Welcome To Wherever You Are

by John Marrs

  In the blink of Michael’s blood-soaked eye, the Reverend grabbed a wooden mallet from a workbench and smashed it against the back of Michael’s hand. He screamed as the smiling Reverend repeated the action on his other hand, this time catching the base of four fingers too.

  ‘No!’ Savannah pleaded to deaf ears.

  ‘Tell me you will never cross paths with this animal again and I will let him go while he still has his eyesight.’

  Savannah attempted a reply but her throat was too dry to respond. She stared at her terrified boyfriend who was biting hard into his bottom lip to counteract the pain. Her mind raced – how could she promise never to see Michael again? But what choice did she have? She swallowed hard.

  ‘I won’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘You won’t what?’

  ‘I won’t see him again.’

  ‘Good,’ replied the Reverend, then swung the mallet and caught Michael clean in the centre of his forehead. Savannah screamed Michael’s name as he stared at her, his eyelids fluttering before snapping shut and his head falling forward.

  A smile slowly crept across Reverend Devereaux’s face as he turned towards his bodyguards.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ he barked. ‘And lock her in her room.’

  CHAPTER 38

  TODAY

  ‘My round – do you want another hot chocolate?’ asked Jake, slipping his hand into his jeans pocket and pulling out a faded canvas wallet.

  Tommy took a last gulp of his drink and shook his head.

  ‘No, mate, I’ve got to be on the reception desk in about . . .’ he looked at his watch, ‘two hours. Shit! We’ve been here all night.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Jake, pointing at the window. ‘It’s getting light out there.’

  They stood up and headed for the door, waving the waitress goodbye and leaving a tip on the counter.

  ‘Are you coming back to the hostel?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘No, I think I’m going to sit on the beach and watch the sun rise. I’ve seen it come up from the northern, western and southern hemispheres, but never from this far east. There’s nothing like a new sun in a new continent to start your day.’

  ‘Next time I’ll join you,’ replied Tommy. ‘If you fancy the company?’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. And thanks for the company, it was really nice chatting to you.’

  Tommy squinted at Jake. ‘You kind of remind me of someone, but I can’t work out who.’

  Jake flinched, but hid it, like he’d done on three previous occasions when people had said the same thing, before he trotted out the same rehearsed response. ‘Ah, I’ve got a very generic face,’ he said, smiling, and headed towards the beach.

  ‘If that’s generic, then I’m a horror story,’ Tommy told himself, quietly flattered someone with such worldly experience and good looks would want to hang around with him.

  CHAPTER 39

  DAY FOUR

  It took an hour and a half before the Metro bus dropped Ruth off on Sunset Boulevard.

  From behind the dusty bus window she noticed road signs for places she’d seen on television like Beverly Hills and Hollywood, but while they were in touching distance, Ruth had no interest in seeing any of them first hand. Instead, the base of the Hollywood Hills was where she wanted to be.

  Almost 22,000 people lived above her in the seven square miles between the boundaries of Crescent Heights and Griffin Park. But there was only one face Ruth was there to see.

  With Elastoplasts attached to the back of her heels where the stilettos had blistered them, she began her steep climb up the sidewalk towards Sunset Plaza Drive. The higher you went, the larger the properties and estates became, as if they were competing to have the most expansive city view. And if you wanted the much sought-after views from downtown to the ocean, you needed deep pockets.

  Ruth glanced at her watch; it was 8 a.m., and twenty-four hours ago she’d been preparing herself to meet Zak Stanley for lunch. She couldn’t understand why Zak hadn’t turned up, and when she checked her emails in the hostel before going to bed, there’d been no communication apologising for, or explaining, his absence. It didn’t matter now, she decided, because this was going to be so much better. She was going to his home. His actual home. And that was so much more personal than a meal in a public restaurant could ever be.

