Ian Probert's Blog, page 18

The Comeback – Chapter 01

Been a little too busy to work on this blog for the past week. In the meantime here’s a question for my numerous followers (well, about 12 followers actually). This is something that I began a year ago and then abandoned. I sent this one to an agent and was asked for the full m/s. However, I didn’t have the energy to continue past three chapters.

I’d appreciate a little feedback. Anyone?

 

The Comeback

Chapter 01

 

‘Come off it Dino, you gotta be serious about this.’

‘I am serious, Jimmy. I mean it.’

‘But you haven’t done anything like this for… Just how long has it been?’

‘Twenty-five years… Twenty six, I suppose, if you’re counting.’

‘So why now – after all this time?’

‘It’s my granddaughter’s wedding… I just want to make it a special day for her.’

In the back room of the Royal Oak in Canning Town Dino Andretti stood before the desk of Jimmy Smith like a naughty schoolboy waiting for the cane. He was sixty-two-years-of-age: balding, fat, nineteen or twenty stone. In contrast, Jimmy couldn’t have been older than thirty-five: slicked back hair, wiry thin, scholarly glasses. From an elegant leather seat he looked Dino up and down through those glasses. It was difficult to know what was going through his mind.

‘Look Dino,’ he said, almost tenderly. ‘Our families go back a long way, there’s no denying that. But if it’s money you’re after we can work something out. You don’t have to do something like this.’

‘I can do it, Jimmy,’ said Dino, a hint of iron in his voice. ‘Don’t you worry about me. I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t… Some things you never forget.’

Jimmy shook his head slowly. Dino and his father had been at school together. They had been best friends until the day he died. It pained Jimmy to have to say this: ‘I’m sorry Dino, but you have to be realistic. It’s a young man’s game. It always has been. At your age you should be putting your feet up. Doing the garden. Something peaceful.’

Standing beside Jimmy in a smart grey suit was Alan Civil. Alan was a muscular twenty-year-old and this was the first time that he had met Dino. He had none of his boss’s sentiment and simply saw Dino for what he was. ‘No offence, mate,’ he interjected. ‘But you ain’t up to it. Anyone can see that.’

Jimmy shot an angry glare at his boy, who took a step backwards and immediately fell silent. ‘Take no notice of the kid, Dino,’ he said. ‘He means well but he hasn’t learned to control that mouth of his.’

Dino stiffened. The buttons bulged on his too-tight jacket. He loosened his tie to let some air in. ‘He’ll learn,’ he said, slowly turning to look Alan in the eye. ‘If they’ve got a brain they all learn.’

Alan stepped forward, about to say something. But a short, sharp glance from Jimmy once again cut him short. Jimmy slid open a drawer in his desk and pulled out a metal cashbox. He opened it and took out a pristine brick of banknotes. He counted it nonchalantly, accustomed to holding large sums of money, licking the tips of his fingers as he did so. ‘Listen Dino,’ he said at last. ‘Here’s ten. You know I wouldn’t do this for anybody else but it’s yours. Just take it and walk out of the door now. No need to worry about paying me back. You can get me some tickets or something… Get the kids some autographs…’

Dino looked at the money and fell silent for a moment. ‘Thank-you Jimmy,’ he sighed. ‘It’s not that I’m not grateful but it’s… it’s not enough.’

Jimmy Smith looked surprised. ‘Not enough? Come again?’ he said. 

‘He says it’s not enough, Mr. Smith,’ said Alan, anxious to be involved.

‘I need sixty,’ Dino continued.

Jimmy’s eyes widened. ‘Sixty?’ he said. ‘What is this? The fucking royal wedding?’

‘Ha, ha…royal wedding,’ said Alan.

‘I know,’ said Dino, ignoring the boy. ‘These things cost a lot of money these days. There’s the cars, the catering and whatnot. It all adds up. The invites alone are almost a grand. It’s daylight robbery, I’m telling you.’

But Jimmy was already suspicious. ‘You sure you need the money for a wedding?’ he asked. ‘You ain’t in trouble are you? You know you can tell me if you are.’

‘No. Nothing like that,’ replied Dino. ‘I just want to give my little girl a special day.’

Jimmy thought for a moment. ‘Listen, I shouldn’t do this but I can let you have twenty,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But I can’t give it to you for nothing. I’ll need you to buy me a drink some day soon. You know that.’

Dino looked at the younger man awkwardly and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I don’t want to offend you, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘But I need sixty and I hear tell that the purse for this job is eighty.’

Jimmy Smith found himself laughing at the older man. ‘Fucking purse,’ he said. ‘Never heard it called that before.’

Jimmy stopped for a moment and once again looked the older man up and down. He was known for his cold dead eyes. More than once they had seen him though difficult times. Alan Civil took the silence as an opportunity to fill the room with his voice. ‘Listen old man,’ he said. ‘Mr. Smith’s a busy man. Why don’t you just take the money and fuck off like a good old boy?’

Under normal circumstances a speech such as this would have been acceptable. Alan’s main job description was to intimidate people who were getting on his boss’s tits. Today, however, Alan was lacking a proper sense of history. He simply had no idea who he was talking to.

Dino moved fast. And even though the younger man was a good foot taller than him, he instantly had Alan pinned against the wall by his throat. ‘Watch your fucking mouth, kid,’ he said, hitting Alan hard in the stomach, making him gasp. ‘Learn some fucking respect.’

Dino hit him a second time, this time in the balls. Alan let out a yelp and crumpled to the floor groaning. Less than four seconds had elapsed since Alan’s insult.

‘Leave the little wanker alone, Dino,’ said Jimmy, smiling but somehow looking serious at the same time. ‘He don’t mean no harm. He’s just young.’

‘Sorry Jim,’ said Dino. ‘I know that. Yes, I know that.’ He was aware that he had overreacted. But it was a calculated overreaction. Normally he would have let the boy’s insult go but he was keen to prove a point.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Jimmy. ‘All the same, that was pretty to watch, Dino. You don’t waste any time do you? You’re still a sight to behold.’

‘Thanks. You know I appreciate you saying that.’

‘Listen Dino, let me think about it for a day or two. I’m not saying that I’m giving you the work but I’ll give it some consideration. You’re no spring chicken any more, Dino, and this job needs a safe pair of hands.’

‘You won’t find yourself a safer pair of hands.’

‘Well that’s arguable,’ said Jimmy, staring at a pile of papers at his desk like an accountant. ‘There’s three or four boys I know who would have this for their breakfast.’

‘I’m sure that’s true,’ said Dino. ‘But they’re not as hungry as I am right now.’

Shotgun Reality – Chapter 04

truth42:

A few slight amendments.

Originally posted on ianprobertbooks:

I’m back in the apartment, my better judgement laid waste by the drink and the drugs. I unlock the safe behind Francis Bacon’s Screaming Pope and pull out an old fashioned paper address book. Wrenching the ancient Nokia from its charger I order a take-away. The voice at the other end of the line sounds French and is surprised and obviously pleased to receive my call. I list my requirements and the voice promises delivery within the hour. We negotiate a fee – $2,000 in used notes. 

Now I’m shaking like a lunatic, part of me is already regretting my recklessness. Another part of me is already plotting and scheming, attempting to rationalise what I have just done. Still another part of me is licking its lips in anticipation. This is the part that I catch a lingering glimpse of as I parade in front of the bathroom mirror, holding…

View original 808 more words

Shotgun Reality – Chapter 04

I’m back in the apartment, my better judgement laid waste by the drink and the drugs. I unlock the safe behind Francis Bacon’s Screaming Pope and pull out an old fashioned paper address book. Wrenching the ancient Nokia from its charger I order a take-away. The voice at the other end of the line sounds French and is surprised and obviously pleased to receive my call. I list my requirements and the voice promises delivery within the hour. We negotiate a fee – $2,000 in used notes. 

