Bodyguard: Target

by Chris Bradford

  Ash pumped a fist in the air. ‘What’s up, Pittsburgh!’

  The arena erupted with screams and cheers. Picking up his guitar, he struck a chord that started the blistering riff of his first hit, ‘Easier’.

  Out of the darkness, a large missile-like object plummeted from above. Charley glimpsed it only at the very last second as it flashed past the central screen. There was no time to react.

  The spotlight dropped from the lighting rig like a meteor. It smashed into the stage right where Ash was standing. Knocked off his feet by the impact, he crumpled to the floor. The audience fell deathly silent as their idol lay motionless among the debris of shattered glass, splintered wood and twisted metal.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ demanded Kay. Her green eyes blazed with emotion on the computer screen. Despite it being two in the morning in the UK, she still managed to look glamorous. Yet the news about Ash had visibly shocked her and her face was porcelain white.

  ‘It was an accident,’ explained Terry, seated beside Big T in his hotel room. ‘The clamp securing the spotlight failed.’

  ‘What about the safety cable?’ said Kay. ‘Shouldn’t that have stopped the light from falling?’

  Terry swallowed uneasily. ‘For some reason, it wasn’t attached.’

  ‘Not attached!’ Kay exclaimed, her familiar tiger spirit returning. ‘That doesn’t sound like an accident to me.’

  In the context of Ash’s death threats, Charley was compelled to agree. But she kept her opinion to herself as she sat quietly with Zoe on the edge of the bed.

  ‘There’s no evidence that the light was tampered with,’ replied Big T.

  ‘Then how could it happen?’

  Terry wiped a hand over his dry mouth. ‘We were in a rush to set everything up. The safety cable was likely overlooked.’

  Even across a divide of four thousand miles, everyone felt the ferocity of Kay’s glare.

  ‘As you know, the crew are always under pressure to set up for each gig,’ Terry hurriedly explained. ‘But even more so when a false bomb alert delays the already tight schedule.’

  Kay’s smooth brow wrinkled slightly. ‘What bomb alert?’

  Terry directed an accusing stare at Charley. ‘That’s down to your guest here.’

  With open-mouthed dismay, Charley realized the tour manager was trying to shift the blame for the incident on to her. ‘I don’t see how that’s got anything to do with it,’ she protested.

  ‘It’s got everything to do with it,’ he insisted.

  ‘Hang on, what about that man I spotted in the lighting rig prior to the concert? Perhaps he’s responsible? Maybe it wasn’t an accident at all.’

  ‘Enough of your paranoid assertions!’ said Terry. ‘That could only have been Geoff, one of my most reliable roadies. And he’d have been able to complete his checks properly if you hadn’t raised the alarm over a lunch box!’

  ‘The backpack could have been a bomb,’ argued Charley.

  ‘But it wasn’t, was it?’ countered Terry, glowering at her.

  Charley knew she was being made a scapegoat for his road crew’s mistakes and this time Big T wasn’t stepping to her defence. But she realized he could only put his neck on the line so many times.

  Then Big T broke his silence. ‘Pointing the finger doesn’t change what happened. The most important thing at the moment is Ash.’

  ‘Quite true,’ said Kay from the computer screen. ‘How is he doing?’

  Zoe leant towards the webcam with a reassuring smile. ‘He’s recovering fast. Like the song goes, he’s indestructible!’

  ‘Ash got away with only a few cuts and bruises,’ explained Big T. ‘If he’d landed on stage from the toaster lift even one step further back, though, the spotlight would have crushed him.’

  ‘That doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Kay sighed. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In his room, sleeping,’ said Big T.

  Terry pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his weary eyes. ‘We had to cancel the concert, of course.’

  ‘What about the rest of the tour?’ asked Kay. ‘Is Ash able to continue?’

  Terry gave a nod. ‘The doctor says he’s physically fine. So I don’t foresee any problem.’

  ‘Yes, but the question is, does he want to?’

  The atmosphere on the repaired tour bus the following day was subdued. Ash had holed himself up in the back lounge, making it clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. The next stop on the tour was Columbus, Ohio, and as far as everyone knew the concert was going ahead. But there was deep concern among the band and crew whether Ash was in the right state of mind to perform.

  ‘So, apart from being withdrawn, is he otherwise OK?’ José asked Charley during the conference call to Buddyguard HQ. José was the go-to for any medical-related issues during Operation Starstruck.

  ‘I think so. I haven’t had much chance to chat with him,’ said Charley. She was in the toilet cubicle as had become her custom to ensure some privacy when reporting in. ‘As I understand it, Ash is more upset for his fans that the concert was cancelled. But he does seem a lot quieter than usual.’

  ‘I guess it’s pretty traumatic if a forty-kilogram spotlight almost crushes you to death!’ snorted Jason.

  ‘It was certainly a close call,’ replied Charley coolly.

  ‘Jody says he’s probably in mental shock, like after a car crash,’ continued José. ‘Hang on, she’s just handed me a list of symptoms … OK, it says here that he may swing between bouts of depression, anxiety, anger, despair, hyperactivity and withdrawal. But the symptoms usually resolve themselves in a few days or so.’

