Fat

by Rob Grant

  The note, then?

  Why not?

  She took out her exercise book and found a clean page that didn't have the impression of an algebraic equation on it. That's the last thing you want on your suicide note. She took out her fountain pen, which was a beautiful Mont Blanc Dad had bought her for passing her entrance exam, and he'd lied to Mum about how much it cost, because Hayleigh had looked it up on the web and it was insanely expensive. She'd started to wonder if it was some sort of spy pen or something, that could see through walls or shoot tiny heat-seeking missiles, but no, it was just a pen. She unsheathed the nib and screwed the lid onto the other end.

  'Dear Mum and Dad,' she wrote, and then added: 'and Jonny'. She hadn't intended to include the brat at all, but it seemed a bit cruel when you really came down to it, and she was feeling quite magnanimous. 'Please don't be sad. This is the best thing for everyone. I am in a happier place, now.' And she signed it with her best celebrity practised autograph signature, 'Hayleigh R. Griffin'. The instant she'd done that, she regretted it. She didn't need to sign her full name, did she? Would they think it might be some other Hayleigh floating in the bath like Ophelia? A Hayleigh T. Griffin, perhaps? Still, what was done was done. She didn't have time to write a thousand different versions, and there was nowhere to hide the rejected drafts anyway so she'd just wind up looking silly.

  She tore the page out of the book carefully and laid it on the chair.

  She went back to the bath and swooshed the water round again. Still a bit on the hot side, but that was probably best. She turned the taps off. The only sound, now, was the water lapping. All that was left to do was climb in the bath and get it over with.

  So why wasn't she doing it?

  She glanced over at the note on the chair. She couldn't help thinking about that last line. Would she really be in a happier place? She was suddenly hit by a terrible, terrible bleakness. What if there really was nothing? Absolutely nothing at all, not even darkness. Somehow, she had managed to conjure up exactly what nothingness felt like, and it was the most awful thing she had ever experienced.

  She spent heaven knows how long trying to shake the feeling of emptiness from her gut. When she finally came out of it, she was shaking. That was a weird interlude. How many precious minutes had it eaten up? She couldn't see the wall clock from inside the cubicle. Was it worth risking a peek?

  No. It wasn't going to help, was it?

  She gripped the big handles on the bath with both hands and hoisted herself out of the chair. How was this going to work, then? Bad leg in first? No, that wouldn't do -- she'd have to put her weight on it at some point, and that was a definite no no. Good leg first? No. The bad leg would be supporting her. She might manage it if she used the crutches, but she hadn't had any instructions on how to use them as yet, and the whole thing could easily end in disaster. The only option, it seemed, was to go in head over heels. There would probably be a big splash, and her bad leg might well crack the other side of the bath with quite a bit of force, but there was no helping that. It might do some serious damage, but it's not as though she was ever going to be using it again, was she? Damn! It was hurting already in anticipation. She wished there was some way she could get her hands on her pain meds. They would make the whole procedure infinitely more bearable. She braced herself and got her balance so that she was exactly on her tipping point, sucked in a deep breath and held it. She hated dunking her head underwater, but there was no avoiding it. She hoped she didn't crack her head against the bath...

  Now, wait a minute.

  She eased back and breathed out again. That might actually be a better way of doing it. If she could somehow guarantee knocking herself out and drowning while she was unconscious, she wouldn't have to go through all that hideous violent wrist-slashing rigmarole. If she aimed to land heavily, smack on her head...

  No. This was foolish. Changing horses midstream. Always a mistake. She was just putting off the inevitable. She had a plan, she should stick to it. Frankly, this whole business with the bath was just getting in the way.

  She lowered herself back into her wheelchair and started winding the towelettes round her hand again. She could do the business, then just let her arms dangle in the bath as her life ebbed away. Super.