Now I’m shaking like a lunatic, part of me is already regretting my recklessness. Another part of me is already plotting and scheming, attempting to rationalise what I have just done. Still another part of me is licking its lips in anticipation. This is the part that I catch a lingering glimpse of as I parade in front of the bathroom mirror, holding in my stomach, fingertips rolling over the muscle, snarling at myself.

The minutes tick quickly by. I fill in the gaps by devouring four more massive, grandiose lines and rolling another spliff, which obviously has no effect but gives me something to do with my hands. I think about ghosts, as I often do at times like this, whether they exist or not, hoping they don’t. I’m not really comfortable with the idea of the ghost of my grandmother watching silently over my shoulder as I do what I’m about to do. As usual I decide they do not exist but I still have one or too lingering doubts.

The Nokia rings exactly 58 minutes after making my order. A voice tells me to go down to the street. I stuff an envelope full of dollars into my jacket pocket and almost skip down the stairs, like a little kid at Christmas, scarcely able to contain my excitement.

There is an anonymous white saloon parked outside the apartment block. The driver leans out of the window and motions me urgently towards him. As I emerge from the darkness I see the silhouettes of two people sitting in the rear, a male and a female. I lean into the car and deftly pass the money over to the man in such a casual manner that he doesn’t even notice the envelope full of notes that has fallen into his lap. He is sweating profusely as he asks for payment and I motion towards his crotch; he laughs without humour and then apologises before turning his head towards the girl on the back seat. She now belongs to you, is what the look on his face is telling me. He barks some unintelligible orders and the girl reluctantly opens the car door to be captured by my arms. I march her trembling body across to the apartment entrance without looking back or saying a word. There are no witnesses to the scene, and if even there were all they would see is a pair of drunken lovers rolling home after a night on the tiles, that’s what I tell myself. The whole exchange has taken less than a minute to complete. We awkwardly walk arm in arm slowly up the stairs, the elevator being far too public. 

Before we reach the apartment I’m feeling an overwhelming sense of disappointment that leaves me dizzy and swooning. Even in the half-light of the stairs I can see that the girl is pretty – beautiful actually. A light blonde fringe hanging over a perfect complexion and the elegant point of a fragile nose. She smells pretty, too, hurriedly drenched in a perfume that is far too expensive for her. I hold one hand in my left, firmly but not too firmly. My other arm is around her waist where it absent-mindedly checks for any excess fat. It is not disappointed, the girl is lean, firm and toned like a prize racehorse.

We get to the door and the girl turns to face me. There are too many things wrong with the look that she fires at me. Firstly, she is scared, terrified actually. Her whole body is shaking uncontrollably, her teeth are chattering with fear. Secondly, despite the hurriedly applied make-up, she is far too young. On the phone I had asked for someone in the age range of 22-26, this one is definitely younger than twenty, possibly as young as seventeen. Already I’m feeling like killing myself. 

I find it hard to conceal my disappointment as I take the girl’s jacket, (very cheap, pink, fake fur) revealing a body that would be well worth $2000 dollars of anybody’s money. She is wearing a tight grey sweater that emphasises her large natural looking breasts and impossibly slim waist. Ordinarily she would be perfect but now I simply see her as a problem. An enormous problem. I place her in a seat and offer her a drink. The girl shrugs at me nervously so I pour her a neat brandy which she proceeds to drink like cold tea. Immediately she begins to cough and splutter. I hand the girl my handkerchief and ask her name. “Sara,” she replies, when the coughing has subsided. Her accent is a cross pollination of Eastern European and broad Bronx. 

Eastern European. It gets worse. The girl starts to sniff and I realise that she has a cold. I watch a thin stream of mucus hang from her left nostril and gesture towards the handkerchief. She looks at it blankly and then I point to her nose, which she clumsily wipes. Very bad. Very bad indeed. Then the girl suddenly stares deep into my eyes, like Bambi looking at his dying mother, “What are you going to do to me?,” she asks. A single tear trickles down her cheek.

Man versus O2 customer support round two

Has there ever been worse customer support than O2? Take a look at the transcript of a conversation I’ve just had that spanned an hour.

Every month I top up my 10-year-old’s mobile phone with £10. This month the £10 lasted four days. Apparently I’d topped up a day early and this is why she lost all her allowance. Terrible. Terrible. Terrible.

 

General Info



Chat start time
 May 8, 2014 11:48:10 AM EST


Chat end time
 May 8, 2014 12:43:29 PM EST


Duration (actual chatting time)
 00:55:18


Operator
 O2 – Karn

 

Chat Transcript



info: Welcome to O2. Someone will be with you soon. 

info: You’re through to ‘O2 – Carmela’

O2 – Carmela: Hi I’m O2 – Carmela. How can I help?

Ian Probert: Hello Carmela. I topped up £10 into my 10-year-old daughter’s pay and go account four days ago. The balance has run out. She says she’s hardly used it.

O2 – Carmela: I’ll check this for you.

Ian Probert: Thanks.

O2 – Carmela: Please help me her current credit balance.

Ian Probert: 0.07p

O2 – Carmela: Thanks.

O2 – Carmela: Please confirm me the name of her tariff.

Ian Probert: No idea.

O2 – Carmela: Okay.

O2 – Carmela: Please confirm me the last Top-Up method, date and amount.

Ian Probert: 4 may. £10.

O2 – Carmela: Thanks.

O2 – Carmela: Was it Top-up with credit/debit card or voucher or other method?

Ian Probert: Online credit card

O2 – Carmela: Thanks/

O2 – Carmela: I can see that she get charged for every call and SMS from 6th of this month as her tariff wasn’t active.

Ian Probert: Well that’s incorrect.

O2 – Carmela: You’ve Top-Up her number on 5th of this month but tariff anniversary date is on 6th.

Ian Probert: So I paid early. So what?

O2 – Carmela: Yes, one day early.

O2 – Carmela: On 5th, she have used up some credit balance and left with £8.04 credit on anniversary date.

Ian Probert: Is that a bad thing? Does she lose all her money because of that?

O2 – Carmela: Yes, she have used up now.

O2 – Carmela: From now, tariff anniversary date will be the date you Top-Up her number.

Ian Probert: She only gets £10 a month and it’s all gone within four days.

Ian Probert: It’s terrible.

Ian Probert: She’s 10 years old.

Ian Probert: Are you still there?

O2 – Carmela: I’m here.

O2 – Carmela: She have spent £7.62 for sending SMS.

O2 – Carmela: Sorry, £7.00 for sending SMS and 50p for voicemail service.

Ian Probert: That’s awful. She thinks she has 500 texts. She’s only 10. Can’t you do anything about this?

Ian Probert: I top up her phone every month. I was never made aware that it needed to be on a certain date. This is a really bad service.

O2 – Carmela: You can Top-Up anytime but she need to have £10.00 on anniversary date.

O2 – Carmela: If she have £10.00 credit on anniversary date, there’s no any problem Top-Up anytime.

Ian Probert: Well if you don’t do anything to help her we’re leaving O2. I’ve been with O2 for 10 years. 

O2 – Carmela: I’m sorry, but this is not an O2 faults.

O2 – Carmela: You should be aware of the things happen on her account.

Ian Probert: Of course it is. We were never made aware of about topping under by a certain date. I was told it was £10 a month, which is what I’ve been paying.

Ian Probert: Don’t insult me. I should not be ‘aware of things happen on her account’. Put me through to your line manager please.

