He’d said she was pretty. It didn’t matter why he had said that; it only mattered that he had.
Madeleine hadn’t thought she would get to be ‘pretty’ ever again. Little girls were pretty, and sometimes they grew up into pretty young women as long as that little girl remained somewhere inside. Maddy hadn’t been a little girl since she was eleven years old and her mommy got sick. In the business, the aspired compliment was ‘sexy’, which she’d been called plenty of times. But sexy was as much about behaviour and attitude as appearance, and a thoroughly affected appearance at that; sexy was something you became, something you played. Pretty was something you were, something natural, something pure. Pretty was a quintessence of yourself, of a person you had always been.
Stephen telling her she was pretty made Madeleine feel that the little girl she’d once been was still a part of her; it made her feel there were places inside her that her father hadn’t spoiled.
It made her feel she had survived.
Madeleine turned off the water and reached for a towel, shaking her head. Survived, she thought bitterly. Yeah. Survived child abuse, drink, drugs, insanity, self-loathing and suicide attempts, so she could be here now – healthy, ‘pretty’ and straightened out – in great shape for a human sacrifice.
‘I see you got Babylon Blue on the in-house movies,’ she observed, walking back into the bedroom. Her blue dress was sticking to her skin a little, the heat of the shower having rendered the bathroom as humid as a rainforest. ‘D’you check it out?’
‘Purely for research purposes,’ he answered, going for brazen rather than bashful. If he’d said no she wasn’t sure whether she’d have been disappointed or simply not believed him.
‘Well, I guess you didn’t see a whole lot if it was on SpanVision. Adult movies the whole family can enjoy.’
‘I think you’re being a wee bit harsh,’ he countered. ‘The edits were all extremely sensitive and unobtrusive. The story was still very clearly conveyed. Made me ask myself if there was any need for all those prurient interludes in the first place.’
‘Yeah, great dialogue like that will always stand up on its own.’
Madeleine sighed. Wasn’t smartass banter just the easiest thing in life? You could slip in and engage no matter what the occasion. Even with your own death (or eighty-eight others) hanging precariously over your head.
‘So, the room’s got a movie channel. Don’t suppose it’s got a minibar too?’
“Fraid not. This any good to you?’
He held up a bottle of whisky, which she assumed must be Scotch. Cragganmore, the label read, but she was only interested in the part that said ‘40% vol’.
‘Cool. Just hope you got another one there for yourself.’
There was a knock at the door, and she felt her heart leap. A few moments of bullshit small-talk had taken her mind off quite how scared she was, just long enough for it to knock her sideways when it rushed back in.
‘It’s okay,’ Stephen said. ‘Room service. Get back in the bathroom.’
She re-emerged once the visitor had gone, to find a tray on the double bed bearing two towering club sandwiches and some cans of Coke.
‘You’re a very, very nice man,’ she told him.
It was only when she started eating that she realised how hungry she was. She tore into the sandwich ravenously, the feeling of food in her mouth like a long-forgotten pleasure. A crack about the condemned woman’s last meal flitted into her mind, but she felt that pre-sob constriction in her throat when she even thought about forming the words.
She took a long swallow from her can, then poured a very large whisky into a glass on the dressing table and topped it up with the sweet black fizzy liquid.
‘Now that’s my idea of heresy,’ Stephen said, smiling.
‘My apologies.’ She gulped back half the glass, feeling a warmth run through her insides as it went down.
‘Never bother. I’m not a fundamentalist. I like a straight dram myself, but each to his own.’
The word ‘dram’ rolled over his lips in a low growling burr. It was like someone stroking the inside of her ears.
She didn’t want to die.
‘I take it you’re not religious,’ she said, trying to hide from her thoughts in a conversation.
‘Not unless football and whisky count. I was once, I think it’s fair to say.’ He wore a look she recognised, a combination of anger, sadness and vulnerability, as though he was unsure what he was giving away, what doors he was opening. ‘I was at a Catholic seminary.’
This was way out of left-field.
‘You mean like priest-school? I take it you dropped out.’
He gave her a strained look, with a glint in his eye like he was only half reluctantly owning up to something.
‘Or did they throw you out?’
‘Bit of both. There was an aspect of the training I objected to.’
‘What was that?’
‘Getting shagged up the arse by fat, middle-aged Irish-men.’
‘What?’
‘Long story.’ He didn’t sound like he wanted to elaborate.
‘Bit of a change of track then, vocationally,’ Madeleine said, co-operatively changing the subject. ‘Would-be priest to photographer. What got you into that?’
‘There was a fire-sale at the careers office. Photographer was the only thing left by the time I got there. I actually wanted to be in a guitar band, but in Lanarkshire you have to be from Bellshill to do that. Motherwell doesnae qualify.’
‘Bellshill? Is that like Seattle or something?’
‘I suppose – it’s on a smaller scale but with even more rain.’
‘And that’s where all the bands play?’