  ‘Thanks, José, that’s good to know. I’ll keep an eye out for them.’

  ‘You worried about him?’ asked Blake. These were the first words he’d spoken since she’d reported in.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she replied. ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘I know,’ he shot back a little too quickly. ‘I meant whether you thought he was becoming unstable. I hear rock stars can be a little unhinged.’

  No, you didn’t, she thought, guessing exactly what he was pushing at. Charley was growing tired of Blake’s jealousy and snippy remarks every time she reported in. Either he was short with her, mistrusting or simply in a mood. She understood that it was hard them being apart for so long. And difficult to find the time to resolve any issues. But if he couldn’t trust her with Ash, then what was the point in them going steady?

  ‘So, Charley, have you faced any more crowds single-handedly?’ asked David when she went quiet.

  ‘We all saw the news footage of Ash being mobbed by his fans, supposedly without protection,’ remarked José. ‘Can’t believe you got him out of that situation alive!’

  ‘Nor me –’ Through the wall of the toilet cubicle she heard an anguished cry, then a loud bang. ‘Gotta go!’

  Ending the call, Charley rushed out into the corridor. Her first thought was that it was another tyre blowout. Then she heard a crash and splintering of wood from the back lounge. She burst through the door to find Ash furiously smashing his acoustic guitar on the floor. The body cracked. The strings twanged. And the neck snapped.

  ‘Ash! What are you doing?’ cried Charley, stunned to see him destroying one of his most prized guitars.

  Ash tossed the shattered instrument to the ground, then stamped on the broken remains.

  ‘You useless piece of junk!’ he cried as his foot went through the guitar’s body. His fit of fury eventual
ly ebbed away and he slumped back into the sofa, sobbing with his head in hands.

  Cautiously Charley approached, sat down next to him and put an arm round his heaving shoulders.

  ‘I-I … can’t write any more,’ he cried, hitching in a ragged breath. ‘I’ve … lost the songs. I-I can’t hear them any more …’

  Charley patiently listened to his distress, realizing this was the mental shock Jody had diagnosed. He trembled uncontrollably and she gently held him in her arms. Jessie popped her head round the door, a concerned look on her face. Charley held up a hand to say all was OK and to give them some space. With a small nod, Jessie quietly retreated from the room.

  As Charley waited for Ash’s sobs to subside, she spotted his laptop open on the table. A mostly blank page had the beginnings of a song that was stalled on the first line: You lift me up because …

  In an open smaller browser window was a feed from Ash’s social media site. A stream of well-wishers were posting messages of support following the previous night’s cancelled concert. Interspersed between these, like poisonous thorns on a berry bush, were acid comments from haters either joking about the near tragedy or wishing the spotlight had hit him. Charley disregarded these.

  ‘Judging by your fans’ response, they love your songs and you,’ she told him. ‘I’m sure you haven’t lost your touch. You’re just in shock and a little stressed out at the moment, that’s all.’

  Ash looked up at her with reddened eyes. ‘B-but writing songs is all I know. It’s who I am. It’s why my fans like me. I’m terrified my muse won’t come back.’

  ‘Of course it will,’ assured Charley. ‘If you can write a song like “Only Raining”, you’re born with the gift.’

  This only made Ash sob again.

  He eventually regained control of his emotions. ‘But w-what if it doesn’t come back? I’ve tried everything I know. Nothing seems to break the block. Ever since that letter bomb, I’ve been struggling. I can’t sleep. I have nightmares about it. I just don’t understand why anyone would hate me that much. What have I done to them?’

  Charley thought about the man who’d snatched Kerry all those years ago. And of the terrorists who’d hijacked the plane her parents had been on. Tears now threatened to come to her eyes. ‘There are people out there who hurt and hate for no reason but their own. It’s not your fault. You’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Then why is someone trying to kill me?’

  ‘Last night was just an accident, like the coach crash,’ assured Charley. She pointed to his computer screen. ‘You have to ignore the haters and focus on those who love you. Besides your band, crew, Big T and your aunt, you have a whole legion of fans supporting you. They’ll inspire you. You just need to give it time.’

  Ash nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. ‘Not much of a rock star, am I? You must think I’m a right idiot for crying like a baby.’

  ‘We all have to cry sometimes,’ replied Charley.

  Ash managed a weak smile. ‘You should be a lyricist.’

  His laptop pinged as a new message came in. A photo appeared in the browser window of Ash on stage, the blur of a falling spotlight just behind his head.

  The caption beneath read:

  Accidents don’t just happen.

  ‘Cancel the gig,’ insisted the bassist. ‘In fact, the whole damn tour!’

  ‘No. There’s too much at stake,’ said Terry. ‘We risk losing millions.’

  ‘We risk losing our lives!’ the bassist shot back.

  The band, tour manager, Big T and Charley were all crammed into Ash’s dressing room backstage at the Nationwide Arena in Columbus. Word had leaked out about the message on Ash’s computer and the band had been spooked.