O2 – Carmela: She should keep it on her tariff anniversary date.

O2 – Carmela: I can change her tariff to Text & Web so that she’ll get 300 free UK texts and 500MB UK web and Wi-Fi

Ian Probert: She’s 10. Get that into your head. She doesn’t know about dates. 

O2 – Carmela: I’ll put you to him.

Ian Probert: Good.

O2 – Carmela: Please stay connected.

Ian Probert: I will.

info: Hold on. You’re being put through to Mohit. 

info: You’re through to ‘Mohit’

Mohit: Hello Ian.

Mohit: Just give me a few minutes while I go through the chat.

Ian Probert: Hello. Have you read the transcript of this conversation?

Mohit: I’m really sorry for the trouble Ian.

Mohit: We did sent a text on 29th April confirming that the free call allowances are over.

Mohit: This was the text.

Mohit: SMS Notification: O2: Hello. You’ve used up all your minutes for this month. So you’ll pay our standard call rates for the rest of it. Your next allowance starts on 06 May.

Ian Probert: What can you do to help?

Mohit: The message also specifys that the new set of allowances can be added after 06th May.

Ian Probert: She’s 10. She’s a future O2 customer that could be with you for years.

Mohit: I do agree with you, but the charges are valid so a refund will not be possible.

Mohit: You’ll have to Top-Up the account again to get the tariff allowances.

Ian Probert: Ok. Well I’ll just complain to your complaints department. Quite terrible inhumane service. 

Mohit: If you want then I can transfer the chat to our escalations team.

Ian Probert: Yes.

Mohit: Just be online.

Ian Probert: I want compensation for my time on this online chat, too.

Mohit: I’m sorry but I’ll not be able to compensate anything.

Mohit: Just be online while i TRANSFER THE CHAT.

Mohit: Sorry for the capital letters.

info: We’re putting you through to the right person, won’t be long.

info: You’re through to ‘O2 – Karn’

O2 – Karn: Hi I’m Karn from the O2 escalation team.Please give me a minute while I go through your previous chat. Please stay connected with me.

Ian Probert: Thank you.

O2 – Karn: Thanks for waiting.

Ian Probert: ok

O2 – Karn: I appreciate your patience.

Ian Probert: It’s wearing thin.

O2 – Karn: I do understand.

Ian Probert: I wish I did.

O2 – Karn: I can see that the tariff is not active.

Ian Probert: I don’t know

Ian Probert: I just pay £10 for my daughter’s phone every month. It should last more than 4 days.

O2 – Karn: Yes, every tariff allowances can be used for 30 days.

Ian Probert: She’s 10. She doesn’t know that. As a company you have failed to get this across. This was never explained to me or my little daughter.

Ian Probert: She’s potentially an O2 customer for life. Not if it goes like this.

O2 – Karn: I understand.

O2 – Karn: So if you want I can help you change tariff for this month and then you can again opt in for the current tariff next month.

Ian Probert: I paid £10 on Monday. It’s gone. How will this help?

O2 – Karn: It means you’ll get allowances for this month and not again Top-Up for this month for allowances.

Ian Probert: So she gets her £10 back?

O2 – Karn: She’ll receive tariff allowances for the Top-Up done.

Ian Probert: So I don’t have to pay another £10?

O2 – Karn: You’re correct.

Ian Probert: Well that’s great. Thank you. When can she start using her phone?

O2 – Karn: I’ll help you with some tariffs. Let me know which one you’re looking for this month.

Ian Probert: The same one she always has.

O2 – Karn: For the same tariff, she’ll need to Top-Up again for this month. But there are some tariffs I can help you so that you need not again Top-Up for this month.

Ian Probert: Ok. Tell me.

O2 – Karn: She can go for O2 unlimited tariff, text and web tariff, text and call tariff or Favorite place tariff.

Ian Probert: I don’t know what they are. Let me check online.

O2 – Karn: I’ll let you know this on live chat itself.

Ian Probert: OK

O2 – Karn: For text and Internet, we have the Text & Web tariff that gives you free text messages to any UK network and Internet according to your monthly Top-Up.

O2 – Karn: - for a monthly Top-Up of £10, you’ll get 300 texts, 500 MB web and unlimited Wi-Fi

O2 – Karn: - for a monthly Top-Up of £15, you’ll get 500 texts, 500 MB web and unlimited Wi-Fi

O2 – Karn: - for a monthly Top-Up of £30 or more, you’ll get unlimited texts, 500 MB web and unlimited Wi-Fi

O2 – Karn: This is text and web tariff.

O2 – Karn: She’ll get 300 texts, 500 MB web and unlimited Wi-Fi for Top-Up of £10.

Ian Probert: Yes but she has an allowance of £10 per month. She’s 10. This is very frustrating. Every time I’ve topped up for her I’ve ended up online speaking to O2 for hours. I can’t keep doing this. It costs me money.

O2 – Karn: I’m sorry for problem.

Ian Probert: As I’ve always explained. She needs to call her friends, a little texting. a little web. Nothing else.

Ian Probert: None of those tariffs appear to include calls.

O2 – Karn: Then there is text and call tariff.

O2 – Karn: For text and calls, we have the Text & Call tariff that gives you free text messages and calls to any UK network according to your monthly Top-Up.

O2 – Karn: - for a monthly Top-Up of £10, you’ll get 25 free texts and 25 minutes

O2 – Karn: - for a monthly Top-Up of £15, you’ll get 100 free texts and 100 minutes

O2 – Karn: - for a monthly Top-Up of £30 or more, you’ll get 200 free texts and 200 minutes

Ian Probert: Don’t you understand? Her maximum is £10. How many ways are there of saying this?

O2 – Karn: I’m letting you know all the allowances she can get on the tariff. If she’s Top-Up £10, she’ll get 25 free texts and 25 minutes.

O2 – Karn: Every tariff has allowances set depending upon the Top-Up.

Ian Probert: But I top up every month. £10! You’re just confusing me even more.

Ian Probert: Last month for £10 she got something like 500 minutes and unlimited texts.

Ian Probert: They even doubled it to 1000 minutes as a reward.

Ian Probert: I’ve paid £10 every month without fail. What is wrong with O2?

O2 – Karn: The credit balance was not enough for tariff to be activated on 6th and this is why she did not receive the allowances for this month.

Ian Probert: Can you please, please, please refund the £10 that I paid four days ago and I’ll go with another – less confusing – provider.

Ian Probert: What you say makes no sense. I pay £10 a month. I have never not paid £10 a month since she started with O2. 

O2 – Karn: I’m sorry but the credit balance has been used for text messages. So the £10 cannot be refunded.

Ian Probert: I actually paid the £10 a day earlier than the 6th.

Ian Probert: Why am I being punished for this?

O2 – Karn: Sorry if you’re feeling so  but the tariff was not activated and this is why she got charged for text messages.

Ian Probert: OK. I’m ending this conversation now. Your customer support iOS truly appalling. 

Ian Probert: I’m going to complain to your superiors. 

O2 – Karn: If you want to escalate this further,I can transfer this chat to my supervisor who can check it for you.

Ian Probert: No.

Ian Probert: I’m leaving. Goodbye.

O2 – Karn: Is there anything else I can help you with?

Johnny Nothing Book trailer

Johnny Nothing Book trailer

Another shameless bit of self-promotion. 

Shotgun Reality – Chapter 03

 

If there is any doubt that Meredith Taylor has lived a life one need only look at what remains of her beautiful face. “Merry, I’m not really the one to ask,” I reply, “I don’t do much with movies these days. You know that.”

“Bull-fucking shit,” she replies. “You total cunt. Everybody knows that you’ve been pitching for Jennifer Anniston. She won’t fuck you, you know. You’re too old for her. Too fucking old.”