  She wound the towelettes around her right hand slowly, almost ritually. This was to be her last act on the planet Earth, and she meant to do it with as much dignity as possible. She took up the assassin's dagger like a high priestess about to perform a sacrifice and turned her left hand over so she could see the veins in the wrist. She had planned to do both wrists, so she could die twice as quickly, of course, but now, thinking it through, that might not be possible. Would she still have the use of her left hand once she'd sliced through it? What if she severed some nerve endings or something and rendered it useless? Plus, if she did it right, blood would be geysering out of it all over the place. She could hardly cut her right wrist with her right hand, now could she? Perhaps she could hold the dagger in her mouth. Oh well, best to get it over and done with.

  The cruel shard hovered over her wrist. She caught a glimpse of her ugly reflection in it. Her tongue was sticking out of the corner of her mouth. No point in hesitating. She raised the dagger just a little bit, but she couldn't make the downward thrust. She tried to conjure up Owen Wilson in his silly Texan outfit, but he just wouldn't come. He just wouldn't sit on the corner of the bath and say 'Do it!' in that stupid voice. Very well, then, thanks so very not at all, Owen, she'd just have to do it on her own.

  She raised the dagger again. Both her hands were shaking. She really needed to be her own hero, right now. She needed to do this one, brave thing.

  She heard the outside door open, and froze. It was probably just a nurse or an orderly. She'd let them do their business and...

  Somebody called her name.

  It was Dad.

  He didn't sound bothered, or worried or anything. Just calling out to see if she happened to be in the loo, more like. All she had to do was stay motionless and stop breathing for a little while.

  'Hayleigh!' he called out again. 'You in here?'

  She heard his footsteps and the clanking of the loo cubicle doors as he checked them. And then the outer door opened again. Was he gone? Was that it? But no, somebody else had come in. There was another set of footsteps: lighter, faster.

  'Is she in here?' It was Jonny's voice. Crappy poo burgers. That meant the Scorpion Queen was back, too. Well, of course she'd be here before six o'clock in the morning. Of course she'd be up before the lark, raring to get back to business, her instruments of torture all polished and shiny after a good night's rest. Still, it wasn't over yet. All Hayleigh had to do was stay calm and cool, and not move until they gave up and left, which, being men, they surely would soon.

  'Bloody hell!' It was Dad. 'What's happened to this bloody mirror? Hayleigh?'

  Still. Be still.

  'Hayleigh? Come on, Jonny. There's another loo at the other end of the corridor.'

  Ha! And just another few seconds of stillness...

  But she heard Jonny's footsteps racing towards the bathroom cubicle, and he skidded and slid into the partition. She glanced back at the door, and there was Jonny's head poking under it, looking up at her.

  'You,' he said, 'are an absolute mentalist.'

  FORTY-FIVE

  The VIP tent seemed extremely VIP indeed to Jeremy. There were quite a few definite A-listers in evidence, and Jeremy was enjoying rubbing shoulders with the great and the good.

  Then a buzz went around the marquee and Jeremy turned to see the Prime Minister and his entourage sweep through the room, meeting and greeting rock stars and movie stars and comedians as if they were all dear old friends. He moved swiftly, but politely, the smile never leaving his face, and in no time at all he was offering Jeremy his hand and his smile. Jeremy didn't doubt for a second the great man had absolutely no recollection of who he was, but then, astonishingly, he turned and introduced Jeremy to his wife, and
then spent quite a while explaining how magnificent and talented Jeremy had turned out to be, and had single-handedly rescued this entire operation from imminent disaster. Jeremy, of course, made the expected modest protestations, but inside, he was so excited he thought he was going to be sick on the spot.

  And that wasn't the end of it, by any means. The Prime Minister then tapped him on the shoulder and said: 'Come on then, Jeremy. Let's get our show on the road,' and nodded to the Secret Service bodyguards that Jeremy was OK, and he found himself part of the very select few who constituted the Prime Ministerial posse. Our show. Blimey.

  They swept into the stadium and mounted the stairs to the podium where the speech was going to be delivered. Jeremy found himself actually standing next to the Prime Minister. His wife on his right-hand side, Jeremy on the left. Unbelievable. Jeremy looked around. There was a very healthy press turn-out. Very healthy indeed, this far out in the sticks. He had, indeed, done a sterling job.

