Torn

by Anne Randall

  ‘I just didn’t want it to be the VIP charge-a-fortune-to-meet the Kill Kestrels package,’ said Lexi. ‘Way too lacking in integrity.’

  ‘I think you already mentioned all of that in our discussion last time,’ said Dougie.

  ‘Which hotel is it again?’ asked Skye.

  ‘The hospitality room at the Golden Unicorn. I’ve invited a few of the press boys for publicity. And Paulo Di Stefano’s dropping by to take a few snaps, he’ll be shooting the cover for the next album.’

  But Lexi still wasn’t happy. ‘Can’t we just meet our fans, you know, person to person? Keep it real.’

  Keep it fucking real? Dougie could have slapped him. ‘It will be real and the girls will love it. Plus, they’ll get their picture in the paper. You don’t want to deny them the opportunity, do you?’

  ‘They’ll have mobile phones; they could take their own pictures.’ Lexi sounded peeved. ‘The meet-up doesn’t have to be part of the press circus.’

  ‘It’s not a circus,’ muttered Joe. ‘Fuck’s sake, Lexi. This is our job. It’s what pays the bills. It’s what’ll eventually buy me my place in Athens. You need to grow the fuck up.’

  ‘And maybe you try to keep it real, Joe. Our fans aren’t there to be ripped off.’

  ‘It was a free fucking competition!’ said Joe.

  ‘OK. I was just nervous about the VIP stuff.’

  ‘How is a VIP package to meet us even a fucking rip-off?’ said Joe. ‘The fans want access to us and we can supply it. It’s the usual business model, supply and demand, and right now we’re in demand. I don’t know how you cannot see that. You are so full of bullshit. Do you know what I think? I think this is inverse snobbery. You don’t like the fact that some fans can pay for the VIP package and would be absolutely fucking delighted to pay for it, when others can’t. You’re actually a snob, aren’t you? You despise our fans who have a bit of money and you delude yourself that somehow this isn’t a business, that it’s some kind of superior art form and—’

  ‘So for you it’s just a financial transaction?’ asked Lexi.

  ‘That’s more realistic than your shit.’

  ‘I don’t fucking think so.’

  ‘Guys!’ Dougie clapped his hands loudly. ‘Enough! We discussed it and ultimately decided that the VIP package wasn’t a goer. I’m disappointed as anyone, but let’s just move on.’

  But they wouldn’t, and Dougie observed the band returning to type by sniping at each other; they were four young men, who resorted to teenage behaviour when under stress.

  ‘Lexi, you’re negatively affecting my earnings.’ Joe then turned on Josh. ‘And it’s OK for you and Skye, you two are quids in because you get the royalties. I don’t.’

  Skye waded in. ‘And that’s not by some kind of fucking fluke, Joe, it’s because we write the songs. If you want more of the cut, then maybe you should try writing something? Oh, wait! That’s right, I remember now, you did try to write some and what was it that happened? They were shit, absolute, fucking bollocks.’

  Joe stood. Skye mirrored him.

  Christ, thought Dougie, talk about handbags at dawn. ‘Guys, calm it down. Come on, keep it civilised, we’re all in this together. Eat. Get some food inside you and you’ll feel better.’ But he spoke to Joe’s back.

  ‘I’ll order room service, Dougie. I’m not sitting here with this prick.’

  Dougie watched Joe leave, reminded himself to breathe, just breathe. He knew to let it go, sometimes they each needed to go to their respective spaces and come back later in a calmer mood. He’d had enough experience of bands to know that a difficult or adversarial relationship could actually work in the overall dynamic and feed the creativity. It was a critical balance, though, allowing just enough bitterness and rivalry to give the band energy but not to let it spill over and split them up. Dougie needed to keep them going, they were his pension. And by God, he thought, I’m earning it.

  ‘Right.’ He addressed the remaining three as if the argument hadn’t happened. ‘You lot have a hearty meal and get yourself set up. I’ll join you for another drink.’

  The young waitress, who’d tried to enter the room in the midst of the argument, then retreated, came back. She smiled nervously. ‘Are you guys ready to order?’

  ‘Just a double vodka for me,’ said Dougie.

  ‘Make that two,’ said Josh.

  ‘Three,’ muttered Lexi.