I take a sip of champagne and pause for a moment. Preserved in celluloid are twenty-three movies that feature Meredith Taylor when her face and body were Hollywood’s most prized assets. In four of them she appears fleetingly, in the rest she dominates the screen with a perfect beauty that places her on the same trophy shelf as Marilyn, Liz Taylor, Angelina. Needless to say the creature that sits across from me – desperately imbibing a Marlboro, hair tied back to hide the bald patches, sunglasses concealing the wrecked eyes – has nothing in common with the Meredith Taylor of two decades ago. And – obviously – the only person on Planet Earth who is not aware of this fact happens to be Meredith herself.

“Whatsamatter?” she snarls. “Suddenly developed an attack of conscience? No… Probably not. You’re too much of a monster.”

Meredith is the reason for my visit to New Work… Well, one of the reasons. If I were as big a monster as she believes I would have dumped her years ago. But Meredith was my first American client and in many ways she is the reason that I am able to own homes in Kensington, New York, Florida and Milan. It was on her reputation that I built my own and with my slice of her enormous earnings I was able to build a fortune that is now many times in excess of whatever Meredith has managed to hang on to in her years of pitiful decline.

Naturally, a sizeable portion of those earning have been handed to a succession of fly-by-night surgeons. First it was the eyes, carved to pieces the morning after she first noticed laughter lines in the bathroom mirror. Then – it goes without saying – the breasts, which went up and up and up in size, amassing evil looking scars and suffering numerous nipple relocations that were all too often placed on public display, along with an infection that almost resulted in a mastectomy. 

During the 1980s Meredith Taylor became the prototype tragi-victim movie star. The drugs, the drink, the breakups, the breakdowns, the designer suicide attempts and the self-induced physical disfigurement took her from the front page of Variety to the centre spread of the National Enquirer. In the process the work dried up and the bank account turned from black to red. And all this time there was only one person to blame.

“You fucker, it’s all your fault,” says Meredith. “It’s your fucking job to get me the movies. I’m Meredith Taylor, for Christ’s sake. What do I fucking pay you for!”

Meredith has not paid me a nickel in over eight years and even though nobody who knows me would accuse me of sentimentality, she has become my personal project, perhaps a way of assuaging guilt. The big roles may have gone forever but she’s right, her name still holds a certain caché; for this reason I’m still able to get her the odd bit part in a low level soap or sit-com. She stumbles through her words and is more curio than actress; even so she seems unaware that I have ever had any hand in securing her these roles.

“Ian,” she says and as always I find myself looking away as she speaks, “Give a gal a break – c’mon speak to some people for me, you can do this.”

A week ago Meredith tried to kill a man in a motel room in Nebraska. Even she cannot remember what she was doing there. Newspaper reports claim that she chased a black man in his twenties out into the motel forecourt with a shard of broken mirror in her hand. The man, who is obviously a dealer, refused to press charges.

Shotgun Reality – chapter 02

Chapter Two – New York

I’m in my silk dressing gown when the doorbell rings. I look around for Ania but as always she is nowhere to be seen so I move over to the monitor to check who it is even though I already know. Anthony stands shuffling and panting and wheezing by the front door, unshaven, his blue overalls splattered with white paint, which is a surprise because in the two weeks or so that he’s been working on the exterior of the house I’m yet to see him pick up a fucking brush. “Yes?” I call out in resignation over the intercom, even though I already know what he wants.

“Mornin’ Ian,” comes the response. His voice is rough, a smoker’s voice, East End, although a part of me is convinced that as soon as he’s back home he will revert to public schoolboy patois.  “Mind if I use your facilities?” I know not how he comes to call me by my first name. He was never, ever invited to do so; in fact, I cannot even remember ever telling him my first name.

I check the time. It’s just gone ten. Anthony is a creature of habit because he will ring my bell at this time every morning with his fucking obligatory copy of The Sun and spend a good half-hour warming the seat of my toilet. I let him in. He looks me in the eye as he enters, challenging me, and heads off to evacuate his steaming bowels.

“Any chance of letting me know when things are going to be finished?” I ask, hoping he will not sense the desperation in my voice.

He turns to me and smiles smugly. “I reckon a couple more days and we’ll be there,” he replies, winking at me and moving off again.

“So… Hum…  you’re saying that it will all be done by Friday?”

Anthony stops walking and shakes his head slowly. “Well, hopefully, yeah, weather permitting, these are big old houses you know, (pronounced” ‘hauses’) and there’s a lot of work involved you know…”

I’m not brave enough this morning to get into an argument with Anthony. Although he is not a tall man, he is stockily built with an over-developed, muscular neck. He has an intimidating air of self-confidence about him, almost as if he’s someone who is genuinely pleased with who he is.

I retreat into the living room, my coffee and my MacBook Pro. I check through my emails. Among the standard Viagra offers, messages from attractive Russian teenagers offering sex, invitations to furnish my bank details to a minor Nigerian tribal leader and messages from clients desperate for work there is an email from Mr. Tickle. It reads: “Mr. Tickle has met Mr. Happy and he is happy.” For a moment my heart leaps and then the insecurities take over. What does he mean? Does he mean that Mr. Tickle is happy or does he mean that Mr. Happy is happy? This little slice of grammatical ambiguity offers subtly different outcomes. I hastily write back: “Good or bad?”

I check iCal and that see that in addition to the New York flight I am scheduled to call Ramirez today, who is in the South of France chasing up leads. We are both aware that he is looking for a needle in a haystack but that region was – is – a favourite of Laura’s. It’s as good a place to look as any.

On a whim I launch Safari and type ‘laura south of france’ into the Google search field. The top SERP is: ‘A Journey into Matisse’s South of France by Laura McPhee’. Not really very helpful. I move on to YouTube and search for ‘Chris Waddle goal’. I watch a short grainy video of England’s semi-final against West Germany. I see the ball rebound off Paul Parker and dip crazily over the onrushing Peter Shilton, I watch England equalise with less than ten minutes to go, there is an interview with Gary Linker who tells us what he was saying to the bench after Gazza was booked for his impetuous lunge on a German. There is no sign of a Chris Waddle winner in extra time, instead we see footage of him absurdly skying a penalty out of the ground. John Motson groans and once again I’m confused. Now I search for ‘Lady Diana’ and just as it was last time I looked the top SERP is a video of Elton John singing Candle In The Wind with different, ludicrous, lyrics. 

I hear a shuffling noise and realise that somebody is standing behind me looking over my shoulder at the computer monitor. I look around, surprised, somehow guilty, and see Anthony’s smiling face leering at the screen. “Like Lady Di, do you?” he says. “Pity she died. She had a nice old pair o tits. I’d of had some of that myself.”

A very, very large part of me wishes I had a very, very sharp scalpel in my hand. I try to keep calm and imagine running the blade in a precise arc beginning from Anthony’s forehead and ending up at his chin. But the smaller part of me takes control and simply says: ‘All right?” A meaningless term but really the only thing I can think of given the circumstances.

Then Anthony says: “You work with celebs, right?”

I straighten up in my seat and am about to compose a response to the question when Anthony cuts me off. “Let me tell you something about celebs,” he says, “never talk to them. It’s a fucking pointless exercise. There’s nothing to be gained from it.”

“Yes… I see what you mean…” I respond, obviously not seeing anything of the sort, bored, irritated, suicidal, nose fucking bleeding again. 

“I mean, let me tell you a story… Your nose is bleedin’ you know… I was walking down through Bloomsbury a couple of months ago and I seen that bloke from The Office. You know that show from a few years back? Supposed to be a comedy but it don’t make me laugh.”