  There was a slight pause in the proceedings before the PM took the short step up to the podium. Jeremy noticed the great man was surveying the assembled mass of the overweight with some amusement. He was humming, softly. 'Dum, dum, dum, dum...' Jeremy recognised the tune, but he couldn't place it for a second. Then it hit him. The Prime Minister was humming a tune from Dumbo. The tune was 'Pink Elephants on Parade'.

  Then the PM stepped up to the podium, to rapturous applause. Jeremy heard the applause echoing in the stadium sound system. Was it, in fact, being sweetened by recorded applause? Unless the audience had all been fitted with personal microphones, what other explanation could there be? He could see the red light on the TV cameras in front of him and the monitor below it.

  And Jeremy Slank was in the shot.

  Jeremy Slank was on national TV.

  In fact, this was probably going to be shown around the world.

  Jeremy Slank had gone global.

  His mouth dried up, suddenly and inexplicably, and it was hard to keep smiling. He felt like he might be swaying. He tried to focus on the auto prompt on the camera, and that worked, because he was surprised and delighted to see the speech he'd written personally had been used almost in its entirety. The only bit that appeared to have been changed was the last line. Jeremy had written something about the rest of the world soon wishing they could be 'as fit as a Brit'. He thought the change that had been made was significantly inferior: it was basically an indirect insult to the volunteers. Still, the PM's speech writers had to do something to make it look like they were worth their salaries.

  Then it was all over. The PM waved, there was more digitally augmented applause and the entourage swept on to a photo opportunity.

  Jeremy followed the Prime Minister along the line of celebrity volunteers, like royalty at a cup final. It was a pretty poor haul of celebs, that was for sure. He hardly recognised half of them, and the ones he did recognise were mostly has-beens or never-weres. But notice had been short, and overweight celebrities are, ironically, notoriously thin on the ground. Jeremy shook hands with all of them. He did know Grenville Roberts -- someone had given him the Cook It, Change It, Dig It! book for Christmas because he was such a hopeless cook, and he now used the boiled eggs recipe all the time. He was going to mention it, but Roberts looked dangerously grumpy, and hadn't he recently gone on some kind of rampage of destruction in some car park or other? Jeremy decided not to risk it.

  The posse moved off again, this time heading for the helicopter pad. The PM was now in conversation with one of his assistants, and Jeremy thought his moment in the spotlight was over, but then the assistant dropped back and said the Prime Minister wanted a quick chat with him.

  Jeremy caught up. The Prime Minister signed some documents, on the move, and then turned to him. 'Good work, Jeremy. Great work. That went very smoothly. Are you going to the launch party?'

  It had been Jeremy's idea to split the launch between Norfolk and London. A lot of the press and most of the celebrities would be too lazy to make the trip to the frozen wastelands beyond Watford Gap, where there be dragons, and this way they could get two stabs at coverage.

  Jeremy nodded. 'Absolutely, Prime Minister. Of course.'

  'Come with us, then, in my... in the ministerial chopper. I've got an interesting proposition for you.'

  Jeremy was staggered. 'I'd be honoured, sir.'

  'Good.' The PM nodded, and turned again to his assistant.

  When they reached the helicopter, Jeremy hovered at the periphery of the group: he imagined there was probably a strict pecking order, and he didn't want to clamber aboard out of turn and make some massive protocol faux pas.

  As he started to mount the steps, a Secret Serviceman stopped him. 'I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid I'm going to have to search you. I'm sure you understand.'

  Jeremy nodded, stepped down and spread out his arms, and it was only at that moment he remembered the silver box Anton had given him.

  It was too late to stop it now, to make some kind of excuse and beg off the helicopter trip altogether: the Secret Serviceman had already started patting him down.

