by Anne Randall
‘Assaulting my ex-partner. Long time ago. I’ve moved on.’
‘You think Gary might give me a rise?’
‘Gary Ashton’s a tight bastard.’
She watched him pull the door wide. Inside were rails of clothes, a row of cheap shoes. The outfits. On a white plastic table were handcuffs, whips, nipple clamps, ball gags, chokers and rope. The props.
‘But you can always ask.’
‘Does Gary’s partner knows about this little venture?’ she said.
‘Lisa? Doubt it.’
‘Because?’
‘The profits from this hobby are solely for him to fund his coke habit, the wedding stuff he shares with her and the kid.’
‘You think I could use it to get a bit of leeway for a rise?’
‘If you’re looking for trouble, that’d certainly be a short cut to it. From what I hear, Lisa’s mother bought them the house. Any upset and he’s scared she’ll chuck him out.’ Pierce picked up a whip and ran the tip of it gently against her cheek. ‘You still seeing that shrink of yours? What’s his name – Bellerose?’
‘George’s not a shrink, he’s a life coach but yeah, he’s helping me get focused to relocate.’
‘Still offering cut-price sessions?’
She nodded.
‘He’s got a thing for you, he wants to get into your knickers.’ Pierce paused. ‘Is he in with a chance?’
‘Not a snowball’s in hell but as long as he gets me out of here, he’s welcome to his fantasies. The Studio open?’
‘Christ, I’ve just arrived, give me a sec.’
She waited while he dragged open the door of the second container Gary Ashton insisted they called the Studio. Ashton was deluded. Without air conditioning, the heat inside was intense, and more than once she’d felt the sweat run down her back and pool in the waist of her outfits. ‘This whole place is fucking unhygienic,’ she muttered.
Five minutes later, she had put her hair up and had slathered on thick make-up. She kicked off her sandals, stripped off her clothes and walked across to the rack of clothes. Sexy secretary. Couldn’t be more clichéd. She heard a motorbike come to a stop outside. A couple of seconds later, Gary Ashton’s bulk filled the doorway. He was thirty-two, wore his long blond hair in a ponytail. He dumped the crash helmet on the table. ‘Hey.’
Karlie pulled on the leather pencil skirt, buttoned the white shirt, kept her tone friendly. ‘How’s the wedding photography going?’
He shrugged. ‘Pays the bills.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ She drew a slash of red lipstick across her lips. ‘Does Lisa know about your little outfit here?’
‘She doesn’t need to, seeing as it’s got fuck all to do with her.’
‘Why’s that then? You reckon she wouldn’t approve?’
‘I’m not interested in asking her opinion. So, what’s with all the questions, Karlie?’
‘I’m just saying, this is your little secret and I’m sure you’d like to keep it that way.’
‘Go on.’
‘What say you up my wages?’
Ashton crossed to her, his face inches from hers. He was too close; she could smell the coffee on his breath. Practically taste the nicotine.
‘Or?’
She tried for a smile, failed. ‘I’m worth more than I’m getting paid.’ Heard the tremble in her voice.
‘Go ahead, talk to Lisa. I don’t mind.’
‘Really?’
‘Honestly, I’m not that bothered. My only concern would be for you and your work prospects.’
‘Because you’d fire me.’ More of a statement.
‘After I’d broken your fucking neck.’
Pierce called from the doorway. ‘Everything’s set up next door guys and Will’s ready.’
Ashton waved him away.
She tried to move forward. Ashton blocked her.
Her voice small, she said, ‘I was only joking.’
He smiled down at her. ‘Of course you were and now that you’ve had your fun, put on the fucking shoes.’
She reached for the stilettos, knew they were a narrow size four, she was a five. She crammed her feet into them. ‘These are tiny.’
His fist missed her face by a fraction. ‘Another fucking woman nagging me. I don’t want to hear it, OK?’
She nodded, said nothing.
‘That’s it, you just need to be a good girl and get on with it.’
She hobbled across to the second container, felt her toes cramp and a sharp pain shoot up her right calf.