I nod my head.

“Well anyhows, I was walking through Bloomsbury and I sees that bloke – the little fat bloke who plays the boss –”

“You mean Ricky Gervias…”

“…I sees him walking along the road wearing headphones and listening to his iPod. And I says hello to him and he stops and he says alright. And then I’m sort of stumped for words so I tell him that I like The Office and I don’t normally talk to celebs. And he says, really up himself, like, well I don’t like that word, I don’t really see myself as a celebrity. And then he looks me up and down like I was made of shit and walks off.”

I snigger a little and shake my head. Anthony is made of shit. It’s pouring out of every orifice.

“So you see,” explains Anthony, “it ain’t worth talking to celebs. There’s nothing to be gained from it. You end up coming across like you want to suck their dick.”

As he says the word ‘dick’ I hear a key in front door and a few moments later Ania enters the room carrying bags of shopping. She sees Anthony and an angry look spreads across her face. “Hey, you!” she shouts, looking straight at Anthony, who starts laughing. “Go and do some fucking work! Get out now!  Out! Out! Out! You’re not paid to talk you big fucking lazy boy!”

Ania is just over five-feet-tall, Lithuanian, with the face of a slightly disfigured angel. Anthony laughs even harder, enjoying the telling off, finding it difficult to hide the fact that that he obviously has the hots for her. She bundles him out of the room, pushing him in the back with both hands, which he seems to enjoy even more. I hear the front door slam and Ania returns. “Thanks for that,” I smile weakly. Ania returns the smile and heads for the bedroom. I sit at my chair smoking as she packs my suitcase for the trip.

 

At Heathrow I spot Paul Young queueing with all the plebs as I am politely, reverentially, ushered into the VIP section. He sees me calmly strolling by the other side of the rope and shrugs, probably embarrassed. I wave back, flashing my expensive teeth. It’s been over fifteen years since Paul has had any entitlement to this side of the rope. I feel vaguely sorry for him and idly wonder if there is anything that can be done.

In the VIP suite a fresh-faced hostess plies me with drinks. I sit in an easy chair and stare at the empty room, wondering how long I will be alone. Years ago I sat in this very same seat alongside Anthony Hopkins, a former client of mine. “I envy you,” he had said. “You have the perfect position. You have all the trappings of fame, the VIP treatment, the invitations to parties, to openings, the dinners with the right people. But none of the nasty stuff. Nobody knows who you are. You can walk down the street and, unlike me, people will leave you alone. Do you know that the other week I was stopped five times when I was walking down Oxford Street? All I wanted was to buy a new pair of shoes and I was quite unable to do so. The more people that stopped me, the more people recognised me. People were crowding around me, quite what for I have no idea. Perhaps they were hoping that I’d hiss and say ‘I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti…’. The recognition was exponential – you don’t have any of that, which is fortunate in the extreme. I envy you.”

“Yes, but I don’t have your money,” I had responded. 

“What’s money?” Tony had said. “When you’re too famous to spend it?”

 

***

 

During the flight I put my feet up and drink Champagne and watch a movie. I fall asleep and dream of Sofia and when I awake I am greeted by the sight of a ridiculously attractive hostess hovering over me. She gives me the broadest smile and hands me coffee and food. She makes chit-chat: “Are you on business or pleasure?” she asks. I study her features: long, immaculate brown hair; smooth immaculate make-up. A natural, easy, relaxed smile that makes it easy to forget that ours is purely a business arrangement, that her job is only to serve the person with the ticket. “Business,” I reply, “Although I hope that I can make a little time for pleasure.” For a moment I toy with the idea of asking her out to dinner. 

 

A cab ride later and I’m in the apartment in Queens. I bought the place back in the late 80s for a song, in the days when I really didn’t have to think about money. I probably stay here only two or three times a year. The place smells of damp and bleach. I pull back the curtains and stare out idly at the city for a moment. 

The apartment definitely belongs to a bachelor. The floors are wood, the walls are wood panel to make things easy to clean, as I never allow a cleaner into this place. In fact, with the exception of the estate agent and a few utility companies, I am the only person on earth who ever visits this place. Not even Laura knows of its existence – and how I managed to keep her out of the loop is a story in itself.

It’s been several months since I last stayed her and there is a visible film of dust everywhere, on the floors, on the table on the stainless steel chairs. Tomorrow I will spend an hour or so putting the place back into order. Right now I have other things to do.

 

In July 1995 I visited the apartment to find that it had been burgled. A TV had gone, along with a CD player, some money and a few trivial personal effects. Fortunately, the perpetrator had obviously not stayed long – an in and out job – because if he had he would have discovered untold treasures that would have made his toes curl. Although I chose not to report the crime to the police, I made sure that it could never happen again. On the front door I installed a state-of-the-art quadruple tumbler system, on the windows I installed steel shutters (in case Spiderman decided to try to gain entrance to my fourth story apartment) and in the main reception area I installed no less that three separate safes. All three are built into the walls and hidden behind reproduction paintings. One is behind a Peter Blake watercolour of Alice, a second resides behind a John Sell Cotman watercolour of a Lancashire viaduct, an a third is hidden behind a large reproduction of Francis Bacon’s Screaming Pope. It is to this safe that I now go, sliding the Bacon out of the way and keying in an eight-digit password. Although I know that the safe has not been opened since I was last here I feel a strong urge to check that its contents are in intact. I open the steel door and rather like a very expensive fridge, a light flicks on to reveal an old address book, several white plastic bottles containing various stimulants, a small antique clay pot half filled with cocaine, a number of syringes, something like $10,000 dollars in used $100 bills and an ancient Nokia mobile phone and charger which I take out from the safe and plug into a socket.

I return to the window and take a seat to watch the sunrise and see the light stream into the room, dust floating in the air. One by one tiny pinpricks of light appear in the darkness as New York begins to awaken. I light a cigarette and for a few minutes I am at peace. My nose is no longer bleeding and I am locked away from the world. I think of Laura and Sofia, of Chris Waddle, of Princess Diana, of black holes and the nature of time.