‘No, it’s just where they all seem to be from. The Soup Dragons, Balaam and the Angel, Teenage Fanclub . . . even Sheena Easton.’
‘She was from there? I’ve heard of her. Not the others, though.’
‘Further proof, I believe, that there is no God. Any being that was truly divine would want to spread the music of the Fannies far and wide across the Earth.’
‘The fan . . . Oh, Teenage Fanclub? So they’re pretty good?’
‘Ay. I’ll send you a tape when . . . if . . . I mean . . .’ He put down his sandwich. The light seemed to go from his face. ‘Sorry.’
Madeleine shook her head. ‘Forget about it.’
Stephen stood up. He was starting to look as beat as she was. He might still be finding life faintly ridiculous, but his eyes suggested they were tiring of the relentless absurdity.
‘I could use a shower,’ he said, and retreated.
She was left alone on the bed, watching him disappear through the doorway out of which steam was still drifting. She picked up her drink and glanced at the blank black screen of the room’s TV, from which her face darkly reflected. She knew that if she switched it on she’d probably see the same thing. She had to be one of the few people in the country not watching it right then, but as all good sports fans knew, the tube’s no substitute for being there.
The electronic chime of her mobile phone sounded from inside her bag, and she leaped to pull it out with all haste, like the device had fallen into a fire. Desperation sure sharpened the reflexes.
‘Hello?’
‘Miss Witherson, it’s Larry Freeman here.’ His voice was neutral. Damn. Anything south of euphoria was bad. ‘How you holdin’ up?’
‘You don’t actually want me to answer that, Sergeant, do you?’
‘No, not really. Look, I’m just callin’ to tell you where things are at with the investigations. You probably already guessed there ain’t nothing that’s gonna make you jump for joy, but I knew you’d want to hear it straight.’
‘Correct. If I want bullshit and speculation, there’s a TV right here.’
‘Ain’t that the truth. Okay. First of all, bad news on the market-pass thing. We had someone from AFFMA check the list of names that they hold accreditation forms and photos for. She was able to elimin
ate all the names of company personnel against their files, which left a couple of dozen outstanding, but they all checked out. Photographers, reporters, agents, whatever, they ’re all legit. In every case, we’ve found someone to vouch that the person was supposed to be there. The only other option is actually to go through the photos and check against the names supplied, but this lady said even the head of AFFMA wouldn’t be able to ID half these faces, so that’s useless too.’
‘What about the Communion of the Saved?’
‘Well, your friend Mr Kennedy called it right. The Reverend St John’s having to make with some fancy footwork to keep his balance up there on the moral high ground, so he coughed us up a list pretty quick. Unfortunately, the only names that cross-matched FBI records were a couple of guys under investigation for corporate financial shenanigans. Seems they spent so much money trying to buy their ticket to heaven that they didn’t have much change left for the IRS.
‘However, we did get something on a cross-check of Christian fundamentalists against computer nuts. It was a few years ago now, but there was a group of anti-abortion activists here in California who used to hack into clinics’ computers so they could harass the women scheduled to have terminations. The group called itself Life Guard, something like that. Problem is, the only names we have are of the people who were caught when one of their stunts got ambushed by the LAPD. We’re checking them out, obviously, but because it was all an Internet deal we don’t know who else might have been involved with the group. But it is something, believe me. Put it this way, if we had a week I’d call it a great lead. As it is . . .’
‘What would you call it, Sergeant? A lottery ticket?’
‘I’d call it a chance.’
She disconnected the call and put the phone down on the tray, next to the crusts and crumbs and empty cans.
A chance. The words ‘snowball’ and ‘hell’ kept leaping to mind. Even in the unlikely event that one of these pro-Life nuts was the bomber, or told them who the bomber was, what were the authorities going to be able to do anyway? The minute he saw a badge this guy was liable to press the button, and the cops knew that. He’d nothing to lose, no line still to cross: he’d already killed several people today. If he got caught, they could only fry him once.
She’d known from the start that there was only one way to save the hostages on that boat, and neither the FBI nor the LAPD could do anything to change that.
Stephen came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. She stood up and went towards him before he could speak, feeling herself conveyed there rather than consciously moving. She felt so alone, so scared and alone.
‘I need to hold you,’ she said. ‘I need someone to hold me.’
She put her arms around his chest and felt his close around her shoulders. She shut her eyes, enveloped by his fresh smell and the warmth and softness of his touch. Madeleine had heard a thousand dumb song lyrics about wanting to hold someone for ever – she might have been the first person they’d ever accurately applied to. Every second there in his arms was a second of preciousness that she didn’t want to end. She felt his lips descend and gently kiss the hair on the top of her head. It sent a wave through her body that began as rapture but turned to anguish in the same moment.
Don’t kiss me. Don’t hold me. Don’t make me love you.
Not now.
