Call Me Star Girl

by Louise Beech

  I poured myself a cup.

  ‘I’m going to be coming over all the time,’ I said. ‘It’s only a twenty-minute walk away. You’re going to get sick of me, I promise.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Sandra said. ‘Be safe, won’t you, Stella. Be happy.’

  It was like she could sense that my new job would in fact keep me from her. That the training and the events involved would mean I only got to visit once a week.

  She died three years after I left home. A sudden stroke. All I could think of then was her in the kitchen that day, saying be happy. I think I destroyed her happiness when I left and then became too wrapped up in my new life to see her much. I think that killed her. She is the one person in this world who never hurt me. Not once. Without her, I have no idea what would have become of me aged twelve.

  I hugged her when I left that day.

  I thanked her for all she had done.

  Of course, the star perfume came with me.

  It never left my side until a dark night seven years later.

  41

  STELLA

  NOW

  When I finish speaking, I’m silent.

  For what feels like minutes, but could well be just seconds, I’m as mute as the phones. I wonder if my eyes flash blue like they do. The airwaves are quiet, too, and will be until someone goes live; until Stephen comes in.

  The studio phone sparks its lightning, blinking over and over and over. Then – like the bassline to its repetitive song – someone starts pounding on the main door again. The peace is over; I sense that it will never again be so still.

  I look at the clock; ten past five. God, I was on air for half an hour. It passed by in an instant, and now I can hardly recall what I said. It has been recorded though. It exists forever. But I don’t want to hear it. Just like when I played dead with Tom. I watched it once, with him, because I was unconscious and hadn’t been able to see it when it happened live. Then I never wanted to see it again. I have played dead, and I have spoken about the dead, and now I won’t look back. Now I must go where I’m supposed to, but I have no idea where that is.

  Where do I belong?

  Who do I belong to?

  The pounding continues. Stephen will be trying to get in. Now I’m not speaking, I can hear him calling my name on the other side of the door. There is another voice out there too, one I don’t recognise, male. What if they get in? They can’t. I need to get out, escape, get away from here, but that’s the only door. I stand, sending the chair toppling over. I put my head in my hands. Then I scream; at the ceiling; at the door; at the foyer beyond.

  At the world.

  What have I done? What have I done?

  Now I’m afraid. Sorry, sad, and desperately afraid.

  I can’t undo any of it, though, I can only plan what I do next. But there’s no escaping this building until whoever is out there leaves, and they’re not likely to go anywhere if they heard my final words. God, the police. Will they be here too? Some listener may well have called them. Would there have been sirens, or would the early hour mean they would come quietly, stealing through the night, flashing radio-phone-blue lights?

  I really am alone now.

  It’s just me and what I have done.

  I turn on my phone, thinking I want to reach out, but regret it. Notifications ping and vibrate. I don’t want to read or listen to any of them. I don’t want to know what they think of me. Maeve Lynch has sent a text, and I can’t help seeing some of the message in a snippet at the top of my screen:

  I’ve been listening. Stella, please tell me it’s not true?

  I can’t bear that she is disappointed in me. I want to call her and say … Say what? I want her sweet, Irish voice to talk about songs to me, not ask why I have done such a terrible thing.

  There are seven voice messages. Three are from Tom. I want to listen but I’m afraid. My finger hovers over one of them. Will he be angry? Shocked? Will he love me still? More? I’m afraid he won’t love me at all. That I cannot face. I don’t listen to what he has to say.

  There are fifty-seven Twitter symbols indicating that I’ve been tagged in numerous tweets. Frowning, I look at the first one.

  @StellaMcKeever is live on #WLCR right NOW!! She says she DID IT!! #VickyValbon #girlinthealley #BabyKiller

  I can’t help it – I don’t want to, but I look at another. And another. And another. Until they blur into one mass of words.