Inside, it was set up as an office, with a wooden desk and chair in the centre. In the corner sat a smaller desk with a telephone, computer and a stack of folders. In the absence of a generator, Ashton had rigged up battery-run lights.
‘The camera’s on the far wall, above the desk, so mind you face it and for God’s sake try to get some action going, this stuff’s supposed to be a turn-on.’
Will Reid edged his way into the container. ‘All OK, guys?’
‘Get into place,’ muttered Ashton.
They took their positions.
‘Action.’ Ashton backed out of the container.
Same old, same old, thought Karlie, she could do this in her sleep. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘You’ve made mistakes, Miss Samson, too many mistakes.’
‘I can only apologise, sir. I’ll redo these reports and get them to you first thing in the morning.’
‘That isn’t good enough. I’m afraid the board and I have decided that you need to be punished.’
‘I can explain, sir.’
‘Enough, Miss Samson. You were warned not to continue to make mistakes. You didn’t listen. I have no other option. You know what to do.’ He sat back in his chair, loosened his tie. ‘Strip.’
The same old routine, different outfits, different props. Varying degrees of pain and violence. One theme. Men in power over women. The way of the world, thought Karlie, but she wasn’t going to be exploited, she was going to exploit them. She thought of her other job – it paid well, but again, the same themes. One guy got off washing her mouth out with soap while he called her Jean. Perverted fucker. Plus, she’d only had two shifts there and, well paid as it was, she needed more.
She leaned palms down on the desk. After a few minutes they changed tempo and position. Karlie lay on the desk and groaned as he tried and failed to improvise dialogue. She heard him repeat his usual refrain, ‘I hope you are learning your lesson, Miss Samson.’ Another couple of changes of position and it was over. She eased off the shoes and rubbed her toes.
‘OK, let’s keep going,’ said Ashton. ‘We don’t have all day.’
She traipsed back to the container, changed outfits. When she returned, Ashton had placed a thin mattress over the desk, draped the makeshift bed in nylon faux fur throws and satin cushions. He’d added a couple of steel chains to the head and foot of the bed. ‘A budget dungeon,’ muttered Karlie as she squeezed her feet back into the too-tight shoes.
‘Action.’
Will Reid gripped the leather collar in his right hand and beckoned to her. She had been scripted to be fearful but compelled. Ashton had underlined ‘compelled’ twice. Reid had been instructed to be seething and rough when he fastened the collar around her neck and led her to the bed. Erotic asphyxiation. She waited while he attached the collar, then the lead. She lay on her back. As they filmed, Karlie thought of the recent developments. Three things. When she’d told her friend Maureen about the old man who had contacted her about the night her father had died, she’d been sceptical because he was in a care home, suffered from schizophrenia and had seen faces in the curtains. Two, her cousin Beth had sent through a box of old papers belonging to her father, mainly a jumble of old letters but there were some photographs. It was good to have them, she had so little belonging to her parents. Three, she had emailed one of the Kill Kestrels. He’d been two years above her in school and now he was famous. Things were about to happen; she could feel it.
‘Can you feel that, bitch?’ asked Reid. ‘You enjoying it?’ He tugged the collar and she knelt. She checked that she was face on to the camera. Felt herself being rocked back and forward. Heard the old desk creak. She wanted out of this shit hole and fast. Rumour had it that regulators wanted porn made in the UK to exclude spanking and strangulation. She saw Reid reach for the whip, adjusted her position, closed her eyes and moaned and writhed on the mattress. The collar around her neck dug into her skin, she felt it chaff. Thought of the article about the earnings of the top porn stars in the US. Anything between $50,000 and $95,000 a year. Plus, public appearances. She was certain that the lifestyle would suit her. She knew that she was going places, had always known it. Even at school she’d created drama when she’d accused the bitches in her year of bullying. She’d taken it as far as she’d wanted, then dumped it. They’d been her first audience though. Now she wanted something bigger, she wanted LA, the big house, the pool. She whiled away the time deciding on the décor of the house and choosing the colour of the tiles in the swimming pool.