  Ruth could barely contain her excitement as she ascended the hillside, singing along to the soundtrack on her iPod of Zak’s first romcom foray, Getting the Girl. She was aware of the early hour, but she reasoned there was no point in hanging around the hostel any longer than necessary. She guessed Hollywood stars probably didn’t get out of bed until about midday, which would give her plenty of time to compose herself and think about what kind of things they could do together that day.

  It took another half an hour and many gulps from her water bottle before she followed the directions the Google Maps app on her phone suggested to find the street containing Zak’s Spanish-style property; a two-storey building that stood behind a whitewashed wall and wooden gates. She could clearly see blossoming trees and palm leaves clumped together in landscaped gardens. When the wind blew gently, she caught the waft of chlorine from a pool.

  Ruth placed her hand over her mouth but it was too late to muffle a feverish squeal.

  CHAPTER 40

  Tommy cursed his iPhone’s alarm when it rang just two hours after his head hit the pillow.

  He showered, changed into a clean T-shirt, shorts and his favourite Adidas trainers, left the dormitory and headed to the reception desk for the start of a five-hour shift. But he was already pining for the hour-long break between the hostel and his new job inside a hotdog costume directing grazing customers towards Mr Fiaca’s fast-food trailer.

  He stared enviously from the corridor window as the sun’s rays shone upon the sidewalk and wondered if Jake had enjoyed his first LA sunrise. Tommy caught himself smiling when he reflected on his evening. He’d enjoyed Jake’s company very much, and since he and Sean had gone their separate ways, he missed having a male confidant. Although he’d made many acquaintances at the hostel, it was rare for him to come across people he could relax around enough to completely bond with. And then two potential friends came along within days of each other: Jake, who, while convivial and talkative about his travels, appeared reluctant to give much of himself away about his background, and Nicole, who was witty and attractive but held her cards just as close to her chest as Jake held his.

  Tommy became distracted from his musings when he passed the kitchen and paused to watch Matty and Declan puzzling over what do with a 7-pound bag of pasta and twenty cheap cans of chopped tomatoes.

  ‘Where should I stick this?’ Matty asked his friend, pointing to the pasta.

  ‘D’you really want me to answer that?’ replied Declan, struggling to hook the can opener over the rim.

  ‘Will you look at her!’ whispered Matty, staring at two blonde women with Scandinavian accents rinsing their breakfast dishes in the sink.

  ‘Hey, pretty ladies! Could you spare us a moment of your time?’ asked Declan.

  ‘What’s up, guys?’ asked Freja.

  ‘Now what kind of accent is that? Dutch, Norwegian?’ asked Matty.

  ‘Swedish,’ replied her friend Nina.

  ‘Well you’re a beautiful sight for tired Irish eyes. I’m Matty, and this is Declan.’

  Tommy shook his head from outside as they took turns in kissing the girls’ hands like they were royalty.

  ‘Are you the new cooks?’ asked Freja.

  ‘Officially, yes, but unofficially, we’re pretty feckin’ useless,’ said Declan. ‘Do you by any chance know what to do with these?’

  ‘You can’t make spaghetti?’ asked Nina, looking at Freja in mock disbelief.

  ‘It’s a Roman Catholic thing, we’re not actually allowed under papal law.’

  Nina whispered into Freja’s ear. ‘Okay, if we help you, what will we get in return?’

  Matty and Declan l
ooked at each other, then the girls, shrugged their shoulders and grinned. ‘Anything you like.’

  Tommy had only been at the reception desk for ten minutes when he learned what the girls had received for their kitchen assistance. Wearing just their trainers and aprons, bare-arsed Matty and Declan boisterously charged through reception whooping and hollering before running across the road and doing star jumps.

  As the girls’ laughter echoed through the open kitchen window above, Tommy scowled and turned up today’s televised lecture from Reverend Devereaux. He considered calling to make a cash pledge if Rev Dev would ask the man above to rid the hostel of the Irish plague.

  CHAPTER 41

  Jake grunted as he completed his fourth set of chin-ups on the free-to-use exercise equipment by the beach, then felt the tape attaching his recent tattoo covering begin to tear.