  ‘I tell you, it was an accident,’ insisted Terry. ‘Just because some anonymous hater posted a message online claiming he was responsible doesn’t mean it’s true. There’s absolutely no evidence of foul play. This is simply an opportunist taking advantage of a news story. Now get yourselves ready for the concert.’

  Charley kept her mouth shut. She no longer knew what to think. Big T had launched an investigation into the source of the message, but it had so far come up blank. This was suspicious in itself. Yet an examination of the spotlight had pointed to basic mechanical failure of its clamp as the reason for the accident. The fact that the safety chain hadn’t been attached was put down to human error, rather than a premeditated murder attempt. Nor had there been any reason to suspect the coach crash was anything more than an accident. However, following the ominous message, Charley began to wonder if that was really the case.

  ‘Hey, it’s not just Ash out there on stage,’ reminded the bassist, crossing his arms defiantly. ‘Any one of us could be hurt or killed. So we’ve a right to say whether we go on or not.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Terry. ‘If you don’t want the gig, we’ll get another bassist in.’

  ‘Well, I hope he wears a crash helmet!’ he sneered.

  ‘Terry, you’re missing the point,’ the drummer piped up. ‘We all know about the death threats. Someone has it in for Ash.’ He directed his drumstick at Ash, who sat mute in his chair, staring blankly at himself in the mirror as the stylist made the finishing touches to his hair. ‘Are you willing to gamble his life, and ours, like this?’

  ‘There is no gamble,’ said Terry. ‘I’ve discussed this with his manager. Someone is playing a cruel game, that’s all. They’re trying to scare Ash, intimidate him – sabotage his career. And we won’t let that happen. Apart from the threats before the tour, it’s all been false alarms. The crew has double-checked everything at this venue. I can assure you, there’ll be no more accidents on this tour.’

  ‘That’s comforting to know,’ replied the bassist. ‘But what about actual attacks on us?’

  Terry jabbed a thumb in the direction of the veteran bodyguard. ‘That’s the job of Big T and his security team to prevent – and I’ve complete faith that they’ll keep Ash safe.’

  The bassist snorted. ‘That’s all well and good for Ash. But what about us?’

  ‘My security team covers you as well,’ said Big T.

  Terry glanced impatiently at his watch. ‘Now the gig’s going ahead with or without you. What’s it going to be?’

  ‘Surely, it’s my decision!’ interrupted Ash. ‘Whether the show happens or not?’

  Everyone in the room turned to him. Dressed in his glittering stage gear, his hair perfectly coiffured, Ash looked more than ready to go on stage. But, having seen him with his defences down, Charley knew the paralysing fear that haunted Ash’s every waking moment. In her opinion he was in no fit state to perform.

  While the others in the band had a right to be concerned for their safety, Ash was the real target.

  Pete was as jittery as any one of the twenty thousand Wildling fans packed into Columbus’ Nationwide Arena. Perhaps even more so because he knew what was coming.

  This time he’d managed to get a standing ticket and, after a fair bit of pushing and shoving, was in prime position right beside the neck of the guitar stage. The atmosphere in the arena was highly charged. After the tragic curtailment of the Pittsburgh show, Ash’s fans were even more desperate to see him. Rumours had been flying that the concert would be cancelled at the last minute and a barely suppressed panic spread among the audience. Some fans had even resorted to praying in groups for Ash’s delivery on to the stage.

  Thirty minutes later than scheduled, t
he house lights dimmed and the countdown began.

  The audience screamed in delight. Pete enthusiastically joined in with the countdown, barely able to hear himself above the noise. His gut tightened as the opening explosion rumbled from the speakers and he had to shield his eyes from the blinding cascade of red and gold sparks. His own heart seemed to beat in unison with the intro’s heartbeat. Then he felt a rush of exhilaration as the winged silhouette flitted from screen to screen before being consumed by flames.

  INDESTRUCTIBLE … IMPOSSIBLE? … I’M POSSIBLE!

  Ash shot up from the toaster lift and landed on the stage. Not as perfectly as in New York, thought Pete, but still an impressive entrance.

  Immediately Ash took two strides forward before thrusting a fist into the air. ‘What’s up, Columbus!’

  The audience roared their approval, relieved and overjoyed to see their idol. After a swift, almost unconscious glance upward, Ash struck the opening chord to ‘Easier’ and the band kicked in.

  Pete sang along to every word. He watched Ash dance across the stage, his eyes never wavering from his idol. Even after a couple of shows, Pete was beginning to recognize some of his routines. But he could tell Ash wasn’t as self-assured as in previous gigs. His performance seemed a little ‘tight’ and every so often the rock star would look nervously up at the lighting rig. That was to be expected, though, considering Pittsburgh.

  Pete’s arm started itching. He tried not to scratch the scabbing skin underneath the bandage, otherwise he’d damage his new tattoo.

  Midway through the gig a dark-haired girl with freckles stood on his foot. She was fifteen, maybe sixteen, and chewing gum voraciously. She shot him an apologetic smile, then did a double-take. The girl opened her mouth and said something. But Pete couldn’t hear her over the noise of the band and screaming fans. He leant closer and she shouted in his ear, ‘I said, you look just like Ash. Has anyone told you that before?’