Shotgun Reality – Chapter 01

Party One – Birthday

My nose is still bleeding and Dulcie is surgically attached to my elbow as I roughly push my way through a small group of e-listers smoking by the front entrance to Jonathan’s palatial Hampstead residence and immediately come face to face with his lordship. Jonathan, with Jane close behind him, looks shocked by my appearance then he smiles and shakes his head as if to imply that he is used to seeing me walking around with blood trickling on to a two-grand jacket. I’m not sure if this is true or not. What is true is that Jonathan has a new toy, this one in the form of a short, stocky, Indian-looking guy with a bald head. Jonathan looks pleased with himself and pats the Indian’s bald head in fast-motion like Benny Hill used to pat Jackie Wright’s. He laughs too much and shouts: ‘Er… Ian… nice to see you, me old muckah… And… Hum… Del… Della… How are you darlin’? Better late than never…” His voice can just about be heard above the sound of Shirley Bassey singing Goldfinger and in the red light of Jonathan’s huge reception area, polished marble and thick Persian rugs, I catch glimpses of various celebrities wandering around with glasses in their hands. Rio Ferdinand is here, his closely-cropped head jutting above the crowd of partygoers, deep in conversation with a girl I’ve never seen before. Chris Evans wanders by and gives me the nod; ludicrously, he’s wearing a radioactive green three-piece suit, presumably in an effort to outdo Jonathan, who is apparently wearing something forged from glitter and tinsel. Standing at the foot of a huge white painted staircase Ricky Gervais is gesticulating aggressively towards Melvin Bragg, who looks around anxiously for a means of escape. Various other faces turn to watch me arrive. Jane offers a cheek and then hurriedly withdraws when she notices the blood. I give her a half-hearted kind of hug, our bodies self-consciously not touching, and steal a glance at her well-packed dress. A drink is placed into my hand while Dulcie’s stubbornly finds its way into the other. For some reason I smile at Dulcie –  who, if asked would tell you that she is a model, although her CV comprises a couple of lingerie shoots and the inevitable soft porn pot-boilers – and inexplicably wink. She looks good, like a bustier, better looking version of Paris Hilton, she draws admiring glances from some of the men in the room and hateful glares from some of the women. “Ian… Hum… Della… meet… Raj,” says Jonathan, gesturing grandly at the small Indian guy at his side. I pull away from Dulcie and reluctantly hold out a hand, which Raj ignores, a big grin on his ugly emaciated little face. Then Jonathan’s new toy opens its mouth to reveal that it is in need of several thousand pounds worth of dental rehabilitation. “No… No… No… No!” he keeps saying, in a strange high-pitched staccato voice, “No… No… No… No!” Shirley Bassey hits the high-C to end the song as Jonathan catches the confused look on my face and erupts with laughter, as do several others in the room including David Bowie, who I’m yet to forgive for what he did to me at the Hamptons last Summer. David notices my irritation and stops laughing, he turns away and is soon pretend deep in conversation with – I think – Mel B or perhaps his wife, although in the darkness I can’t be sure. I take a sip from my drink and when I hold it up to the light to see what it is I’m drinking I notice pink droplets of blood mixing with the contents of the glass. “No… No… No… No!” Raj continues, beaming in triumph like he’s just added a new word to the Oxford dictionary. I turn to Jonathan and I know that I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself: “Who…” I say, already knowing the answer to the question I am about to ask: after all, it’s Jonathan, surely quick-witted Jonathan can help me make some sense of what is happening. “Who… What… I mean… Who… What… What was… Nineteen-ninety, Jonathan… What, who won the World Cup semi-final in nineteen-ninety?” Now it’s Jonathan’s turn to look confused. He thinks for a moment and then laughs so much that I’m sure he’s going to wet himself. “Ian… Lovely Ian…” he says, “You’re fucking mental. Men-tal.” Only Jonathan would speak to me like this. He laughs some more but he cannot resist a challenge. He pretends to be thinking hard and then he says: “You fucking weirdo… You’re asking me who won the nineteen-ninety World Cup semi-final – what the fuck for?” Dulcie grabs my hand again – almost tenderly – and in the corner of my eye I see Matt Lucas marching by dressed as a Red Indian, unaware or unconcerned that it isn’t fancy dress here, closely followed by Stephen Gately. Simply Red are now singing Holding Back The Years. “Terribly sorry about this, Jonathan,” shouts Dulcie above the din, shaking her head at him and frowning, “He keeps asking everybody he meets, it’s his… his… Thing.” Jonathan looks Dulcie up and down, as if surprised that she is able to talk. “Who won it, Jonathan?” I urge. “Who won the semi-final?” Jonathan turns towards Jane and laughs even harder. “Fucking mental, “ he repeats, looking around the room. “Well most people would say Germany but it’s West Germany, of course… On penalties… Now who was it who missed them? Chris Waddle missed the second – almost hit the corner flag if I remember rightly – and who else was it? That’s right, Stuart Pearce missed the first.” And then without warning Stuart Pearce emerges from the throng of people, looking older, a little drunk and very hard and says: “Fucking hell… Gimme a break!” Jonathan continues to laugh as I move towards the stairs, confused and disappointed. “No… No… No…No!” I can hear Raj repeating before a delighted audience.

I shoulder my way through the crowds and locate the staircase. Dulcie continues to clutch my hand in hers as we head off in search of a bathroom. In my pocket iPhone Number Two starts to vibrate – finally, at last, the call that I’ve been waiting for, it has to be. Several of the other guests reach for their pockets and handbags when they hear the Old Phone ringtone, they look disappointed when I withdraw the iPhone from the left hand pocket of my jacket and swipe its surface with my finger. It’s Mr. Tickle, he should have called two days ago. My stomach has been churning. The blood continues to drip but my hopes are raised. Mr. Tickle is calling from Cuba, the line is faint and polluted with static. I move quickly up the stairs and enter the first room that I find, which is in darkness, discarding Dulcie and closing the door behind me. “Usted es tarde!” I yell into the phone. “Puedo jodiendo le mata!”

“El no pareció,” says the garbled voice of Mr. Tickle. “Tuve que esperar dos días que joden.”

“¡Usted jodiendo a idiota! ¡Si usted no entrega por el viernes el trato está apagado! Yo no soy un tonto. Yo no aprecio la tardanza. ¡Consígalo derecho usted jodiendo a bastardo!!”

The line goes quiet as Mr. Tickle thinks for a moment. Then he says: “Lo siento. Yo lo conseguiré derecho. Usted tendrá su entrega el viernes – Usted tiene mi palabra.”

“We’ll see…” I reply, more to myself than anyone else. Then I’m struck by a thought. “¿La señora Diana – está ella muerta o viva?” I yell into the phone. Before he can answer the line goes dead.

I stand alone for a few moments growling to myself, saliva and blood mixing together: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” and my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness of the room I’m in. It’s a child’s room. White carpets with High School Musical posters on the walls, a small television, a computer, a robotic cat. Fortunately, it’s uninhabited. There are already droplets of blood on the white carpet. I open the door and find Dulcie waiting impatiently for me outside. She grabs my hand again and leads me back on to the landing where a neat line of obedient celebrities and industry faces are waiting for the toilet. I jump the queue and forcefully hammer on the toilet door. “Hurry up!” I urge, “I’m bleeding out here!” The door opens quickly and a flustered Boy George emerges. “Bloody hell, you OK Ian?” he asks, his angry look subsiding when he sees that it’s me. Ignoring the question I push past him with Dulcie still attached to my hand and enter the bathroom to be hit by the smell of artificial lemon and sour faeces. Dulcie locks the door and I grab a toilet roll. 

The bleeding is not as bad as expected. I look at my reflection in a bathroom mirror and beginning mopping up the worst of the blood. Finally, at last, it seems to be clotting. My left nostril is filled with dried, crusty deposits. The nose began bleeding almost a week ago – on the day that Bobby Robson died, on the day that things began to change, at least I think that’s when it started. Since then it’s been doing it on and off almost continuously. “You’ve got to see a doctor,” urges Dulcie. “I will!” I snap, continuing to be irritated by her presence. 

Despite the nasal disfigurement I’m pleased with what I see. The hair that I had darkened a week ago is still successfully masking the grey. The skin looks firm and clean and relatively unwrinkled. The eyes manage to look clear and almost white. I practice smiling in the mirror, watching for any effect that this has on the bleeding. A small bubble of crimson forms in my right nostril. I mop it away. Dulcie puts her arms around me for a moment, it’s almost a loving gesture. 

I rinse my face with cold water and rifle through a bathroom cabinet. Neatly arranged bottles are swept to one side and I find a tube of hair gel next to a bottle of Minoxidal. Dulcie watches in silence as I massage a wad of gel into my thick black hair, in my mind’s eye I’m again replaying the England goal: it’s the first half of extra time and Chris Waddle charges towards goal, I’m sitting in Martin’s house in the summer of 1990 with a cold lager in my hand. We both scream uncontrollably as Waddle’s ungainly looking and purely tentative shot hits an upright and rebounds across the German goal line. “Yes!” I find myself saying aloud, which brings a look of concern from Dulcie. There is banging on the toilet door and someone shouts: “Get a move on!” Winding some toilet paper around my hand I exit.