  He hitched up his vest and secured it back in place, before crossing his legs, hoisting himself up on metal parallel bars, and beginning a set of bicep dips.

  A film of early morning smog had ruined his first east coast sunrise, turning the sun’s golden rays into a grey and purplish fog. But the pollution meant it wasn’t too stifling for him as he worked up an early morning sweat.

  He lowered himself back to the ground, tensed his arms and watched as the tattooed images from shoulders to wrists came to life. More than sixty hours in artists’ chairs around the world had been worth it, he thought. His long hair, beard, muscular frame and gradual but deliberate loss of his northern accent had all helped to transform him into something unrecognisable from his former self.

  Not even his most devoted fans would recognise who he once was.

  THREE AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER – SHEPPERTON STUDIOS, LONDON

  Stuart Reynolds stared into the mirror framed by white light bulbs as Megan placed short strands of his hair in straightening tongs.

  His first coat of make-up had been applied after breakfast, then reapplied for dress rehearsals, followed by three more late-afternoon touch-ups and a final dusting an hour before the live shows were to be televised. Familiarity with the process meant he knew that by the end of the broadcast he would remain perspiration free, but his face would feel heavy, like it had been glued to brick.

  The make-up gave him sharper cheekbones and deeper cheek dimples and his bleached-blonde hair was ruffled to make him look like he’d just got out of bed. The light bulbs reflected in his winter blue contact lenses and enhanced their sparkle. Although they looked prettier than the brown irises God gave him, he felt they were another part of him to add to the ever-growing list of fakery.

  ‘Happy with it?’ asked Megan, circumnavigating his head, proud of her handiwork. Stuart nodded and smiled like he was supposed to, but even if he had disapproved, it would’ve fallen on deaf ears.

  For ten consecutive Friday and Saturday nights, he Gabriel, Josh, Dylan and Ethan had been performing established musician’s hits with their own R & B twist in front of eight million voting viewers at home. Separately, they were five attractive but unexceptional young men in their early to mid-twenties, but together they were a boy band created by TV show Star People, and its architect, Geri Garland.

  Their song choices, outfits, choreography, hairstyling, rehearsal times, accommodation, fitness regimes, diets, interview techniques and Twitter accounts had all been decided for them by a panel of production company executives and a PR team, all hand-picked by Geri. Even their name, Lightning Strikes, had been chosen for them.

  The rest of the band were scattered around their cramped dressing room, hunched over tablets and mobile phones, scrutinising what social media users were saying about their chances of winning that night’s finale. From what Stuart had read on Twitter earlier that day, the consensus was that girl-next-door Rachael Molloy might just pip them to the post.

  ‘Right, you’re done,’ said Megan, interrupting his thoughts as she doused Stuart’s poker straight hair with a final coat of lacquer. ‘Your turn, Josh.’

  Stuart vacated his seat just as the door flew opened and Geri marched in.

  ‘Christ, it’s a right bloody sausage fest in here,’ she yelled in her south London accent as all eyes focused on her. Her dyed, flame-red, shoulder-length hair was given a side parting, and her plump, cosmetically enhanced breasts spilled from the top of her silver sequined dress. Geri sat firmly in her mid-forties, but the best surgery money could buy had shaved off a decade.

  Geri revelled in her role as an intimidating presence. Her young male assistant dutifully followed her with an iPad under his arm and a headphone plugged into one ear. A different young man flanked Geri every time she appeared, noted Stuart, and he wondered if there was a pile of blood-drained bodies stacked up in her cellar.

  ‘Are you boys ready to go out there and win this thing for Mama G?’ she continued.

  ‘Yes,’ all five replied, too muted for Geri’s taste.

  ‘Well I hope you’ve got more in you than that when you get out on that stage, or you’re fucked. Stuart, can I have a word?’ It was a rhetorical question, so Stuart followed her into the corridor. She flicked her eyes at her assistant who scampered away like a scolded puppy.

  ‘How are you doing then, handsome?’ she asked softly, straightening the lapels of his jacket.