  Oh. My. God. #StellaMcKeever Anyone listening to this???? #girlinthealley

  Is it April Fool’s Day early??? #StellaMcKeever #StarGirl

  She did it with a star perfume bottle!!! #StarGirl #GirlInTheAlley

  #StarGirl #StarGirl #StarGirl

  I look at my slither of window, at the narrow slit that has given me a limited view of the sky for the last five years. I want to see the bigger picture. I go closer to it. I remember reading once that the glow from the nearest star is four years old by the time we see it. That’s how far away they are and how long it takes for the light to travel. There’s just one shining there in the absolute centre of the glass. How soon will it be morning, and will that final star be gone?

  I turn my phone off, throw it in my bag, grab my coat and head into the foyer. I scream again.

  Victoria stands in front of the main door. I close my eyes and open them. She is still there. She’s not bloody now. Her face is angelic; pain-free, glowing, serene. But she shakes her head, takes off her red coat and holds it out to me. I know that she is part of my imagination. My breakdown. My conscience. She always has been.

  The pounding on the door continues.

  ‘You’re not real,’ I say aloud. ‘But I listened to you…’

  Stella, why did you do it?

  I won’t listen to her now. What’s done is done. Go forwards, not back. Go up, not down. I hear her voice all around me, a whispery whirlwind.

  Stella, why did you do it like that? That’s not how I wanted it…

  I cover my ears and close my eyes.

  Come with me, then. I think you want to. Come with me.

  I open my eyes. Victoria moves towards the stairs, beckoning me. I’m sure I feel a breeze on my cheeks as she does. She heads up the steps.

  Still, the pounding on the door continues. Stephen’s voice on the other side. ‘I heard you scream, Stella! Heard you talking to someone. Who’s in there? Are you okay? Open the door, won’t you? If someone made you say all that stuff on air, it’ll all be okay, just let me in!’

  Victoria has disappeared. The foyer smells of the star perfume. I ignore him and head up the stairs. On the first floor, I pause. Listen. I go to the fire door behind one of the sofas and open it. With the metal stairs from here to the ground broken, no one can reach me this way either. I can hear voices. They must all be at the front of the building.

  Not that way, Stella.

  Victoria’s words come from above me. I close the fire door and follow them up the stairs. To Stephen’s office on the second floor. To his immaculately tidy space, where I was once interviewed, where I once tripped, spilling my belongings everywhere. To the room where my life changed, and I started playing people’s lives.

  Victoria waits by the stairs to the next floor. She beckons me and begins to ascend the steps.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I call.

  She turns and puts a pale finger to her rose-pink lips. I remind myself that it’s my mind creating this. That I’m just talking to my own guilt. My conscience. Because it still isn’t eased; I still feel guilty.

  I follow Victoria – this figment of my pain – because I have nowhere else to go. It’s just me and her now. Who else will have me? By the time I reach the next floor – the third, where we have all abandoned broken chairs and old laptops over the years – she has already disappeared up the final flight of steps. The ones to the roof.

  I follow her.

  Outside it is dark. The chill October air bites at my thin blouse, numbs my nose, and stirs me. Despite the long hours, I feel more aw
ake than I ever have before. I know the dawn light is less than an hour from birth, but the soft hum of traffic on the nearby motorway tells me the morning is under way. The new day will start whether I want it to or not.

  I let the door slam shut and lock it from this side, so even if anyone gets in downstairs they won’t be able to reach me.

  I’ve never been up here before. I scan the flat area slowly, the chimney, the skylight. And my heart sinks; at the opposite side of the roof, Victoria stands with her back to the carpark and her eyes on me, shimmering like one of those fake candles. The flicker is as regular as a heartbeat. The grainy world behind her is suffocated by the intense light she emanates. She is all I can see. All that exists. She holds the baby to her chest again, wrapped snugly in her red coat. Its face is concealed by the collar.

  This is not what I wanted, Stella, she says. This is not how it was supposed to happen.

  ‘I told them,’ I whisper. ‘I told them.’

  Victoria shakes her head sadly at me. Despite the sorrow, she looks stronger than she did that night. Taller. Brighter. Bigger. I am the one who is small. She will eternally be a somebody. I will forever be known as a killer.