When it was done, she made her way back to the container, pulled a packet of facial wipes from her handbag and began sponging herself down. Saw Ashton in the doorway watching. She took off the collar, rubbed her neck. ‘Bloody hell, that was rough. I need a shower.’
‘You complaining again?’
‘Just saying we need to get some kind of a shower rigged up in here or even a basin. It’s manky not being able to have a rinse.’ She binned the used wipes and pulled on her jeans and T-shirt.
‘We make it big time in the States and you can get what you want.’
‘We?’
‘If you make it, I’d manage you. End of story.’
‘What will happen with Lisa and Ewan?’
‘They’d stay here. No point in upsetting their routine. You’d be making enough for both of us.’
She grabbed her bag, made for her car. ‘You’re all heart.’
Outside, she waved to Pierce as she drove off. Switched on the radio, heard Pharrell Williams’ ‘Happy’ being played. She waited until she had driven past the stinking chicken shed before she wound down the windows.
A car was parked in the lay-by. As she passed, it inched its way out on to the road. There was no need to rush, the driver took it easy, kept two cars between them. He knew that Karlie was a cautious driver. Used her seat belt every time. Clunk click, every trip. Stay safe, Karlie. But all the care and caution she’d used to keep herself alive would be in vain. He’d been pleased when she’d called him last night after she’d left the care home and now he was looking forward to their meeting later that evening. Clunk click, every trip, Karlie. Stay safe. For now.
Chapter Two
The Manager
Take your pick, he thought, from a billboard of sordid delights. Sex with an underage prostitute (Skye), two accidental overdoses when he’d been discovered shaking uncontrollably (Skye), when an argument had got out of hand, a glass had been smashed into a face, resulting in a photographer being given a substantial bribe not to press charges (Josh). He could go on, the list was, if not endless, then definitely lengthy. The Kill Kestrels manager Dougie Scott sat in the lounge nursing a double vodka and tried not to think too hard about the length of the list. He wore his usual uniform – a loud Hawaiian shirt which strained around his bulk, grey chinos and a pork pie hat. In winter he added a grey cashmere overcoat. He was fifty-five and had managed bands, with varying degrees of success, all his life. His previous two – the Stations of the Cross and the Grimsdales – had done reasonably well for a while, but the Kill Kestrels were by far the most financially successful and he was not about to let them fuck it up. Like every good manager, he made sure his band turned up and got the job done. Of course, there had been times when he’d had to manage the extent of their partying, but he’d been in the business long enough to know which substances fuelled creativity and which killed it. For his part, he let the Kill Kestrels indulge themselves, but Dougie made sure that they followed the three Ps, that they knew performing, promotion and producing new songs were their priorities.
The Braque Hotel had been chosen because of its solid history of accommodating the excessive lifestyle of rock bands. Dougie knew from previous experience that the staff were loyal and had been employed partly for their skill of steadfastly ignoring indiscretions. Over the years, the antics of the Kill Kestrels had never even been remarked upon by the staff, or, worse, leaked to the press. There were no shots of Skye returning to his room, stumbling and disorientated, his eyes glazed. Or of the girls being discreetly ushered in and out of the side entrance. No shots to incriminate Josh, Joe or Lexi in any way. The hotel staff understood that the band was a product and that sometimes that product had to let off steam.
Dougie glanced at his watch; the guys were supposed to have checked in with him fifteen minutes ago. He gulped the remainder of his drink and started for the lift, let his finger rest on the up button. A few seconds later, the doors opened and the four of them piled out. ‘My boys—’ Dougie grinned ‘—I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Fresh as a daisy,’ he lied, ‘a credit to bands everywhere.’ He followed them back into the lounge, scrutinised them as they grabbed menus and clustered around a table, noted Skye’s bloodshot eyes, his grey pallor. At five foot eleven, twenty-eight-year-old Skye Cooper was the tallest of the group and also the lead singer. His dirty blond hair framed his face, his jeans were ripped, his shirt was clean, but wrinkled. His already dark eyes had kohl smudged around them, giving him the look of a fallen angel. Tattoo ink snaked across most of his body, curling around skulls, daggers and a complicated series of hieroglyphs which only Skye knew the meaning of but had once hinted that they were records of sexual encounters. Skye wanted to be a Rock God. Dougie knew that their fan base was growing fast and, if they stayed on course, he’d get his wish. His female fans wanted to be with him and his male fans wanted to be him, and over the years Skye had worked hard to perfect the persona of the sensitive artist. The outsider always had a cachet. Dougie knew it and more importantly Skye worked it. But the real money came from the royalties; whoever wrote the songs got the cash and that honour was shared fifty–fifty between Skye and Josh. But there was a darkness to Skye that troubled Dougie. It was as if he’d had an emotional bypass. Skye had no empathy when anything went wrong for the rest of the band, it was all about him, his ego sat at the centre of the band and was the most likely to explode.