  Skye held up four fingers.

  ‘Four doubles it is then. And food?’

  There were no takers.

  Dougie saw a man in the doorway. He was five-five, skinny, shaved head. Hands balled into fists, looked like he was spoiling for a fight, but it was his eyes Dougie noticed most – they were dark pinpricks of violence. Dougie scrambled to his feet, knocked over a chair. ‘You’ve taken a wrong turning, mate. This is a private party.’

  The man ignored him.

  Dougie raised his voice, ‘Listen pal, I said—’

  ‘It’s cool, Dougie, he’s my guest,’ said Josh. ‘Hi, Cutter. Good to see you. Cheers for coming over.’

  ‘Not a problem, Josh.’ The man stabbed a finger at Dougie. ‘Who’s this prick?’

  ‘No worries, he’s good. He’s our manager.’ Josh smiled. ‘Dougie meet Cutter Wysor.’

  The manager and guest glared at each other.

  The waitress returned with the drinks, Josh grabbed his. ‘What are you having, Cutter?’

  ‘Absinthe.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ muttered Dougie.

  Josh ordered for his guest. ‘Welcome to the party.’

  Dougie watched Josh lead the guy to another table, saw the waitress bring a glass of the green liquid, wondered just who the hell Cutter Wysor was and what shit Josh was getting mixed up with.

  Chapter Three

  The Gang

  Owen

  He had fucked up. He was a loser. A fucking tosser. Everything that he already knew. Everything that had already been said about him was true.

  Owen McCrudden crawled into the back of his white van. He’d roughly bandaged his hand with an old rag and washed the painkillers down with a beer. But it wasn’t the pain in his hand that scared him, it was the fear of what Mason Stitt would do. Owen needed Mason and was terrified that he was going to expel him from the gang. That must not happen, couldn’t be allowed to happen. The gang were family. They were all he had. Mason was all he had, they were like brothers but Mason had said it was all his fault, that he’d fucked up and now Davie and that wee shit Chris were dead. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Owen refused to let the images of the gang fight into his mind. Instead he let himself drift.

  He’d been five when his dad had left and his mum had told him, ‘The minute you’re sixteen you’re on your own. Till then you’re good for nothing except child benefit.’ He’d lived in a crumbling caravan in her shitty back garden. No electricity meant no heating or hot water. The place was almost unbearable. In winter, when he’d stolen enough money, he’d gone to the local swimming pool for a hot shower. Everyone in his class had laughed at him. Arseholes. Then finally he’d moved out. Slept rough for a couple of years. Got a key worker who’d found him a flat and a job. At eighteen he was doing OK. When he could afford to feed the meter, he had hot water and heating. He could wash properly. But people still took a detour around him. It was if the stench of his filthy childhood clung to him. He’d tried to be friendly but the response was always the same: ‘Fuck off, perv.’ ‘Who are you smiling at, cunt face?’ He’d lost the job, then the flat, then eventually had landed a job cleaning. Night work. Solitary. No need for other people. He’d been paid cash in hand and bought the van. He lived under the radar. He cleaned a couple of factories and eventually got to sweep out the Cockroach, back when big Ronnie ran it like it was his home from home. That’s when he’d first come across Mason and it had felt good to be near his strength. There was something about Mason’s confidence. He was sure of himself and Owen had badly wanted to be on his ra
dar. Beside him, Owen had felt himself expand, had boasted about having a pal. A first. Then he’d been allowed to join the gang. Finally, he had become a person with some respect, instead of the weirdo fuckwit who lived like a tramp. But now what was going to happen?

  Owen lifted the cracked mirror, combed back his greasy, sandy-coloured hair. He had the pale blue eyes of a husky and his stained T-shirt had a rip on the left shoulder exposing a large expanse of anaemic skin. He lay down on the filthy mattress and stared at the card. Mrs Hinds had given it to him when he was seven. She had given every child in her class a card on their birthday. It was the only birthday card he’d ever had. Not that he’d ever had a party either. But he had asked once. His stepfather had slapped him so hard he’d lost the hearing in his right ear for a week. He hadn’t asked again. On the card, three fairground horses were alone in a dark forest. The only light came from the fairy lights of the carousel. A white horse in the foreground, three golden stars on its rump, a pink saddle. A large horse in the background, striding out, a blue saddle on its back, a series of small circles on its rump. And a tiny horse to the side, its short legs trying to keep up. A family.