I wander downstairs and find myself in one of many spacious reception rooms. On a vast leather sofa, various anonymous actors are sitting talking. They look over as I enter the room, Dulcie still with me, and one or two of them try to catch my eye. I move to a table that is empty except for a few discarded glasses and a sixth-generation iPod sitting atop a Bang and Olufsen Soundbuster. Simply Red are almost finished so I pluck the iPod from its perch in order to select a more suitable track. The music immediately stops playing and the house falls silent and a collective groan can be heard throughout. I return the iPod to its position and quickly move away, glumly apologising as I do so.

Denny Mancini appears from nowhere and taps me on the shoulder. “All right, my son,” he says, frowning at me. “You bleedin’? You should put some o this on it”. Denny is a well-known cuts-man, better qualified than anyone I know when it comes to the business of blood. He withdraws a small bottle half-filled with a clear liquid from his jacket pocket. “It’s adrenalin, I always carry a bottle,” he explains. “Put some up your nose and it will stop the bleeding, take it, here, keep it…” As well as being a blood expert, Denny is as close to anyone in my immediate circle who can be described as someone whom I like and who likes me; he keeps asking me to ghost his biography. I met him in a gym back in the late 1980s. I remember he was leaving the shower and was completely naked, his enormous, enormous, belly providing a remarkable contrast to the incredibly well-toned, muscular torsos of the professional fighters that surrounded him. I did not admire his body but I could not help admiring the total lack of self-consciousness that was and is his trademark. “Do it now, son,” he urges.

I unscrew the cap and dab some of the liquid on to my finger and gently prod at my nose, wincing a little. “Not like that,” says Denny, snatching the bottle from me and grasping my nose between his finger and thumb. He holds this position for a full 30-seconds. The pain is intense. I scream like a baby but Music To Watch The Girls Go By by Andy Williams has just started up and it drowns out the noise. Denny smiles good-naturedly and Dulcie strokes my arm. “Like this,” he says.

We swim through the crowds as more people shuffle by: Stephen Fry, Ambrose Mendy, Salman Rushdie, Delia Smith, David Soul (David Soul?!). It’s Jonathan’s fiftieth and he’s pulled out all the stops. Waitresses dressed as French maids are serving up sausages on sticks personally prepared by Gordon Ramsey, the drinks are delivered by waiters who have been selected for their height: all of them are over seven feet tall and have their skin painted green and wear ragged, torn trousers, I take a glass from one of the trays the nearest one is carrying, “It’s our special cocktail,” he says, emphasising the word ‘special’ in a voice that is incredibly – and I mean incredibly – deep.

An actor sidles up to me and asks if we can talk. I shrug back at him, meaning I can’t hear what you’re saying but he persists. I’ve met him a couple of times before but was never going to remember his name; he was – or is – in The Bill or Eastenders or Emmerdale or some kind of dreadful rubbish like that. He grabs my arm and I stop still and glare at him. He backs away apologising like a little child but still he persists. The reason for such persistence is standing next to him: she’s young – nineteen, twenty, I guess, blonde, quite beautiful. The actor beckons for me to follow him out to the garden and more out of boredom than anything else I do as I am requested.

Jonathan’s garden is huge with a neatly cropped lawn that is half the size of a football pitch. At the far end are tennis courts and a swimming pool. There are peacocks wandering around hissing at anyone who approaches. The actor draws me closer to him, “Listen,” he says, “I’m sorry – I’m very sorry – to impinge upon your time but this is Cristabel…”

“Hi Cristabel,” I smile, flashing my perfect newly capped teeth. Beside me Dulcie is squeezing my hand almost to the point that it hurts.

“Hi Ian,” Cristabel replies overconfidently. “I’ve heard all about you…” She purrs the last sentence like a cat. Her disrespect annoys me but I say nothing.

The actor butts in: “We were wondering, well hoping really, if… Well… If Cristabel could be… Could be added to… You know… Your client list… You know… Your list of… Clients.”

I look at the actor, irritated but not yet ready to react. He’s in his forties or fifties, overweight, balding and unappealing – a combination that severely delimits his chances of future success. I look at the girl: young, attractive but already she’s had a little work done. The nose has been altered slightly and the breasts have been enhanced too cheaply. 

“Sorry,” I shrug, “I’d like to help but…”

“…Cristabel already has a record deal and she’s getting great reviews.”

“A record deal?” I say, mock interested. “Who with?”

“It’s… Hum… a small independent label…” says Cristabel.

“Called?”

“Remembrance…”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of them, sweetheart. I’d have remembered if I had.” I smile at my own  feeble joke and the pair of them feel obliged to laugh nervously in unison.

“Sorry,” I repeat, shaking my head, “no can do.”

Simon Cowell drifts by in the shadows accompanied by the obligatory Sinitta. He pretends not to notice me. “That’s who you should be talking to,” I advise.

“Ian…” says Cristabel, “Hum… Sorry… Mr… Mr Price… It may sound like I’m hustling but I’d really like to work with you. I admire what you do so much.” She overemphasises the word ‘so’ and again Dulcie squeezes my hand, pissed off.

“Sorry,” I repeat again. “I can’t trust you.”

The girl audibly gasps and looks over at her companion, who stares at me with a frightened, pleading look in his eyes.

“I beg your pardon?” she says. “Trust?”

“That’s right, I can’t trust you. You’re a fake.”

“A fake?”

“Yes, a fake. I’ve only just met you but I can tell that you’re a fraud. You’ve got a fake nose and you’ve got fake tits. You’re fake. You’re duplicitous. Look at you – you’re still a child and already you’re an inveterate liar. I can’t trust someone like you.”

“What do you mean? Someone like me? What are you talking about?” says Cristabel, tears suddenly welling up in her eyes.

“Do I have to spell it out? It’s simple really. When I see people like you, fake on the outside, I can tell that you are fake on the inside. Believe me, I know these things. It’s not your fault. You’re just fake.”

Dulcie stops squeezing my hand as the other two trudge away, beaten, shaking their heads, shell-shocked. Then Cristabel looks over her shoulder at me and silently mouths the word:  ‘wanker’. Happy Birthday by Altered Images strikes up and I know that it’s edging closer to midnight.

Jonathan’s few words become many as a crowd gather around him in the garden to pay homage. I close my eyes and rock my head and try to think of other things during a full six minutes of fireworks. I hate fireworks. You’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. The blood begins to drip again and in the right hand pocket of my blood spattered jacket I absent-mindedly play with iPhone Number One.

In the distance I can hear Raj continuing his inane chant” “No… No… No… No…” For a reason lost on me people find the little prick amusing. I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder and abruptly turn to face it’s owner. Eric Guy smiles at me. He is dressed as Elvis, a cheap, ill-fitting nylon hairpiece superglued to his shaven skull. “All right boy,” he says, as always irritatingly over-familiar. “How’s the wife and kid?” He notices Dulcie and winks slyly at her. “They’re… Hmm… OK…” I reply. Eric has no right to be here, everybody at the party knows that. But even Jonathan is not about to ask him to leave. Eric is like one of those tiny Pilot fish that a shark will tolerate because it cleans its back of debris and detritus; or a Cattle Egret that perches on the backs of cattle to feed off parasites. Nobody knows why he’s here and nobody can understand why his presence at events such as this one is never challenged. Eric is friends with everyone – even with me apparently; his Facebook profile boasts a list of friends that exceeds 7,000. And until one can be sure of exactly who is sponsoring him, who is protecting him, who wants him to be here, he must be tolerated. “The missus not here?” he asks provocatively. Eric knows that she is not here, everybody knows that she is not here. But still he asks. I clear my throat and think back to a year ago, when she was here, and everybody knew that she was here. Eric continues to talk and I fade into autopilot, drifting away and trying to imagine where they are now. What they are doing, who they are with. My nose begins to bleed again.