  This need never have happened, she says.

  Then she closes those green eyes and she falls. Backwards. Hair wild. Arms out, like she’s a child making snow angels, her baby tucked under her chin. Both gone in a flash.

  ‘No!’ I scream and run to the edge. ‘I’m sorry!’

  Below, nothing. No Victoria. No coat. No baby. My heart hammers so fast I think I’ll choke. Then people stream into sight. They emerge from around the corner where the main door is. They must have heard my screams. A man I don’t recognise points up towards me, so I back away, into the shadows again. Others gasp.

  ‘Stella!’ This voice I know: Tom. My Tom. ‘Stella! What the hell are you doing up there?’ I peer over the edge. He’s at the front of the crowd. He has his coat on over the T-shirt and shorts he wears in bed.

  ‘Stella! Please go back inside.’ Another voice I know: my mum. ‘Go inside and come down and let us in!’ She is at Tom’s side. I realise this is only the third time they’ve ever met. What a night to be a family.

  ‘Stella, the police are here, and they want to make sure you’re okay.’ This time it’s Stephen Sainty. ‘We just want you to come out. If someone is with you, we want to speak to them too. Stella, can you answer us, please?’

  I feel sick, but I can’t throw up now. I inhale deeply and take a tentative step towards the edge of the roof. When I’m a foot away from it, I peer down at the tiny crowd. At my mum, Tom, Stephen, two police officers and all the other faces I don’t recognise. I frown, look harder: Miles – The Man Who Knows – is with them too. His camera swings from his neck like a pendulum. He stands behind the rest of them, wringing his hands. Was he listening to WLCR earlier? He must have been. Were my words what he expected?

  ‘Stella, please,’ cries Tom. ‘Move away from the edge.’

  ‘I like it here,’ I call. ‘I can see everything.’

  ‘Stella, you’re scaring me!’ He cups his hands around his mouth. ‘Why did you say all that on the radio, for God’s sake? That isn’t you! What are you playing at? Tell them you didn’t really kill Victoria. Tell them!’

  ‘But I did,’ I cry.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I love you,’ I say.

  ‘Then come down, Stella, and we can sort this out.’

  ‘You win,’ I cry.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The chopping board. In the kitchen. Our dance!’

  ‘Our what? Stella, what the hell are you talking about? Just come down!’

  ‘I’ll let you leave it all wild and diagonal now!’ I cry. ‘You can leave crumbs wherever you want! You can put it right near the edge if you want to!’

  Tom looks distraught. Even from up here I see the colour drain from his face. It makes me want to reach out and touch him in his fearful moment. To comfort him. To tell him I did all this for him. He must know that.

  ‘I don’t want the bloody chopping board near the edge,’ he yells. ‘And I don’t want you there either!’

  I laugh; I can’t help it. He’s right. I should be further back, the way I put the chopping board. But, in this, I’d rather lose. I move a little closer to the edge.

  ‘I’ve never been up here before,’ I yell. ‘I’ve opened the door and looked out, but I’ve never walked onto the roof. Not in five years. It’s really quite wonderful. The city looks so different.’

  ‘Come down, please, and admit you didn’t kill anyone!’ cries Tom.

  ‘But I did.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘He knows what happened.’ I point to Miles, The Man Who Knows. ‘He saw me.’ They all turn to him. He shrinks back. ‘He was there! He saw me leaving the alley! Tell them, Miles.’

  One of the police officers approaches him.

  The other one calls, ‘Stella, we can deal with all of this at the station. Please come down and talk to us. Whatever did or didn’t happen, this isn’t the way to do it. Someone might get hurt.’

  ‘Miles will tell you everything he knows,’ I cry.

  ‘Stella, please come down.’ It’s my mum now. ‘I’ll come with you to the station and we can straighten it all out. I think you’re not feeling like yourself. This is some sort of breakdown. You’ve had a lot going on recently.’

  ‘You mean like trying to look myself in the mirror each day?’ I yell. ‘Yes, it’s been difficult. You must know about that, though?’

