by Amy Cross
He flicks to another channel, only to find another reporter talking direct to camera about him:
“- escaped anyone's attention that the music star and teen heartthrob has checked into the exact same London hotel where, five years ago, young fan Miranda Clarke vanished. Some commentators have questioned whether Mr. Donohue has done this in order to prove a point, or to -”
He flicks to yet another channel, this time the BBC, where the presenter is listening to a music journalist's opinion:
“- is that while the Miranda Clarke incident definitely caused people to gossip, the world has moved on. No-one outside of a few fringe conspiracy websites actually believes that Eddie Donohue had anything to do with that girl's disappearance. Whatever happened to her, it's a terrible tragedy, but there's no reason for anyone to suspect Donohue's involvement.”
“Parasites,” he whispers as he switches to another channel, “don't they have anything else to talk about?”
“London police confirmed tonight,” says yet another reporter, “that while the incident file on Miranda Clarke's disappearance remains open, they have no plans to interview the singer again and that they currently have no suspects.”
Sighing, Eddie switches to another channel, this time one that's showing images of screaming people in Africa as medical workers remove another ebola victim from a house.
“Finally,” he mutters with a faint smile, setting the remote down and wandering over to the hamper as the reporter explains how the ebola crisis is getting worse by the day.
Picking up a bottle of champagne, he examines it for a moment.
“In this village alone,” the reporter says, “thirty-one people have now died since the crisis began.”
“Cool,” Eddie says suddenly as he reads from the label. “Bubbles.”
He heads over to the counter, where he takes a champagne flute from the cupboard and starts to uncork the bottle.
“Who says I can't do anything for myself?” he asks out loud. “You'd think I was some kind of child.”
“Quarantine conditions are now in place,” the reporter continues, “but experts say they're battling a huge amount of mis-information about how ebola spreads, with people -”
Suddenly the screen goes dead.
Eddie pops the cork and pours himself a glass of champagne, before glancing over at the TV, waiting for it to burst back to life.
“Huh,” he mutters finally, wandering over and pressing a few buttons, trying to get it working again. “Whatever,” he adds finally, carrying his champagne flute over to the patio door and sliding it open before stepping out onto the patio, where a gentle breeze is causing ripples to dance across the surface of the swimming pool.
Taking a deep breath, he watches the bright lights of London for a moment, as a plane can be heard going overhead. Making his way to the edge of the patio, he looks over the edge and smiles as he spots the massed ranks of the paparazzi waiting down by the main entrance.
“Cheers, fellas,” he says, raising his champagne flute before taking a sip. “Now that's what I'm talking about.” With that, he downs the champagne and then holds his arms out to the side, before letting himself fall back fully-clothed into the pool.
***
“I thought you were going to dinner with the Lord Mayor tonight?” his girlfriend Alessandra says accusingly over the crackly video link on Eddie's laptop. “Wasn't that tonight?”
“I canceled,” he says wearily, taking another sip of champagne as he noodles on his guitar. “I didn't feel the right energy.”
“It'd be good for your profile to be seen out, though,” she continues, clearly paying more attention to her own reflection as she works on her make-up. “You want to be photographed at upper-class events, Edward, instead of just going in and out of hotels and bars. Didn't we already talk about this?”
“We did,” he sighs.
“Ellen and I both see it,” she adds, as if she hasn't even noticed his lack of interest in the subject. “You might be kind of the music business right now and part of the world's biggest boy-band, but you have to think about managing your public image as you approach your early twenties. There are already new boy-bands coming up, you need to take on a more adult image if you want to tap into the wider market. You can't cling to the past.”
“Who's trying to cling to the past?” Eddie asks, taking another sip. “I'm already thinking about the future.”
“Have you made a decision about the band?”
He opens his mouth to reply, but the words seem stuck. At the same time, his fingers absently pick at a few chords on the guitar.
“You carry the other members,” she continues. “They're nothing without you. Move on, leave them behind.”
“They're my friends,” he mutters, keeping his voice low so that she won't hear him.
“And why are you staying at that creepy hotel?”
“It's not a creepy hotel.”
“Jesus,” she mutters, rolling her eyes before starting to apply some mascara, “it's like you want to remind people about that Melissa girl.”
“Miranda,” he whispers.
“They're all talking about it, you know,” she continues. “Every fucking news channel is digging the past up again. Is that what you wanted? Are you happy?”
“Maybe it'll help them find her,” he suggests airily, as if he's more interested in the champagne.
“Oh, you know what happened to that silly girl,” Alessandra replies. “She got upset because she couldn't get your attention, she broke into your hotel room, and then she ran off and probably slit her own wrists while sobbing over her pathetic poetry. It's just very inconsiderate of her to do it in a place where no-one ever found her, because you know there are people out there who still think you had something to do with her disappearance.” Setting her mascara brush down, she turns to the camera for only the second time in the entire call. “And that's why you shouldn't have checked into the same hotel where it all happened,” she adds, with a flat smile of pomposity. “You are your own worst enemy, Edward Donohue, do you know that?”
She waits for an answer, but Eddie has begun to nod off on the sofa.
“Edward!” she shouts.