To Skye’s left was Josh Alden. He was thirty, slim and wore expensive jeans and a box-fresh T-shirt. His head was shaved and heavily tattooed and he had piercings through his nose and eyebrow. His ears had been gauged, held open by silver rims from which hung silver skulls. Josh had grown up in a home and later on the street and knew how to handle himself. An early bit of trouble with violence but all that was behind him now. He was the bass player and also the most methodical of the group. He turned up on time to every rehearsal and sound check and did the job like clockwork. Just like his playing, the deep throbbing bass, always on the beat, hooking in with the drums. That was the point, Dougie thought, there was something routine about Josh’s approach to being in the band, he showed very little real passion for the process of making music. Dougie worried that the band was only a means to an end for Josh; he just wished he knew what that end was.
Next up was Joe Edgewood. Five four and a confirmed introvert, he was twenty-five and played guitar and keyboard. He kept his hair short and neat and wore cotton shirts, in a variety of quiet tartan and plaid. Joe had his future planned, he was going to relocate to the US, to Athens, Georgia to be precise, the place he most associated with the group who had first inspired him. Joe had looked at California, with its beaches, the glamour of LA, but he had always returned to Athens. And this wasn’t fantasy – as the son of an accountant, Joe had already costed it and reckoned that it was very doable given what the band was earning. He wanted an expensive house, he had ambition.
Next in line was Lexi. S
mall, dark haired and energetic. At twenty-two, Lexi MacGowan was the baby of the group. On stage, he crackled with nervous energy, his hands flying as he drummed, in a world of his own. Off stage, he wasn’t that interested in the groupie scene and only occasionally got plastered. He craved the company of other musicians, he’d go see new bands, or hang out in recording studios with friends. Lexi only wanted to play music. It was his obsession, he practised way more than the others, but his was the least requested photograph by the fans and he got a lot less attention from the media too, but that was the way Lexi wanted it and Dougie knew that was the way he intended to keep it.
Dougie joined them at the table. ‘Remember, guys, we have our photo shoot tomorrow with the two lucky winners and you all need to be there. It’s over in the West End.’
‘Remind me what this is again?’ said Lexi. ‘Dougie, tell me this isn’t the VIP package shit you were trying to sell us?’
‘No, it’s not. I heard you loud and clear on that front.’
‘Only, if it is some back-door way of going about it, I’m not showing up,’ said Lexi.
‘I told you, the Glasgow Chronicle ran a competition, first prize being a chance to meet you four and two tickets to the gig on Saturday.’
‘And?’ Lexi studied the menu.
‘And some wee lassie called Ellie something, from Dennistoun, won the tickets and her and her pal are coming along to a photo shoot at the Golden Unicorn Hotel. Christ, but you’re suspicious, Lexi.’
‘I just don’t want our fans to be ripped off, I hate all that corporate bullshit. You know that, Dougie.’
‘Which is why we don’t do it,’ said Dougie. ‘You need to trust me.’
Josh waded in to the argument. ‘Fuck’s sake, Dougie’s not bullshitting you. I remember seeing it in the paper he brought to rehearsals. I had a quick read through it at the break, it was a free competition, nothing dodgy about it. Straight up, send in your name and address and someone would be picked at random from the pile.’
‘Fine then,’ said Lexi.
‘So you need to be there’ said Dougie. ‘The prize was for the winners to meet all of the band, not just the ones who can be arsed turning up.’