interests at heart, like he likes to say he does. But then again, shit, here he is helping me move a dead body – the second body. Can I trust him though? Ah, shit, I don't even want to start thinking about dark crap like that. I wish that last conversation hadn't happened.

  We drive on in silence. As the car eats up the road in its headlights the silence gets heavier until I want to say something so badly but I can't think of a single word. Last time we drove in silence too, but then I'd almost been in awe of the fucker and his calculated coolness. It's a totally different vibe now, it's like we're both different people, replacements like Stella.

  Soon we're on the motorway and the yellow glare of the street lights dazzles me for a second.

  "Mind if I put the radio on?" I say eventually.

  "Nah, as long it's none of that gay crap," he says quickly, like he's glad one of us has finally spoken as well.

  I force a chuckle because it does my nut in when he refers to my man George as 'gay crap', but I've come to get used to it and I'm just grateful he's being okay with me so I ignore it and flick the thing on. The car fills with some old, Sixties song… Dusty Springfield I reckon. The local station is obviously doing retro hour, but it's kind of pleasant.

  Serge taps his fingers on the dashboard in time with the music.

  "Good old Dusty, this takes me back, I tell ya," he says.

  Takes me back as well, but to some place I can't fully recall. I think Mum and Dad were dancing together round the kitchen, it must have been a long time ago.

  It ain't long before we're turning off for the docks. I remember this road from the last time, the huge machinery of the docks looming above us. Fear creeps up inside me the closer we get and I try to tell myself that it'll be just like last time but easier – no one will be around – and again, Dean had deserved to die. We pull up at the same spot, the headlights hitting the shiny, black water for a second before I kill them. Now only the weak street lamps that stand sparsely around the dock provide the light for us to work in.

  "Right," I say, and we both get out of the car.

  Serge stands stone-still, listening like a deer might for the movement of a predator. The air is still but cold and smells slightly sweet and rancid. That'll be the green slime which, I imagine in the darkness, is covering the concrete walls of the dock. The only sound is the gentle lapping of the water against that slimy concrete.

  "Okay," Serge whispers and starts moving towards the back of the car. I follow and he throws the boot open. The black bin-bag shape is there as we'd left it, but I swear it's grown. I don't want to touch the fucking thing, I'm scared of what I'll feel if I pick it up – a stiff human arm, the fingers of the hand, the head, all totally brutal.

  "Well come on then," Serge says, as if he can sense my hesitation. He's already grabbing one end of the vile thing. I take a deep breath and pick up the other. It feels like the feet which is better, at least, than the head.

  It seems well heavier than when we loaded the thing up and we literally stagger with it towards the water. The old bastard can barely carry his end and almost drops it twice.

  "Fuck this," he pants, "let's just roll it under the railings."

  I have to say, I'm not convinced that's the best way but it's so fucking heavy I'm kind of glad he says this. The railings are about two feet ahead of us. There's a space of about half a metre between the ground and the horizontal bar, and a metre or so between the vertical ones. I don't even know what's beyond them – sheer drop into deep water or a bank of mud and slime. I take a look over when we get there and I'm overjoyed to see it's water. We put Dean's body down by the railings and begin pushing it forward. It's going to have to be head or feet first rather than fall in on its side, so we have to turn the bastard round. I can feel my heart beating faster and faster as the fucking thing is teetering on the edge of the dock. I want it to fall so much but as soon as the last part, the head or the feet, leaps out of our hands and the whole thing shoots towards the water, I'm totally freaking out. Within seconds there's a crash as it hits the surface and all those memories of Krystal come flooding back. Can I really get away with it twice?

  But then there's just the fizzing of the water as it devours Dean's corpse, and then nothing but the sound of waves slapping against the dock walls. I sigh and look at Serge. He looks shit-scared and all, no lie, glaring back with his eyes so wide I can see every broken blood vessel in the yellowing balls. But that's just for a fleeting second, soon as I've registered it, and his face changes back to its normal look of a semi-scowl. I've seen the fear on Serge's face though, no doubt of that. Makes me think we're in it together after all.

  We stand there looking out into the darkness.

  "How was your second one, then?" Serge asks after a while.

  "Easier."

  I try to sound blasé about it but in all honesty I'm feeling sick to the depths of my stomach.

  Where is Krystal, in that coffin of rotting carpet, now?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I wake up with Stella's warm body curled up against me. When we got back to the house last night she was still up waiting for us. It was almost four in the morning but we all thought it would be a good idea to have a few drinks because everyone felt too wired to sleep. So, me and Serge had a few whiskies and Stella had a couple of glasses of wine. We celebrated the fact that the Lanky Wanker was gone for good and
no one said anything more about The Substitutors thing. Serge had passed out on the sofa and then me and Stella had a drunken snog before I led her upstairs. Kind of weird I know, but it just seemed like the thing to do at the time.

  I raise my head slightly off the pillow then let it drop back with a groan. I feel pretty bad; my head throbs and my mouth and throat are desert-dry. It must have been gone seven when we went to sleep, first time in a while I've stayed up all night, it has to be said. I can tell the sun is shining outside, it's creeping in through the gap in the curtains. I glance at the alarm clock and see it's half eleven. Fuck, that's only, what? Four hours sleep, but I'm supposed to be at the training ground at one. Not good. I should get up and start moving but I carry on lying there, telling myself, 'just another five minutes'. And I start thinking of the things that happened last night. It's all too mad, my mind can't process it properly. But no more of the Lanky Wanker! That's one good thing. I bet Serge is right about those gangsters too. Some agents are really dodgy, Christ knows I've wondered what Serge has got up to in the past and I remember one cocky agent at my first club who tried to pass this player off as Nigeria's top striker, but the guy turned out to be the said striker's cousin. The gaffer went ballistic when he found out the lad couldn't score for toffee and tried to sue the agent who fled to Rio.

  I look at Stella. She's still fast asleep. Weird to think yesterday she was my enemy, now I'm thinking it's kind of nice waking up next to her. Stella from Salford, Krystal from Onger. It's a head-fuck, no lie.

  Everything around me is still. The house, my house, is silent and I'm not going to get up and find Dean in my swimming pool or putting his dirty feet up on my sofa. It feels like today is a new beginning and bad as my hangover is, I know it's going to be one of those days where you don't care because you're in such a good mood it's like the happiness chemicals neutralise all the bad hangover vibes and it don't hurt so much. A few painkillers and a multi-vit shake will work wonders, guaranteed. Maybe me and Stella could watch a movie tonight, curled up on the sofa, lights dimmed. I start thinking about all the times me and Krystal did that the evening after a heavy night. That one time after the Brit Awards when Krystal was so drunk she fell into a table and knocked a drink over some stuck-up Hollywood actress. The next night we watched a stupid rom-com and the actress from the night before came on as a cameo. It was too funny, man, too funny. But it's no good to start thinking like that.