‘Freeman called,’ she managed to say, gulping back air, her words half muffled against his chest. She had no tears left now. ‘It isn’t happening. They aren’t going to find him. Stephen, I don’t see any way out of this. I don’t want to die, I really don’t want to die. But if I let all those people die, I don’t think I’ll want to live.’ She squeezed him, gripping him tightly as though she’d fall off the planet if she lost her hold. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.’
He kissed the top of her head again and began talking, softly, a half-whisper around her left ear. ‘Well Madeleine, I was thinking about it in the shower, funnily enough,’ he said. ‘And to be honest it seems pretty clear-cut to me.’
She pulled away slightly and looked up at him.
He looked back down at her and shrugged. ‘With eighty-eight lives at risk, I don’t think you’ve got any choice but to give the bomber what he wants.’
She stared at his face in shock, unable to believe he could have suddenly delivered these pitiless words. Madeleine would admit that she was way short of getting her head round this guy, and not least of understanding his fucked-up sense of humour.
But she was still sure he shouldn’t be grinning like that.
Fourteen
‘Reverend, will you hear my confession?’
Many voices, many faces, rising and falling from before his eyes like the visions conjured by the witches in Macbeth. But the one that kept recurring was not rising from the electronic cauldron, nor could it be dismissed with the magic wand of his remote control.
‘. . . toll is currently standing at nine, but that is expected to rise, with reports of eleven people listed by doctors as “seriously injured”, three of them described as “critical”. Hospitals in the Southland are requesting that blood donors come forward as soon as possible, and although they aren’t saying as much right now, the medical authorities are clearly preparing themselves for the possibility of many more casualties tomorrow if the bomber carries out his threat of . . .’
Click.
‘. . . believed to still be in protective custody at a Santa Monica police station. There has been as yet no response from Miss Witherson as to her intentions, but what has emerged is that the senator’s daughter attempted to commit suicide in nineteen ninety-seven . . .’
‘. . . drawing parallels with the hit movie Speed from the summer of ninety-four, in which Dennis Hopper played an embittered ex-cop who put a bomb on a Santa Monica bus and demanded a cash ransom from the city of Los Angeles. The question some people are beginning to ask themselves today is whether, after years of criticism over violence in movies and the effects of that violence on society, Hollywood is now reaping what it has sown.’
Click.
‘. . . am not condoning vigilantism, and would never condone vigilantism, Suzie. But what I am saying is that perhaps something like this was inevitable. There’s a lot of Christian people out there who’ve been offended by what’s been coming out of Hollywood for a long, long time, and their protests have always been ignored. Every once in a while there’s a ground swell, like with Michael Medved’s book a few years back, but the movie-makers just pay lip-service to the idea of cleaning up their act, then once the fuss has died down they ’re back bad as ever. If you ignore people when they ’re talking politely, Suzie, sooner or later they ’re gonna start shouting a little louder, and I think that’s what has happened today . . .’
Click.
‘. . . were singled out for extremely harsh criticism by the Reverend St John in a speech made at last week’s Festival of Light event – across the street from the Pacific Vista hotel – reiterating statements made on his Christian Family Channel over recent months. The bomber echoes St John’s words in calling Madeleine Witherson the Whore of Babylon and referring to the AFFM as the UnAmerican Festering Filth Market. There has been no word yet from the Reverend St John himself, but a spokesman for his organisation said the Reverend was “extremely disturbed” by today’s events. The spokesman acknowledged the parallels and told reporters that Luther St John would not issue any statement on the matter without very careful consideration and possibly consultation with the authorities, as the effect of his words on the bomber could be highly unpredictable. It is not known whether . . .’
Click.
‘. . . producer Charles Geisler, who earlier spoke to us from the Ugly Duckling on his mobile phone.
‘ “We’reall doing our best to hold it together here. Everybody’s trying to be strong, trying to be here for each other, but it’s real hard, you know? Everybody’s on their phones, talking to their kids, talking to t
heir wives and husbands. Because they’re in this too. They might not be here on the boat, but they’re going through this too.” ’
Click.
‘. . . appalling tragedy that has claimed nine lives and could claim as many as eighty-eight more, but isn’t it too often the case that something dreadful has to happen before we are motivated to do anything about a situation? You have to reflect that maybe it was going to take a disaster like this to give America a moral wake-up call, forcing us all to look again at certain things we had come to accept but which we never should have accepted. There are people in this country who have been hiding behind the First Amendment because it saved them from justifying their conduct and their motives in any kind of open debate. But that debate’s sure going to start now, because people are going to be asking questions about what’s in our movies and on our TV screens that they should have been asking long ago. And it’s a sad indictment of our society that it has required . . .’
Click.
‘. . . our telephone poll, which found sixty-eight per cent of callers thought Madeleine Witherson should make the ultimate sacrifice to save the people on the Ugly Duckling, so let’s get a sample of the mood among our studio audience. Martina, do you agree with the poll?
Not the End of the World Page 31