***

It’s still dripping when I get back to the house, having managed to slip away unobserved while Dulcie was speaking to Danni Minogue. On iPhone Number One are no less than six voicemails and seven texts from Dulcie. The first text reads ‘where r u?’, the last one ‘you fuckin bstard!!!!!!!!!!’. It’s very late but Ania is sitting in the lounge watching an old Bruce Willis film. She smiles softly when she sees me enter and heads into the kitchen to fix a drink. I watch Willis and his wig rescue a group of children from some terrorists and quickly fall asleep. Later, I awake to birdsong and find myself in bed with Ania sleeping naked beside me. There is blood on the pillow and sheets. Always there is blood.

Mr Happy – Chapter 11

 

Leighton Saunders sat behind his big oak desk with a video remote in his hand and considered his next move. In his rush to leave Soho he had been unable to shower. He could still smell the girl on him. Little Lena. He’d be seeing her again. He’d allow a little time for her cuts and bruises to heal but he felt confident that their paths would be crossing again one day soon. Right now, however, he had more important things to think about.

It had actually taken Saunders more than two hours to return to the Bunker. What with the girl and the Friday night crowds, he’d lost track of time. Fortunately for them, this had given his men an extra hour to try and get to the bottom of what had occurred. In that time they had managed to build up a reasonable picture of the events leading up to the disappearance of Phillips and Moore.

The jump had apparently been prompted a long private discussion between the two men in Phillips’ office earlier in the evening. The conversation had been recorded by the hidden surveillance camera that Saunders’s had installed in the old man’s office. Saunders rewound the digital tape and replayed the final minutes of their conversation for the third time.

There was a look of deep malice on Saunders’s face as Phillips’s voice came through the tinny speakers.

“No it wouldn’t Ray. We can do it right now. And you want to know the best thing about this plan?”

“Go on.”

Although it was yet to be positively confirmed, everything pointed to the fact that Phillips and Moore had jumped back to the 20th century, to precisely the same location to which that idiot Slater had been dispatched a few days ago. This was an unanticipated development: cavalier in the extreme and completely out of character for the usually restrained Phillips.

“The best thing is that nobody knows anything about it because I only thought of it ten minutes ago. If we go now it could all be done before anyone knows anything about it.”

“Oh don’t they? Saunders said aloud; a smile appeared on his face and it occurred to him that Phillips could not have orchestrated his own demise more comprehensively. To Saunders it was like Christmas and Easter rolled into one. Phillips was effectively yesterday’s news. If he returned to the Bunker of his own volition there would be an official enquiry and Phillips was sure to lose his job. Alternatively, if Saunders was allowed to send out a search party he would, of course, be its leader. Moreover, if and when they managed to find the missing men it would be Saunders himself putting a gun to their heads and liberating their brains. Not before he was able to have a little fun. Naturally.

Saunders took out a key from his pocket and used it to open the bottom drawer of his desk, from which he pulled out a small metallic box. On the front of the box was a digital combination lock, complete with keypad. The box was programmed to explode if an incorrect decryption key was inputted. The box would also explode if anybody tried to it force it open. As well as the arm of the person attempting to open it, the explosion would probably take off the roof of the building.

Saunders took understandable care to input the correct number and then hit the ENTER key. Inside was a small communicator with built in low-band transmitter. He used its mini-keyboard to type in a message: PHILLIPS AND SAUNDERS HAVE JUMPED TO LOCATION 99, 36, 72. WILL FOLLOW. SUGGEST YOU DO THE SAME.

Mr. Happy – Chapter 10

David Griffin did a very English sort of thing: he sat Phillips and Moore down at his kitchen table and offered them a cup of tea. Mary Simms stayed silent in her chair watching the two strangely dressed men through eyes that gave no indication as to what was going on behind them. While Griffin fussed around in that polite middle-aged way of his, Mary lit cigarette after cigarette and kept uncharacteristically silent as the older of the two men continued his crazy story.

“Mr. Griffin, approximately three centuries ago a man named Greg Stevens was looking for fossil samples in a desert in a place that you know as New Mexico and stumbled across what we now call the Bunker.”

“The Bunker?”

“Stevens was the leader of a group of geologists. He immediately saw the unique advantages that the Bunker offered. Within two years he had established a small settlement in the Bunker. Under Stevens’s direction his follower’s gradually brought the building back to life, got the power working, sorted out the water and sewage system… That sort of thing. Within twenty years several hundred people were living in secret in the Bunker. Today that figure has swelled to more than fifteen thousand. But we’re not really here to talk about the Bunker. ”

“I’m sure it’s all very interesting,” said David Griffin, placing two cups of hot tea on to the kitchen table. “But what has all this got to do with me?”

“A great deal, actually,” said Ray Moore. “More than you could possibly imagine.”

“Look,” said Griffin. “I let you into my house because you seem to know an awful lot about me. I’d very much appreciate it if you’d tell me where you get your information from.’

“That’s easy,” replied Moore. “We know so much about you because we’ve been studying you and your descendants:”

“Descendants? What do you mean descendants?”

“We mean the people who followed on from you. Your son, your daughter, your grandchildren…Their children…”

David Griffin stood in the corner of the room and studied the two strangers. There was no disputing that their appearance was odd. The men looked uncomfortable in their crumpled suits, as if they were not used to wearing such clothing. “Forgive me for saying so but I think you’re both quite mad,” Griffin said. “Either that or this is some kind of elaborate practical joke.”

Now Griffin turned his attention to the silent figure of Mary Simms. “Mary,” he said. “You’re keeping very quiet. Is all this something to do with you?”

Mary Simms shook her head and took another drag on her cigarette. “No,” she replied calmly. “I’ve never seen these people before in my life.”

“We can assure you that the girl knows nothing about our mission,” said Nathan Phillips. “In fact, it would be to her distinct benefit if she knew nothing more. Would it be impolite of me to ask her to leave?”

“She’s staying right where she is, if you don’t mind” said Griffin sarcastically. “After all, it’s not every day that you get to meet somebody from the future. I couldn’t possibly deny her this privilege.”

Nathan Phillips had known all along that this was not going to be easy. It never was. Over the years he’d read all the research material available regarding the correct protocol for making contact with pre-temporal civilisations. In the days leading up to the Great Chaos this had been a frequent occurrence, with travellers making little regard to the consequences of their actions. In the Bunker such contact was strictly forbidden except under the most extreme circumstances. Circumstances such as the one he found himself in now. That was why he had brought the gun. He pulled it from his pocket and pointed it towards David Griffin.

“Please don’t be alarmed, Mr. Griffin,” he said. “I assume that you recognise what I have in my “Hand?”

”Nathan. My God!” said Ray Moore, not quite believing what he was seeing. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Be quiet for a second, Ray,” said Phillips. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

David Griffin’s mouth dropped open as he stared at the strange old man. The gun looked real enough to him. At least, it pretty accurately resembled the guns he’d seen on the television and in the movies. “Look, this has gone beyond a joke…” he said.

Phillips climbed to his feet and indicated for Griffin to take his seat. “It’s not my intention to use this,” he said. “But I will do if I really have to.”

Ray Moore and Mary Simms exchanged concerned glances as Griffin did as instructed. Griffin’s face had gone white as a sheet. “If it’s money you’re after,” he said feebly.

“No I don’t want your money,’ said Phillips. “It’s your attention I require. Your full, undivided attention. That’s all.”