  FORTY-SIX

  The brochures had not done the Well Farm justice. Not even nearly. As soon as the minibus passed through the entrance, Grenville was looking out for the gas ovens. The armed police manning the gates did nothing to dispel the impression that they were, at the very least, entering a modern-day version of Stalag Luft 4.

  The mood in the bus was not good, already. They'd been driven for hours, marched around, trapped, rescued, steamed, chilled, herded, and nobody had thought to offer them refreshment. Worst of all, they were in Norfolk.

  There had been a series of arguments en route, and almost a fight with the driver when he'd refused a request from a gone-to-seed erstwhile rugby player to stop at the motorway services for some water, at the very least. But the driver had his schedule, and the dehydrated female once-upon-a-time children's TV presenter who was close to coma would just have to suck it up until they reached their destination.

  They'd all been calmed down by the promise of sustenance on their arrival at the Farm: a promise that turned out to be as hollow as a chocolate Easter egg. They were, instead, driven directly to a sports stadium in the centre of the facility and herded out onto the pitch.

  And what a sight met their eyes as they emerged from the competitors' tunnel. Fatties, fatties everywhere. A veritable sea of the overweight flooded the stadium pitch. The celebrities were marched to the front of the crowd for another photo opportunity. Hard to believe, but they actually had been given VIP treatment, and spared heaven knows how long of the wait that had been inflicted on the hoi polloi, the huddled masses, the uncelebrated.

  The stadium seating was mostly empty. The massed ranks of the press were all assembled at one end, and digital cameras were clicking away, all trying to get the most amusingly humiliating shot of the throng of tubbies. Grenville would have staked his house that some tabloid wiseacre would caption the picture 'Wouldn't It Be Blubbery'. The PA announced the arrival of the Prime Minister, who made a mercifully short speech, thanking them all for being pioneers of the country's fantastic fitness initiative, which would soon be mimicked around the globe, but never, of course, bettered. He ended with hope that soon, every last one of them would be 'Fit to be a Brit', which Grenville thought was a bit of an insult, implying they were currently unfit to claim citizenship of their own nation.

  The celebrity gross were then hurried out of the stadium to yet another photo opportunity, this time with the PM himself. He spoke to each of them, individually, though with his face directed away from them in order to accommodate the cameras, and through the grimace of his constantly forced rictus of a smile. He said to Grenville that he hoped they could pose together again very soon, for a before and after picture, and without waiting for a reply moved on to a failed contestant from a pop star talent competition, who, everyone really knew, had lost the final precisely because she'd been too fat. It was a good job he hadn't waited for Grenville's re
ply, too. It was a good job for both of them.

  And after that, the press hullabaloo moved on elsewhere. The celebrities were all left in the hands of a young woman who appeared to be made of plastic, and was wearing a sports top labelling her as a 'Well Farms Fitness Consultant', who told them they were moving on, now, to induction, at the head of the queue as befitted their superstar status, she added brightly. Grenville couldn't tell if she was taking the piss or not. He guessed not. That would have required some native intelligence, which the walking Barbie doll failed on all subsequent occasions to demonstrate.

  The superstars followed her as she walked off, rather too briskly for everyone's liking, towards the gym complex. To their collective horror, it soon became apparent they'd be expected to walk all the way. And it was a long way. It was after four p.m. now, and none of them had been offered so much as a glass of water since breakfast. Stomachs were growling, sugar levels were dipping and tempers were fraying quite dangerously. One former weather girl was crying openly, and others were on the brink.

  Grenville jogged as best he could to try to catch up with the wretched woman, and explain the seriousness of the deprivation that had been foisted on them quite unnecessarily, but she'd kept up her pace, oblivious that most of her charges had fallen rather seriously behind -- a couple of them had actually given up and were sitting on the floor in quiet despair -- and Gren couldn't catch her. He'd tried yelling for her attention, but his breath was short, his mouth was dry and she didn't seem to possess anything as sophisticated as attention, in any case.

  Finally, they reached the gym complex. The unspeakable plastoid woman was waiting for them, sporting an air-hostess-advert smile, and she chided them for being 'slowcoaches'.