“I'm here,” he replies, blinking awake and rubbing his eyes. He takes another sip of champagne. “I think I might have to go, though. It's getting late and I have to be up early for some press bullshit. You just know they're got a load of dumb-ass questions lined up. I mean, a horse-sized duck or a load of duck-sized horses, someone actually asked me that last time.” He holds his hands up, as if to indicate helplessness. “What am I supposed to say to something like that?”
“I've got to go too,” she replies. “I have dinner with Mike. Got to butter up the director. He's a bit of a perv, but I can handle him.”
“Have a good one,” he says unenthusiastically as he closes the lid of the laptop, leans back and finishes the rest of the champagne. Glancing across the empty suite, he seems lost in thought for a moment. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says finally, picking out a tune on the guitar, “the life of the world's most famous singer is not quite as glamorous as you all might think.”
***
“Who's there?” he shouts, stumbling out of bed and making his way across the dark room before pulling the door open and emerging in the suite's main room. “Who's -”
He pauses, rubbing his sleepy eyes as he looks around the room and sees no-one.
“I heard you!” he continues. “I know someone's in here, so you might as well just own up and get the hell out of here, do you understand?”
He waits, before grabbing his phone from the table and bringing up Ellen's number. Absent-mindedly, he scratches the back of his neck.
“I think someone was in my room,” he says as soon as she answers. “Yes, I'm pretty damn sure. I heard someone moving about and -”
He stops as he spots the champagne flute standing over by the sofa, with a second flute next to it.
“What the fuck?” h
e mutters, heading over and picking them up one by one, giving each a sniff to see if they've been used. “I only took one,” he says, turning and looking across the room again. “Someone's definitely been in here!”
He heads to the door and double-checks that the bolt is in place, before making his way to the patio door and checking that it, too, is locked.
“Of course,” he tells Ellen, rubbing his eyes again, “I just...”
He pauses.
“No, I'm not jumpy,” he continues after a moment. “I was asleep, and then...”
He pauses again, listening to her.
“You know what?” he says finally, staring at the pair of champagne flutes, “I think I just had a nightmare. It was all in my head.”
He listens for a moment.
“No, no, just stay in bed. I woke you for no good reason. It's just me being jumpy.”
He listens again.
“No, I'm cool, just... Don't come up. I'm fine. It's just one of those nights, I'll see you in the morning.”
Cutting the call, he sets his phone down before making his way over to the table and looking at the flutes for a moment. He turns and looks at the patio window, and it's clear that he's feeling distinctly uneasy. For a few seconds, a kind of strained hush descends upon the room, as if time itself has slowed to a crawl. After a moment, he looks over at his guitar, which is leaning against the side of the sofa.
Suddenly the TV bursts back to life.
“Where is Miranda Clarke?” asks a presenter, speaking into the camera for a moment before turning to his guest. The camera pulls back to reveal a well-dressed middle-aged woman sitting nearby. “That's the question that has been on everybody's lips over the past twenty-four hours, now that singer Eddie Donohue is back in town. We're joined tonight by Miranda's mother Emily, who has long campaigned for a more thorough investigation into the case. Mrs. Clarke, thank you for joining us tonight, can I start by asking you what more you think the police could do to try to find your daughter?”
“The main thing that we've been saying to the police all along,” she replies, “is that this has to be an international investigation. Miranda disappeared in London, but we've all heard these very disturbing rumors about the way some of these big stars treat their fans, and I'm afraid that what we have here with my daughter might just be the tip of a very big iceberg.”
“No,” Eddie whispers, staring at the TV as if he's mesmerized. “You're wrong.”
“The police say that their search of the hotel in question was exhaustive.”
“My daughter didn't just vanish into thin air,” she continues. “We know she was in the hotel and that she got as far as Mr. Donohue's room, so she had to physically go somewhere after that moment.”
The screen changes to a grainy security camera shot of a barely recognizable figure moving across the hotel lobby in a series of staccato frames.
“And this,” the presenter explains in voice-over, “is indeed the last footage that was captured of Miranda Clarke on the night that she disappeared.”
The next shot shows the same figure standing in the elevator as it heads up to the penthouse. Seconds later, the screen shows the figure stepping out and entering the penthouse suite, the same room where Eddie is standing now. Instinctively, Eddie glances over toward the elevator, almost as if he expects to see someone. At the same time, he scratches the back of his neck again.
“Mrs. Clarke,” the presenter continues as the camera returns to the studio set-up, “I understand that it must be difficult for you to view those images, but I'd like to ask you about your daughter's state of mind when she went to the hotel that night and snuck up to Mr. Donohue's private suite.”
“Miranda was just a fan,” she replies edgily, as if she's been anticipating the question.
“But it's one thing to be a fan and another entirely to break into a hotel room.”
“She didn't break into anywhere. There were no locked doors.”
“But she shouldn't have been there.”
“She was enthusiastic,” she continues. “Miranda was a huge fan of Mr. Donohue. Her bedroom wall was... is, we haven't changed anything... covered in posters of him. She loved all of Never Turn Back's albums, and she followed his career very closely. She just wanted to meet him.”