  ‘If I’m honest, I’m shitting bricks, Geri,’ Stuart replied.

  ‘Well as long as you don’t shit them on stage, you lot have got this wrapped up.’

  ‘I hope so, but what if the others judges prefer Rachael? Won’t it look a bit dodgy when you’re the only one there bigging us up? And even Twitter says—’

  ‘Oh Twitter, shitter,’ Geri interrupted. ‘The public don’t know what they want till I tell them. And they don’t give a damn what the other two think – I only pay them to be there and make me look good. We’ve got through every week without a problem or a technical fault; just one more night and we’re home free.’

  Geri planted a lingering peck on Stuart’s lips, and then wiped off the lipstick she’d left with her thumb and smiled. With the amount of fillers she’d had injected into her face, Stuart found it hard to tell if her smile was flirtatious or if she was having a mild stroke.

  ‘Now get out there and make me proud,’ she continued, then patted his left buttock and pushed him towards the dressing room. Stuart took a deep breath and rejoined his bandmates. He glanced around the room, hating that his future lay in the hands of a pantomime villain and four virtual strangers.

  Through the open door, he spotted one of the show’s young technicians walking past with arms full of microphones. Already fed up of his squeaky-clean look, Stuart wondered what it would like to go back to his natural dark brown, wavy hair, grow a beard and get tattoos like the man in front of him had.

  ‘Hold up a minute, Jake,’ came a voice behind the technician.

  ‘I like that name,’ thought Stuart.

  CHAPTER 42

  TODAY

  Ruth removed her camera phone from her pocket, switched it to video mode, and started to closely examine the home of Zak Stanley through a two-inch by two-inch screen.

  At the far end of the house, she could only just spot wide open doors with wrought iron railings surrounding a tiled balcony. She wondered if that was Zak’s bedroom. And if his doors were open, he was probably awake already, she figured. Her eyes were drawn to an intercom with just one button. So she took a deep breath and lifted a trembling hand before pushing it. It didn’t make a sound so she pushed it again until a whirring noise above her caught her attention. It was a video camera attached to a tree trunk and pointed at her. She looked up at it and smiled, before a woman’s voice from the intercom made her jump.

  ‘Yes?’

  Ruth steadied herself before speaking. ‘Hi, I’ve come to see Zak Stanley.’

  The pause felt like a lifetime before the voice spoke again. ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘Um, I won a competition to meet him but I think he must have been busy.’ Ruth turned her head and smiled ho
pefully towards the camera.

  ‘Mr Stanley doesn’t see visitors without an appointment or an invitation.’

  ‘Oh, but I had one yesterday. Can I make another one?’

  ‘You will have to go through his publicist. Thank you.’

  ‘Do you have a number?’ Ruth asked, scrambling inside her bag for a pen and paper. ‘Hello? Hello?’

  The voice did not reply, and the camera continued to target her until she shuffled away.

  CHAPTER 43

  ‘If looks could kill,’ began Nicole.

  As the second of the week’s hostel parties was in full flow, Nicole caught Tommy casting bitter glances towards Matty and Declan from the doorway.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tommy asked sluggishly.

  ‘Those Irish lads with the gift of the gab,’ continued Nicole.

  Matty and Declan sat with their arms around Freja and Nina on a sofa. Every so often, the girls threw their heads back and laughed at something amusing the boys whispered into their ears.

  ‘But you’ve got to admit, their spag bol is pretty tasty,’ added Nicole.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I haven’t tried it,’ Tommy lied, having eaten his helping in his room so as not to give his nemeses any satisfaction. He took another swig from his plastic beer cup.

  ‘Are you a bit drunk, Thomas?’ Nicole smiled. Tommy ignored the question, but it was obvious from his squinting eyes and slightly slurred speech that he’d gone over his self-imposed three-pint limit. Every person he’d spoken to at the party had thrust a fresh drink into his hand and it seemed rude to refuse them. He rolled his eyes when Nina removed some dollar bills from inside her cut-off jeans and handed them to Declan.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Tommy muttered.