  She nods and says something I can’t hear.

  ‘You’ll have to shout,’ I cry.

  ‘I’ve made many mistakes,’ she yells, and then covers her mouth as though embarrassed.

  ‘You once told me I began wrong,’ I call. ‘Remember that? You said when my feet emerged before my head, all bloody and stuff, you knew I’d be an awkward girl. Well, you were right, weren’t you? I began wrong because I am wrong! Maybe it’s because my father is a murderer, eh? Maybe because you didn’t even want me! I think babies can sense that, even before they are born.’

  ‘No,’ she cries, holding an arm out pleadingly. ‘You’re not wrong! I’m the one who has been wrong. The one who did wrong. Come down; let me say it to you. I don’t care what you said on the radio, I love you.’

  ‘You do now,’ I yell.

  ‘Maybe,’ she admits. ‘But isn’t that better than never? Come down and we can put right everything between us. I’ll do whatever it takes, I promise you. Just come down and let me explain.’

  ‘I used to think you were with the stars,’ I say. ‘Not when you left me. I was old enough to know better then. But when you went out at night when I was small and weren’t back in the morning. I thought, that’s where she’s gone.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I left you,’ she cries. ‘We’re all here now, like this, because of me, not because of you.’ She pauses. ‘Show us the star perfume bottle.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘You heard what happened to it.’

  ‘No,’ cries my mum. ‘I don’t think you’re capable! Show me the perfume!’

  ‘I can’t,’ I scream. ‘It’s gone!’

  ‘Stella,’ yells Tom. ‘Stop this and just come down now!’

  I shake my head. I have to make them believe me and there’s only one way to do that.

  ‘I wish I could come down,’ I tell Tom. ‘You have no idea how I wish that you and I could just disappear together.’

  ‘Maybe we can!’

  ‘No. We can’t. You know that, and I know that. The minute I open that door, they won’t be all nice and, Oh, it’s going to be okay, we’ll sort this out. They’ll arrest me. They’ll interrogate me. I’ll be all over the news. I’ll be hated.’

  ‘Retract what you’ve said then,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Stella!’ It’s Stephen. A police officer is whispering in his ear. ‘I know you. Your family does. And if you did do
this, the way you—’

  ‘She didn’t!’ cries my mum, urgent.

  ‘The way you described,’ continues Stephen, ‘then we know they were circumstances beyond your control. You’re not a cold-blooded killer. You were driven to it. So please come down and let us help you.’

  ‘Stephen,’ I yell. ‘Just think how this will send the WLCR ratings through the roof! You’ll be the hottest station around. Promise me you’ll go all the way with it. Tell them everything about tonight. About this. Just don’t reheat it, will you? Give them something new every time.’ I pause to control my voice as the emotion builds. ‘And tell Maeve she was the best thing about working here. Tell her I hope she will understand one day.’

  ‘You tell her,’ cries Stephen. ‘Come down and we can take you to her, right now, at the hospital.’

  The stars are fading. The four-year-old light will die until tomorrow night, when it emerges again. There’s a hint of sun in the lower realms of the inky sky. Soon the night will be gone altogether. And I’m not sure if I want to be here either. I belong to this night. I have belonged to it since I handed in my notice, since that night in the alley, since I met Tom, since my mum left me and then came back, since I found out who my father is.

  The Man Who Knows – no, Miles – moves away from the crowd, from the policeman at his side, and he slowly lifts the camera. I imagine I hear a magnified click as he takes a picture. No flash. Perhaps it isn’t needed. He knows what he’s doing. Will I be clear, or blurred like the ones in the alley, like the one of me as a child? Will it be a truth photograph? Will he share it on social media and use the Star Girl hashtag? Will it go viral?

  ‘Come down, Stella!’ screams my mum.

  I smile and blow her a kiss.

  ‘Listen to her!’ yells Stephen.

  I ignore him.

  ‘Please, Stella!’ cries Tom. ‘I love you! It’s only ever been you!’

  ‘It’s only ever been you,’ I shout back. ‘This is what love is.’