  He looked at the horses and went into the familiar darkness, strained to hear the music in the forest but it was silent as a grave. He watched the horse with the three stars prance. Its legs were high. It was so proud and certain and sure of itself. He bet it had never fucked up.

  As he stared, the lights above the horses seemed to flicker and fade, the forest grew darker and more oppressive. He willed the lights to get brighter. To blot out the darkness. The fear. The unknown future. It had always been unknown, his life. Membership of the gang had been his only real certainty. Owen felt the painkillers and beer hit his stomach, the acid reflux kick in. He yanked open the door and vomited an arc of sour liquid onto the sweet-smelling grass.

  Chapter Four

  The Performer

  ‘Smells like sweeties.’

  In her tenement flat in Tollcross Road, Holly Lithgow poured the sticky liquid into a plastic bottle. Her sister Nikki watched her. ‘What’s in it, Holly?’

  ‘It’s a mixture of saltwater, honey and a wee secret ingredient. Once I rub this on my hands and a bit of chalk, my grip will be fantastic.’

  ‘I’m not happy about this new job of yours. Angie says—’

  ‘Angie who?’

  ‘Angie Burns, she works at the café on London Road.’

  ‘That skinny wee lassie? She looks like she needs a bag of chips inside her. Way too thin. I hope you didn’t tell her anything?’

  ‘No. Just that you got a new job and I was concerned about the hours. I lied about that bit. Besides, what would I tell her? Anyway, I don’t think she was paying attention, she’s started seeing some guy name of George Bellerose, he’s a life coach but I think he’s messing with her head. I’m worried about her.’

  ‘You’re worried about everyone and everything, Nikki. You need to cut it out and think of yourself. You’re going off to Blackpool for a break. Relax and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I mean, Angie denies it and everything but I think he’s got her on some kind of starvation diet.’

  ‘Then she’s off her head listening to him.’

  ‘I think you’re making a mistake.’

  Holly saw the furrowed brow of her younger sister, knew that she was genuinely concerned. ‘Stop worrying, I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘You were doing OK at your last job.’

  ‘I was on the minimum wage, had a pervert for a manager who hit on me constantly, and when I knocked him back, he put me on permanent shelf-stacking. Then I was threatened with redundancy, remember? For the second time in my short working life. Anyway, this pays far better.’

  ‘So, why can’t you tell me about it or let me come and see you perform?’

  ‘I told you it’s a private club.’ Holly combed out her long blonde hair, sprayed a halo of hairspray around it, let it settle.

  ‘But you’re not allowed to tell me where?’

  ‘No, but I already told you, it’s all very legit. These are very fucking professional people. I mean really posh shit; you should hear their accents. They don’t talk like you and me or normal folk, they talk like they’re in the government or royalty.’

  ‘Is it all guys at this place?’

  ‘Stop asking questions, Nikki. I told you, it’s confidential. I’ve signed a contract. I’m a performer, that’s it. End of.’ She packed the chalk into her bag and made sure the lid on the honey water was screwed tight shut; she didn’t want it dripping over her bag. It wouldn’t be professional rolling up at the McIver Club covered in slime. She glanced at her sister, saw her struggling not to say whatever was on her mind. Knew it would out, Nikki never could keep her mouth shut. Holly checked her bag: towels, chalk, ointment, painkillers, purse, phone, car keys. She grabbed her make-up and began applying it.

  ‘Do you strip for these guys?’

  Holly ignored the question, expertly applied a thick layer of foundation, then heavy liner around her green eyes. Two coats of mascara. She stood back, surveyed herself in the mirror. She looked the part.

  Nikki’s voice was quiet, her tone sour. ‘Mum would turn in her grave.’

  ‘Stop it, Nikki. I’m an erotic dancer. I perform for money; just like they do in clubs all over the world. Including Vegas. Christ, there’s no shame in it, so don’t even start to go there. It pays the rent on this flat and the food you pack away when you visit. And, as for Mum, she’s not here to see me, is she? She’s not here to judge. Besides, you’re an adult now and you need to be thinking about what you’re going to do with your life.’ Holly heard the whine in her voice, knew that it sounded like she was nagging, but Nikki needed pushing away from her childish ideals and towards something more realistic. She watched her sister pick at a rag-nail on her thumb and worry at it until she pulled a thin strip of skin from her finger. A tiny pool of blood formed in its place. Holly watched her stick the finger in her mouth and suck the blood away. Nikki had been doing it since she was a kid; it was a sure sign of stress.