“Would you describe her as an obsessive fan?”
At this question, she pauses for a moment, seemingly taken aback.
“Let me put that another way,” the presenter continues. “Do you think that there was something unhealthy about your daughter's interest in Mr. Donohue? A lot of people would perhaps take the view that it's one thing to collect posters and chat about someone online, but it's quite another to enter a hotel and go to a stranger's private room.”
“I don't believe for one second that Miranda went to the hotel that night with the intention of entering anywhere that was off-limits,” she replies, clearly choosing her words carefully. “I think she went to get a glimpse of him, maybe even an autograph, and what happened next is that due to a number of security lapses, she found herself in a position to go much, much further than anyone could possibly have expected. And as a passionate young woman, as a fan of the band and of Mr. Donohue in particular, she unfortunately made the wrong decision in the heat of the moment and took the opportunity that presented itself.”
“And we know that she entered his suite,” the presenter replies, “but after that... No trace of her has ever been found again, and Mr. Donohue denies having ever seen or heard her.”
“That's what he says.”
“And you believe him?”
“I have no reason to disbelieve him, except that it's hard to believe my daughter just evaporated into thin air. As the only occupant of that suite, he's the best-placed person to have some idea about what happened.”
“You don't know what you're talking about,” Eddie says quietly, still staring at the screen.
“This next question is difficult,” the presenter says, “but you indicated before we came on-air that you're willing to answer it. Mrs. Clarke, do you still have any hope whatsoever that your daughter, Miranda Clarke, might yet turn up alive?”
“I...” She pauses, with a hint of tears in her eyes. “I pray every night for her safe return, but some time ago her father and I had to make the painful assumption that... I mean, as time goes on, it becomes less and less likely, so I would say in fact that, no, we don't think there's any chance of her still being alive. She would have contacted us by now.”
“And if you could say one thing to Eddie Donohue tonight, what would it be?”
“Just tell us what you know,” she continues, turning to the camera. “Tell the police. Tell the world. You must be able to help us. Miranda didn't disappear in a vacuum. We just want to know.” Tears are rolling down her cheeks now, and her voice is trembling with emotion. “Please, just have some compassion for a family in torment.”
“I don't know what happened to your daughter,” Eddie says firmly. “Why won't you believe me?”
“We contacted Eddie Donohue's representative for comment tonight,” the presenter continues, turning to the screen, “but as yet we haven't heard anything back. I'd like to thank Mrs. Clarke for joining us tonight. In other news, authorities in the Nigerian town of -”
Suddenly the screen clicks off, fading to black.
“Jesus,” Eddie whispers, clearly shaken, “why can't people just accept that I don't know anything about that kid?”
Turning, he looks back across the room.
“Miranda Clarke!” he shouts. “Come out, wherever you're hiding! Are you still here, is that it?”
He heads over to the window, as if he's becoming increasingly agitated.
“Are you hiding somewhere?” he continues, turning back to look across the room again. “Is this all some kind of sick game, 'cause if it is, congratulations, you've really managed to mess with my head!”
He waits, before sliding the patio door open and stepping outside, stopping by t
he side of the swimming pool.
“This has gone on long enough,” he says to himself, his voice filled with desperation. “Where the fuck are you?”
After standing in silence for a moment, he heads back inside, slides the door shut and then goes to the mini-bar. He crouches down and inspects the various bottles, before pushing the door shut again. Grabbing the menu for room service, he flicks through the pages before tossing it aside.
“Fuck this place,” he mutters, “fuck it and...”
He pauses breathlessly, almost as if he's having trouble filling his lungs.
“Fuck, what's wrong with me?” he continues, getting to his feet and taking a series of slow, deep breaths. “This fucking room is like... Fuck it.”
With that, he hurries through to the bedroom. A couple of minutes later, he emerges wearing jeans and a t-shirt, before grabbing a coat from the rack and then slipping a baseball cap onto his head. After donning his sunglasses, he turns and looks in the mirror for a moment, as if to check that the disguise will hold.
“Good enough,” he mutters, heading over to the elevator and repeatedly prodding the Call button. “I've gotta get the fuck out of this place.”
II
It's almost 2am by the time Eddie has slipped out unnoticed through the hotel's back door and made his way through a series of alleyways, finally emerging in the still-busy northern end of Dean Street. All around, the bars and pubs are still packed with Saturday night revelers, many of whom are loudly drunk. Cars pick their way slowly through the crowds of drinkers who have spilled out into the street, and it seems as if every few seconds someone else is cheering or shouting or vomiting in the gutter.
And the ghosts. There are ghosts everywhere.
Almost unrecognizable in his sunglasses and baseball cap, Eddie walks quickly, slipping like a man on a mission through the two crowds: the crowd of the living and the crowd of the dead. He's been to London many times, of course, but he's only ever stayed in the city's most prestigious hotels, so being 'out and about' on his own is a new experience: he's buffeted by the crowd, and mostly ignored by people who – if they knew his identity – would be swarming all over him, demanding photos and autographs. By the time he gets to the end of the street and joins the throng of clubbers on New Oxford Street, he has to stop and look around, as if he's struggling to get his bearings.