  Finally, Nikki spoke. ‘I’m never going to do anything like that. When I leave college, I’m going to get an apprenticeship at the salon.’

  ‘Good for you, you’ll make a great hairdresser.’ Holly tried for enthusiasm but her tone fell short. Anton Cousins salon – Anton’s Style & Smile – was a tiny, local hairdresser in the housing scheme. Anton was going nowhere but he had a thing for Nikki, despite being twenty years her senior. It was a dead-end place but he had told her she could start there and build up her client base. For what? thought Holly. For a lifetime of perming old dears’ hair and listening to them complain about their corns and how the operation to have their hip replaced had been delayed and wasn’t the NHS in a shocking bad way? It wasn’t a life Holly could contemplate, she just couldn’t bear the thought of it. She turned to face her sister. ‘It’s not like in the films, you know. Prince Charming isn’t going to come along and rescue you. You have to make your own luck in this world, you have to look out for yourself.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘This way, I’m in control of my finances. Give it a couple of years and I’ll have enough saved to get a mortgage. I want the security of having my own place. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘You’re on the game, Holly, aren’t you?’

  That was it. ‘I’m not on the fucking game. I’m a performer. Remember I did that circus skills course? Remember how good I was at gymnastics at school? I use these skills every fucking time I perform. And don’t you forget it.’ Holly heard herself rant, knew that she was revealing herself, knew that her sister knew. Still she denied it.

  ‘When we were growing up, you told me you were going to perform in some big, international circus. You said you’d be in the Cirque du Soleil.’

  ‘I still might, someday.’ Holly calmed herself, took the sting and hurt out of her tone. ‘But, in the meantime this pays very well. Can’t you be a little bit pleased f
or me?’

  ‘I think it’s dangerous.’

  ‘It’s not dangerous, it’s complex. You have to move and pretend like you’re in pain but the mechanism’s rigged so you don’t strain yourself. It’s a bit like trapeze only not so straightforward. It’s more like I’m being a stunt woman. Remember all those video games? The Lara Croft stuff? Well, what I do is a bit like that.’

  ‘Then it is dangerous.’

  ‘It’s rigged. I told you, I just need to fake the pain. OK? Happy now?’

  ‘And afterwards?’ Nikki persisted. ‘Do you sleep with them?’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? It’s confidential.’

  ‘I’m scared, Holly.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I think when you signed that contract, you signed away your life.’

  ‘We’re done here.’ Holly picked up her lipstick, drew a slash of red over her lips. Frowned at the tiny scar above her lip, dabbed on more concealer. Once she was satisfied, she sprayed herself liberally with perfume, checked her reflection in the mirror and turned to her sister. ‘I’ll drop you back before I head off to work. And no more talking about me to that skinny wee freak Angie Burns.’

  Chapter Five

  The Waitress

  Angie Burns stretched to her full height of four foot eleven. She was so small and slight that she bought her clothes and shoes from the children’s section of her local supermarket. Her short red hair was sparse and stuck up in spikes around her head. She stood at the window of her flat and gazed out. She was thinking of him again.

  She’d been thirty-four when she’d met George Bellerose in an online chat room. Dating was to have been a fresh start for her. She’d split up with her last boyfriend three years previously and hadn’t met anyone since. Then she’d met George and she’d felt like he was her reward for being patient. Angie knew that she’d been flattered by his attention but George was definitely keen. Soon after they’d chatted, he suggested that they begin seeing each other. Things had moved very quickly, and when he’d told her that he loved her, she’d been delighted. He was a good man who, as a life coach, spent his time helping others to achieve their potential. In the first few weeks of their relationship, George had even made references to an engagement ring and venues and suggested countries where they might honeymoon. His job took him away on business a lot, but each time they reunited it had been special, although he’d never taken her out or invited her to his house, preferring instead to come to hers. ‘Cosying up together’ was how he’d described it.